Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller (13 page)

“What good will that do?”

“It’s Robert Frost. He always calms me down. If it doesn’t work that way for you, then at least you’ll feel like an idiot for hollering poetry in an empty parking lot. That’s better than being pissed off.”

“I’ve got another idea. I met a shrimper whose claim was denied. I think I’ll pay him a visit.”

“That’ll work. Just drive carefully.”

Boucher called Fred Arcineaux and told him he was coming for a visit. The shrimper’s response was not enthusiastic.
Then he reported in to Mildred and told her where he was going. She was more encouraging. As he drove, he smiled at the thought of the crusty New Orleans detective and his surprising affection for the New England poet. Fitch and Frost. Roscoe Fitch and Robert Frost, same initials. He chuckled. At least his blood pressure was dropping.

•  •  •

“Come aboard. Watch your step,” Arcineaux said.

Nothing had changed since the last visit, save perhaps a few more empty beer cans and paper wrappings from sandwiches. Boucher wasn’t sure if the man had bathed. He definitely hadn’t changed his clothes. Boucher stepped carefully onto the littered deck, pulled over the same cooler, and sat down. “You look like shit,” he said. “So does your boat.”

“If you came here to tell me that, you wasted a trip, and now you’re wasting my time.” Arcineaux threw back a large gulp of beer.

“You sit here wallowing in this filth,” Boucher said. “How do you expect anyone to help you? You and this stinking floating shithole are a disgrace to your profession. You said you were glad your late wife wasn’t here to see you like this. Amen to that, brother. Your surrender to self-pity would break her heart.”

Arcineaux sat up in his chair, his back stiffening. “You son of a bitch. Nobody comes onto my boat and talks to me like that. How dare you mention my wife? How dare—”
His face reddened and his hands blanched, the knuckles turning white as he dropped his beer can and gripped the armrests. He tried to stand but fell back in his chair, gasping for breath.

Boucher stood and grabbed the man’s wrists and bent toward him, their faces inches apart. “Take a deep breath and repeat after me: ‘I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet.’ Say it.”

“What the fuck? Let go of me.”

Boucher did. He backed away from Arcineaux’s beery breath. “You okay?”

“No. I’m mad as hell. Who are you to talk to me like that?”

“I want to help you, but I can’t if you won’t help yourself. Look at you. Look at this mess around you. I might be able to do something for you, but you’ve got to take the first step.”

“Do something for me like what?”

Boucher sat down again. “I just came from my first meeting with the claims administrator. I don’t like the guy, I don’t trust the guy. And I’ve got to be honest, I think pursuing your claim would be a waste of effort.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

“I think you might have a cause of action against Dumont Industries for collision and damage to your boat if you can prove it, but a lawsuit can take years, and they have deep pockets. You might lose.”

“You’re just full of good news today, aren’t you?”

“Listen to me. I was thinking about getting you a job.”

“A job? Working for who?”

Boucher took a breath. “Dumont Industries.”

“You’re joking.”

“You’re a seaman, Fred. You have skills, experience.”

“They’d never hire me. Look at me.”

“Why don’t I step off and come back aboard. That was my point. I was trying to shake you up so you would take a look at yourself. Take a shower. Shave. Put on some clean clothes. Clean up this filthy boat like you have some pride in it, then shower and put on clean clothes again. When you start to feel like your old self, I think I can get you an interview.”

“You really think I could get a job?”

“I might be able to pull a string or two.”

“You know somebody?”

“I told you, I know the owner of the company. I’ll ask him personally.”

The shrimper studied his dirty fingernails. “I haven’t worked for anybody in a long time. I been my own boss.” He paused, then looked up. “But if you’d do that for me, I’d do my best for you.”

“I know you would.”

They both stood. Fred excused himself and went below. Boucher could hear the sound of water running in the head. The shrimper came back on deck and offered a handshake. A clean hand.

•  •  •

Boucher called Fitch. “Ours is an unusual friendship, you know?”

“Yeah, we’re a regular odd couple. You feeling better?”

“It came to me as I was talking to the guy. I can get him a job. Dumont wrecked his boat. I can get Dumont to give him a job.”

“That has a certain symmetry to it,” Fitch said, his mind obviously elsewhere. “Wait a minute. What did you say?”

