Grayton Winds

by Michael Lindley

  “And is this your sister?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I responded. “Melanee, I would like to introduce you to my sister, Maggie.”

  She stopped playing and turned towards us, holding out one of her hands. “Hi Maggie,” she said, and my sister shook her hand. “I just love your brother. He doesn’t know it yet, but I might just marry him when I get a little older.”

  We all laughed. Sara came over and I introduced her to Maggie. She was even more sullen and distant than usual and I had to wonder if her issues were pushing her back close to the breaking point. She told her daughter it was time for her to get to bed. They both told us goodnight and went up the stairs. We were about to leave when Lila came out of the back.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked.

  I looked at Maggie. We had been offered a small snack back at the store by Mrs. Bidwell, but it had been a long day and I had worked up a fair appetite. I could see she felt the same way. “Now don’t go to a lot of trouble, Lila, but if you’ve got something you can warm up quick…”

  “You all just help yourself to a drink over there and I’ll be back shortly,” she said, and then she was off to the kitchen. In no time she was back with two plates of hot food and she sat down with us at the long dining table. We told her about our trip to Point Washington and the horseback ride down near Seagrove Beach. She seemed to be hearing what we were saying, but not really listening. I stopped talking and she kept nodding her head as if I was still talking about our day.

  “Lila, are you okay?”

  She startled some and her eyes seemed to finally gain focus. “Boudreaux came by again this morning,” she said at last. “He’s given Sara until tomorrow to make up her mind and then he’s going back to New Orleans.”

  “She told him no, didn’t she?” I asked.

  “If I hadn’t been standing there with her, she may have run off with him right then. He’s got the most frightening hold over her and when we talk about it she refuses to tell me why.”

  My anger was rising quickly and Maggie must have sensed my feelings when she said, “Can’t you just reason with this fellow?”

  “I wish it was that easy,” Lila said.

  “I’ll be here all day tomorrow, Lila,” I said. I thought for a moment about the knife Miller Boudreaux had held to my face, but it only intensified my anger and resolve to help this family stay together. I shook my head and said again, “I’ll be here,” but I was thinking with a guilty heart that another encounter with Boudreaux was the last thing I cared to consider.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I slept fitfully through the night, thoughts of Palumbo and Miller Boudreaux and Desmond Raye chasing in and out of my mind. Sometime in the morning I felt someone pushing on my shoulder and heard soft whispers from a familiar voice. I opened my eyes, squinting against the glare of the morning sun coming in through the window. My sister was sitting next to me on the bed. I sat up slowly with my back against the wall and felt the heavy burden of sleeplessness weigh down on my whole body. Maggie’s face came into focus as my eyes adjusted to the light.

  “She’s gone, Mathew,” she said. “Sara left in the night. Lila is just beside herself and she hasn’t been able to tell Melanee what’s happened.”

  “Did Boudreaux take her?” I asked.

  “I don’t know… Lila didn’t know for sure, but all of her bags are gone.”

  I got up out of bed, trying to gather myself and think clearly about what could be done at this point. If she had really left with Boudreaux in the night, they would probably be back in Destin by now and mostly likely on a boat back to New Orleans. Any hope of finding her before they left was remote. I tried to contain my anger and walked around the house muttering about that sonofabitch Boudreaux and at the same time, chastising myself for not doing more to protect and help Sara. I finally got around to getting dressed and walked back to the hotel with Maggie. When we walked into the lobby, I could tell Lila had talked to her granddaughter about the departure of her mother. The little girl was sitting in a chair in the corner with her legs drawn up under her, holding a doll tightly in her arms. Tracks of tears shone on her cheeks and right at that moment I thought my heart would shatter beyond repair. She sensed we were in the room and turned her face into the cushion of the chair. I watched as Maggie went over and sat down beside her, taking her in her arms and whispering words of comfort to her I couldn’t hear.

  I walked back into the kitchen and found Lila sitting on a stool beside a food counter, staring blankly out the back window. I walked over and held out my arms, not knowing what else to do or say. Lila stood up and came into my embrace and we stood there together in silence, knowing nothing could really be said to help at that point.

