Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller

by David Lyons

  The flight from McAllen to IAH was barely long enough to serve drinks to the few passengers. As Boucher walked through Houston’s mammoth airport, his growling stomach was a reminder that he had not eaten all day. He opted for Starbucks, coffee and a sandwich. He seated himself at a small table and engaged in the only activity still enjoyable in airports forever changed by high-security concerns: people-watching, maybe the chance of catching a celebrity on the move. One guy was a double for Denzel Washington. Boucher had spent very little time in Houston and did not expect to see anyone he knew. But there he was, speed-walking to his departure terminal, the poker-playing lawyer Carl Benetton. The lawyer wasn’t looking around, absorbed in a cell phone call.

  “Lord, say it ain’t so,” Boucher whispered.

  He finished his coffee and sandwich and walked to the gate. Boarding had commenced. The flight looked full. The lawyer was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he was already aboard, first class receiving first call. Boucher was dressed in a twenty-dollar outfit he’d bought at Target. What reason could he have for traveling in what amounted to a laborer’s work clothes? He boarded the plane. Benetton sat in first class, reading a newspaper. The lawyer looked up as he passed.

  “Carl?” Boucher said. “Is there a game I wasn’t told about?”

  The lawyer was surprised to see him and at a loss for words. “Judge Boucher! What are you . . .”

  Benetton sat next to the window, the aisle seat vacant. Boucher sat down and began to whisper conspiratorially. “I got a call this afternoon about a 1960 Mercedes convertible for sale in Houston at a great price. When a rare model comes on the market, the race is to the swiftest. I flew in to take a look at it.” He brushed his fingers down his newly purchased casual outfit. “When I’m trying to get a deal, I dress down. Will you be seeing Ray?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Give him my best and ask him to call. I’ll be in my office tomorrow.”

  “I will tell him. Good to see you, Judge.”

  “You too.”

  Boucher stood and walked to his seat at the rear of the plane. The lawyer was making an emergency trip in to see Dumont. Dollars to donuts, it was to discuss the escapade at sea.

  • • •

  It was late when Boucher finally walked through the door. The red light on his landline’s answering machine was flashing, but first things first. He showered. Then he grabbed a toothbrush. Then a robe. Then a bottle of bourbon and a glass. He emptied the glass and followed it with a second before he went to the phone and checked his messages. There was only one. Fitch. “Call me,” it said.

  “What’s up?” Boucher asked when Fitch answered, but the detective hung up on him.

  Boucher stared at the phone in his hand and was about to call back when he heard his cell vibrating on the coffee table. The detective’s text was a message from someone severely afflicted, or whose opposable thumbs were too chunky to manipulate a cell’s minute keyboard: ate d bk dr, it read. Boucher stared and frowned. It was gibberish. The technology of texting was beyond ham-fisted Fitch. He stared at the text: ate d. Not ate. Eight. It meant eighth, as in Eighth District, the detective’s home base. Knowing the first clue, the second was easy; bk dr meant back door. Fitch wanted to meet.

  The Eighth Police District served the French Quarter, and it was just a short walk from Boucher’s house to the historic building where it made its home. Boucher found a back entrance. Fitch was outside having a smoke.

  “Why the text message?” Boucher asked.

  “I need the practice.”

  “I won’t argue that. Thought you quit,” Boucher said, pointing to the cigarette.

  “I did, and I’ll probably quit again. I like to have a cigarette when I try to predict the next way you’ll decide to place your life in peril. You could be the cause of an unshakable habit.” Fitch took a drag and exhaled, then flicked the cigarette and ground it into the pavement. “So what happened?” he asked.

  Boucher related the activities at sea. “There was another ship following the one that was firing on us. I don’t know where it came from or where it went. I didn’t see it do any shooting, but it might have. If the weapons were as old as you said—”

  “They were old,” Fitch said. “The boxes had dates. No way of knowing how they’d been stored over the years, and there might have been flaws in their manufacture. Disarmament investigators use flashlights when they look at Russian nuke storage facilities. They’re afraid if they flick on a light switch, they might set off a detonator. Firing missiles from a ship loaded with forty-year-old black-market munitions? That’s like dropping a match into a cellar full of fireworks.”

