Blind Shuffle

by Austin Williams

  “Let’s make this brief, Claude. What’s so pressing it couldn’t wait a day?”

  “You got work to do.”

  “You’re right. On my short game at Riverside, which is where I should be right now.”

  “No, real work. We’re staying here till it’s done.”

  “This office is closed, in case you hadn’t noticed. Not to mention, there’s no one here whose presence might allow for the kind of work that you’re interested in to proceed.”

  “Don’t need no one else. Just need the…finalizing part done.”

  Roque glanced at the garbage bag and back at the bearded face of the man carrying it. A chill ran through him.

  “I’m not following you, Claude.”

  “So shut up and listen.”

  “You might as well save your breath. The last time we spoke, I was perfectly clear about where we stand with this arrangement.”

  “You mean the money? That’s not important now.”

  “Not to you, maybe. But you’ll recall I said there would be no more deliveries until my terms were met. Did you pass that along to our mutual acquaintance?”

  “I said forget the money!” Claude shouted. “We’ll work that out later.”

  A silent caution lit up inside Roque, telling him to lower the tone.

  “Calm down, please. This isn’t personal. We’re just two guys negotiating, nothing more.”

  “I’ll split my cut with you, OK? Fifty-fifty, whatever. Right now we got work to do.”

  Suddenly the room felt smaller, as if all four walls had constricted in the blink of an eye. Roque decided he didn’t want to find out what kind of work he’d been summoned here to perform.

  “That’s a generous offer,” he said slowly. “But I wouldn’t take money out of your pocket. Wouldn’t be right. Abellard can afford to meet my price, and until he agrees to—”

  “No more talking,” Claude said, cutting off Roque’s access to the door with two quick steps. “Operation room, now.”

  “I don’t let anyone boss me around, Claude. Least of all in my own goddamn office.”

  A moment passed that might have appeared ludicrous to a detached observer. Two grown men playing a sandlot game of who will blink first. It was a short contest.

  “Alright,” Roque said quietly. “Let’s make it quick.”

  He turned and strode past Margaret’s desk, toward his office and the adjacent operating room beyond. Feeling his unwanted companion less than two steps behind all the way.

  The lights in the operating room fluttered on with the touch of a switch. Roque stepped around the operating table, positioning himself at the far end of the room. Furthest point from the only exit available, but he wanted to keep some tangible obstacle between himself and Sherman right now.

  Claude lowered his load onto the clean white table, producing a small flinch from Roque. Even though it would be fully sanitized before his next patient lay there, seeing a garbage bag on the table made him feel slightly sick.

  “We need a batch. We need it right away. I told you, and you didn’t listen.”

  “I listened, Claude. I honestly did.”

  “And you told me it was impossible.”

  “Nothing more than the truth. This isn’t a mill, you understand? There’s no guarantee of regularity, which I made clear from the beginning.”

  “You said you’d deliver what we needed. Talked like a big man, how it wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “I never promised—”

  “Bullshit. You said five batches a month wasn’t out of the question. I was there, I heard it.”

  “That’s true, depending on the month. I delivered that many in March, didn’t I?”

  “Doesn’t do shit for us now, doc.”

  “And when it became clear I couldn’t maintain that schedule,” Roque pressed on, “what did I do? I put my professional reputation on the line to get you a job at Bon Coeur. What a fiasco that turned out to be! Don’t think I didn’t get an angry call from the administrator, demanding to know what the hell I was thinking when I gave you that referral.”

  “That’s history,” Claude interrupted, in no mood to revisit the topic of his brief employment at the maternity ward. If Roque had continued to deliver as promised, Claude would never have had to make such a desperate move.

  It was a fiasco, Roque was right about that. And when the Lavalle girl threatened to spill to the cops, things only got more complicated.

  “Forget all that,” Claude snapped. “All that matters is this new batch.”

  “I realize it’s been slow,” Roque said in a conciliatory tone. “Springtime always sees a reduction at the clinic, don’t ask me why.”

