Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller (17 page)

“Not now,” Fitch said, “we’re eating. Would you pass me the salt and pepper and Tabasco sauce? I can’t eat eggs without Tabasco.”

Pip’s eyes grew wider as he watched them. Then came the giveaway. His stomach rumbled loud enough for all to hear. “This is cruel and unusual,” he said. “Let me eat or just go ahead and shoot me.”

“Talk first, then eat,” Boucher said, wiping his lips with his napkin.

“Okay,” Pip said. “You know Jackson Barracks?”

“Lower Ninth Ward,” Fitch said. “Old army base, I think.”

“I know it,” Boucher said. “I know it well. It was built in the early nineteenth century. The original buildings remain one of the finest groups of Greek Revival architecture in the United States, comparable to the University of Virginia. As a military installation, it played a role in every one of America’s military campaigns, including the Indian wars. General Zachary Taylor used the barracks to organize his troops
for the war with Mexico. It was used as a hospital during the Civil War, and afterward, two of the first regiments of colored troops were based there. Many of the greatest soldiers of the nineteenth century passed through at one time or another. Since the sixties, it has been used by the Louisiana National Guard, and in 1976 it was listed in the National Register of Historic Places. It was severely damaged by Katrina. After several years of reconstruction, it was rededicated.”

Food dangling from his fork, Fitch stared openmouthed. Pip too stared in amazement. “How you know all that shit?” he asked.

“He knows New Orleans,” Fitch said. “He loves this town and respects its history. Not like some.”

“I walk there sometimes,” Boucher said. “It has a wonderful parade ground. I’ve often thought what a great attraction it could be if more military bands and reenactors with period uniforms and weaponry could put on displays of close-order drill for tourists. Anyway, what were you doing at Jackson Barracks?”

“There was a lot of construction going on. Where you got construction, you got opportunity.”

“To steal,” Fitch said.

“Right. There was a warehouse. We thought it would be where they kept tools and shit, so Tyrone and me broke in one night. Look, I’m starving. Let me eat something. The food’s getting cold.”

Boucher nodded and Fitch passed the plate. Pip shoveled food in his mouth as if masticating had never been part of his intake routine. He swallowed, emptied his water glass, and reached for his coffee cup, which he likewise emptied in one continuous motion.

“Slow down,” Boucher said. “You’ll make yourself sick. Chew your food. If you want more, we’ll get it.”

“Keep talking,” Fitch said.

“Yeah, well, we broke into the warehouse, only there weren’t no tools. Guns. Lots of guns. I mean, the whole warehouse was filled with all kinds of weapons. Rifles, pistols, boxes of grenades. I even saw a couple machine guns. It was like war shit.”

“National Guard might have had weapons stored there,” Fitch said to Boucher.

“No, man, these had Russian shit written all over the boxes.”

“You know Russian?”

“Hell, no. I know movies. I seen Russian writing in the movies, and there was Russian writing on a lot of the boxes. We opened a couple and found the pistols. We broke in another box and found some ammunition. We heard someone coming, so we just grabbed what we could carry and ran.”

“You just took the two pistols?”

“And some ammo.”

“You only broke in once?”

“We went back a few nights later with some other guys,
but they had guards, dogs, lights, and everything. There was no getting in, and we never went back.”

“Do you remember anything else?”

Pip thought as he cut a link sausage in two with his fork and stabbed a piece. “I remember that Tyrone never liked his gun. Said it was too heavy. I told him he had to carry it for his own protection. You know, we get beat up out there too. The street’s a shitty life.”

The three sat in silence.

“You want a way out of it?” Boucher asked.

P
IP WAS BOOKED AND
incarcerated. Though Pip had tried to kill him, Boucher demanded special treatment, and Fitch complied. The accused was given his own cell, the cleanest accommodations he had known in recent memory. He lay down on his bunk and was out before the count of ten.

“I’m driving you home,” Fitch said to Boucher. “I’ll send someone to pick up your truck, and you’re going to stay in your house all weekend, or I swear I’ll find some reason to arrest you and throw you in there with him. Damn it, Judge, you just got out of the hospital with a gunshot wound.”

