by David Lyons
“Seems we already crossed that bridge,” Fred said.
“Yes, and I had misgivings when I asked you. Now we know something’s going on. That’s all I can tell you.”
“They’re smuggling, aren’t they? Under the cover of servicing offshore rigs, they’re smuggling. Can’t be drugs; that traffic goes the other direction. And if they need a boat that size, the cargo has to be—”
“That’s enough, Fred.”
“Guns. That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t have to answer. Dumont’s selling weapons. When I was out there trying to find a few shrimp, I asked myself—while trying to avoid collisions with those reckless bastards—where the hell were they going?” He took a sip, just a sip, of his beer and set it in the cupholder. “That’s what they were talking about.”
“Who? What who was talking about?”
Arcineaux looked up, rubbing his chin and lowering his head, scratching his temple at the point where his sideburns stopped. Boucher repeated his questions.
“There’s a little joint just outside the Dumont Industries compound in Houma,” Arcineaux said. “After my interview, I stopped in there for a sandwich and a beer before my drive home. I was sitting in a booth, minding my own business. Two guys came in. Took the booth behind me. Started talking. Foreigners. French-speaking foreigners. Not French French; I know a French accent when I hear one. If I had to guess, I’d say they were Belgians. Poor fools didn’t know nothin’ about Cajuns. They thought their language was their cover. They were pilots. They’d just flown in a cargo for Dumont. One was saying it was his last run. He’d made his money and didn’t need to take any more risks. The other said the next flight would be his last too. Said it alone would make him rich. They were a talkative twosome.”
“Did they say anything else?”
“The one planning to make one more flight has put a down payment on his retirement home in Marbella, Spain. He plans to close in a couple weeks. Guess he’s coming into some serious money real soon.”
“They didn’t say their cargo was guns.”
“Not specifically, no. But when a man spends as much time alone as I do, he can see things. Know what I mean?”
“Fred, that’s called a vivid imagination.”
On the teak deck of the motor yacht, the two men sat watching the sun disappear, watching the slow-floating commerce on the Mississippi. They nursed their silent thoughts and now tepid beers.
CHAPTER 20
BOUCHER ARRIVED HOME FROM his meeting with Arcineaux, poured a bourbon on the rocks, and took it to his new desk, not placing the glass on the antique wood. One-handed, he took out the first volume of General Scott’s memoirs and began to read but didn’t get far. His parents had raised him well, and he was bothered by the conflict rising within him from accepting Dumont’s generous gift in light of his suspicions of the man. The dilemma made him uncomfortable, and he decided to do something about it. He went out.
Royal Street had its usual pedestrian traffic for early evening, most ambling in search of a place to dine, but many with money to spend on impulse purchases, justifying the antique stores staying open. Boucher passed one and studied the display window, which testified to the establishment’s expertise in a specific niche of the antique trade. Antique firearms. He went inside.
“May I help you, sir?” the attendant asked him.
“A gentleman gave me a valuable antique as a gift,” Boucher said. “I want to repay his generosity.”
“He is a gun collector?”
“He is,” Boucher said. “I know he appreciates antiques with historical provenance.”
After admitting his ignorance, he was given an introductory lesson. Antique guns in the United States were those manufactured before 1899 and were exempted from the Federal Firearms License requirements administered by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. Market values for the rarer and more collectible pieces had tripled, even quadrupled, in recent years. Boucher made his selection solely on the basis of price. This was payback. He knew what the desk cost, had a reasonable estimate of the value of the rare books, and selected an item that was in the same price range. An additional benefit—which he would be sure to point out in the accompanying card—it was small enough that Elise Dumont could not complain about it. His choice was a Colt Model 1851 Navy percussion revolver manufactured in 1863. It was in excellent working condition, with most of the blue left on the barrel and most of the varnish on the walnut grips. Thirty-six-caliber was visible on the trigger guard. It was perfect. He gave Dumont’s address, attached a card, and asked that it be delivered tomorrow. He was most satisfied on leaving the shop, his dilemma resolved. He could keep the campaign desk without his conscience bothering him. He really liked the desk.
