by Robert Crais
“I guess not.” She didn’t sound convinced.
I told her that we would be putting it together at the Boudreaux’s house at four, and she said that she’d call Merhlie Comeaux and that they would meet us there. We hung up, and then I went next door for Pike. I said, “We’re on.”
He went to his closet and got the duffel. When he picked it up you could hear the clunk of padded metal. He said, “I’ve been ready for years.”
At three o’clock that afternoon, we went down to the car and drove across the bridge to Eunice.
Three Evangeline Parish Sheriff’s Department highway cars were parked on the grass in front of Jo-el Boudreaux’s house, and Lucy’s Lexus was in the drive. I wondered if the neighbors might think it odd, so many cars, but maybe not. Just a little midweek barbecue for the boys. Pike and I went to the door, and Edith Boudreaux let us in. She smiled when she greeted us, but the smile seemed strained.
Lucy and Merhlie Comeaux were in the wing chairs, and three parish cops were on the sofa. The young black cop named Berry was there, along with the cop named Tommy Willets. The third cop was was a guy named Dave Champagne, who looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy with a pink downy face. Willets frowned when he saw us, then looked away, shaking his head. Still with the attitude. Champagne and Berry were younger than Willets. Boudreaux introduced everybody, and I stayed with the group while Pike went off by himself and stood against the wall. Both Berry and Champagne kept glancing at him. A little tray of Fig Newtons and sugar cookies was on the coffee table, and Edith Boudreaux offered us coffee in fragile china cups. She seemed anxious that we accept, and she hovered at the edges of the room, as flighty as a mayfly trapped behind glass. I thought that, in a way, this might be harder on her than on anyone else. Jo-el said, “I’ve told everybody that we’re goin’ after Milt Rossier tonight. I told’m about the illegals and Donaldo Prima and Frank Escobar and what we’re tryin’ to do. You wanna tell’m what you saw out there?”
I went through it about the towboat and the pumping station and the old man and the little girl, and then I told them about backtracking on Prima to uncover the scam. When I was in the middle of it Willets sat forward on the couch and stopped me. He said, “You saw a damned murder you shoulda come in right away.”
Jo-el said, “He had his reasons, Tommy.”
Tommy Willets was staring at the sheriff. “Not re-portin’ a crime is against the law, Jo-el. Jesus Christ, who made this guy the goddamned sheriff?” He shot a glance at Edith. “Sorry, Edie.”
Jo-el Boudreaux was looking embarrassed when Dave Champagne said, “Oh, put a sock in it, Tommy. We’re gonna finally take down ol’ Milt Rossier. Ain’t that a hoot?” He was grinning so wide his face looked like a fuzzy pink pumpkin. I looked at Pike, and Pike shook his head. We were making this bust with a Boy Scout troop.
Lucy said, “How is this thing going to be staged?”
I said, “I’m going to meet Milt Rossier and Frank Escobar at the Bayou Lounge at eight, and then we’re going to the pumping station to meet the boat. The boat’s due in at ten. Prima is supposed to arrive with the boat.”
Jo-el looked at Merhlie Comeaux. “How we doin’ with this? We clear on entrapment?”
Merhlie nodded. “I don’t see a problem, sheriff. It looks clean. We give the state a clean bust with Rossier in possession of cash and a truck full of illegal aliens, and they’ll put his name on a double occupancy suite in Angola. I guarantee.” He said it gah-rawn-tee. Cajun.
I said, “Rossier may not actually take possession of the cash. It could go to Bennett. That’s what happened last time.”
“Same diing,” Merhlie said. “Bennett works for Rossier, and Rossier holds the lease on the land.” He looked back at Boudreaux. “I’ll wait by the phone. Just lemme know when it’s done and I’ll call Jack Fochet at state and we’ll have of Milt arraigned by tomorrow noon. Jack Fochet is a good boy.”
Berry was looking concerned. “I know the old Hy-field Oil station. How are we supposed to see any of this if it happens inside there?”
“Prima flags the towboat in from the shore, then they bring the trucks into the building through a couple of barn doors,” I said. “They leave the doors open. You won’t have any problem. That’s how we saw the old man killed.”
