Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller

by David Lyons

  “I’m sure I ruined your Mexican vacation. I’m sorry. If the two of you are ever in Washington, I hope you will let the First Lady and me make it up to you.” Still ignoring Boucher, he asked the doctor, “How’s the patient?”

  “He’s showing marked improvement, Mr. President. I think he’s going to be fine.”

  At last the commander in chief turned to Boucher. “You haven’t come to believe that the conferring of a lifetime appointment grants some kind of protective shield or superpowers, have you? Cats may have nine lives, but federal judges get the standard allotment: one per customer. And they’ve got to take care of it. Okay, Judge, tell me how you’re feeling, and introduce me to your friends, and tell me when you plan to get back to work.”

  “Mr. President,” Boucher said, “I will be in my office within forty-eight hours.” He introduced his group of visitors, and they all shook their leader’s hand.

  Then the president returned to Jock’s side. “Would you folks mind if I had a private word with Judge Boucher?” The room was cleared. He pulled up a chair and bent forward, almost whispering. “Judge Boucher, I need you on the bench. I can’t afford any surprises right now. I’m trying to fill a vacancy with a candidate I believe is one of the most qualified legal scholars in the country, and my appointing him to the federal bench is just a prelude. I want him for the Supreme Court at some point in the future. I’m getting a lot of pressure against this nomination. I need you to stay on board and stay out of trouble—if that’s possible for you. If you ever start to have doubts again about your role as a federal judge, I want you to call me. We’ll talk. Use this number and this password. That will make sure your call reaches me. All right?” He handed the card to Boucher.

  “Of course, Mr. President. I’m sorry I’ve been such a pain in the ass.”

  The president smiled. “Your career has been rather colorful lately.”

  After his brief conversation with Boucher, the president blazed a tornado trail throughout the hospital, calling on patients young and old. All were energized by his unexpected visit, but none more so than Boucher. After the chief executive had departed, Mildred French paid a visit, and the Dumonts sent a floral arrangement that took two men to carry. It was like a birthday party, into the middle of which walked a complete stranger.

  “Can I help you?” Boucher asked.

  “I came to see how you were doing,” the man said. He looked like he had come directly from a men’s clothing store. He wore trousers that had razor-sharp creases, a spotless white cotton shirt, and a zippered brown windbreaker that was definitely a new purchase; a tag remained uncut and hanging from the rear. He was clean-shaven and sported a fresh haircut and wore canvas boat shoes—the only clue to his identity. Boucher stared hard at him.

  “It’s me, Judge. Fred Arcineaux.” It was extreme makeover, in the flesh. The shrimper looked reborn.

  “Fred, how nice of you to drop by. I have some good news for you.”

  Boucher told him of the job interview Ray Dumont had promised as Fitch eyed the man up and down. After Arcineaux excused himself and left, Fitch gave Boucher a wink and a thumbs-up, then left the room to take a call on his cell phone. The women were talking when he came back in. He walked to Boucher and said out of range of the others, “They found the bullet that winged you. We know the caliber. It seems the identical twin had an identical gun.”

  “We’ve got to find him,” Boucher said.

  “We’re working on it right now.”

  “No. We’ve got to find him. We. Like in you and me. We have to find out where he got that gun.”

  Fitch shook his head. “You’ve been shot. You’ve just had a personal visit from no less than the president of the United States, who I’m sure told you to act like a judge, right? And two seconds later, you’re trying to be a detective. I should ask your doc to give you another sedative. Or maybe a straitjacket.”

  • • •

  The doctor was firm. He would not release Boucher until the next day. Malika stayed with him. Boucher was cornered. He had to answer the hard questions.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked with purposeful ambiguity, hoping to sweep in anything else he had been keeping from her.

  “Malika, I’ve never discussed my work with you,” he answered with equally purposeful evasion.

  “You’ve never discussed pending cases with me, and I’ve never asked. Lately, though, your work has not been like that of any judge I’ve ever heard of, and you seem to be going from one dangerous situation to another. I don’t know what’s going on with you, because you don’t tell me anything. Fitch’s friend Helen knows more of what’s happening in your life than I do, and she just met you.”