  “There were plenty of fireworks.”

  “Did you get pictures?”

  “Yes, names of both ships clearly identified. I even got a shot of the APC falling into the drink. I also ordered satellite imagery.”

  “Dumont’s ship should be coming back into port. We could arrest it.”

  “Forget it,” Boucher said. “They’ll have transferred the cash to another ship.”

  “Do you think this is just about gunrunning?”

  “No, I don’t. I’ll be damned if I can figure out what their game is. But I might find out soon enough.”

  “I’m not as optimistic as you. By the way, Pip’s at Harahan city jail. It ain’t the Royal Orleans, but I had someone check on him. He’s okay.”

  “Fitch, I owe you a lot.”

  “Yeah, you are racking up debts, aren’t you? You owe that shrimper fellow too. Big-time. Risked his life, wrecked his boat. I keep asking myself, why do we fuck with you?”

  “To see justice served?”

  “Bullshit.” Fitch went back inside.

  Boucher went home. Exhausted, he fell asleep quickly. In the morning he went to the Federal Building. The office was empty, but the scent of talcum powder was strong. On his desk was a high pile of documents with a Post-it note from his assistant saying they required only his signature. She had added a postscript at the bottom: Trust me. There was another note placed front and center: Chief Judge Wundt wants to see you. Call him personally for your appointment. At the bottom it read, Sorry. The chief judge of the Eastern District of Louisiana had placed him on probation only because he could not fire him from the lifetime appointment. Boucher knew the meeting would not be to discuss the weather.

  “Que será, será,” he whispered.

  By midafternoon he had signed all there was to sign. He left to keep a promise.

  The Harahan jail was no pleasure palace, but it didn’t have the reputation of the Orleans Parish Prison. Boucher was accorded the privilege of an interrogation room. The prisoner was brought in. It looked like he had gained a couple of pounds. One’s life was pretty bad when a prison provided better nourishment, Boucher thought.

  “Are you doing okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. Wonderin’ what’s gonna happen to me.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I’m going to talk with the prosecutor and try to help if I can. There are programs that offer supervised living and the chance to learn a profession. Are you interested?”

  “I got supervised living in the joint. If I want to do laundry the rest of my life, I got a profession too.”

  “Then”—Boucher rose from his chair and walked to the door—“enjoy.”

  “Wait. Wait a minute, Judge. I’m sorry. I got attitude. I know it. I need to get over it. Please.”

  Boucher returned to his seat.

  “I almost killed you,” Pip said. “Why would you help me?”

  “I almost killed your brother,” Boucher said, then stood, turned, and left.

  • • •

  He went home and called for an early dinner reservation at Brennan’s. The temperature pleasant, the humidity low, he decided to spend the afternoon in his courtyard and pulled a chaise lounge out from winter storage. He remembered the Winfield Scott volumes. He’d finished the first. If tranquillity were granted, he could finish the second. He retriev
ed the book and settled in for a comfortable afternoon. This time he did not notice the old soldier’s florid writing style. He was gripped by the briefest episode of the hero’s life and read the account several times. Congress had declared war with Mexico. Winfield Scott was given command. His success was admirable; his governance after victory over the foe was evenhanded and lauded even by the vanquished. His pacification order treated Mexican and U.S. citizens equally and martial law was imposed to prevent looting, rape, murder, and other crimes. As the military commander and governor of Mexico City, General Scott established order exceeding that of Mexican rulers prior to the war. In fact, he restored peace so effectively that a delegation of Mexicans asked him to assume the role of leader of the nation. He might have done just that if the jealous president, Zachary Taylor, hadn’t called him back to Washington, fearing the general’s growing popularity and recognizing a potential political rival.

  But Boucher recalled that the war was one of the most controversial and divisive of all U.S. conflicts. It was called unjust and opposed by many, including Lincoln and Grant. History was a two-sided coin.