“I was thinking like a lawyer. In tort law, there’s—”

“No. You said something about Dumont giving him a job.”

“I thought I’d ask him to find the guy something. He owes him.”

“Do you really think you could get Dumont to do it?”

“Of course. Low-level, but the guy’s capable. I’m sure Dumont would do it for me. He’d probably love to have me owing him a favor.”

“Are you on your way to your office?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll meet you there.” Fitch hung up.

When Boucher got there, Fitch was waiting, sitting uncomfortably in a small chair placed a little too close to Mildred’s desk. She was looking at him as though he didn’t pass the admissions test, and she wasn’t about to let him into the judge’s office to wait unobserved.

“I guess you two have met,” Boucher said. “Come on in, Fitch.”

As soon as they were in his office, Fitch closed the door and sneezed hard enough to burst a blood vessel. Boucher had a box of tissues on his desk, and Fitch grabbed one. “Talcum powder.” He sneezed again. “I’m allergic to it. Sitting there so close to her. In that little room.”

There were four more nasal explosions before he could regulate his breathing. Boucher was laughing. “You called this meeting. What can I do for you, Detective?”

“You said you could get this guy, the shrimper, a job with Dumont. Maybe you could get him a job on the
Gulf Pride.
”

Boucher frowned. “I wasn’t thinking along that line. I don’t want to put him in any danger. I was really just trying to get him an income.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m not sure I’d want to do it either. I just thought it was a chance.” Fitch started cracking his knuckles.

“Don’t do that,” Boucher said.

“Look, we don’t really need him to get a job on the ship. Maybe he could get an interview with the captain or mate. It might be enough if they’d give him a tour of the vessel.”

“Are you thinking of planting a wire? A camera? That’s too dangerous.”

“I was thinking more like shoes. He wouldn’t even have to know.”

“Shoes?”

“The soles of his shoes. They’d be treated to pick up trace chemicals. If we could get him aboard and they gave him a tour of the ship . . .”

“I don’t know, Fitch.”

“Then ask your buddy Dumont to give you a personal tour, and we’ll treat your feet.”

“I like the first option better.”

B
OUCHER RETURNED HOME TO
an exotic treat. Malika had prepared Indian snacks to accompany cocktails with their guests.

“Smells delicious,” he said as he kissed her in the kitchen. “What is it? No, don’t tell me. I smell red chili powder, coriander, and cumin. What else?” He sniffed the air.

“Mango powder,” Malika said. “That’s the samosas. I’ve also made tamarind chutney and mint-coriander chutney. They go with dhokla, a steamed biscuit of gram flour made from crushed chickpeas. Why don’t you mix a pitcher of martinis, since we know they drink those.”

“I will later. First I need to take a shower. Better idea: why don’t
we
take a shower?”

“Water conservation is a part of Indian culture too,” she said, unfastening her apron.

•  •  •

They heard the Dumonts’ limo pull up out front. They stood in the open doorway to greet them. The couple walked up the stairs to the raised porch.

“This is one of the finest historical homes in the Quarter,” Elise said.

“Thank you. Please come in,” Boucher said. “I hope you don’t mind my wearing my smoking jacket again. I thought it would suit a casino.”

“You look great, Judge,” Elise said.

“Wow!” Ray Dumont’s exclamation was immediate. He knew antiques, and Boucher’s collection was the result of over a decade of devotion. Dumont went from piece to piece, studying each one with a practiced eye. “These are museum-quality,” he said. “I can’t tell you how impressed I am.”

“You have hit on his first love,” Elise said. “I live in fear of the day he’ll move me and my few meager possessions out of the house because he’s found yet another French provincial commode.”

“What should I say, my love—that it will never happen because I prize you the most, of all my antiques?”

“You say that, and your prized wife will communicate with you through her prized divorce lawyer.”

“Uh, I’ve made martinis,” Boucher said.

“What is that marvelous smell?” Elise asked.

“I’ve made some Indian hors d’oeuvres,” Malika said.

“Aren’t you a dear. And look at you. You look lovely!”

Malika had tried to dress down for the evening, not knowing what attire was expected on a Mississippi riverboat casino. She wore a simple saffron-colored cocktail dress and mid-heel pumps. These were set off by the diamond necklace and earrings Boucher had given her, and at any rate, Malika could look stunning wearing a pillowcase.