  Later, Maggie had taken Melanee down to the beach to try to offer some distraction. Palumbo came downstairs and I sat and listened as Lila told him about the departure of her daughter. I could see he was as upset by all of this as the rest of us. His jaw clenched and the blood flushed to his face like other times I had seen him angry. He turned and looked at me and then in a surprisingly even and measured tone, he said, “Go pack your bags.”

  The trip to New Orleans was long and miserable. Anthony accompanied Palumbo and me. We found a boat out of Point Washington to get us over to Destin and then it took a day to find another ship we could get aboard to head down the coast to New Orleans. Before we left, Maggie had offered to stay in Grayton Beach to help Lila with little Melanee. We left Destin late in the evening. The trip across the Gulf coast was windy and stormy. The water kicked up in an unrelenting pounding that sent the small steamer crashing up and through the endless onslaught of tumbling, frothy waves. The skipper of the ship pulled into Mobile Bay early the next morning to find refuge from the tempest we had endured throughout the night. We waited another day, tied up at the docks in Mobile, watching the skies for some break in the storm.

  The next day started with just a light breeze from the south and clearing skies as the sun came up across the bay. We started out again, thankful for calmer seas and the continuation of our journey. Several hours out, I stood at the rail on the deck with Palumbo looking at the coastline far to our north. Anthony was still seasick from the previous day and was asleep down below. We both sipped on hot coffee and let the rising sun warm our faces. Palumbo finally broke the silence.

  “I’ve been thinkin’ about this dirt bag, Boudreaux,” he said. “He’s gonna have some muscle and this ain’t gonna be no picnic.” His reflection concerned me because I had been assuming Palumbo and the bodyguard Anthony would know how to handle something like this. “And we got the girl to worry about, too,” he went on. “She’s not gonna just give us a big hug and kiss and then walk out the door with us. This asshole has got a noose around her neck and for some reason she can’t seem to slip free of it.”

  Our boat made two more stops along the coast at Pascagoula and Gulfport to exchange cargo before we finally cruised through the Mississippi Sound and on into Lake Ponchartrain. It was near dark when we were finally tied up at one of the many wharfs along the south shore of the lake in New Orleans. Anthony was finally beginning to recover and he left us to go find a car to take us into the city. Palumbo and I had made arrangements with the ship’s captain to be back onboard by noon the next day if we wanted to make the trip back to Destin with him. Anthony pulled up a few minutes later in the backseat of a taxi and Palumbo and I joined him. Willie started an immediate banter with the old colored driver and when he began asking about Boudreaux’s club, I grabbed his arm. The last thing we needed was Boudreaux getting tipped off there were three men just in town and asking a lot of questions, but Palumbo waved me off.

  We learned from the old man, as he looked back and smiled through crooked yellow teeth, that the club was named, not surprisingly, just Boudreaux’s. It was one of the more popular spots in the French Quarter; booze, women and just about any other vice you might desire. Palumbo had him take us to a hotel a few blocks aw
ay from the club and paid the driver generously to agree he had never met us.

  While Anthony went over to register, Palumbo and I sat in two overstuffed wingback chairs in the lobby. He pulled out a cigar and offered me one, which I declined. After he had the smoke lit to his liking, he said he needed to make a few phone calls; friends of friends that might be able to help us. There was a phone on the wall in the corner. He went over and sat down on a stool and rang up the operator. I kept watching the front door of the hotel, expecting Boudreaux and his men to come storming in after being tipped off by the taxi driver, but the only person through the door was a young woman who had all the mannerisms and wardrobe of a prostitute. She walked right by the desk clerk with a quick nod and a smile, and then up the stairs.

  Palumbo was on the phone for nearly twenty minutes and he walked over and threw some bills at the night clerk to pay for the calls. “Come on,” he said, “we need to get some sleep.” Anthony had rented a large suite and I had a room of my own. Palumbo had ordered some food sent up and after we ate I went in and lay down on the bed. It must have been only minutes before I was asleep, still numb and exhausted from the long crossing over from Florida.