Jo-el said, “We’re gonna be in the weeds, so we may not be able to see what’s going on. Maybe we oughta have a sign or somethin’.”
Merhlie frowned. “Well, hell, Jo-el, what do you want him to do, wave a red bandanna? Those sonsof-bitches have guns and they like to use them.”
When he said it, Lucy sat forward in her chair. “You’re going to be widi them when the arrests are made?”
“Yes.”
She looked at Pike, and then back to me. “Is that necessary?”
“I’m what holds it together. I’m putting Rossier and Escobar together, and they’re going to want me with them all the way. Rossier’s nervous, and Escobar’s only going along because he thinks he’s going to kill Prima.” I looked at Boudreaux. “Prima isn’t expecting Escobar, so when these guys see each other all hell’s going to break loose. You’ll have to move fast.”
Jo-el nodded. “Sure. You bet.” He was pale and he kept rubbing at his jaw.
Willets hooked a thumb at Pike. “Where are you going to be, podnuh?”
Pike said, “Watching.”
Willets didn’t like that. “What in hell does that mean?”
Jo-el said, “Don’t worry about it, Tommy. He’ll be there.”
Willets stayed with it. “We should know where everyone is. There might be shooting. Be a shame if somebody got shot accidental-like.”
Pike said, “Don’t worry about it, Willets.”
Willets frowned, but he let it go.
Berry said, “Where we gonna be?”
Boudreaux said, “We’ll set up in the cane with a view through the doors. We’ll have to hide the cars off the main road, then hike in. I want you fellas to go home and get your waders. You’re gonna need’m.”
Willets said, “How much time do we have? I got things I need to do.”
Boudreaux checked his watch. “We got about an hour before we have to get in place. That about right?” He looked at me, asking. I nodded, and Willets snorted, disgusted diat Boudreaux would ask. Boudreaux ignored him and went on. “I want you boys to change into old clothes, cause we’re gonna get wet, but I want everybody in a Sheriff’s Department shell parka. I wanna know who’s who out there.” Boudreaux had brought it to the end, and now he looked at me. “I think maybe we oughta get going. You got anything you wanna say?”
“Yeah. Nobody shoot me.”
Berry and Champagne laughed, and everybody stood, moving toward the door. The sheriff went to Merhlie Comeaux, and Lucy pulled me aside. Her mouth was still in the tight line, and she pulled me as far from the others as she could. She said, “Do you really have to be out there?”
“I’ve done things like this before. Trust me.”
Her nostrils flared, and she stared across the room, frowning. “Well, isn’t that just great. And what do I get to do, wait here with the womenfolk?”
“If you ask him nice, Pike might loan you a rifle.”
She said, “Oh, right,” and stalked away to Comeaux.
Pike looked at me from across the room and cocked his head toward the door. I met him there. He said, “You okay with these guys?”
“They’re what we have.”
He glanced at Willets. “I don’t like the dip with the attitude.”
“See you on the other side, Joe.”
Pike nodded, and I went out to my car and left for the Bayou Lounge.
Years ago, a friend and I booked a package cruise from Tahiti to Hawaii, sailing north. The passage took five days, crossing waters so remote that we were beyond all radio contact with land. As we sailed, the sea grew deeper until, three days out of Papeete, the crew told us that the sonar could no longer ping the bottom. The charts said that the bottom was sevent
een thousand feet beneath the hull, but, for all purposes, the ocean was bottomless. No way to know what’s down there, they said. No way to call home for help, they said. Here there be monsters.
Great dense clouds grew on the western horizon, towering anvil thunderheads that rolled steadily toward me, filling the sky with the slate-steel color of deep ocean water, water with no bottom.
A light rain fell as I parked on the oyster shell lot next to the Bayou Lounge. The heavy cloud layer brought an early twilight that filled the air with an expectancy of wind and lightning. Four or five American sedans were lined up on the oyster shells and, inside, half a dozen guys hawked the bar, scarfing poboys and Dixie beer. The woman with the hair smiled when she saw me and said, “Sugah, I didn’t think you’d pass this way again.”
“Small world, isn’t it?”
“Oh,” she said. “It’s a lot bigger than we think.” A guy with a grease-stained Evinrude cap laughed when she said it.