• • •
Dumont called him the following evening.
“I absolutely love it,” he gushed. “This is one of those ‘if this gun could talk’ kind of pieces. I don’t like it that you thought you had to give me something in return for my gift, but what a fantastic choice. How did you decide on this?”
“Easy,” Boucher said. “I liked it. You and I enjoy a lot of the same things. We share many of the same interests.”
“Yes. That’s partly why I invited you to join our poker group. There are few people I’d introduce to those men.”
“Again, I’m grateful. Are you planning another game anytime soon?”
“This Saturday. The man who canceled last time will be there. We’re going to have the game at my house rather than the casino. It’s more private. You’re invited, of course. By the way, Jock, have you read the Scott memoirs?”
“I’ve just started.”
“See if you can finish them before we get together. There’s some interesting history in there. I’ll see you Saturday. I’ll be using the limo for the general. Do you mind driving over?”
“Not if you don’t mind a used Ford pickup in your driveway.”
“It’s fitting. Nothing could be more American. See you then. Seven sharp.”
Dumont had assigned him a program for the remainder of the evening. Boucher retired to his study and read. Hours later, he was ready for sleep. The florid nineteenth-century writing style had demanded concentration, and after nearly finishing the first of the two volumes, he was exhausted. He set down the book and rubbed his eyes. Dumont had mentioned the rank of the new player: a general. No doubt he was an aficionado of American military history, Boucher thought. Why else would Dumont ask him to read this tome before the next meeting? Well, should the subject come up, he would be well versed on the life and achievements of General Winfield Scott.
It turned out that turgid prose was to be his lot for the remainder of the working week as well. Over the next several days, he was so overwhelmed with the arcane minutiae of jurisprudence that Scott’s reminiscences seemed light fare by comparison. Friday evening he felt well enough to visit his gym. He rationalized that a half hour on the treadmill did not fall within the “strenuous exercise” parameters his doctor had told him to avoid. He didn’t even work up a sweat. Later that night he read more of the general’s autobiography. If Dumont had expected him to find some revelation in the writings, Boucher felt he had missed it.
Saturday morning dawned with more than a promise of spring. He took his coffee in his courtyard. No jacket was required; the early chill, the haze, and the dew were quickly burned off by the sun. The season was here, and no one hearing the songbirds could have doubted it. Over their chirping, he heard his name called, and he answered, “I’m back here, Fitch.”
The detective joined him, looking every inch the role he was playing today—Louisiana sportsman ready for a day on the gulf waters.
“Sorry I’m late,” Fitch said. “Do we need to call Arcineaux?”
Boucher pulled his cell phone from his shirt pocket. “Fred? Fitch just got here. We’re on our way.”
“If there’s any left”—Fitch pointed to Boucher’s coffee—“I wouldn’t mind a cup before we g
o.”
“No problem.” Boucher went into the kitchen and returned with a full cup of coffee, black.
“Got him a slip at my marina,” Fitch said. “He’ll have some competition from other charter sports fishermen who dock there, but they’re good guys.”
“Arcineaux overheard some men talking in a bar in Houma,” Boucher said. “He thinks they were Belgians, pilots who had just flown in a cargo that they said would make them rich. They didn’t say specifically what it was. Fred suspects guns.”
“Interesting,” Fitch said.
The plan for the day was to motor over with Arcineaux in his new cruiser to the marina Fitch had recommended. A car and driver would bring them back in the afternoon. Fitch drank his coffee, then addressed what was on both their minds.
“I don’t want this guy involved any further,” Fitch said. “Hell, I’m not sure I want to be involved any further.”
Boucher agreed. He paused, then said, “I’m playing poker tonight at Dumont’s house. Same cast of characters, plus someone new. Should be an interesting evening.”
