Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller

by David Lyons

  A short distance away, he came upon a real bonfire, wood most likely ripped from an abandoned home. There were more people gathered around this blaze, sitting on the ground, many hunched over as they passed a crack pipe. He sat on the opposite side of the circle from the drug users, but the pipe was making its way toward him. A woman sat on his left, cross-legged. She turned to him. She sniffed. She drew her face closer and sniffed again, like a dog on the scent. “You just leave the mission,” she asked, “or prison?”

  He was too clean. Dire poverty had its smell.

  “Mission,” he said, and hunched over, lowering his head, pulling his chin to his chest.

  The crack pipe was making its way to him, hand to hand, mouth to mouth. There was no concern for germs passed by its communal use, but then hygiene was nowhere in evidence in this subculture. It looked like a regular pipe with the stem either cut down or broken. It was short, which meant the smoke inhaled was hotter. Intense heat burned the mouth upon inhalation, and the blistered lips of most of those in the circle attested to frequent use. All were smoking. If he refused, he was a marked man. It was enough searching for one night. He stood up and shuffled away.

  Boucher returned to his truck and drove home. Though he had almost been discovered, revealed for the fraud that he was by his cleanliness, he felt dirty. He stripped off his clothes, throwing them into a pile on the bathroom floor, and took a scalding shower. In bed, he lay awake, staring into the dark, asking himself, At what point does life become no longer worth living? Could he endure a life of squalor as did the unfortunates whose company he had just shared? Was there some kind of perverse courage in those downtrodden homeless, or did their attitude of defeat and acceptance of privation numb the senses? Had they simply succumbed to a fate that was little more than a death sentence? He fell asleep as the phrase rolled over and over in his brain. Dead men walking. It seemed applicable to the wretched homeless.

  • • •

  “I almost got caught.” Boucher sat in his courtyard the next morning, his first call to Fitch. “Soap,” he said. “It’s a dead giveaway.”

  “So you didn’t find him.”

  “I’m going back out tonight—that is, unless your esteemed colleagues are hot on the trail.”

  “Not a chance. But don’t get me started on that, okay? I don’t like what you’re doing, but if you find the guy, you just might be saving your own skin. Just don’t go Rambo on me. Don’t even open your mouth.”

  “Fitch, I’m only there to observe.”

  Boucher passed the day attending to the files Mildred had brought over. She came to collect finished work that afternoon, and they had a pleasant cup of tea together. It was rare for him; he was a coffee man, and enjoying the weaker brew unnerved him a bit. He poured himself a shot of bourbon after she left, just to reassert his Cajun contrariness. The evening passed with little to do but watch shadows lengthen as the early Seth Thomas clock on his mantelpiece ticked away the seconds. He sat in the dark and waited until ten. Social activities would be winding down among the micro-communities encamped under the interstate. He would mingle unnoticed before they bedded down for the night.

  He parked in the same place as the night before and again passed the cemetery. There was little use in poking his head in other abandoned houses; not even candlelight came from the dark hulks. He passed the same groups, sitting down in almost the same place amid the circle. There was no woman beside him; no one sniffed. He’d not showered today, and his clothes had lain where he’d left them the night before. It wasn’t much but was all he could do. The scent of despair was rarely acquired in a day.

  Again a crack pipe was being passed. Again it was coming his way.

  “Hey, Pip,” a voice called out, “this thing’s gone out. You got some more of this shit?”

  Boucher hunched over as the man approached the circle from the rear, took the pipe, filled its bowl, then passed it back, saying something about it being the last freebie. Then he returned to the shadows. Boucher had caught a glimpse. It was his man. He rose slowly from the asphalt, watching where Pip had gone.

  “Leavin’ so soon?” a woman in the circle asked.

  Boucher nodded, then slipped away, leaving the overpass. When he was far enough from the group, he retrieved his cell phone, turned it on, and punched numbers. “Fitch,” he whispered, “I found him.”

  Fitch yawned. “Where are you?”

  Boucher read the road sign by the light of a passing car. “I’m standing between Humanity and Benefit streets, near a group of homeless under the 610 overpass.”

  “Humanity and Benefit? You like irony, don’t you?”

  “Whoever named these streets had a flair. Anyway, he’s here. I can’t take him on my own, but you and I can. If we’re lucky, he’ll be sleeping when you get here. Just don’t come in like the cavalry, please.”

  The detective joined him in under half an hour.

  “That was quick,” Boucher said.

  “I didn’t have to spruce up for this occasion, did I? Where is he?”

  “Over there. Under the expressway.”

  The fire was dying; only a few remained of the earlier circle. Boucher led Fitch to where he had seen the man go. He stopped. Bodies had moved and shifted in sleep. He couldn’t be sure which one was Pip. Fitch whispered, “Be careful. We go kicking over the wrong people, they’ll gang up on us. This is their turf and they’re very territorial.”

  Boucher nodded, then whispered loudly, “Hey, Pip. I need some shit. I got money.”