  He lay back in his lounge and closed his eyes, then opened them wide. He stared at the sky. Catchphrases uttered by Dumont played in his head. “Read Scott’s bio,” Dumont had urged before his first meeting with General Moore. Moore, with the 1st Armored Division in Germany. To its new home at Fort Bliss. From the cold war to the drug war. He felt a cold chill. The sun had gone behind the clouds. He got up and went inside the house, trying to convince himself that his hypothesis was not ridiculous but was the plan of determined men.

  CHAPTER 27

  BOUCHER’S DINNER AT BRENNAN’S the evening before had been topped off with Bananas Foster, the restaurant’s signature dessert. He’d come home barely able to get his clothes off before tumbling into bed and falling asleep. He was barely awake after two cups of very strong coffee. He opened his iPad and read several online newspapers. The device reminded him that there was a trip he needed to make.

  Belle Chasse translated to beautiful hunting in English, ironic now in more ways than one. The town was home to Boucher’s last living relative, his great-uncle Mose. Mose was past ninety, nearly sightless, and hard of hearing. But he was determined to stay abreast of the latest technology. Boucher had bought him a tablet computer because the gnarled old fingers could stretch the screen and increase the font size to where he could read when he held the device just beyond the end of his nose. Boucher had taught the old gentleman the rudiments of the iPad, little more than how to turn it on and off and search the Internet. It was time to check on his relative and see how he was faring with the digital world.

  Boucher finished his coffee and drove to Plaquemines Parish and the old house where his uncle swore he’d draw his last breath and from which he would leave only feet-first. Boucher passed a joint forces reserve air station, a base for air force fighters and marine helicopters, and a naval reserve early-warning squadron frequently deployed to the Caribbean on counternarcotics operations. How could such a battle be lost, Boucher asked himself, with such powerful and determined forces arrayed against it?

  Boucher pulled up in front of his uncle’s ramshackle house and climbed creaky steps to the porch. Uncle Mose had refused all efforts to pay for remodeling the run-down home, but he did allow his nephew to come over with his own tools and make needed repairs. It was time for such a visit. The door was open, and knocking on the front screen was useless because the old man wouldn’t hear it. But he did feel vibrations on the warped wooden floor and turned from his armchair and smiled.

  “Don’t get up,” Boucher said loudly, then walked to his uncle, bent over, and kissed him on the top of his bald head. “I wanted to see how you were doing with your tablet computer.”

  “It’s hardly out of my hands,” the old man said. “Even take it to the bathroom.”

  At that moment Boucher’s phone alerted him to an incoming e-mail. He took it out of his pocket, read the screen, took a short, sharp breath, and put it back. “I just came over to check on you. Everything’s all right?”

  “Everything’s fine. Thanks for comin’. I know you’re a busy man, and I ain’t even got iced tea made, so you get along. You can come over next week and see to the porch steps if you want. There’s a loose board or two. Mailman almost broke his neck deliverin’ me a package.”

  “Package? What did you get?”

  “I ordered me a cover for this iPad thing on the Internet. Don’t want it gettin’ scratched, I’m usin’ it the whole damn day. You know, I can even listen to college professors teachin’ their students on this thing while I sit right here in my livin’ room. A man can get about as much education as he wants, and he don’t—I mean he does not—have to leave his house. Glorious days are comin’ if we can fix some of the other problems in this mixed-up world.”

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying it, Uncle Mose.”

  “I am. You get along, young man. I know you’ve got things to do.”

  “I will be by to fix that porch.”

  Uncle Mose nodded, picking up his tablet, returning to his self-educating endeavors.

  When he got in his pickup, Boucher raised the windows. He turned on the air conditioner, pulled out his cell phone, and turned up the volume. The message he’d received was an audio MP3 transmitted by e-mail. He began the playback. The voice was that of the lawyer from Houston. Boucher could picture the two men, Dumont seated behind the French provincial desk in his study, under which Boucher had placed the bug prior to the last poker party. The state-of-the-art device was no bigger than a matchbox; voice-activated with a microprocessor that recorded conversations, it converted them to MP3 files, then transmitted the files to a designated e-mail address. Boucher listened intently. The prelude to conversation was the sound of chairs being brought into position.

