by Linda Ladd
“And how did you say you found out about him?”
Black kept his eyes on the road but grinned at my less than subtle attempt to make him spill the beans. Like I said, I hate psychiatrists. “I guess I can tell you now. Father Carranda called me and told me that Savoy showed up after the funeral, got all hysterical, and tried to force open her crypt.”
I turned in the seat and stared at him. “You’re not serious.”
“Yes, I am very serious. That’s why I thought you might want to talk to this guy.”
“How do you know Father Carranda? Oh, let me guess, you were friends in college.”
“Yeah, that’s right. I went to Mass at Sacred Heart sometimes. Father Carranda said the two of them went to the parish school, and that Marc adored her and followed her around like a puppy. They were good friends and dated some until Sylvie moved to New York and got the soap gig.”
“Did this Savoy guy stalk her in New York?”
Black nodded. “Apparently, he went up and hung around, wanting to start things back up, but Sylvie’d moved on and pretty much gave him the shaft. Savoy didn’t give up hounding her until Jacques Montenegro sent a couple of guys to pay him a visit. They hadn’t heard much out of him since then, but this thing at the church was too sick to ignore.”
“Yeah.”
Black glanced at me. “You need to stop for anything?”
“No. I’m fine. How much farther?”
“Lafourche Parish is about twenty miles ahead. We can rent a bateau there.”
“Bateau?”
“Sorry. Boat. It’s what they call them in the bayous.”
“You sure we aren’t looking for the pirate Lafitte?”
“You know New Orleans history?”
“I went to LSU. Our favorite bar was Lafitte’s. They had a picture of him painted on the ceiling.”
“You barhopped? You actually had some fun once?”
I ignored that. “Some of us are serious about our work.”
“And I’m not. Is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m not saying anything.”
I must’ve ticked him off, because he didn’t say anything while we drove through little towns named Larose and Golden Meadow. We finally pulled into the huge metropolis of Leeville. It had regular streets and houses and churches and everything, but unfortunately, we didn’t stop there. We kept going until we were out in the real boonies, with forests of trees draped in Spanish moss and cypress knots and egrets flapping off of sunken logs. We took yet another dirt road through live oak trees that nearly touched the truck door, and I felt like I had been transported to Jurassic Park. My imagination came to its senses when the truck’s tires crunched onto a driveway made of small white shells and Black pulled up in front of an old, rickety gas station/boat rental that had a po’ boy restaurant inside.
“We’ll leave the truck here and rent a boat down there,” Black said, putting on a St. Louis Cardinals cap and pointing to a boat ramp on a brackish-looking body of water. The famed bayou, I supposed. I couldn’t get over how different he seemed out of his doctor garb. I suddenly wondered if I’d been duped by his identical evil twin, who was a regular guy.
While he went inside, I gathered up my shopping bag and purse and walked down the hill to where three or four picnic tables sat under a huge live oak tree with long streamers of gray moss hanging over olive green stagnant water. Wow, scenic. I guess I was used to Lake of the Ozarks and its relatively clear water, so I was not exactly impressed, and from the hordes of insects buzzing on top of the water, I was glad about the Deep Woods Off. Three boats were beached not far from the tables, or should I say bateaux. They looked like jon boats to me, and I was glad to see the outboard motor in the stern of each. I wasn’t in the mood to wield a paddle.
A man and woman and little boy sat on the picnic table closest to the boat ramp eating po’ boys and drinking Dixie Beer. The woman looked over at me, but when our gazes met, she looked quickly away as if scared to acknowledge me. She had that frightened look in her eyes, one I’d seen a lot in my line of work. I knew a battered woman when I saw one. I sighed and took a seat on the picnic table farthest away from them. I stared out at the water and thought about Marc Savoy and his relationship with Sylvie Border; then I decided I ought to contact Bud while Black was out of earshot. I pulled out my cell phone and hit his number on speed dial. It took him too long to pick up, but on the fifth ring, he answered.
I said, “Whatcha doin’?”
“Hey, podna, I was wonderin’ where you went to. Have fun at the funeral?”
