Louie, David, and Mr. Laurent stood in a loose circle on the lawn between a 1951 Chevy truck parked on the driveway and the storehouse. The rectangular, white-sided building with long and white-curtained front windows was about a hundred yards behind Mr. Laurent’s plantation home. A herringbone-patterned brick walkway lined with flowerbeds connected the two buildings. Unlike the two-story manor house with multiple fireplace chimneys, the storehouse’s peaked roof slanted downwards, Cajun style, and spread to white posts supported by a herringbone brick foundation. White rockers and wicker chairs faced the back of the manor house.
After a glance at wisps of white clouds in the summer sky, Louie stepped back. The thirty-something foreman, dressed in faded jeans and a torn, yellow-plaid shirt, had a ruddy complexion, eyes the color of nails, and high cheekbones. He propped a foot on the green Chevy’s running board and flicked dust from his boot’s triple welt, round toe, then rubbed spittle on a section of the red-topped leather. When finished, he smiled as he ran his fingers across at the boot’s dotted and raised swirls.
“It’s 11:30,” Mr. Laurent said. “Louie, you and Mr. Broussard must return from Mr. Blanchard’s pasture by 3:00. If not, I’ll assume you’ve encountered difficulties and telephone the sheriff in Narrow Bridge. We can’t take chances, not with the Klan operatin’ at will. Henri Doucet’s life is at stake.”
“Don’t worry, boss. I’ll git it ova with in time,” Louie said, lifting his gaze.
Mr. Laurent gave Louie a blank look.
“Does Mr. Blanchard know w’at we’re doin’?” David asked. He was a head taller than Louie and, unlike Louie, clean-shaven. Both were hatless.
“I’ll telephone Mr. Blanchard shortly and inform him.” Mr. Laurent rubbed the sides of his mouth. “Louie?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t want another misunderstandin’ with Mr. Blanchard. Make sure you close his gate.”
“No problem, boss.”
“I hope not.” Mr. Laurent turned and walked away.
As Louie opened the door on the driver’s side of the truck, David stood motionless, his thumbs hooked on his jeans’ pockets. “Dose are some good-lookin’ boots you’re wearin’. Ain’t neva seen skins like dat befo’. Dem boots from Texas?”
“Nope.” Louie got into the truck and started the engine.
With his head down, David walked around the back of the truck and opened the passenger’s door. As he stepped onto the running board, Louie lurched the Chevy forward. As if to make a statement, David swung hard in his seat and slammed the door shut. Louie gripped the steering wheel and drove as if David weren’t there. The graveled driveway, an extension of the entrance to the plantation’s compound, wrapped behind the storehouse, curved right after seventy-five yards and led to the gate to the first pasture and a narrow farm road grated smooth.
“Mr. Laurent’s sure got hisself a nice barn.” David pointed to an applejack barn with sheds and horse stalls attached. Its red paint was the color of pig’s blood.
“Yeah, the boss ain’t shy ’bout spendin’ money on equipment. He’s got a couple mo’ barns behin’ the hay pastures.” Louie idled the truck’s engine and opened the door. “Gonna git that gate,” Louie said.
While he waited for Louie, David’s eyes surveyed the flat pasture. “Id’s damn quiet ’round here,” he said when Louie returned. “Where’s yo men?”
“I gave ’em the day off.” Louie half-shrugged and slapped a fly out of the open window.
“You gave yo men da day off on a T’ursday? Dat dôn mek sense,” David said.
“I’m jist a nice guy.” The gears grated when Louie shifted from neutral to first. “This truck ain’t worth a damn,” he said and rammed the gear into second.
After Louie had opened and closed three gates, David stretched and rubbed his back. “Want me to hep wid da gates?”
“Don’t need nobody mindin’ mah business,” Louie said.
“You’re makin’ good, good time,” David said, ignoring the slight.
Louie smiled and glanced at David’s wrist. “That’s a nice time piece you got.”
“Mr. Laurent loaned me his ole watch dis mornin’. He’s serious ’bout callin’ da sheriff if we’re late.”
“Yeah. The boss don’t like fuck-ups. He chews yo ass real good when things don’t go his way.” Louie stomped the accelerator. As the truck sped forward, Louie’s face contorted. “Why was you pointin’ at the barn befo’ I walked up this mornin’?”
“I axed Mr. Laurent why you were ridin’ a horse in da pasture behin’ mah house,” David said, his voice neutral.
“Since when I gotta check with you befo’ I do mah job?”
“Nobody’s sayin’ you do. I was juz axin’,” David said.
