Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller

by David Lyons

  Judge Giordano, the only female jurist on the district bench, had sent him flowers with a note welcoming him back—a fact she no doubt learned from Mildred. The judge’s note also thanked him for helping with her caseload, complimenting him on the work. He called Mildred into his office and asked her to take a seat, smiling as talcum powder wafted his way.

  “Mildred, I am receiving compliments on the job I’ve been doing.”

  “That’s wonderful, Your Honor.”

  “The only problem is, I haven’t been doing it.”

  “But sir, you have. It’s your signature on the bottom of every one of those documents.”

  “Yes. I have been rubber-stamping your rather impressive work. You have been a tremendous help. I just wanted to tell you how fortunate I feel to be working with you. This is a challenging time for me. Thank you. Sincerely, thank you.”

  “You are welcome, Your Honor. It’s mostly administrative details. I’d better get back to work.”

  She rose and turned. It seemed she was walking on a cloud. Maybe it was the talcum powder.

  • • •

  Fred Arcineaux called late that afternoon. He’d had his interview.

  “I’m on my way,” Boucher said.

  The shrimper sat on the deck of his trawler. The deck was spotless. He’d put out a folding chair for his guest and sat sipping a Diet Coke. Boucher stepped carefully onto the boat. Large steps up or down jolted his still-tender ribs. He took the seat meant for him. From a canvas tote Arcineaux pulled two clear plastic bags containing the shoes Boucher had given him.

  “I met the captain of the Gulf Pride and was given a tour of the vessel. They treated me like a dignitary. It sure helps to have a word from the owner. I don’t know if it helps, but I sketched this layout of the ship.” He handed a paper to Boucher. “I went through everything, the crew’s quarters, the galley, the bridge, the nav station, the hold, everywhere. I didn’t see anything unusual. The hold was empty, and there were only a couple of crew members on board. They’d gotten in the day before.”

  “Did he say where they’d been?”

  “No. He said they service offshore rigs.”

  “What was the job you were interviewing for?”

  “Galley cook, like you said. I told him I was a shrimper, but if they brought on a store of shrimp, I could cook ’em any way they wanted. I did that bit from Forrest Gump where Bubba goes on about the ways to cook shrimp. The captain said that might work, because their runs are usually two days out and two days back. I thought that was curious.”

  “Why?”

  “Two days on a vessel like that can put you several hundreds of miles out to sea. There aren’t many rigs that far out. In the whole gulf, there are only two that I know of that are two hundred miles offshore. Farther out than that, and you’re in international waters. You could make that distance zigzagging between wells closer to shore, but the way he said it made me think he was talking about straight out, straight back. Another strange thing—he said I’d be restricted to the galley and crew’s quarters; the rest of the ship would be off-limits. You don’t do that to a seaman. You never know where you might need him.”

  “Did he offer you the job?”

  “He did. I thanked him and said I’d think about it. He won’t be surprised if I say no. He knows I captain my own trawler and I’m just going through a rough patch.”

  Boucher looked around. “How much would it take to repair your boat?”

  Arcineaux told him.

  Boucher reached in his coat pocket, pulled out a checkbook, wrote a check, and handed it over. “Fix it, then have me over for dinner. Gulf shrimp, fresh-caught, prepared any way you like.” He shook the hand of the stunned shrimper, then picked up the shoes. “Thanks for your help.” He started to leave.

  “Wait a minute, we had a deal. You find out anything, you keep me in the loop. Something funny going on, I’m on board, remember?”

  “I remember. I owe you.”

  Arcineaux looked at the check. “I’d say it’s the other way ’round. But if I can help you, I want to be included.”

  Boucher nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”

  • • •

  “Yeah,” Fitch said, “why would they restrict an able-bodied experienced seaman to galley and quarters? Because they’re hiding their cargo. That floater we found, poor guy ignored those orders, saw something he wasn’t supposed to see. The trooper got his because he was going to arrest the ship and keep it in port. They had to get it out to sea. When I get back the lab report on those shoes, I think I’ll know what that cargo might be.”