I ordered a club soda and took it to one of the little tables by the door. The door was wedged open and it was cooler there, but it was a damp cool that made my skin clammy. The Dan Wesson would be picking up a lot of moisture, and I would have to clean it before it began to pit. Of course, if things didn’t go well tonight, I wouldn’t have to worry about it.
A couple of minutes later LeRoy Bennett’s Polara pulled past the door and LeRoy Bennett came in, shaking his hat to get rid of the rain. He was wearing an Australian drover’s coat, and he looked not unlike the Marlboro man. Cancer on the hoof. The woman with the hair squealed, “Hey, LeRoy,” and leaned across the bar to plant one on his cheek. His face split with a smile and he pawed at her breasts, but she pushed him away like she didn’t really mean it. A couple of the good ol’ boys at the bar nodded at him, and he shook one man’s hand. Old home week with the barfly regulars. He got a long-necked Dixie for himself, then came over and dropped into the chair across from me. His eye was still dark from where Joe Pike had hit him. He said, “Where’re your spies?”
I said, “I’m here early.”
He had some of the Okie, shooting a wink at the woman with the hair. “Yeah? Well, your spies better show or you in deep do-do.”
I said, “LeRoy?”
He was sucking at his teeth.
“Do yourself a favor and don’t call them spies.”
LeRoy frowned like I was a turd. “That’s what they are, ain’t they?”
I shook my head. Some people never learn. Some people you just can’t talk to.
I said, “Where’s Milt?”
“He’ll be here.”
“I thought he might come with you.”
LeRoy pulled on the Dixie. “You jus’ worry about your spies.” He lipped a Tarryton 100 and lit it with a big steel Zippo. The first two fingers on his right hand were yellow with smoke stains. His fingernails were grimed. He grinned at me and let the smoke leak out between his teeth. Probably hadn’t brushed in a year.
LeRoy got up and put money in the jukebox. He finished the first Dixie and got himself a second. While he was at the bar the woman with the hair whispered something in his ear, and he whispered something back. She laughed. It’s odd what appeals to people, isn’t it? The guy with the Evinrude cap and a heavier guy who walked with a limp went home. I wished I could go with them. The rain came harder, filling ruts and depressions in the shell lot and hammering on the bar’s roof, and little by little the remains of day were lost to the night. The parking lot filled with white light two quick times, followed almost instantly by twin booms of thunder, and the guys at the bar applauded. The thunder was so loud and so near that the little building shook, rattling glasses and making the jukebox skip. And they talk about earthquakes.
At two minutes before eight, headlights swung across the door, a baby blue BMW crunched onto the lot, and Frank Escobar came in, the guy with the pocked face holding an umbrella the size of a parachute canopy. LeRoy said, “Well, it’s about goddamned time.” He was working on his third Dixie and he said it too loud.
They came to the table and sat, Escobar shaking off his coat. “You pick a shit time to do business. Is Rossier here?”
“Not yet.”
LeRoy stuck out his hand. “Mr. Escobar, my name is LeRoy Bennett. It’s a pleasure, sir, yes it is.”
Escobar looked at me without acknowledging the hand or the person. “Who is this?”
“Rossier’s stooge.”
LeRoy said, “Hey, what the ruck?”
Escobar hit LeRoy with the back of his right hand so hard that LeRoy almost went out of the chair. It was exactly the same move he’d used on his wife. Two of the guys at the bar looked over and the woman gave a little gasp. Escobar grabbed LeRoy by the face and dug a thumb under his jaw. “You see me sitting here?”
LeRoy tried to get away from the thumb, but couldn’t. “Hey, yeah. Whatchu doin’, bro?”
“If I’m here, where’s your goddamned boss? You think I got time to waste?”
Even as he said it more lights swept the open door and you could hear the crunch, even over the jukebox and the rain. LeRoy stood away from the thumb, saying, “That’s gotta be Milt right now,” just as Milt Rossier walked in.
The woman behind the bar said, “Hey, Milt,” but Milt didn’t acknowledge her. He saw us at the little table and came over, offering his hand to Frank Escobar. “Frank, I’m Milt Rossier. Lemme apologize if I’ve kept you, but this rain is a bitch.”