  The next thing I could remember was Anthony hovering over me and shaking me to wake up. I looked over at a clock on the nightstand next to the bed and it was just past midnight. I sat up and watched as Palumbo came in and threw a travel bag down next to me. He reached in and pulled out a small shiny black revolver.

  “You ever use one of these?” he asked, as he pulled out two boxes of ammunition. My father had taught both Jess and me to hunt up in the Georgia mountains when we were younger and we had learned to handle weapons at an early age. Then, of course, there had been the Army. I took the gun and opened the cartridge. I saw it was already loaded. I took a box of the bullets and put them in my pocket. I sensed a slow pounding rhythm in my brain and yet I felt surprising calm at the circumstances and prospects of possibly shooting up a club in the French Quarter of New Orleans to rescue a girl. I watched as Palumbo and Anthony both loaded two guns each and stuck them in holsters under their jackets.

  Palumbo sat down next to me and outlined a plan that seemed both simple and brazen. He had learned that Sara played piano and sang most nights in the club until at least two in the morning. Boudreaux had a table elevated in a corner overlooking all of the guests and with a vantage point to allow him to watch his lady, Sara Dalton, very closely. Boudreaux would have at least four armed men working the club and they would be evident by their size and crisply pressed tuxedoes. Getting in the club would require the assistance of one of the men Palumbo had reached earlier. Unlike Palumbo’s Panama Club where patrons and lawmen came and went pretty much as they chose, New Orleans like most major cities had a system of security and passwords to gain access to the private clubs that served liquor and other illegal services.

  As soon as we were inside, a planned diversion arranged earlier by Palumbo would allow us to quickly grab Sara Dalton and if everything went according to the plan, with very little if any need for the guns we were carrying. The pounding in my head had now started up in my chest and as I took a deep breath to calm myself, Palumbo stared hard at me and said, “You gonna be ready, son?”

  I paused for a moment and thought about little Melanee Dalton and the heartbroken look I had seen on her face the morning we left to get her mother. I thought about Sara Dalton and the haunted expression she carried wherever she went, and then I knew this was the right thing and it was worth whatever risk we would soon be facing. “I’ll be all right,” I answered. “You’re damn sure you’ve got this all worked out?”

  Palumbo laughed that crazy laugh he gets usually when he’s giddy or drunk and I was less than reassured when he said, “A plan’s just that, son. We’ll do what we have to do.”

  Two cars were waiting out in front of the hotel for us when we walked onto the street. Anthony got in the front car and Palumbo and I climbed in the back seat of the second. There was a driver and another man in front and he and Palumbo ran through the sequence of events again as we drove off. Boudreaux’s club was a few blocks away on Toulouse Street, just off Bourbon. It was close to 1 a.m. when we pulled up and parked across the dimly lit street.

  There were no signs or gaudy entrances for the club. It looked like all of the other two-story buildings along the street, most with balconies overhanging from the second floor. We got out of the car and the hot wet air clung to my face and beaded up along my brow. There were a few people wandering along the sidewalks on both sides of the street, but most seemed too drunk to even care we were there. Anthony headed off with two men across the street, one of them carrying a large bag and then down an alley towards the back of the building. Palumbo and I stood with the other two and waited as planned for the signal. I looked up and saw heavy clouds illuminated just enough from the city lights to see that another storm was rolling in and a rumble of distant thunder echoed down the street.

  I found my mouth was so dry I couldn’t swallow and I tried my best to keep my hands from shaking by keeping them in my pockets. The image of Boudreaux’s face holding the knife in front of my eyes crossed my mind and in that instant a sudden calm came over me and a sense of purpose both clear and urgent.

  One of the men peaked around the corner of the alley and whistled softly. He disappeared back down the alley and we started across the street, Palumbo and I trailing the driver of our car and the other man who seemed to be in charge. Willie and I stood to the side as the man knocked four times on the door and waited for the small security window to slide open from inside. Palumbo looked over at me and nodded with a confidence that continued to give me assurance in what we were about to do. The window finally opened and our man exchanged a few words. The door was opened for us all to enter. I took the deepest breath I could and felt the rough grip of the pistol in my hand in my pocket as we started in.