Louie hunched over the steering wheel and drove the Chevy with singular determination. David took a deep breath, then settled into the ride. White-faced Herefords grazed in pastures intersected with cow paths that crisscrossed the farm road. Flies hovered above fresh cow dung. Metal fences with four rows of barbed wire between wooden posts separated the pastures. The barbed wire glinted hot. Pasture grasses drooped beneath the high sun, a salad of yellows and greens peppered with black dung. Salt licks glistened bright white next to longitudinally split water barrels.
“We’re in the fourth pasture back and the fifth one ’cross.” Louie said, breaking the silence.
“You sure know dis place,” David said and leaned forward.
“That’s mah job.” He spit out the window. “Afta this pasture, I’m gonna follow the road down and cut across five mo’ pastures to Blanchard’s place.” He shot a look at David. “You’ll git to see yo house.” Louie shook his head. “Three white houses in a row. You boys got lucky. Meybe a bit too lucky.”
“W’at you mean by dat?” David asked.
“Don’t mean nuttin’ by it, ’cept meybe luck don’t make hard work seem fair.”
“Me and mah wife sharecropped fo’ a long time. She was deservin’ betta,” David said.
“Women are born to work and have babies. Anything else is fo’ men to have fun,” Louie said and laughed.
After David reached for the water canteen on the seat next to him and quenched his thirst, he shifted to his right. His jaw tightened. “Dis road forks to da left up dere, no?”
“That’s how I git to the hay pastures.”
“Let’s take a look,” David said. He screwed the cap on the canteen and dropped it next to him on the beige leather seat.
“Ain’t nuttin’ there ’cept grass ’bout ready to be cut fo’ hay,” Louie said.
David pressed his face closer to the windshield. “Dat looks like a big stand a trees ova dere to da left.”
“Yeah. There’s ’bout five acres the boss wants to cut fo’ timber in a couple a years.” Louie wiped the back of his neck with his hand. “The boss sure knows how to make money.”
David sat back in his seat and eyed Louie. “Is he gonna cut dose oak trees in front a dem pines?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
“Dere’s buzzards circlin’ ova dem trees.”
“Probably a deer got in trouble. That happens.”
“Take a left up dere at da fork. I want to see fo’ mah’self.”
“We can’t chase deer, git to Blanchard’s place, and be back in time,” Louie said. “If the fuckin’ sheriff comes out fo’ nuttin’, he’s gonna throw a hissy fit.”
“You let me worry ’bout dat. Take a left.”
“Whatever you say, boss man.”
The truck’s speed increased. The speedometer’s needle pushed its 80-mile per hour limit. Hot air blasted through the windows as if the sun fueled a furnace. Clutter on the dashboard rustled. David glanced out the back window. A billowing cloud of dust followed the truck. When he faced forward, a scrap of paper flew off the dashboard and hit him on the forehead. It fell into the crevice between his seat and the door. David angled his left shoulder away from Louie. His right hand gripped the vent windo
w’s frame.
“Hold on,” Louie said. As he swung the truck wide for a hard left, his elbow hit the horn. Dust filled the cab. Louie gagged and slammed on the brakes. “I need a drink a water,” he said and cut the truck’s engine. With one hand over his mouth, he opened the truck’s door with his other hand.
David got out of the truck and stood near the front of the bed. His eyes followed the foreman’s movements as he lowered the tailgate and pulled himself up. After stepping around a mountainous fold of black tarpaulin and snippets of rope, twine, and wire, Louie stooped near the metal toolbox beneath the cab’s window. He stared at an assortment of boxes and cans and frowned. “Mah canteen ain’t here. Guess I left it back at the storehouse.”
“You kin have a swig a mah water. Dere’s a bit left,” David said. After they got back into the truck, David handed him the canteen.
“The day’s a hot one.” Louie unscrewed the cap and gulped the water. “Makes me wish I was back in Texas, ’way from this fuckin’ humidity.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and passed the canteen to David.
“Louisiana’s not fo’ ev’rybody,” David said.
“Neva said I couldn’t handle the heat, jist said I wished I was back in Texas.” When Louie reached past the steering wheel and pulled a soiled handkerchief from the cluttered dashboard, his shirt’s sleeve pulled up. “Like what you see?” Louie asked.
“W’at? Dat tattoo on da top a yo arm?”
“Yeah.” Louie wiped his forehead and tossed the handkerchief back onto the dashboard.
“You shouldn’t hide a cross in a circle. People are religious here,” David said.
“People got religion in Texas, too.”
“Is dat where you got da tattoo, in Texas?”
“Yeah. Friend a mine runs a tattoo parlor near Amarillo. He done it fo’ free,” Louie said.
“Nice friend,” David said.
“Me and mah friends stick together. It’s the only way to survive,” Louie said, a bite in his voice. With his left foot on the clutch, he turned the key in the ignition and resumed driving, but kept the truck in second gear. “The engine ain’t soundin’ right,” he said. “I’m gonna check it out.”