“Oh, yeah, a blast. Where are you?”
“Well, I’m gonna get grief for this, but I’m shoppin’ right here on Fifth Avenue.”
“Hope Charlie doesn’t hear about this. Fact is, I’ve been doing some shopping myself. Got a Jerry Springer T-shirt I’m planning to give to you for your birthday when I’m finished with it.”
“That’s what I need up here.” We both laughed, and he asked, “You still in the Big Easy?”
“Actually I’m getting ready to enter the Black Lagoon with the Creature.”
“Come again?”
I told him what had gone down, and he whistled. “And Charlie actually okayed this little side trip?”
“Yeah, you know how buddy-buddy he is with Black. I just wanted to tell you to drag the swamp and pump the alligators’ stomachs if you never see me again.”
“You sure this is a good idea?”
“Nope, but I don’t think Black’s dumb enough to murder me here, with everybody knowing it was his idea to play Swamp Fox. I’m going to be vigilant, believe you me. Anything turn up at your end?”
“I got in to see his ex-wife, and she’s got an ironclad alibi. I’ll tell you about that later. I’m goin’ up to the set to interview the cast of A Place in Time after they wrap for the day.”
“When you do, toss around the name Marc Savoy and see how they react. That’s the name of the guy we’re looking for. See if he was ever up there bothering Sylvie.”
“Got ya. When you headin’ back?”
“Probably tonight.”
“Ya’ll be careful, you hear?”
“You’d fit right in down here, Davis.”
We hung up, and I wondered what Black was doing for so long up at the boat rental; then I wondered if he owned this place. Hey, maybe he even owned the swamp and was planning to put up a five-star resort on stilts.
“What da fuck you think you doin’?” It was the man’s voice. I looked over at them, and he had the little boy by the ear. He twisted it until the boy fell on his knees and cried out. “Get me a switch, you, right now, heah me, boy?”
I felt my muscles tense, but the mother looked down at her plate and said nothing. The little boy looked about six, and he ran to the nearest bush and broke off a little branch. He was crying when he ran back with it.
“Hell, you little shit, dat ain’t big enough for what I gonna do to your butt.” The man’s voice was mean, bullying. I felt my teeth do a grinding job. “You go get a bigger one, boy, one dat’ll leave you black and blue.”
The little boy looked at his mother, then ran off again, and the mother stood up. Uh-oh, I thought, as she said in a quivering voice, “Bobby Ray, Ricky din’t mean nothin’. He just don’t like eatin’ onions on his—”
“You backtalkin’ me, Shelley? You darin’ to backtalk me?” Bobby Ray said, then backhanded her so quick and hard, she fell to the ground. I stood up and walked over as he stood above her, ready to throw in a kick or two. The little boy stood frozen by the bushes, probably well aware what his momma was going to get next.
“Ah, sir, excuse me,” I said in my polite police voice.
Bobby Ray turned around, and I could smell the booze on his breath from three feet away. He had these long, ugly sideburns that grew down and out on his cheeks like Elvis’s, and wore a dirty sleeveless under-shirt with three globs of mustard down the front and tight black Wrangler jeans on his scrawny little butt.
His face was flushed with the excitement of beating his wife, his eyes slightly beer-bleary, and he glared at me for interrupting his fun.
He said, “What da hell do you want?” He was spoiling to beat somebody unconscious, and I decided that today it might as well be me. Or vice versa, if things went as planned.
I said, as conversationally as I could, “I just couldn’t help but notice that you’re a big, stupid asshole.”
“Huh? What’d you say?” Bobby Ray was confused. Maybe no one had ever described him out loud before.
“I said you’re a big, stupid asshole.”
He stared at me in disbelief, so I went on. “You know what else I think, Bobby Ray whatever your name is? I think you beat up on women and little children because you’re yellow to the core. Know what I mean? You’re nothing but a coward, and I bet if you ever had to face a man you’d tuck your tail between your legs and run like a rabbit. I bet you don’t even have the guts to mix it up with me. C’mon, I’d just love to clean your clock.”