  After meeting at headquarters and dropping off the shoes at the lab, they were sharing an early dinner at Landry’s seafood restaurant on Lakeshore Drive, overlooking Lake Pontchartrain. It was a family-style restaurant and packed with early diners of all ages. Boucher’s cell phone buzzed. He clicked it on. “Mildred, you’re not still at the office, are you? I did? You didn’t have to do that. Thank you very much. I will. I’ll call him this evening.”

  He clicked it off and smiled. “I like to believe that when you give people a chance, they will exceed your expectations. That woman was stuck in the bankruptcy file room for over twenty years. She could run the whole district court.”

  “Wish I had a secretary like that. Could have saved me a lot of time today.”

  “Don’t call her a secretary. She’s my assistant,” Boucher said, a little more gruff than he’d intended.

  “What’s the big deal? The word was still in the English language the last time I checked, and none of the president’s department heads seem to take offense at it. You don’t like the word ‘secretary,’ you could call the lady your chef de cabinet.”

  “That’s a secretary to a minister.”

  “Well, you’re a federal official with a lifetime appointment. On second thought, that title won’t work. I’ve seen your office. It’s filled with cardboard boxes. You ain’t got no cabinet. Anyway, it’s more important how you treat a person than what you call them, and you treat her with respect. If you’re not interested, I won’t tell you what your poor overworked public servant found out today—without the help of an assistant. Or a secretary.”

  “You want me to beg?”

  “Just a little. That’s enough. I checked the city records to see who might have gotten the contract to do the reconstruction work on the Jackson Barracks. It turns out the prime contractor was a wholly owned subsidiary of Dumont Industries. They have a construction company in their empire too.”

  “So the warehouse where those men stole illegal guns belonged to Dumont?”

  “As they say, if the shoe fits.”

  Boucher smiled. “That message from my assistant? She wanted me to know that Dumont called me this afternoon.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He sent another invitation to my office and followed it up with a personal phone call. He wants to know if I’d be interested in joining him in a private party he’s having tomorrow night on his riverboat casino. He said the guest list would be quite interesting. Mildred dropped it off at my house. He wouldn’t tell her, but I’m sure he’s getting together a high-stakes poker game.”

  Fitch toyed with his water glass, drawing lines in the condensation. “There’s something funny about this picture,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What does this guy want with you? He knows you and I discovered the body of one of his employees floating in the gulf.”

  “How would he know that?”

  “Our names are on the report. He’s a friend of the chief. Then he met me when I got sent to his house on a cleanup detail and found the bullet that killed his maid. I told the chief that the calibers are the same in the guns used in your attempted robbery and the maid’s murder, and that I thought he was hiding the murder weapon. Then he invites you out, and you get shot with another of the illegal guns, which we know came from his damned warehouse! Now he’s inviting you into his inner circle? W
hy? I’m thinkin’ that for some reason, he’s bustin’ a gut wanting to tell you about what he’s doing. And you’re a federal judge. It makes no sense. I’m wondering if he’s crazy. Dumont had a kid who was killed in Mexico. I remember being told it was a brutal murder. Might have made him a little nuts, you know?”

  “It’s not lunacy. Men with wealth and power believe they can do pretty much what they want. It’s a construct as old as time. They believe they’re immune to laws that govern the rest of us because they think they can control those who make them and those who enforce them, so they act without fear of consequence, with impunity. Immunity, impunity.”

  “And this is relevant to what I was just saying how?”

  “Dumont thinks he can buy me.”

  “Why would he want to?”

  “Maybe he collects people like he collects antiques. I’m a judge. Maybe he thinks that could be useful in some way. Maybe he just likes me.”

  “I ain’t saying you’re not a swell guy, but—”

  “I kill people. That impresses some folks.”

  • • •

  When Boucher got home, he found the sealed invitation Mildred had stuck under his door. He opened and read it, then made the call.