  “That’s not true,” he said weakly, but he knew it was. He was silent for a minute, staring down at her hand holding his. “We have phone conversations. We update each other’s lives in ten words or less, and one of us is always on the run while we’re talking. How do I tell you in such a dialogue that my life was threatened and I put the perpetrator in the hospital, where he died? How do I tell you, as we run from one meeting to the next, that I feel responsible for his death even though the doctors tell me otherwise? Should I wait till the first night we’re back together? The second night? When is the right time to turn our reunion into a reflection of my guilty conscience?”

  “There’s never a wrong time, Jock.”

  • • •

  The next morning, Boucher was released from the hospital.

  “No lifting, no exercise,” the doctor said. “You have a sedentary profession. You’re a judge. Just act like one, and you’ll recover in no time.”

  Boucher said nothing, just smiled. He’d been lying in bed for almost three days. He’d gone into the ring with more serious injuries than he was suffering now. He and Malika took a taxi home from the hospital, and it was as if the fates were signaling their accord: when he walked in the front door, he saw the light flashing on the answering machine; his new cell phone vibrated in his pocket; and Malika’s phone buzzed in her purse. She walked out onto the porch to take her call. Boucher drew his phone from his pocket. It was Fitch.

  “You out of the rest home?” Fitch asked.

  “Standing in the living room of my own hacienda.”

  “Want to rejoin the world of the living?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I’ll pass by and tell you.”

  He closed his cell and checked the landline message. It was Ray Dumont. “Judge, give me a call when you’re home and feeling up to it. Thought I might get up a card game. Wanted to know if you’re interested.”

  The front door was ajar. He could see Malika on her phone, pacing the porch, mostly listening. When she had finished her conversation, she came in, her expression blank.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “I have to go to New York.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  He took her in his arms, held her close, and felt dampness on her cheek.

  “Are you crying?”

  “Jock,” Malika said, “when you were shot and I was lying next to you, trying to keep you warm . . .”

  “You told me you loved me. I remember.”

  “I was wondering if it was our last good-bye. Every time I leave you, I wonder the same. I’m always afraid that someday, it will be.”

  Malika’s phone rang again. They both shrugged. This was their life. Live in the moment, and be thankful. He saw Fitch’s car pull into the drive and went out to meet him. “Let’s talk out back,” Boucher said. “Malika’s busy with work. What’s in the bag?”

  “Shoes,” Fitch said.

  They sat at the wrought-iron patio suite in the back. “These are canvas Sperry Top-Siders,” Fitch said, putting the bag on the table, “identical to the shoes your guy wore to the hospital. If we can figure out a way to get him aboard that vessel—”

  “I’ve already done that. Dumont told me one of his offshore vessels
needed a cook when I first broached the subject. Arcineaux will say he’s a cook and ask to meet the ship’s captain.”

  “Great. Tell him to use these shoes. He knows you don’t wear street shoes on a boat. Ask him to take them off as soon as he can after the interview.”

  “Any luck finding the shooter?”

  “I went through records on the dead brother. He had an address as a juvenile in the Seventh Ward. I drove by. Wiped out by Katrina. Helen’s going through old school records, but I’m sure she’ll find the same address. Since there are no public records on him, he’s probably homeless, like his brother was.”

  Boucher looked toward his house. “Malika’s leaving tomorrow. I’m going looking for him after she’s gone. Don’t worry, I’m not planning a confrontation. I just want to see the world he lives in. The world his brother came from. If I should stumble across him, I promise to call you. I’m not going to do a cop’s job.”

