by Matt Hilton
FIVE
‘I expected it to be warmer than this.’ Tess glared up at a sky dense with clouds the colour of burnished brass. During their last trip to Baton Rouge, the city had been baking under a hot spell, and her northern blood had struggled with the humidity. She hadn’t expected a chilly wind to greet her as she stepped through the arrivals exit at Baton Rouge Metropolitan Airport.
‘What? It’s February, you thought it was always hot down this way?’ Po asked as he pulled out a pack of Marlboros and lit up. His smoke was snatched away on the breeze. He squeezed her a grin. ‘What you complaining about, anyway? It’s still warmer than it was in Maine.’
‘Back home I was dressed for the weather, not in this …’ She tugged at the thin cotton jacket she’d pulled on before their connecting flight out of Atlanta. ‘All my previous misconceptions of moving to the balmy south have been dispelled, and not in a good way.’
‘You can say whatever you want about the south, Tess, but you don’t hear of many folks retiring to the north.’
‘What does that say about you then, Po?’
‘I haven’t retired yet.’
‘No, you’re just over the hill.’
He offered one of his lazy smiles, smoke curling from one side of his mouth. ‘Didn’t hear you complaining last night.’
‘For an old guy with a gut wound, you didn’t do too badly,’ she reassured him.
‘Old guy,’ he whispered under his breath, eliciting another chuckle from Tess.
In truth, he was older than her, being in his forties, but if you disregarded the lines around his eyes and mouth, Po could pass for a man much younger. She occasionally wondered if the twelve years he’d spent incarcerated at Angola had anything to do with it: with nothing better to do with their time many inmates spent a good portion of it working out. But that wasn’t it, because Po had been out of prison for an equally long time, and yet he hadn’t grown soft. Much of his rangy frame and sinewy strength was down to genetics. He could eat like a horse and barely put an ounce on his lean frame, and Tess wished she could bottle whatever made his metabolism work like that. She too was a product of genetics and if she didn’t watch her calorie intake and work out regularly, she’d soon have a butt as wide as her mom’s.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked as he ground out his cigarette on the edge of a concrete bin.
‘A bit stiff from being cooped up on the plane, but I’m holding up fine.’ He touched his abdomen, and winced slightly. Not long ago he’d been almost gutted by a demented killer, and getting into another fight with an equally demented rapist a few months later hadn’t helped his recovery. Tess assumed he was in more discomfort than he was letting on, but that wasn’t what she’d meant. She was referring to his mental well-being now that they were only hours away from attending his mother’s bedside. He nodded at the parking lot. ‘We should get moving. Pinky’s waiting.’
Pinky had grabbed a slot in a ‘no-stopping’ zone. He was engaged in a heated argument with an old Latino guy marshalling taxis and minibuses as Tess and Po approached. Immediately his demeanor changed when he spotted them, and he flipped off the taxi supervisor with a curt remark, to turn a beaming grin on them.
Jerome ‘Pinky’ Leclerc was an unusual man in many respects. He suffered from a medical condition that caused him to bloat from the waist down, so his legs looked swollen and tubular, while his arms appeared skinny twigs by comparison. His pointy head, hair shaved almost to the roots, sat perched on sloping shoulders, a football threatening to roll either direction with every nod. He was a similar age to Po, but his brown skin was smooth and seamless, making him look much younger. He was gay, or he was bisexual, or he might even be uninterested in sex: Tess hadn’t fully made up her mind yet. His speech patterns were odd to say the least. But all those quirks weren’t what made him unusual. It was the contradiction in his character that threw her most. He was a criminal, a man who made his living in the shady world of illegal firearms and God knew what else, but he was also one of the nicest, most loyal friends she could wish for. Recently Pinky had almost given his life to save hers. Back when she was a Sheriff’s deputy it would have been her mission to arrest men like Pinky Leclerc, now all she wanted to do was hug him.
She trotted ahead of Po and into Pinky’s arms. As was his way, he lifted her off her feet, swinging her around as he planted kisses on her cheeks and forehead.
‘Pretty Tess, I’m so glad to see you, me!’ he said as he set her on her feet once more.