  “Go away, motherfucker. I’m sleepin’. ”

  The voice came from a covered-up lump. Fitch approached, bent over, and pulled down the blanket. He shone his flashlight in the man’s face, blinding him. “You’re under arrest,” he whispered low. “My gun is pointed right at your head. I want you to stand up slowly and put your hands behind your back.”

  “Aw, shit,” Pip said, but there was no resistance and no stirring from those slumbering nearby.

  Fitch whipped out the flex-tie he’d stuck in his belt and bound the prisoner’s hands. Boucher knelt down and bundled up the blanket, feeling for the gun that had been used to shoot him. “Got it,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Pip Manley was hustled away in the dark. Not a single head was raised, not even out of curiosity. Though these people congregated for support and security, the fundamental law of the street was supreme. It was every man for himself.

  • • •

  Fitch shoved the assailant into the backseat of his unmarked patrol car. Boucher slid in next to him. “Do we have to take him straight in?” he asked the detective.

  “You want to find a deserted spot and work him over a little first?”

  “I was thinking about getting him something to eat. He must be hungry.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Why don’t we just get him a room at the Royal Orleans for the night? He can order room service, then clean up in the morning so he’ll be fresh as a daisy when we book him for attempted murder.”

  “You killed my brother,” Pip said.

  “No, he didn’t, you dumb shit,” Fitch said. “Your brother died of kidney failure from drug and alcohol abuse. My guess is you won’t be far behind.”

  “I don’t use the stuff, I just sell it.”

  “You were giving it away earlier,” Boucher said.

  “I get charitable impulses sometimes.”

  “Yeah,” Fitch said, “give ’em a taste so they’ll come back for more.”

  “Those folks don’t have money for more. I help them.”

  “You’re a regular Saint Francis,” Fitch said.

  “Stop there,” Boucher said. They were passing a Denny’s, open all night.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” Fitch said.

  “No, I’m not, Detective. We’re going to get something to eat and have a nice civil conversation.”

  Fitch grumbled but pulled into the parking lot. He parked, then turned around and glared at Pip Manley. “We’re going
to get a booth. You’re going to slide over against the wall, and Judge Boucher is going to sit next to you. I’ll be sitting right across from you, staring at your ugly face. Under the table, I will have my gun pointed at the same gut you will be filling with pancakes, grits, eggs, and sausages. It would be a pity to waste all that food, so you behave yourself when we get in there. Got it?”

  “I can eat all I want?”

  “Let’s see how our ‘civil conversation’ goes.”

  They got out of the car, and Fitch cut the flex-tie with his pocketknife. They entered, and a waitress led them to a booth. Too harried by her late-night hours to question appearances, she didn’t get close enough to catch the younger man’s street scent. She seated them in a far corner and took their order. When she left, Boucher spoke. “We want to know where you got the guns you and your brother used. The ones you both tried to kill me with.”

  “Why you want to know that?”

  “We ask the questions here,” Fitch said.

  “I’m not sure I remember.”

  Steaming hot coffee was served, the aroma tantalizing. Pip inhaled. Boucher slid Pip’s cup to the far edge of the table. “Try to remember.”

  Fitch and Boucher drank their coffee while Pip’s cup sat out of reach. They removed even his glass of water. He sat, stoically defiant. Then the food came: pancakes with a caddy of six different flavors of syrup; fried eggs and sausage; grits; toast and butter, lots of butter. Pip’s plate was removed from his reach. He swallowed hard and blinked rapidly. Boucher and Fitch began to eat. It didn’t take long before he caved. “We stole ’em.”

  “Not now,” Fitch said, “we’re eating. Would you pass me the salt and pepper and Tabasco sauce? I can’t eat eggs without Tabasco.”

  Pip’s eyes grew wider as he watched them. Then came the giveaway. His stomach rumbled loud enough for all to hear. “This is cruel and unusual,” he said. “Let me eat or just go ahead and shoot me.”

  “Talk first, then eat,” Boucher said, wiping his lips with his napkin.

  “Okay,” Pip said. “You know Jackson Barracks?”

  “Lower Ninth Ward,” Fitch said. “Old army base, I think.”

  “I know it,” Boucher said. “I know it well. It was built in the early nineteenth century. The original buildings remain one of the finest groups of Greek Revival architecture in the United States, comparable to the University of Virginia. As a military installation, it played a role in every one of America’s military campaigns, including the Indian wars. General Zachary Taylor used the barracks to organize his troops for the war with Mexico. It was used as a hospital during the Civil War, and afterward, two of the first regiments of colored troops were based there. Many of the greatest soldiers of the nineteenth century passed through at one time or another. Since the sixties, it has been used by the Louisiana National Guard, and in 1976 it was listed in the National Register of Historic Places. It was severely damaged by Katrina. After several years of reconstruction, it was rededicated.”

  Food dangling from his fork, Fitch stared openmouthed. Pip too stared in amazement. “How you know all that shit?” he asked.

  “He knows New Orleans,” Fitch said. “He loves this town and respects its history. Not like some.”

  “I walk there sometimes,” Boucher said. “It has a wonderful parade ground. I’ve often thought what a great attraction it could be if more military bands and reenactors with period uniforms and weaponry could put on displays of close-order drill for tourists. Anyway, what were you doing at Jackson Barracks?”