  “Ray, this is Jock Boucher. I’ve been meaning to call and thank you and Elise for the flowers. They were beautiful. They were still fresh when I left the hospital, and we divided them among the patients on the floor. They all enjoyed them.”

  “It was nothing. How are you feeling? I heard you caught the guy who shot you; went after him yourself. Judge Boucher, I can’t tell you how much I admire you. Few men have the courage to exact retribution from the criminals who plague our society. I know I don’t.”

  “It didn’t go down quite that way. How did you hear about it?”

  “I’ve got friends in this town, you know that. Anyway, I called to ask how you were feeling and if you might be up for a game of poker tomorrow night. I know this is sudden, but a friend from Houston is flying in, and he always likes a game. There’ll be a couple other friends who’d like to meet you.”

  “You know I haven’t played in a long time.”

  “Good. Maybe I’ll get back some of that money you won from me at the casino. So you’re in?”

  “Sure, why not. What time?”

  “Six. We start early so we can have a bite to eat, a couple of drinks, and plenty of time to play. It’s no-limit Texas Hold ’Em. Weeknight games have a curfew, since we all work for a living. The weekenders are all-night marathons, but I don’t want to throw you in the deep end yet. Come and test the waters. It’ll get your blood circulating, that’s for sure.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Good. I’ll send my car for you. The driver will drop you off at the employees’ entrance to the casino, and someone will lead you to the suite.”

  “I hope a smoking jacket is not required. Mine is a little the worse for wear.”

  “We ask for a coat and tie. It’s a gentlemen’s game.”

  “Do I need to bring anything?”

  “Just your checkbook. I’m looking forward to having you join us, Judge Boucher. I think you’ll fit right in with our little group. By the way, are you going to be home for the next hour?”

  “I’m in for the evening.”

  “Good. I’m sending something over. See you tomorrow, Judge.”

  Boucher hung up the phone thinking not about the conversation but about the finer points of poker. The last time he’d played cards, Texas Hold ’Em had been known only to Las Vegas regulars and folks from the South Texas town of Robstown, where they claimed to have invented it. He figured he’d better find a couple of websites to help him bone up if he didn’t want to give his money away.

  Boucher fixed himself a bourbon on the rocks, sat in front of his unlit fireplace, and began Web surfing on his iPad. The doorbell rang. It was past dusk, the last light of day below the horizon. He looked out the window. A minivan was parked out front. Dumont had said he was sending something. Boucher hadn’t expected the delivery this soon.

  “Who is it?” he asked from inside the closed door.

  “Delivery for Judge Boucher from Mr. Dumont, sir.”

  He opened the door. There were two men and a very large object wrapped in packing paper and bubble wrap. “What is this?”

  “It’s from Mr. Dumont, sir. Here’s a note.” The man handed it over. It read, Jock, Elise is always complaining I have too much stuff. I wanted this piece to have a home where it would be appreciated. I know you will enjoy it. P.S. Look in the center drawer.

  It was the campaign desk.

  “Bring it in,” Boucher said, and directed them to his study. He had two wingback leather chairs in front of the window and a butler’s table between them. The men moved these around and put the desk in their place. It fit perfectly. He knew he had a period side chair somewhere that would be a good match. He thanked the delivery men and opened the center drawer to find a two-volume set published in 1864: Memoirs of Lieut. General Scott, L.L.D. Written by Himself.

  Boucher called Fitch. “Not only has Dumont invited me to join his distinguished group of poker-playing buddies, he just sent me an antique desk and a rare-edition book. I might be crazy, but I think he’s trying to draw me into his world.”

  Fitch was silent.

  “Are you there?” Boucher asked.

  “I was thinking. No, never mind.”

  “What is it?”

  “I was wondering what you might learn if you let him take you into his confidence, that’s all. But I’d worry too much to ask that you spy on the man. You attract jeopardy like free beer draws a crowd. But since you’ll spend the evening with him anyway, just pay attention. There’s something strange going on with this guy.”