‘Me too,’ she told him, then made way so Po could greet his old friend. Their hug was more manly, a slap on each other’s shoulder, but with no less affection.
‘As usual, though, it saddens me that we only meet under awkward circumstances.’ Pinky’s features had grown sombre. He clamped a hand on Po’s shoulder. ‘I know you’re here because I called for you, but I think you are making a mistake, you.’
‘That remains to be seen,’ Po said. ‘Maybe it’s time I made my peace with my mom. Doesn’t mean I have to have anything to do with her other kin.’
‘The Chatards might not see things that way.’
‘Fuck the Chatards.’ Po didn’t frequently swear, so the curse was all the more grating because of it.
‘She made her bed, I’d let her lie in it, me.’
‘Yeah. Except this is her death bed.’ Po’s lips pinched. ‘Man, as callous as it sounds, my mother dying might not be a bad thing. At least I’ll be free of any connection to those a-holes after this. There’ll be nothing to stop me from sorting things with them once my mom’s out of the firing line.’ He glimpsed at Tess, maybe expecting reproof, but she said nothing. She always knew that his feud with the Chatards would come to a head sooner or later. And that she’d be there to support her man.
The taxi supervisor came storming back, waving an officious notice at Pinky, and jabbing at the ‘no-stopping’ signs on the nearby concrete posts.
‘OK, better pile in gang,’ said Pinky, indicating a large black panel van parked at curbside. He turned his gaze on the Latino. ‘Hey, I told you I’d only be a few minutes. So chill out, before you take an embolism, you … when I give you a slap upside yo head.’
The supervisor backed off muttering under his breath. Pinky hauled his bulk into the driving seat, while Tess and Po settled in alongside him after dropping their travel bags behind the seat.
‘Maybe I shouldn’t have said that, me,’ said Pinky with a nod at the Latino, who still glared at him.
‘He probably hears worse a thousand times a day,’ said Po.
‘I was meaning the crack about the embolism, considering what’s going on with your mother. It was insensitive of me, I’m sorry, Nicolas.’
Po’s mother didn’t have an embolism to her brain. But she had suffered a blockage to her pulmonary artery that had brought on a severe cardiac arrest, and the requirement of open-heart surgery to fit a by-pass. Unfortunately, pre-existing conditions made her unsuitable for the life-saving operation and she was failing, her life expectancy only days. For all they knew she’d already died, because there had been no further contact from anyone in New Iberia. The initial call had come to Pinky via an old acquaintance that Clara had reached out to for help in contacting her wayward son. Tess had suggested to Po to contact Clara’s husband directly, but Po didn’t want to give the Chatards forewarning of his arrival. He’d also put off phoning the hospital in case a well-meaning nurse informed the wrong person that Clara’s son had been in touch.
Why did family disputes have to be so damn complicated? Though, Tess had to admit, there were few families she knew of with the kind of problems the Villeres shared with the Chatards.
SIX
‘Where’s Zeke?’
Alistair Keane stared directly at the huge man towering over him. The man stared back, but it was as if his gaze rested on a point somewhere beyond Keane’s shoulder, maybe not even in the same room or even on the same planet. His pale green eyes were slightly unfocused, and his mout
h moved silently, conversing with someone equally beyond Keane’s reality.
‘Cleary! Cleary, snap out of it! Are you listening to me, goddamnit?’ Keane jabbed a finger into the giant’s denim-clad gut, and slowly Cleary’s head tilted down, and his green gaze settled on Keane’s face. ‘I asked you where your brother is.’
‘Zeke.’
‘How many damn brothers have you got?’
‘Only Zeke.’
‘So where is he?’
Cleary’s head went up and he looked at the single exit from the trailer. If Keane didn’t know otherwise he’d believe that Cleary’s ability for divining a person’s location by pinpointing them with some kind of innate – and infinitely weird – built-in radar was real. But Cleary didn’t possess a magical power; he was simply being literal. ‘Outside,’ he said.
‘I know he’s outside, but where?’
A hand the size of a grizzly bear’s paw jabbed at the door.