“I am feeling kind of tired,” Boucher said. Fitch had to help him to the car.

Fitch did not arrange a stakeout, not exactly. He asked Helen to come over and look after him. She fixed
breakfast the next morning. “I’ve been appointed your custodian,” she said. “You are not to leave the house without my permission, and you can save your breath, because I’m not going to give it. We are all delighted your injuries are not serious, but you have been through a traumatic experience, and you need to rest. Going out on your own last night was both reckless and foolish. Are you bent on self-destruction, Judge Boucher?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ ”

“Sorry. ‘Ma’am’ is for old maids, I’ve been told.”

In one of those speak-of-the-devil moments, Mildred French was at the door, unaware of the judge’s late-night extracurricular activities. He was pleased to see her. She had brought more files for him to work on. He held the door open; she stepped inside and halted, then stopped. Part of her purpose in coming was to look after his welfare, but there was the sound and scent of another woman on the premises.

“If I’ve come at a bad time—” she said, then Helen stepped out of the kitchen.

“Mrs. French, how nice to see you. I’m Helen; we met at the hospital. Your boss has been very bad. He went out alone last night to try to catch the man who shot him.”

“Judge Boucher,” Mildred said, her tone stern.

He was caught in a cross fire of withering glances.

“Detective Fitch asked me to keep an eye on him and
make sure he stays home and gets some proper rest,” Helen said.

“If I can help you in any way,” Mildred offered.

“I think I can manage. I’ve had experience with willful children. Would you like some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”

“Why, thank you, Helen, I’d love some. Here.” Mildred handed Boucher the armload of files she had brought, then went to the kitchen with Helen, the two marching in step. “Men,” Mildred said. “What was God thinking?”

Federal Judge Jock Boucher stood in the foyer of his home. “We caught him,” he said meekly. “The man who shot me? We caught him.” But the ladies were pouring their coffee, more interested in each other’s company.

So the weekend passed. His appreciation grew for the two women, who treated him like an errant schoolboy. Helen was a competent custodian, but more important, she was good company. For hours they discussed lifesaving, the rescuing of those whose lives had gone from bad to worse. The files Mildred had brought contained their own surprises. She had taken on much of the legal research herself and demonstrated an impressive grasp of fundamental principles of law, as adept as any law clerk who had ever worked for him. Malika also called several times, keeping him informed of her activities so he wouldn’t think she was checking up on him, which of course she was. The combined power of these women who had taken control was too much. He succumbed
and did their bidding and felt the better for it. By Monday morning, he was well rested and up and early to the office.

Judge Giordano, the only female jurist on the district bench, had sent him flowers with a note welcoming him back—a fact she no doubt learned from Mildred. The judge’s note also thanked him for helping with her caseload, complimenting him on the work. He called Mildred into his office and asked her to take a seat, smiling as talcum powder wafted his way.

“Mildred, I am receiving compliments on the job I’ve been doing.”

“That’s wonderful, Your Honor.”

“The only problem is, I haven’t been doing it.”

“But sir, you have. It’s your signature on the bottom of every one of those documents.”

“Yes. I have been rubber-stamping your rather impressive work. You have been a tremendous help. I just wanted to tell you how fortunate I feel to be working with you. This is a challenging time for me. Thank you. Sincerely, thank you.”

“You are welcome, Your Honor. It’s mostly administrative details. I’d better get back to work.”

She rose and turned. It seemed she was walking on a cloud. Maybe it was the talcum powder.

•  •  •

Fred Arcineaux called late that afternoon. He’d had his interview.

“I’m on my way,” Boucher said.

The shrimper sat on the deck of his trawler. The deck was spotless. He’d put out a folding chair for his guest and sat sipping a Diet Coke. Boucher stepped carefully onto the boat. Large steps up or down jolted his still-tender ribs. He took the seat meant for him. From a canvas tote Arcineaux pulled two clear plastic bags containing the shoes Boucher had given him.