His mean little eyes widened, shocked; then they lit up as if I’d offered him a winning lottery ticket that said he could beat me to a bloody pulp. He put his head down and charged me like a bull, but he wasn’t exactly Mike Tyson, so I sidestepped him, got my arm around his neck; and helped his head into the aforementioned live oak tree. His skull hit it hard, and he went down in a heap and looked up at me, all dazed and confused. This was the moment in cartoons when you’d see little stars and tweety birds flying around his head. Ricky ran to his mother, and she gathered him in her arms.
With some effort, Billy Ray seemed to realize that some strange woman had actually fought back and rammed his head into a tree. It must have made him angry, because, oh happy day, he jumped up and came at me again. I pivoted left and sent my right foot into his chest with my best kickboxing, Tae Bo, Billy Blanks technique. He hit the tree again, his back this time, fell to his knees, and went down on all fours, groaning. Please, please, come at me again, I thought unkindly. I am not a violent person, but sometimes people need a comeuppance.
“There you go, Bobby Ray; you’re not so tough after all. Some women don’t like being kicked around, just won’t stand for it. I’m kinda like that. See, it doesn’t feel so hot getting beat up, does it? I know, why don’t you go cut me a switch, and let’s see what I can do with that?”
Bobby Ray looked at his wife and son, then in one last burst of bravado, charged me again. He was only slightly drunk and a little woozy from the brand-new gash in his head, so it was pretty easy for me to jab his eyes with my bent knuckles and then punch him as hard as I could in the stomach. When he bent over, I shoved him into the end of the picnic table for good measure. He went down, then sat up, but not for long because Shelley grabbed a full bottle of Dixie Beer off the table and smashed it over his head. This time he rolled onto his back and lay still. Ricky grabbed the switch and hit him in the chest a few times, then burst into tears and ran back to his mother.
I said to Shelley, “You shouldn’t be with him. He’s gonna kill you someday.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” she whispered, as if the jerk on the ground could hear her and would punish her later, but she looked pleased in a frightened way, too, because she’d finally got a chance to hit him back. “I’ve been fixin’ to leave him. I tried to get away before, but he always finds me and beats the shit outta me. He’s gettin’ worse, and now he’s startin’ in on Ricky, too. You saw.”
“Yeah, that’s the way it usually happens. There’s a national domestic violence hotline number, 1-800-799-SAFE. Have you ever tried calling them?”
“We don’t got no phone. And he don’t let me go out alone, not even to visit my momma. Momma’s so scart of him, I don’t go ’round there no more.”
I looked up the hill and saw Black walk out of the boat rental office. When he saw me standing over an unconscious and bleeding man, he started to run down the hill. “Look, you need to get some help. There are places you can go where you’ll be safe.”
Black reached us about then, and I couldn’t help but notice he had a shotgun gripped in one hand. He looked down at Bobby Ray, then turned to me and said, “I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?”
“Look at her face. The jerk was beating up on her and the kid.”
Black looked at Shelley’s face and said, “Are you all right? I’m a doctor. Let me take a look at that eye.” He examined the cut just below her right eye, and we both noticed the yellowing bruises healing on her throat and upper arms. Black said, “Look, my friend is right. You need to get out of here and away from him, or there’ll be hell to pay when he wakes up. Can you drive?”
When Shelley nodded, he dug out the keys to the truck. “Take that truck up there, and drive to Charity Hospital in New Orleans. Ask for Julie Alvarez. She works in the emergency room. Give her this card, and tell her I sent you. She’ll help you get to a safe place. Think you can do that?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t know how to thank you.” Shelley kept looking down at Bobby Ray as if he were only pretending I’d put his lights out. “But I can’t just take your truck. It ain’t right to do that.”
“It’s okay. Leave the keys at the hospital with Julie, and I’ll have somebody pick it up.”
I watched Black lead her and the boy up the hill and get them settled in the truck, and I had to admit I was distinctly impressed with the doctor’s bedside manner. Maybe Black did have a good side to him. He watched the woman reverse the truck, turn it around, and take off in a spray of white shells. Then he joined me where I was standing guard over Bobby Ray.