Frustrated by Cleary’s stupidity, Keane shook his head. ‘Well, go tell him I want him in here.’
Cleary sniffed, then wiped the back of his thick, hirsute wrist across his top lip.
‘Now would be a good time,’ Keane said, his head forced forward for emphasis.
Cleary clumped across the floor, the entire structure quaking under his weight. He opened the door, and had to duck to exit. Keane listened to his slow progress down the steps. It could still be heard over the roar of heavy machinery. Diesel fumes wafted inside the trailer, and Keane cursed the big idiot for neglecting to close the door behind him. Maybe Cleary had purposefully left it ajar: he didn’t like taking commands from Keane and decided a rebellious act was in order. It wasn’t. Keane needed to have a word with Zeke about his brother’s behaviour. If it weren’t sorted, Cleary, for all he was a handy man to have around, would have to go. But he didn’t want to speak with Zeke about the big idiot just now; there was something more important. He scurried over and pulled the door to, and returned to his desk, looking again at the screen of his cellphone, and the message that had urged him into sending for Ezekiel Menon.
He cursed under his breath. What the hell was he paying the morons for if they couldn’t do the goddamn job right? The question was rhetorical. But it was most likely being asked of him by his own boss. In any organization the shit rolled downhill, well he was determined it wasn’t going to end up heaped on his shoulders.
It was minutes before he heard boots on the steps. He spun around his desk chair but didn’t rise. Zeke Menon didn’t knock, he came straight in. He wasn’t as huge as his freakish brother, but he was still tall, and had to duck to gain clear headroom. He was wearing a stained ball cap. The broken peak was frayed along its edges, the cotton dark with grease from his fingers. The remainder of his clothing was in better condition, neat almost, and the cap was an aberration. Keane had once asked why he didn’t get a new cap, and Zeke had called it his lucky hat, and pointed at what appeared to be a scorch mark along one side. He swore it had saved his skull when it deflected a bullet during a shootout with some bikers over in Morgan City a few years ago. Pointing out that the meagre cloth had little to do with saving his skull, but that he was lucky to have been fired at by a poor shot was a waste of Keane’s breath, because he seriously suspected that the cap had been in place so long it would have to be surgically removed and Zeke wasn’t for changing it now.
‘You were looking for me, Al?’ Zeke was smoking a cigarette, and looked at the glowing embers instead of Keane.
‘Where were you?’
Zeke swung the peak of his cap at the door, then took another drag on his cigarette.
Keane grimaced. Cleary was a moron, so he had an excuse for being stupid. ‘There an extra ingredient in that?’
‘Executive perks,’ said Zeke and offered a lazy smile.
Keane eyed him a moment longer, then returned his attention to his cellphone. He held it up so Zeke could read the screen. The man only nodded, and had another toke of his joint.
‘Well?’ Keane prompted.
‘I’ve got everything in hand.’
‘That isn’t the way Corbin sees things. It isn’t the way I see things.’
Zeke exhaled and Keane winced at the sickly sweet smoke that engulfed him. He wafted a hand. ‘Put that fucking thing out, will ya.’
Zeke smoked on. But at least this time he sent the plumes of smoke out the side of his mouth so that Keane was spared. ‘Don’t know what all the fuss is about. The Thibodauxs are outta the picture, like I promised. They’re in a hole in the ground and will never be found.’
‘It isn’t the damn Thibodauxs Corbin’s asking about. What’s the deal with the stoners who disturbed you at the site?’
‘We got one of them, the other’s in the wind, but we’ll find her.’ Zeke used his joint as a pointer at the phone. ‘You can let Mr Corbin know he has nothing to worry about.’
‘There’s a witness who can tie both you and Cleary to the murders. I don’t have to remind you that you’re both distinctive dudes, and any cop in New Iberia will know exactly who she’s describing the second she opens her mouth.’
Zeke shrugged. ‘Bitch knows my name.’ He forestalled Keane’s lurch of alarm with an upraised finger. ‘She also knows what will happen if she mentions it to anyone. She ran from us, but she was in earshot and I made it clear what would happen to everyone she holds dear if she even whispers my name in her sleep.’