“I don’t think of you having too many dull ones. The old ennui isn’t a part of your lifestyle.” Fitch stood up. “Let’s get started.”
Fitch left his car in Boucher’s drive, and they took a cab to Arcineaux’s dock. Minutes later they were under way, part of the great river’s caravan rolling out to the sea. It would be a pleasant trip for the short distance along the coast but not the most relaxing. There was too much traffic for that. And Fred Arcineaux was about to ensure that their attention did not stray. He was at the helm and had barely pulled away from the dock when he said, “To smuggle anything into this country by air, you’ve got to have some people pretty high up the ladder in your pocket, don’t you think?”
Neither Fitch nor Boucher said a word.
“Guys,” Arcineaux said, “don’t think I’m stupid just because I made my living trying to outsmart crustaceans. One and one is a pretty simple calculation.” He kept his eyes ahead as he maneuvered the craft slowly downriver. “You asked me to wear special shoes on one of Dumont’s boats. I figured you were looking for traces of drugs. Then I heard those guys talking in that bar. They come to Louisiana and don’t know folks can speak French here. What idiots. They admitted they were smuggling, and they’d just flown in from Europe.” He turned around to face them sitting in the cockpit. “How’m I doing so far?”
Boucher and Fitch sighed in unison. Their duet was now a trio.
“You do appreciate the danger involved here.” Fitch’s statement was a question.
“I do. You want me to sign some sort of release? I hereby indemnify and hold harmless, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. I’m familiar with that language. They were trying to cram it down our throats to accept settlements from the oil spill. Detective, I’m full grown and aware of the consequences of my actions. I want to help. If you ask me why, let’s just say Cajuns don’t like guys who get too big for their britches. Chance comes along to bring ’em down a peg or two, count me in.”
“What did you hear these fellows say?” Fitch asked.
Arcineaux repeated what he’d told Boucher. “I’ve got some ideas,” he added. “New Orleans has free-trade zones. You know what they are, don’t you, Judge?”
“A free-trade zone is an area designated to allow goods to be brought in without duty if they’re going to be shipped out again. There are several areas set aside as free-trade zones in and around New Orleans.”
“You don’t pay customs or duties on stuff shipped to free-trade zones, right?”
“That’s usually true.”
“Other regulations and stuff can be waived, right?”
“To an extent. It’s an economic incentive for local businesses.”
“So if the cargo that the Belgians flew in was intended for one of New Orleans’s free-trade zones, someone with Dumont’s connections could make pretty good use of that, couldn’t he?”
“Especially,” Fitch broke in, “if he has a buddy who has his finger in air traffic control, ICE, Homeland Security, you name it. May I ask you, Mr. Arcineaux, how you arrived at this conclusion? A shrimper, soon to be sport fisherman, is not usually familiar with details of international shipping and customs.”
“I watched a movie on Netflix,” Arcineaux said with a smile. “It was about smuggling between New Orleans and South America, and I kept sayin’ to myself that Dumont must have seen the same film. We all know he’s got powerful friends. So I’m asking you straight out. Is he smuggling in weapons and shipping them out for sale? I can’t imagine what else it could be.”
“We’re not sure,” Boucher said, “and we only have a statement by a street criminal who says he saw contraband in a Dumont warehouse when Jackson Barracks was under renovation.”
“We’ve also got two illegal guns from homeless thugs and a couple of banned-caliber bullets fired in his own home,” Fitch added.
“He’s smuggling in guns and sellin’ ’em. Christ. How much money does one man need?”
“Like the judge said, we don’t have much evidence, and you don’t go after someone like Dumont . . .”
“. . . without your own guns loaded,” Arcineaux finished. “So the shoes I wore, they picked up traces of something on that boat. What was it?”
“They had traces of drugs.”
“I thought you said—”
“The soles of the shoes you wore had traces of cocaine, but the amounts were too small to have come from actual drugs. Currency in circulation has small traces of cocaine, and other tests showed fibers and chemicals used in U.S. banknotes.”