“I met the captain of the
Gulf Pride
and was given a tour of the vessel. They treated me like a dignitary. It sure helps to have a word from the owner. I don’t know if it helps, but I sketched this layout of the ship.” He handed a paper to Boucher. “I went through everything, the crew’s quarters, the galley, the bridge, the nav station, the hold, everywhere. I didn’t see anything unusual. The hold was empty, and there were only a couple of crew members on board. They’d gotten in the day before.”

“Did he say where they’d been?”

“No. He said they service offshore rigs.”

“What was the job you were interviewing for?”

“Galley cook, like you said. I told him I was a shrimper, but if they brought on a store of shrimp, I could cook ’em any way they wanted. I did that bit from
Forrest Gump
where Bubba goes on about the ways to cook shrimp. The captain said that might work, because their runs are usually
two days out and two days back. I thought that was curious.”

“Why?”

“Two days on a vessel like that can put you several hundreds of miles out to sea. There aren’t many rigs that far out. In the whole gulf, there are only two that I know of that are two hundred miles offshore. Farther out than that, and you’re in international waters. You could make that distance zigzagging between wells closer to shore, but the way he said it made me think he was talking about straight out, straight back. Another strange thing—he said I’d be restricted to the galley and crew’s quarters; the rest of the ship would be off-limits. You don’t do that to a seaman. You never know where you might need him.”

“Did he offer you the job?”

“He did. I thanked him and said I’d think about it. He won’t be surprised if I say no. He knows I captain my own trawler and I’m just going through a rough patch.”

Boucher looked around. “How much would it take to repair your boat?”

Arcineaux told him.

Boucher reached in his coat pocket, pulled out a checkbook, wrote a check, and handed it over. “Fix it, then have me over for dinner. Gulf shrimp, fresh-caught, prepared any way you like.” He shook the hand of the stunned shrimper, then picked up the shoes. “Thanks for your help.” He started to leave.

“Wait a minute, we had a deal. You find out anything, you keep me in the loop. Something funny going on, I’m on board, remember?”

“I remember. I owe you.”

Arcineaux looked at the check. “I’d say it’s the other way ’round. But if I can help you, I want to be included.”

Boucher nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”

•  •  •

“Yeah,” Fitch said, “why would they restrict an able-bodied experienced seaman to galley and quarters? Because they’re hiding their cargo. That floater we found, poor guy ignored those orders, saw something he wasn’t supposed to see. The trooper got his because he was going to arrest the ship and keep it in port. They had to get it out to sea. When I get back the lab report on those shoes, I think I’ll know what that cargo might be.”

After meeting at headquarters and dropping off the shoes at the lab, they were sharing an early dinner at Landry’s seafood restaurant on Lakeshore Drive, overlooking Lake Pontchartrain. It was a family-style restaurant and packed with early diners of all ages. Boucher’s cell phone buzzed. He clicked it on. “Mildred, you’re not still at the office, are you? I did? You didn’t have to do that. Thank you very much. I will. I’ll call him this evening.”

He clicked it off and smiled. “I like to believe that when you give people a chance, they will exceed your expectations.
That woman was stuck in the bankruptcy file room for over twenty years. She could run the whole district court.”

“Wish I had a secretary like that. Could have saved me a lot of time today.”

“Don’t call her a secretary. She’s my assistant,” Boucher said, a little more gruff than he’d intended.

“What’s the big deal? The word was still in the English language the last time I checked, and none of the president’s department heads seem to take offense at it. You don’t like the word ‘secretary,’ you could call the lady your
chef de cabinet
.”

“That’s a secretary to a minister.”

“Well, you’re a federal official with a lifetime appointment. On second thought, that title won’t work. I’ve seen your office. It’s filled with cardboard boxes. You ain’t got no
cabinet
. Anyway, it’s more important how you treat a person than what you call them, and you treat her with respect. If you’re not interested, I won’t tell you what your poor overworked public servant found out today—without the help of an assistant. Or a secretary.”

“You want me to beg?”

“Just a little. That’s enough. I checked the city records to see who might have gotten the contract to do the reconstruction work on the Jackson Barracks. It turns out the prime contractor was a wholly owned subsidiary of Dumont Industries. They have a construction company in their empire too.”

“So the warehouse where those men stole illegal guns belonged to Dumont?”