“You do dat,” David said. After Louie raised the truck’s hood, David eased his door open, pulled his Colt from the small of his back, and maneuvered into position behind the truck’s bed.
When Louie slammed the truck’s hood down, he held a snub-nosed .38 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver in his right hand. The 1952 Centennial model had a five-round chamber and a barrel less than two inches long. Louie stared at the truck’s window and then waved the pistol as he pivoted in a half circle. “Where you at, white trash?”
“Why’s you talkin’ to yo’self, Louie?” David asked.
“Don’t bullshit me. Black people don’t sleep in white people’s houses.” Louie fired above the Chevy and crouched low.
“Knock dat shit off. Jacob’s a chile.”
“I don’t give a fuck how ole his black ass is. Boy’s no betta than an animal. Animals don’t sleep in houses.”
“Dôn tell me w’at da fuck to do in mah house.”
Louie laughed.
“W’at’s so funny?”
“The surprises we’ve got fo’ you, boy.”
David stood and fired a round to the far left of the truck’s hood, followed by another round closer in, then another as Louie jerked to his right. With his arm extended, David ran alongside the right side of the truck’s bed and fired above Louie’s head. When Louie turned, his boot stubbed cow dung. David kicked the Smith & Wesson out of Louie’s hand, tackled him to the ground, and pinned his wrists to the sides of his face. “Who’s hangin’ from dat oak tree?” David asked.
“Ain’t nobody hangin’ nowhere,” Louie said as he squirmed to break free.
“Try agin, you son uh a bitch.” David slammed his knee into Louie’s groin.
Louie screamed. The primeval sound hovered and then fell into the buzz of flies returning to nearby cow dung.
“Who’s hangin’ from dat tree?” David asked.
“Ain’t neva seen the kid befo’,” Louie said. His voice came between dry gasps and desperate squirms.
“You mean Daniel?” David raised his knee.
Terror rippled across Louie’s face. He retched. “I didn’t do it, Mr. Broussard. I swear I didn’t. Charley— ”
David grabbed Louie’s hair and pulled his head up. “Where’s Henri Doucet?”
“Don’t know.”
“You’s a lyin’ sack a shit. Where’s Henri Doucet?” David punched him in the stomach.
A scream ripped through Louie’s body and died in a guttural moan buried beneath vomit. “Franneaux’s got him,” he said, his words struggling through vomit seeping from his mouth.
“Where?” David raised his fist.
“Don’t know.” Louie writhed in his excrement and vomit.
David jerked Louie to his feet and shoved him into the open pasture. “Dôn try no funny stuff,” he said and walked backwards to the truck. After his boot’s heel gained traction on the running board, David pulled a rifle from the rolled tarp with his left hand. He smiled at the 870, 12 gauge Remington Wingmaster. “You’s right, Louie. You’s a nice guy. I’s been wantin’ to pump an’ shoot dis beauty eva since id came out.” He stepped down, flipped his Colt’s safety on, and stuck the weapon into his jeans’ waist. He then slid the Remington’s safety off. “To show you how grateful I is, you’s gittin’ a chance,” David said.
“What kinda chance?” Louie asked, his hands on his groin.
“Take yo clothes off.”
“No. You ain’t leavin’ me jackass naked in this heat.”
“Git outta yo fuckin’ clothes or I’s shootin’ yo right boot off.”
“No. I’ve got a wife and a daughter to support.”
“Dat’s nice.” David smiled. “I’s happy when people git religion an’ care fo’ one anodder.”
Louie stared at the Remington. “I’m plenty religious, Mr. Broussard. I neva miss church on Sunday. You’s seen the cross on mah arm.”
“Nice try, Louie. Too bad yo tattoo is da Klan’s circle a brodderhood.” David jerked right and fired the Remington shotgun from his waist. The chestnut horse that had ridden out of nowhere reared and threw its rider. The body lay crumpled on the ground, unmoving as the horse bolted across the pasture.
Louie screamed and charged David. “You killed mah cousin. You killed Charley.”
David butted Louie on the head with the Remington. He slumped to the ground.
After ejecting the spent round from the shotgun’s side portal, David removed rope from the back of the truck and tied Louie’s ankles and legs together. “You’s gonna live, Louie. Too bad,” he said and turned.
David drove to the fallen rider, got out of the truck, and pulled the white hood from his head. “Charley, you’s one sorry ’cuse fo’ a human bein’.” He flung Charley over his shoulder and carried him to the truck’s bed. David then drove to within three feet of a thick utility rope dangling from a gnarled oak tree in front of the pine trees. After pulling rounds from his jeans’ pocket, he re-loaded his Colt and got out of the truck. A horse neighed when Daniel’s body hit the ground.
Chapter Seven
Lilies
Rings of Trust Page 18