Escobar said, “Hey, forget about it. You shoulda seen the drive up from Metairie.” He held Milt Rossier’s hand longer than he needed to hold it. “I’m looking forward to a fruitful partnership, Milt, but let’s get first things first. Where’s Prima?”
“Oh, he’ll be at the pumping station. You bet.” Escobar glanced at me, then put it back on Milt Rossier. He still had the old man’s hand. “I wanna make money with you, Milt, but you have to understand it’s personal here, me and Prima. We ain’t goin’ forward with this until I get this bastard.”
Milt was nodding and trying to get his hand away. Escobar’s eyes were dark splinters and Milt Rossier seemed afraid of him. “Frank,” he said, “I’m gonna bring you right to him.” He finally got the hand away. “You ready to do some business or you wanna little snoot before we go? This is my place. It’s on the house.” Like a guy worth millions wouldn’t pass up the chance at a free belt.
Escobar shook his head and stood. He snapped his fingers, and the pocked guy stood with him. “Prima.” Talk about one track. You could see his hands flexing, already pulling the trigger. His coat flared when he stood, and you could see a glint in the darkness. Milt smiled. “Well, hell, let’s go do it.” We stepped out into the rain. Milt wanted everybody to go together in LeRoy’s Polara, but there were five of us and it would be crowded, so Milt asked if Escobar would mind following us in his own car. Escobar said that that would be fine, and he and his goon hurried to their BMW, anxious to get out of the rain. Lightning crackled again, filling the parking lot with light. Escobar and his thug opened the Beamer’s doors, the BMWs interior lights came on, and then two men stepped out from behind the Bayou Lounge. Balls of lightning flashed from their hands, and there was the sharp snapping of autoloading pistols muffled by the rain, and Escobar and his goon fell against their car. The pistols were still snapping when LeRoy Bennett slammed the side of my head with something hard and cold. I went down into the mud and Bennett was over me, hitting me twice more and saying, “Who’s a stooge now? Who’s a fuckin’ stooge?” and then Rossier pushed him away, saying, “Stop that, goddammit, we ain’t got time for that! Get’m up.”
René LaBorde stepped out of nowhere and pulled me to my feet. Bennett, grinning like his face was split, took my gun and hit me again.
The rain fell harder and no one stirred from the Bayou Lounge.
The two men finished their killing and came to us. One of the men was Donaldo Prima. The other was Evangeline Parish Deputy Sheriff Tommy Willets. Willets looked scared. Donaldo Prima said, “We got t
hat fawkuh good!” I knew then that the good guys were alone at the pumping station. All of the bad guys were here.
I said, “Jesus Christ, Willets.”
Willets hit me on the forehead with the butt of his pistol and knocked me into the side of Bennett’s Polara. Then Milt said, “Hurry up, goddammit, and get’m in the car. We got a lot of people to kill.”
Willets put his cuffs on me, then got René to help put me in the backseat of Bennett’s Polara. Willets breathed hard as he did it, a torrent of rain running off the brim of his campaign hat, his Evangeline Parish sheriffs poncho molten in the lightning flashes. The lounge’s wooden front door was closed, and I thought maybe Bennett had closed it as we’d left. Maybe.
Across the lot, Bennett and a short guy with a heavy moustache loaded the bodies into Escobar’s trunk, the short guy Donaldo Prima’s thug. Donaldo Prima came over to the Polara and waved his gun at me. “This fawkuh set me up?” His eyes were blood simple from the kill.
Rossier said, “We might need the sonofabitch! Put it away!”
Prima pushed past Milt, screaming, “I gonna kill his ass!” When Prima touched Milt, Rent’s snake-fast hands shot out, grabbing and lifting and twisting the gun away. Prima hissed something in Spanish, then said, “Make him let go!”
Rossier made René put him down, and then Prima and Rossier went to Escobar’s car with Bennett and the moustache. Willets got into the backseat of the Polara with me, and René stood in the rain. René was wearing a raincoat, but it was unbuttoned and looked as if someone had put it on for him. There was no hood, and the rain beat at his head and plastered his hair. Willets sat with his service revolver in his hand, still with the breathing, staring wide-eyed through the rear window at the group of men in the rain as if I weren’t there. The glass around us began to fog. I said, “How much does it cost for a guy like you to sell out, Willets?”