  “There was a lot of construction going on. Where you got construction, you got opportunity.”

  “To steal,” Fitch said.

  “Right. There was a warehouse. We thought it would be where they kept tools and shit, so Tyrone and me broke in one night. Look, I’m starving. Let me eat something. The food’s getting cold.”

  Boucher nodded and Fitch passed the plate. Pip shoveled food in his mouth as if masticating had never been part of his intake routine. He swallowed, emptied his water glass, and reached for his coffee cup, which he likewise emptied in one continuous motion.

  “Slow down,” Boucher said. “You’ll make yourself sick. Chew your food. If you want more, we’ll get it.”

  “Keep talking,” Fitch said.

  “Yeah, well, we broke into the warehouse, only there weren’t no tools. Guns. Lots of guns. I mean, the whole warehouse was filled with all kinds of weapons. Rifles, pistols, boxes of grenades. I even saw a couple machine guns. It was like war shit.”

  “National Guard might have had weapons stored there,” Fitch said to Boucher.

  “No, man, these had Russian shit written all over the boxes.”

  “You know Russian?”

  “Hell, no. I know movies. I seen Russian writing in the movies, and there was Russian writing on a lot of the boxes. We opened a couple and found the pistols. We broke in another box and found some ammunition. We heard someone coming, so we just grabbed what we could carry and ran.”

  “You just took the two pistols?”

  “And some ammo.”

  “You only broke in once?”

  “We went back a few nights later with some other guys, but they had guards, dogs, lights, and everything. There was no getting in, and we never went back.”

  “Do you remember anything else?”

  Pip thought as he cut a link sausage in two with his fork and stabbed a piece. “I remember that Tyrone never liked his gun. Said it was too heavy. I told him he had to carry it for his own protection. You know, we get beat up out there too. The street’s a shitty life.”

  The three sat in silence.

  “You want a way out of it?” Boucher asked.

  CHAPTER 16

  PIP WAS BOOKED AND incarcerated. Though Pip had tried to kill him, Boucher demanded special treatment, and Fitch complied. The accused was given his own cell, the cleanest accommodations he had known in recent memory. He lay down on his bunk and was out before the count of ten.

  “I’m driving you home,” Fitch said to Boucher. “I’ll send someone to pick up your truck, and you’re going to stay in your house all weekend, or I swear I’ll find some reason to arrest you and throw you in there with him. Damn it, Judge, you just got out of the hospital with a gunshot wound.”

  “I am feeling kind of tired,” Boucher said. Fitch had to help him to the car.

  Fitch did not arrange a stakeout, not exactly. He asked Helen to come over and look after him. She fixed breakfast the next morning. “I’ve been appointed your custodian,” she said. “You are not to leave the house without my permission, and you can save your breath, because I’m not going to give it. We are all delighted your injuries are not serious, but you have been through a traumatic experience, and you need to rest. Going out on your own last night was both reckless and foolish. Are you bent on self-destruction, Judge Boucher?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ ”

  “Sorry. ‘Ma’am’ is for old maids, I’ve been told.”

  In one of those speak-of-the-devil moments, Mildred French was at the door, unaware of the judge’s late-night extracurricular activities. He was pleased to see her. She had brought more files for him to work on. He held the door open; she stepped inside and halted, then stopped. Part of her purpose in coming was to look after his welfare, but there was the sound and scent of another woman on the premises.

  “If I’ve come at a bad time—” she said, then Helen stepped out of the kitchen.

  “Mrs. French, how nice to see you. I’m Helen; we met at the hospital. Your boss has been very bad. He went out alone last night to try to catch the man who shot him.”

  “Judge Boucher,” Mildred said, her tone stern.

  He was caught in a cross fire of withering glances.

  “Detective Fitch asked me to keep an eye on him and make sure he stays home and gets some proper rest,” Helen said.

  “If I can help you in any way,” Mildred
offered.

  “I think I can manage. I’ve had experience with willful children. Would you like some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”

  “Why, thank you, Helen, I’d love some. Here.” Mildred handed Boucher the armload of files she had brought, then went to the kitchen with Helen, the two marching in step. “Men,” Mildred said. “What was God thinking?”

  Federal Judge Jock Boucher stood in the foyer of his home. “We caught him,” he said meekly. “The man who shot me? We caught him.” But the ladies were pouring their coffee, more interested in each other’s company.

  So the weekend passed. His appreciation grew for the two women, who treated him like an errant schoolboy. Helen was a competent custodian, but more important, she was good company. For hours they discussed lifesaving, the rescuing of those whose lives had gone from bad to worse. The files Mildred had brought contained their own surprises. She had taken on much of the legal research herself and demonstrated an impressive grasp of fundamental principles of law, as adept as any law clerk who had ever worked for him. Malika also called several times, keeping him informed of her activities so he wouldn’t think she was checking up on him, which of course she was. The combined power of these women who had taken control was too much. He succumbed and did their bidding and felt the better for it. By Monday morning, he was well rested and up and early to the office.