“So you think maybe he’s shipping out guns and bringing back cash.”
“Yes,” Fitch and Boucher said in unison.
They reached Fitch’s marina, and Arcineaux was shown his new slip. He met his maritime neighbors, who welcomed him to their community. After a few hours of camaraderie, Fitch and Boucher said good-bye. They were silent on the drive home. When they arrived at Boucher’s house, a light rain was beginning to fall. The two men walked the steps and stood under his covered porch.
“Arcineaux is right. It doesn’t make sense for a man like Dumont to take such a risk.” Boucher spoke the thought that had occupied them both during the drive home.
“Unless he’s got partners so powerful that it amounts to immunity,” Fitch said, “or he’s making such a shitload of money that it justifies such a risk.”
“I don’t know if there is that much money. There’s got to be another reason.”
The rain was falling heavier.
“This downpour’s going to make my evening simple,” Fitch said. “It will be dinner and a movie. To be precise, pizza and a DVD.”
“No plans with Helen?”
“I didn’t say I’d be dining alone. You enjoy your evening with the top guns. Play smart. Know your limits. Why am I telling you this? You’re a big boy; just be careful and keep your eyes and ears open. You might learn something tonight. Bonne chance, mon ami. I am about to get wet. Not many of us can walk between the raindrops like you.” Fitch ran to his car and got soaked in the downpour.
CHAPTER 21
BOUCHER HAD NO TALISMAN, no prayer for good luck; and though he was a faithful Catholic, he felt conflicted about appealing to the patron saint of gamblers, the fifteenth-century Venetian Saint Cajetan. He hardly viewed Texas Hold ’Em as an enterprise worthy of spiritual intercession and decided, in lieu of prayer, he would just try to keep his wits about him.
There were no other cars in the circular drive before the Corinthian-columned portico of the Dumont home, and his mud-splattered Ford F-150 looked very much out of place. But an attendant appeared before he got out, ready to park his pickup somewhere less conspicuous—like out of sight. Boucher walked up the steps and rang the front doorbell. Deep and sonorous chimes rang from within, and the same uniformed gentleman greeted him. “Good evening, Judge Boucher. Would you mind waiting here in the entry hall for just a moment? I’m not sur
e where Mr. Dumont wants to greet his guests.” He shook his head. “He’s always changing his mind at the last minute.”
Boucher stood in the entry. It was a round open space with circular stairs right and left climbing to a second-level gallery; a walkway with wrought-iron balustrades completed the circle. On the walls between closed doors to upper rooms were paintings and sculpture. From the center of a domed cupola hung a mammoth chandelier; perhaps a thousand pieces of fine-cut crystal. Boucher stared up at the art, recognizing several masters from the impressionist period, longing for a closer look.
“How about I give you the guided tour later this evening?” Dumont said, walking out of his library. “Jock, it’s good to see you.” He stepped forward; they shook hands. Dumont gripped Boucher’s forearm in an emphasis of sincerity. “I’m glad you’re the first to arrive. Gives us a chance to talk, and frankly, I’d like to tell you a bit about the general before he gets here. Let’s go into my study. Would you like a drink?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks.”
Dumont led the way to his study. A hardwood floor covered with priceless Oriental carpets, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with aged leather-bound volumes, wood-paneled walls with wainscoting and crown molding, a massive desk beneath a chandelier only slightly smaller than the one in the entry, and French windows looking out on a dramatically lit weeping willow. Dumont walked to the window and stared out at the tree, standing with legs spread, hands behind his back, as if at parade rest, about to begin a military briefing. He spoke slowly and chose his words with care.
“General Moore spent most of his military career with the First Armored Division,” he began, “and was its commanding officer when he retired from active duty. He was offered and accepted the task of heading up the Multi-Agency Force North, based at Fort Bliss, Texas.”
“So he will head another regional arm of the counternarcotics organization that Gary Quaid runs.”
“They are individually responsible for their specific geographical areas, yes.”