They had a few drinks and bites to eat, during which the Dumonts’ repartee was reminiscent of Taylor and Burton in
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
There was no argument when Ray said it was time to get to the casino. “We don’t want to miss the show,” he said.

They arrived at the riverboat, the limo pulling right up to the ramp. Moored to the dock, floating on the grand, gently flowing Mississippi, it looked like a Christmas tree. No, a circus. No, a whorehouse. Or a combination of all three. The owners were given due deference by employees as they were led to the ballroom and shown to the ringside table. Ray looked around before sitting, saw faces he recognized, and waved. “There are some people here tonight that I’d like you to meet later on,” he said to Boucher.

The show began in circus fashion—“Ladeees and
GEN
-tlemen”—but the spectacle was professionally done and geared to the escapist crowd. A cabaret singer embarrassed Boucher, wrapping her boa around him while singing suggestive lyrics, until Ray Dumont warned her away with a
raise of his eyebrows. But all enjoyed the dinner and show. Again, the Dumonts were attentive and gracious hosts, only this time they had a lot more help.

“Okay, let’s go lose some money,” Ray said when the floor show was over. “What’s your game?”

“I wouldn’t mind playing some blackjack,” Boucher said.

“I’d like to try roulette,” Malika said. “But I must warn you—when I went shopping in the French Quarter earlier today, I ran into a fortune-teller on Jackson Square. She not only told me I was going gambling, she told me to play eight and five.”

“Then, honey,” Elise said, “bet the ranch.”

“Fine,” Ray said. “You two go play roulette, and the judge and I will try our luck at blackjack. I wish everyone good fortune.”

As the men were making their way through the crowd to the tables, a man approached. Boucher recognized him from somewhere.

“Judge Boucher,” Ray said, “do you know Senator Jim Farmer?”

“Senator,” Boucher said. “I thought you looked familiar. No, we haven’t met.” The senator had voted against his confirmation.

“Jim is one of our more enlightened senators,” Dumont said.

“Thank you, Ray,” Senator Farmer said. “When are
you going to have one of your—” He stopped himself in midsentence.

“It’s okay, Jock’s a friend,” Dumont said, clapping Boucher on the shoulder. Then, turning to him, he said, “We get a game of Texas Hold ’Em going once in a while. It’s a pretty exclusive group of players. You play poker, Jock?”

“The last time I played poker, I don’t think Texas Hold ’Em had been invented.”

Ray laughed. “Maybe you’d like to join us one evening.” He turned to the senator. “I’ll let you know when, Jim. We’ll get a game up soon.”

There were two more introductions before they made it to the blackjack tables. Both of the men were federal agents of separate but related agencies.

“Damn,” Jock said after meeting the regional head of one of the major forces in the fight against drug trafficking. “If a terrorist were to blow up this boat, he’d take out the national security apparatus for the whole gulf coast.”

“Not a chance in hell of something like that happening, Judge. Not a chance in hell.”

They played for half an hour, and Jock was up five hundred dollars.

“You hold at fifteen,” Ray said after studying his play.

“Always,” Boucher said. “Look, Ray, I have a personal favor to ask you. I met this shrimper who lost his shirt because of the oil spill, and he’s been denied reimbursement from the fund. He says his boat was damaged in a collision
with one of your boats, and I talked him out of suing. He needs a job. I was hoping—”

“Don’t say another word. Of course I’ll help him. Can he cook? I know we need a cook for one of our offshore service vessels.”

“I’m sure he can cook. He lives on his shrimp boat.”

“You tell him to contact Sam Matthews at our personnel office in Houma and say he’s a galley cook. I’ll call Sam and tell him to get this guy an interview with the ship’s captain. What’s his name?”

“Fred Arcineaux.”

“Good Cajun name. Got to help a fellow Coonass, right?”

“Thanks, Ray.”

They rejoined the women to find that Malika had won fifteen thousand dollars.

“I want to find that fortune-teller,” Ray said, “and get her a job somewhere. Like Brazil. She’ll ruin me if she stays in New Orleans.”

Malika was excited and giddy with success. Nothing like this had ever happened to her, and it was impossible to begrudge her good fortune. It was with the best of humor that Ray Dumont said, “We’re going home. I’ve got to get both you winners out of here.”