  My first thought was there was no music and that Sara wouldn’t be at the piano. As soon as I entered I scanned the large room quickly and saw through the heavy smoke there were tables filled with people laughing and drinking, girls working through the crowd with trays of drinks. A large green neon sign spelling out Boudreaux’s, hung over a bar on the wall to our right, and it flickered every few seconds. Then I saw Sara and she was sitting at the piano, but not playing and my heart sank for a moment when I saw she was talking to Boudreaux who stood there next to her.

  Then the whole scene seemed to freeze for a moment as the thunder of a deafening explosion sounded from behind a wall in the back of the club. The door blew open with a heavy cloud of dark smoke billowing out into the room. There was chaos everywhere as women screamed and people fell to the floor crawling for cover and protection. The concussion from the explosion was so strong I fell back for a moment myself. When I looked up I could see Boudreaux was running to the back. Two big men dressed in tuxedoes followed closely behind. The big man at the door who had let us in started back as well and I watched as Palumbo grabbed him by the arm to turn him and then sent the butt of his pistol crashing into the man’s temple. His knees immediately buckled and he fell in a heap in front of us.

  I looked up and Sara was still sitting at the piano, a look of horror and confusion on her face as she scanned the room. Then our eyes met and I knew we had to move quickly. The driver and the other man were already rushing up onto the small stage. Palumbo and I took a position to each side to watch for any more of Boudreaux’s men. The driver pulled a large burlap sack out from under his jacket and threw it over Sara’s head and pulled it down over her body before he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. I could hear her muffled screams even above the pandemonium of the bar crowd, people rushing in all directions, most toward the front door.

  The driver rushed by Palumbo, moving with the crowd and as we backed away toward the front door I saw Boudreaux come through the door from the back. He saw me immediately and the look of recognition on his face turned quickly from
surprise to fury. He started pushing through the crowd toward us. I pulled my gun without even thinking about what would happen if I was forced to use it. I saw Palumbo was aware of Boudreaux’s approach as well. Then Anthony seemed to come from nowhere and was quickly behind him. He grabbed Boudreaux by the hair and yanked him back off his feet, throwing him to the ground. As we reached the front door, I could see Anthony was on top of him, hitting him again and again in the face with his gun. When the big bodyguard got up and ran toward us there was blood down the front of his white shirt and spattered across his face.

  We all ran across the street among the crowd of scattering patrons. In moments, we were in the cars and away as Palumbo and I held onto Sara who had been thrown in between us, still covered by the heavy sack. She struggled and screamed and I started to lift the bag off from her, but Palumbo stopped me.

  “Sara, it’s Mathew,” I said, trying to calm her. “We’re not going to hurt you.” I looked over and Palumbo’s sweat-stained face had a wild and excited expression. He was breathing hard and holding Sara tightly to keep from getting hit by flying elbows under the bag. Ahead, two cop cars with lights flashing were coming toward us. Then I could hear the sirens and Palumbo pushed Sara’s head down behind the front seat until they had passed. I looked out the back window and no one seemed to be following us.

  As we drove through the night, Sara seemed to calm some and she stopped struggling, but I could feel her heavy breathing under the sack. “Sara, you need to come home. We’re going to help you.” She didn’t respond.

  The cars dropped us at the docks and Palumbo spoke with the lead man in our car as I stood holding Sara beside me. I could see the wisdom now in keeping her covered because it would be impossible for her to try to break free and run. When we reached the top of the gangway to the deck of the boat the Captain came out to meet us. Palumbo intercepted him and put some bills in his hand when he started to protest. Soon we were below and Palumbo and I led Sara into the bunk room we had used coming over from Destin. I lifted off the sack and Sara squinted in the light and then she flew at me like a rabid animal, a look of madness and hatred on her face. Her hand slashed across my face and a deep searing pain ripped across my cheek. Then Palumbo had her pinned with his arms around her and he pulled her back away from me.