  In fact, Roque had a theory of why the influx of new patients had slowed to a trickle in recent weeks. It was a seasonal phenomenon he’d long noticed in his practice. More people in Louisiana seemed inclined to procreate, intentionally or other otherwise, during the spring, which made for a dependably busy fall and winter. Now, in the early weeks of May, the clinic was experiencing a predictable lull.

  Roque hadn’t mentioned the slowdown when he’d entered into this deal with Joseph Abellard three months ago. With the aid of hindsight, his recklessness now staggered him. If it wasn’t for the goddamned divorce, and the avalanche of bills threatening to bury him…

  Loss of his medical license was a certainty if this went public. Jail time wasn’t out of the question either. But that seemed like a risk worth taking. At least it did for a while. Now he just wanted out.

  “Claude,” he said, “I haven’t had any new patients in almost two weeks. Don’t you understand that? I can’t deliver a new batch because I’ve got no material to work with.”

  “You do now.”

  Sherman’s fingers went to work on the yellow ties sealing the garbage bag’s opening.

  Roque involuntarily backed away, an inner caution telling him not to look at what lay hidden in those folds of plastic. He bumped up against the wall and realized he could retreat no further. No more room to run.

  Claude yanked at the bag’s opening, pulling down with both hands and revealing a bundle of dark blue towels. At least Roque thought they were blue. It was hard to say for sure, given the many rust-colored splashes dotting them that he knew in a horrified instant was blood.

  “Jesus God,” he uttered, barely a whisper. “What did you do?”

  “What you made me do, fucker. You and Abellard both!”

  Claude undraped the top towel covering the bundle. It fell onto the gleaming tabletop, revealing the butchered mass within.

  Philip Roque groaned like a man who’d just taken a lance in the soft part of his midsection. Not a fatal wound, but one that caused indescribable anguish.

  “Cover it up. Please.”

  “Oh, no. I told you, doc. We got work to do.”

  “Cover it! I don’t want to see it!”

  A deranged grin spread across Claude’s face. He knew this was good. This was even better than he’d imagined. Seeing the doctor squirm and shudder felt incredibly satisfying. For just a moment, it was almost enough to take away Claude’s own lingering horror over what he’d done to fill this wad of towels.

  “You’re gonna do a whole lot more than look at it. Whatever needs doing to get this ready…harvested, whatever the word is…you’re doing it right now, and I’m gonna stand here and watch till you’re done.”

  “Where did…” the question faltered somewhere behind Roque’s tongue. A new light of understanding filled his eyes. “That woman in the Quarter.”

  “She didn’t suffer much. Whole thing couldn’t have taken more than three or four minutes.”

  “Christ almighty.”

  “It might’ve gone quicker, if I’d chosen a better knife. Probably should have asked you first. You could’ve given me some good advice, being a doctor and all.”

  Roque raised his head. It took him a moment to recognize the four-inch blade gripped in Claude’s right hand. Recoiling, he turned
to the glass case behind him. He looked inside and saw the empty slot where the blade belonged with its sterling silver companions.

  “You sick bastard!” he screamed, his terror giving way to a rush of fury. “I’ll call the police!”

  The smile on Sherman’s face vanished.

  “Like hell you will. And tell ’em about our little operation here?”

  “I don’t care. I never hurt anyone. All the material I gave you…it was going to be disposed of anyway.”

  “Don’t make it legal, doc. Just calm down and think about what you’re saying. Nobody’s calling the damn cops.”

  “You’re a murderer. A fucking murderer!”

  Roque spun away from the table. Claude lunged. He kept the knife high, only looking to stop his progress toward the door. Roque slammed against the opposite wall and rebounded, driving himself into the other man.

  The ankle Claude injured from jumping off Marceline Lavalle’s front porch sent out flares of pain. He lost his balance. Roque pushed forward and ran through the doorway connecting the operating room to his office.

  Three paces got him into the hallway. Five more brought him into the reception area. One hand pulled his phone from his pocket. He madly tried to dial 911 while his other hand reached for the door.