  Fitch nodded. “I know you. I’ve been expecting that. Also, your case got assigned to Fayette and Gough. With all the shit the department has been getting lately, an internal regulation is in force: ‘Thou shalt not speak ill of thy fellow law enforcement officer.’ But Fayette and Gough? If either one of them was given a new brain, it would die lonesome. This would not be a priority with them, and the guy might shoot you again before they get off their asses. Also, they are not particularly sophisticated when working with suspects from the lower economic strata, if you know what I mean. Just be careful. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Thanks for understanding.”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  CHAPTER 15

  MALIKA’S DEPARTURE THE NEXT morning was understated, maybe a twinge of regret, but they’d been through it many times before. Minutes after Malika left, Mildred brought by some paperwork that kept him busy till early afternoon. Then he called Arcineaux and was told his appointment with Dumont Industries had been scheduled. Boucher offered to come out and wish him luck. He grabbed the shoes Fitch had left and went to meet the shrimper on his boat. He was pleased to see the trawler shipshape. There were no beer cans, no refuse. There were sounds of Arcineaux working below, and Boucher called to him. The shrimper came up covered with grease and grime, but it was fresh. He wiped his hands on his shirt. “Working on the engine,” he said. “Come aboard.”

  Boucher felt ridiculous. His expression showed it.

  “Something wrong?” Arcineaux asked.

  “I need a favor.”

  “Figured you didn’t drive over here just to wish me luck. What can I do for you, Judge?”

  Boucher had worn a raincoat, which did not look out of place on the overcast afternoon, but then he pulled a plastic-wrapped shoe out of each side pocket, which looked weird as hell. “I’d like you to wear these shoes for the interview,” he said.

  Arcineaux laughed. “Could have saved you the trouble. I bought a pair just like those, and I was planning to wear them.”

  “These are special,” Boucher said. “The soles of these shoes have been treated to pick up residue of certain chemicals. There is a law enforcement agency interested in the cargo that one of Dumont’s ships may be carrying. You’re going to meet the captain of this vessel, applying for the job of galley cook.”

  “You want me to be a spy. So this is not really a job interview at all, is it?”

  “As far as Dumont Industries is concerned, it is.”

  Arcineaux reached out, and Boucher handed him the shoes. “If I don’t wear these, do I still get the interview?”

  “Yes, and I wish you luck. I just have to ask that this little conversation—”

  Arcineaux interrupted with a wave of the hand. “You took me into your confidence. I don’t betray a man’s trust. You’ve been trying to help me, Judge. And you really turned my head around, you know? Here I was, feeling sorry for myself, wasting my life away . . .” He paused, staring at the soles of the canvas shoes. “I’ll do it on one condition: if these things discover something, you’ve got to let me know what it is, and if I can help with anything else on this, you gotta give me the chance.”

  “That’s two conditions. But okay.”

  • • •

  Fitch was waiting in a bar outside of Gretna where they had arranged to meet. The place was dark and rank with the smell of stale beer and smoke. There was another odor, not unique to New Orleans’s seedier joints: the scent of despair. Two men sat alone at opposite ends of the bar, nursing drinks and cigarettes. A muted TV made a newscaster’s efforts ineffectual.

  Boucher said as he sat down, “I walk into a crummy joint like this and see guys like that at the bar, and I can’t help but wonder how miserable things must be for them on the outside to have to escape in here.”

  “Trompe l’oeil,” Fitch said, “an illusion, in this instance, one fostered by alcohol. To a drunk, this place doesn’t look bad. He walks in here, and he’s on his way to getting plastered before his first sip. Doesn’t see the filth or smell the squalor; he’s floating on the memory of the last time he got loaded in this very place or one just like it, already en route to his own dreamland. It’s like an opium den. They don’t think much about interior decor in those places either.” He looked at his glass. He was drinking soda water.

  Boucher was glad to change the subject. “Arcineaux said he’d do it.”

  “Good.”

  “But he wants us to keep him in the loop.”

  “We’ll have to see about that. By the way, Helen called me. Same address for both brothers. Place no longer exists.”

  “So he’s homeless.”

  Fitch nodded. “It’s probable, since his twin brother was. Most of those who lost their homes try to stay near the old neighborhood if they can, and if you were going to look for him, that would be the place to start.” Fitch had certain facts and figures committed as if they’d been tattooed on his arm. “There are maybe twelve thousand people squatting in over forty thousand blighted and abandoned homes or buildings in New Orleans, four percent of this city’s population.” He sipped his soda water with the same lack of enthusiasm he showed for the subject matter.

  “Then I guess we start with his old neighborhood,” Boucher said.