  Jock said good-bye, then picked up the rare book and read the first pages of the autobiography of U.S. General Winfield Scott.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE NEXT EVENING BOUCHER was ready and waiting when Dumont’s limousine pulled up front. He locked his door and held his breath. He’d made the same walk to the same car and gotten shot. He looked around as the chauffeur got out of the car.

  “Can I help you, sir?” It was the same driver. He had noticed the judge’s hesitancy. No doubt he’d been told about the incident.

  “Thanks, I’m fine.”

  The driver held the door open, and Boucher got in the limo. He noticed his hand was shaking, but he also noticed the built-in bar with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Gentleman Jack, crystal highball glasses, and an ice bucket. He poured a drink to settle his nerves. There was enough time to finish it before they arrived at the casino. An attendant was waiting to walk Boucher to the employees’ entrance, then through the riverboat to the second level.

  They walked the covered upper promenade deck, passing doors to what may have been guest rooms. A door was opened, and Boucher entered. On the far side of the room, four men in suits and ties were standing around a serving table piled high with hors d’oeuvres and bottles of liquor, with a white-vested barman serving drinks. Ray Dumont turned and welcomed him. “Good evening, Judge. Come on in.”

  The first thing Boucher noticed was the thickness of the wine-colored carpet. It felt ankle-deep. The walls were wainscoted dark-stained wood. In the center of a hand-painted fresco on the ceiling hung an enormous crystal chandelier. The mahogany card table directly under the chandelier was circular. The armchairs were covered in tufted Ferrari-red leather. The smoke in the air was from cigars, not cigarettes. An offering of hand-rolled cigars from the Cigar Factory on Bourbon Street was in a glass-topped display cabinet just inside the door. This was a man cave. A rich man’s cave.

  Boucher was introduced to the group. Carl Benetton was the lawyer from Houston whom Dumont had mentioned as the reason for scheduling the game. The name rang a bell, though Jock couldn’t place him. Jim Farmer, Louisiana’s senior U.S. senator, he’d met previously. Again away from the U.S. Capitol, it seemed the senator preferred the levees of t
he Mississippi to the banks of the Potomac. Gary Quaid was the head of an acronym organization that Boucher had never heard of but pretended he knew, and James Daly was the president of the bank Dumont owned. Playing poker with his boss? Boucher didn’t envy him. Dumont explained that his employee was a substitute for a regular player who’d had a last-minute emergency.

  Dumont gave the group his reason for inviting Boucher. “Judge Boucher is the kind of man I know each one of us here respects,” Dumont said. “He killed two armed trespassers on his property in self-defense a few months ago—with his bare hands. Recently, he was held up by a street criminal. He slammed the crook, who died that same night. Just last week, he was shot right outside his house. The thug got away but not for long. The judge tracked him down as soon as he got out of the hospital, and the creep is sitting in a jail cell as we speak.”

  Boucher recalled his earlier words to Fitch: “I kill people. It impresses some folks.” Maybe Dumont’s interest was nothing more than that.

  Senator Farmer was the first to shake Boucher’s hand, his smile effusive and phony.

  “If Ray had put in a word for you back then, I assure you my vote for your appointment would have been different, party line notwithstanding.”

  “It’s all right, Senator. I bear no grudge. Of course, if you walk away with too much of my money tonight, that assessment might change.”

  “I hope not. I tend to do reasonably well at these little gatherings, don’t I, gentlemen?”

  “The senator’s luck is about to change. Hello, I’m Carl Benetton. I’ve read about you, Judge. You made the Houston papers. If you keep putting down bad guys like you’ve been doing, you’ll put us criminal defense lawyers out of business.”

  The lawyer wore a Zegna suit, dark gray; a white-on-white silk shirt with French cuffs; gold cuff links, mask of tragedy on the right wrist, comedy on the left; and a burgundy silk tie with a matching pocket square. He was Boucher’s height, which made it easy for them to look each other straight in the eye. He had thick black hair, graying at the temples, which gave his youthful, unlined face an air of sagacity. He could have come from either Mediterranean or Latin lineage. He and Boucher were the youngest in the group by at least a decade.