  Claude came charging out of the hallway and into the reception area.

  Roque caught a flash of fluorescent light on the knife. Claude lunged again. The blade caught Roque on the forearm. It tore through his shirt and opened up a gash.

  Screaming, Roque swung his other arm. The phone’s glass screen smashed into Claude’s mouth, drawing blood, staggering him back a step.

  Philip Roque released the door handle. He flung himself into Claude Sherman. He clenched the wrist of the hand holding the knife, digging in with his fingernails. The blade fell to the floor.

  Everything froze for a heartbeat, the furious struggle giving way to suspended animation. Both men looking down at the knife.

  They dove at the same moment. Two bodies collided hard. Roque took a knee to the groin. He barely felt it.

  His hands lunged but only knocked the blade further away. It disappeared into a darkened spot beneath Margaret’s desk.

  Claude scrambled across the carpet for it. Roque clutched a fistful of greasy hair and yanked. He liberated a clump at the roots and produced a shriek from Claude, whose right foot knocked over a lamp next to the desk. Its glass shade slammed into the water cooler, knocking the five-gallon jug onto the floor and creating a miniature flood.

  Roque clambered to reach the surgical knife. His right hand shot under the desk.

  Claude wrapped him in a chokehold. Roque threw a wild elbow backward, thudding against Sherman’s temple.

  The two men thrashed and rolled on the floor. They fought with lunatic intensity to take hold of the fallen blade.

  Roque’s hand grabbed it first. He clutched the handle tightly, but didn’t know if he could hold on long enough to finish the job.

  19.

  The Barataria Tour Company’s office building was a ramshackle affair, built of unvarnished timbers supporting a corrugated tin roof that looked in need of serious hurricane proofing. It occupied a small plot of land in Crown Point on the eastern side of the bay, about thirty miles outside the New Orleans city line.

  A smattering of woodframe houses stood clustered along the shore, almost all with watercraft of some sort anchored in front. Crown Point was populated almost exclusively by people who made their living afloat. Shrimpers, crabbers, crawfish catchers, and the odd gator wrangler.

  And then there were men like Dave Thibodeaux, who did all of the above and also supplemented his income by guiding tour boats deep into the waters that had served as his backyard since birth.

  Captain Dave docked The Swamp Thing ten minutes ago. Most of the passengers had already gotten in their cars and driven away. A handful remained, lingering around the gift shop and pondering the wisdom of taking home some gator jerky for supper.

  Rusty sat in a shady spot next to a vending machine dating back to the seventies. Its smudged plastic front advertised Tab in faded pink and white hues. He’d occupied this spot since being deposited here by Captain Dave, who’d waddled away with a promise to return shortly.

  Rusty was making a concerted effort to do nothing except monitor his breath until some sense of calm returned. It was an uphill battle. Every time he closed his eyes, the same vision materialized: Abellard launching himself over the desk, meaty hands closing around his throat.

  Gonna get that motherfucker, Rusty thought over and over, the words swirling like a silent mantra. Even if he’s not responsible for whatever happened to Marcie, I’m going to get that motherfucker.

  Captain Dave pocketed the last of the money owed him from the tour and walked over. He took a knee, one hand lifting Rusty’s chin.

  “Color’s just about returned. I believe you’ve made it through the thickest part of the woods.”

  “Thanks again, Captain. I don’t have the first clue how I might be able to repay you. Name it and I’ll do my best.”

  “No repayment required. You gave me a whopper of a yarn to lay on the guests. Hell, I ought to cut you a percentage up front.”

  Rusty managed a grim smirk.

  “Feel ready to go on in?” Dave asked. “You’ll need to make an account of what happened, which is bound to tax a bit more of your time.”

  “No need,” Rusty said. “Only account I plan to make is to the rental car company at Armstrong, seeing as my ride’s a lost cause. That bayou rum is some powerful swill. Think I’ll stick to beer next time I go fishing.”