  “Would you care for a cocktail? Perhaps brandy and a cigar?” The voice was that of Dumont.

  “Perhaps later. I wouldn’t mind a cigarette,” Benetton said.

  “Help yourself. They may not be fresh. I don’t use them. The occasional cigar is all I allow myself.”

  Boucher pictured the burled walnut cigarette box on Dumont’s desk. He heard the striking of a lighter, then inhalation and exhale.

  “He’s pretty pissed off over losing that vessel,” Benetton said. “That was a big investment.”

  “He had an incompetent crew,” Dumont said. “That’s no fault of mine.”

  “He bought a shipment—”

  “Which was delivered.”

  “Which is at the bottom of the sea. Ray, we are dealing with a homicidal maniac here, a narco-terrorist who would kill a man—or a woman—for spilling coffee on the floor. He kills when he’s angry. He kills when he’s frustrated. Hell, he probably kills to get rid of his headaches. Questions of fault and liability are concepts beyond him. He paid for something; he doesn’t have it.”

  “What does he expect me to do, send him another arms shipment for free?”

  “I’d rather you did that than have him send a hit man to your front door. That’s the only response he knows. Anyway, he said he’d pay. It’s not like money’s a problem for him.”

  There was a pause, then the sound of tapping; perhaps Dumont’s manicured fingernail on the arm of his chair. When he spoke, his voice was firm. “It’s time for the endgame,” he said. “If this psycho wants another arms delivery, he’s going to have to cross the border to get it. We’ll drop it at an isolated spot on our side of the river, but he has to pick it up.”

  “He’ll suspect a trap.”

  “Of course he will. He’s paranoid. But we’ve baited this trap long enough; it’s time to spring it. Everything we’ve promised him, we’ve delivered, all to this end. He’ll be suspicious, but from his side of the river, he can watch us fly in and make the delivery. He can’t afford not to take the chance; he needs those guns. You’ve told me yourself that he’s trying to expand his territory while others are trying to take it
from him. Sweeten the offer. Tell him we’ll include the latest technology, new weapons that will guarantee him supremacy over his adversaries. He’ll have to lead his men over because he can’t trust them not to steal the guns and use them against him. He’ll do it. He’ll cross the Rio Grande.”

  “I’ll deliver the message. Has Cyrus told you what he has planned?” Benetton asked.

  “Yes. General Moore is in close contact with the governor of Texas, who can call out the National Guard, as well as with the commanding officer of the guard unit based in McAllen. He will also alert those in command at Fort Bliss and Fort Hood, two of the largest army bases we’ve got—homes to infantry, armor, and cavalry. They have rapid-response teams experienced in counter-terrorism. With the scenario that will be reported by Senator Farmer, Chairman of the Senate Subcommittee on Emerging Threats and Capabilities, the president will have no choice but to deploy troops to the area, including SOCOM, the Special Operations Command. Quaid, Moore, and Farmer will be pressing the DOD and the White House for enough resources to prevent a similar occurrence from ever happening again. That means boots on the ground in Mexico.”

  There was a pause before the lawyer spoke again. His tone of voice had changed. It was most apparent to Boucher, listening only to the audio.

  “I’ve studied this group you’ve put together, each man’s motivation. Senator Farmer is easy. You’ve had a ring in his nose since he first ran for public office. He’ll do whatever you ask, and he comes cheap. Quaid is more complicated. He’s seen the war on drugs march through the terms of eight presidents, over forty years. What does he have to show for a lifetime of effort? The demon he’s fought most of his life just gets bigger and stronger. But he’s like a faithful dog, and you’ve dangled another bone in front of him. He wants to go out with a big show, and this incident is his trophy. He’s tried to warn of the danger of Mexican cartels crossing over and has been ignored. This will be his chance to say ‘I told you so.’ ”