  “I don’t know how much help I can be on this venture. The homeless have their own radar when it comes to police. You’d stand out less walking through a homeless camp than I would, and there aren’t too many other ways to get close to those people. Of course, you’d have to get some old clothes, wear a hat, disguise yourself so he doesn’t shoot you again. But like I said, not now; when you’re feeling better. You ready to get out of this dump?”

  “Yes. This place gives me the creeps.”

  “For me, it brings back memories of a time I’d just as soon forget,” Fitch said.

  • • •

  Boucher’s home had a study facing the street. Its custom-built shelves held a respectable collection of rare editions, but he wasn’t in the mood for reading. He sat in the dark looking out over Chartres Street, staring at the parade of pedestrians passing by. There were tourists, the rich men. There were those who sold trinkets in the street, the poor men. There were shaved heads and purple-haired panhandlers the local landowners called gutter punks—the beggar men; and though he couldn’t spot any as he sat brooding in the dark, he knew there were thieves in the vicinity of his castle; knew from personal experience. The walls of his antebellum home were not all that separated his world from the privation that surrounded him. The difference between him and those less fortunate added up to a lifetime of choices made. He’d come from poverty too. He’d known discrimination and the way it stripped away one’s thin veneer of pride and achievement. Unlike those lost souls out there in the dark, he had overcome. But maybe—the thought seemed to crawl through his brain like some parasitic worm—maybe it was just good fortune. Maybe he’d just gotten lucky. He dismissed the thought. He knew better.

  Boucher stood and moved to the back of the house and his master suite, feeling tenderness
in his ribs as he walked. In this one respect, he could count himself blessed. The bullet had missed by the width of a finger, and instead of death, he had little more than a nagging bruise. It was not enough of an injury to postpone the search he knew he must begin. He would start now, this very night.

  • • •

  Esplanade Avenue was the eastern border of the Seventh Ward, the former neighborhood of Pip Manley. Boucher was taking Fitch’s advice and beginning his search near where the twins’ old house once stood. Boucher drove to the area, parked his truck near St. Louis Cemetery Number 3, and got out to walk. Those in the cemetery could be envied one thing—they had their homes: eviction-proof. If it had been daylight, Boucher would have been walking in the shadow of the 610 overpass. In the darkness, he knew its presence by the sound of cars rushing overhead. It wasn’t long before he came to a derelict building, someone’s former home. The doorway was open—if there was a door. He stepped inside and onto debris—splintered wood, broken glass—and thanked his choice of shoes, the pair of thick-soled chukka boots worn on his Katrina cleanup missions. They walked well over destruction. A pair of old jeans, a faded flannel shirt, and a beat-up windbreaker, and he had his basic outfit. A faux-fur hunting hat with earflaps topped it all off and helped hide his face, though his cover didn’t seem much of a concern for the moment. The inside of the building was black.

  “If you got nothin’ to eat, you can turn yo’ sorry ass around an’ keep goin’,” a raspy female voice said.

  He pictured a toothless old hag but knew it could have been a young woman. “How many in here?” he asked, hoping for an honest answer.

  “Me an’ my dog. That enough for you?”

  He heard a low growl. Animals weren’t common among the homeless; they competed for food. But this one was real.

  “I’m going. Sorry I disturbed you.” He backed out, retracing his footsteps as best he could.

  He walked toward the sound of traffic. He shuffled under the raised highway just like the hobos of the thirties had followed railway tracks during that earlier chapter in America’s history of periodic financial disorder. The cement roof of the overpass was noisy, but it was shelter, and groups seemed to congregate every few hundred yards, small fires providing not only warmth but a communal meeting center. He passed a fire flaming from a metal drum. The sleepless hunched close to the flames. Behind them was a second tier of dark lumps: bodies lying prone on the asphalt with sour-smelling blankets covering them and whatever possessions they had. They looked like headless corpses. The bodies on the ground, the fires—the scene had an Armageddon feel. He stopped to warm himself. They made room for him but didn’t say a word. These were old people, he saw from their faces. Their demographic caused them to stick together. After a few silent minutes, he left. The space they had allowed him was quickly filled in.