  The captain shook his head, a look that split the difference between bewilderment and contempt spreading across his face.

  “You mean to say you don’t know where you left your vehicle?”

  Rusty shrugged.

  “I was half in the bag before I lit out from New Orleans. Big breakfast at Pat O’s, they serve those bottomless Hurricanes. I know it was sheer stupidity to get behind the wheel and drive out here with that kind of front-load on. But sometimes a man’s got to fish.”

  “Hmm,” the Captain grumbled, looking at him with a more jaundiced eye. “Lucky you didn’t finish your bender as gator bait.”

  “That I am,” Rusty nodded, pushing his back against the plank wall behind him to stand upright. “What I need now’s a ride. I’ll make it more than worthwhile for whoever gets me back to NOLA the fastest.”

  “I’ll give you a ride, straight to Vacherie Medical. Gotta get you checked out, make sure you’re OK to go.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself. I’m fine. Just a little embarrassed is all.”

  “Ain’t that simple, hoss. I got an obligation to report this, one way or another. The bay’s a protected wetland, meaning us swamp folk operate under the eye of the feds. Anytime something strange happens on one of my tours—like, say, fishing a fella out of the mangroves—I’m bound to let the authorities know about it. Could lose my license if I don’t.”

  Those words were spoken calmly, without the slightest hesitation. Rusty looked into the captain’s leathered face, meeting his determined gaze.

  “What if we both agree you never saw me? I swam back here on my own, chalk it up to dumb luck or whatever.”

  Dave glanced over his shoulder, where a few tour guests were still milling about.

  “Too many eyeball witnesses to shoot that story down. Me personally, I’d be happy to pretend nothing out of the ordinary floated to the surface on this tour. Afraid I can’t take that chance.”

  “Hell, there’s nothing to report. I got a little loaded and lost my footing in the shallows trying to reel one in. Must happen all the time around here.”

  “Actually, it don’t. Oh, I’ve pulled plenty of odd things out of the swamp in my day. Nice leather ottoman. Baby manatee. One time I almost went overboard trying to reel in the fender of a ’57 Dodge. But you’re the first two-legged critter to flop onto my boat, and I can’t pa
ss you off as catch of the day.”

  “I don’t want to argue with you,” Rusty said, starting to turn away. The captain laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m guessing you don’t want to talk to the sheriff neither. We can avoid that, but at the very least I got to turn you over to Vacherie Medical. After that it’s not my problem anymore. Sounds like a wise choice to me, but it’s your call.”

  Rusty tried to swallow, realizing how parched he was after disgorging all that swamp water.

  “Don’t give a guy much leeway. Do you, Captain?”

  “Only when I got some to spare. Sheriff or hospital, hoss. Say the word.”

  Further conversation was clearly pointless. Rusty nodded.

  “Hospital.”

  • • •

  Monday Reed spread out a blanket on a patch of grass in Audobon Park, a favorite spot that almost no one seemed to know about but her. Just a stone’s throw from the placid lagoon, she could hear the quacking of ducks as they splashed about in the sun-dappled water. Farther away, a streetcar faintly rumbled and clattered down St. Charles.

  This was her day off, from both of her jobs. Monday worked three shifts a week at Bon Coeur, on a rotating basis determined by the other nurses’ schedules. She served drinks at Temptations five nights a week on average, but it was a causal arrangement and left to her discretion.

  The club’s owner, a squat Greek gentleman named Angelo, made it clear upon hiring her last year that she’d have to put out sooner or later. All the girls did. Monday had never allowed him so much as a quick feel, and her unwavering rejection of his crude overtures had the opposite effect of what she’d anticipated. Rather than fire her, Angelo treated her with a kind of quiet reverence, allowing her to work as much or as little as she felt like in a given week.

  She enjoyed her free Sundays. As often as the weather allowed, she ended up here in the park. She was more than content to keep to her secluded little section near the lagoon, away from screaming babies and leering drunks, the two categories of humans she encountered most often while working.