“Tell me, Detective, do you accost everybody you come into contact with?”
“If they’re beating up a woman or a little kid, I do.”
“Well, next time wait for me, and I’ll help you.” Black knelt and fingered the gash on Bobby Ray’s forehead. “He’s not going to bleed to death, but he’ll be out for a while.”
He stood up, and we actually shared our first true smile. Then he said, “Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here before somebody calls the cops.”
14
I sat at the bow, facing Black as he guided the jon boat through gross-looking, dark green water. He was a real Chatty Cathy now, telling me over the low growl of the motor how great it was to be back in the bayous and that it’d been too long since he’d visited his old friend Aldus Hebert, who was quite a character. He said the bayou was as primordial and primitive and beautiful as ever.
Primordial and primitive, all right, but the beautiful part was iffy, to say the least. Truth be told, I was more interested in the shotgun lying across his knees. I didn’t trust his motives in suddenly showing up with a loaded weapon, so I got down to brass tacks in my usual subtle manner.
“Why’d you bring that gun? Thought you weren’t going to shoot me.”
“I never go into the bayous without a weapon,” he answered; then he grinned, all relaxed and at home, Mr. Swamp Man himself. “Sometimes alligators attack boats like this and turn them over, you know.”
“Yeah? Maybe I’ll blow their heads off if they do.”
Black laughed. “You’re losing your sense of humor, Detective.”
I lightened up by demanding, “Who’s Julie Alvarez?”
“Julie’s a nurse at Charity. She was battered herself when she was young. Now she helps other women escape from men who hit them.”
Actually, I’d gained some respect for Black, begrudging, yes, but real enough, so I said, “That was pretty cool what you did for Shelley and Ricky. Lending them the truck, I mean.”
“You did the hard part. I wish somebody had come to my mother’s defense that way.”
The fact that he opened up about his private life surprised me a little, but he didn’t look like he was going to elaborate, so I didn’t ask any nosy questions. I didn’t like people prying into my personal affairs, either, so I changed the subject. “How are we going to get back to the airport?”
“I’ll call for a limo.”
“I knew you’d be in a limo again before this trip was over.”
He didn’t rise to my sarcasm, so I spent the next ten minutes spraying about half a can of Deep Woods Off on every inch of my exposed flesh. Then I glanced around the creepy place and said, “Do you know where you’re going? This place all looks the same to me, cypress trees and dragonflies and that weird gray moss hanging off the trees.”
“I know where I’m going. We call dragonflies mosquito hawks down here.”
“We? Sounds like you’ve spent more time down here than just college days.”
“When I’m up north, I call them dragonflies. Satisfied?”
I frowned and ran my fingers through my hair. The stupid Jerry Springer T-shirt was hot, and I pulled out the material in the front and waved it around, trying to get cool.
Black watched me a few seconds, then said, “You’d be cooler without that T-shirt.”
I returned his big, suggestive smile. “The T-shirt’s just fine.”
Black laughed and shook his head. “Know what, Detective? I’ve never met anyone quite like you. Unpredictable, unpleasant, uncooperative, un-everything, but hell, I like you, anyway.”
“Gee, thanks. Now I can sleep nights.”
It took almost forty minutes to reach Black’s friend Aldus Hebert and his cabin in the swamp. I fidgeted the whole time, unsettled by the big water moccasins slithering around and the alligator eyes, like tiny twin periscopes, watching us chug past.
The minute the old homestead came into sight, Black perked up considerably. “There it is. The house has sat out here in that clearing going on seventy years. There’s Aldus on the porch.” He raised his arm and waved.
I half-turned and looked at the old man sitting in an even older rocker on the front porch of a small, weathered-gray house with a rusted corrugated tin roof.
Aldus stood up and returned Black’s wave as the jon boat bumped up against his dock, and at least ten mongrel dogs came running and sniffing and barking.
“This place really jumps after dark. It’s the swamp nightspot, with lots of foot stomping and dancing and drinking. You’d fit right in,” Black said, warming up some of his own sarcasm.