Keane made a sound in the back of his throat.
Zeke smiled at his disdain. ‘My reputation precedes me.’
‘Your reputation will mean shit if the cops come for us. If she knows you, then she probably knows you work for me, and that I work for Nate Corbin. I’m warning you, Zeke, and with best intentions, if your identity does come out and it leads back to Corbin, your name won’t mean a damn thing. You and Cleary aren’t the only muscle he has on his payroll.’
‘I ain’t afraid of any man.’
‘I know. But another word of caution … you should be.’
Zeke ground the stub of his cigarette under a heel, ignoring the indignation on Keane’s face. ‘Like I said, let Corbin know I’ve got everything in hand. I’ve my eyes and ears reporting back to me: it’s handy having an army of stoners beholding to you, right? Sooner rather than later, one of them is going to come across her and let me know where she can be found.’ He mimed slicing his throat, made a little whistle for emphasis. ‘Then she’ll get it.’
‘Would be better if I can report back to Corbin that you’re actively looking for her.’
‘So tell him that.’
‘Those eyes and ears you mentioned, you don’t think they’re reporting to Corbin too?’
‘Fair point. I’ll go get Cleary. I think he’s bored hanging around this dump anyways. Do him good to join me for a drive before he gets into mischief.’
‘You have somewhere in mind or are you just spinning me a line?’
Zeke smiled sarcastically. ‘Actually, I do have somewhere in mind. I heard Emilia’s mother has had a bad turn and is in hospital. If she’s any kind of daughter, I’m betting she won’t stay away from the old hag’s bedside.’
SEVEN
Tess was familiar with hospitals, but she never felt at home in one. After her hand was almost severed by a crazed knifeman attempting to escape a bungled robbery, she had spent a lot of time in hospital and at a specialist rehabilitation unit to help regain mobility of her reconstructed wrist. She still attended private physiotherapy sessions, but on the whole her hospital appointments had ended, for which she was thankful. Yet it felt like only yesterday since she’d last sat in an overcrowded waiting room for what seemed an age before being called in to see her doctor, and there she was again. Pinky was keeping her company, but he wasn’t being his usual ebullient self, his face pinched as he checked out those seated nearby or coming and going down the adjacent corridor. He was on the lookout, tense, and prepared for the worst.
Strolling into Iberia General Hospital and Medical Cent
er was akin to shoving their hands into a wasps’ nest and expecting to come away unscathed. Through association with Po they were courting danger.
She sensed Pinky stiffen, before he tapped the back of his hand against her thigh.
Tess remained as nonchalant as possible as she followed the directions of his wiggling fingers and spotted the man at the end of the hall. He was as tall as Po, and as rangy, but his face was leaner, sterner, and partly obscured beneath the peak of a battered old ball cap. He wore denims – jeans and shirt – and cowboy boots. His gaze swept the hall, alighted momentarily on Tess, and she felt a trickle of unease go through her at his brief scrutiny that weighed and discarded her as below his contempt. As he walked out of view, his head turning to and fro as he searched for something, Tess looked at Pinky.
‘Was that one of the Chatards?’
‘Not that I know of. But I didn’t like the look of him, me.’
Tess hadn’t liked the look of the stranger either, but that wasn’t saying much. She had an ex-cop’s talent for spotting scumballs. The man in the grimy hat wasn’t the first undesirable she’d laid eyes on since entering the hospital, and surely wouldn’t be the last. If he wasn’t a member of the Chatard family, then he wasn’t worth paying further attention to. She returned to her silent vigil, waiting for Po’s return.
After a few more interminable minutes Po appeared from the opposite end of the hall.
Before he reached them he nodded back the way he’d just come. Tess and Pinky stood, and Po waited for them to join him. Other visitors to the hospital gamely ignored them.
‘She’s this way,’ he announced.
‘You want us to come with you?’ Tess asked.
‘Yeah. Not sure they’ll let us all in to see her—’ he looked pointedly at Pinky – ‘there’s a restriction on family visitors only. I can probably get Tess by the nurses …’
