Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller (21 page)

“I can get away with that,” Fitch said. “You can’t.”

“Get away with what?”

“Ending a sentence with a preposition.”

•  •  •

Boucher’s smile was forced when he arrived at his office and bade Mildred a good morning. He hoped she wouldn’t notice that something was bothering him. He buried himself in the files on his desk. The ringing of his office phone was still a rare event, giving Mildred the opportunity to get up from her desk rather than alerting him on the intercom when a call came in.

“It’s that Mr. Arcineaux for you,” she said. “He sure sounds happy. It’s good to hear him like that. I’m so pleased you were able to help him.”

Boucher nodded and took the call. “Fred. Nice to hear from you. How’s everything?”

“Everything’s great, Judge. I’ve got something I want to show you. Can you come over?”

“I can be there after five. Is that all right?”

“Should still be enough time before the sun goes down. I have to show you in the light.”

“I’ll see you this evening.”

Arcineaux did sound pleased. Boucher guessed he’d made the repairs to his boat.

It was a day of fudging, and he knew he must have looked guilty each time Mildred walked into his office. He was surfing the Internet rather than attending to the files in front of him. His research was more important than any of them. He looked up Gary Quaid’s agency. It was a command-and-control center. Its mission was clear, and if
he actually gave orders to the agencies under his aegis, then as Fitch had said, he was as powerful as any general in the U.S. armed forces; more so, because air traffic control, customs, and immigration were among other agencies whose activities he could direct when necessary. The bland government websites Boucher studied were in keeping with the transparency that was a hallmark of a democratic society, but they didn’t reveal the danger of too much power reposed in too few men—the danger of absolute power. Quaid was coming pretty damn close.

Boucher’s head was full, and he was more than ready for a break when the workday ended. He made his way down in the elevator reserved for judges to the underground lot and his assigned space. He left the federal building and joined the homeward-bound throng. Traffic slowed him down, but he made it to Arcineaux’s marina with plenty of sun left in the sky. The shrimp trawler was nowhere in sight.

“Hey,” a man yelled to him from the flybridge of a motor yacht, “it’s me. Come aboard.”

Boucher walked toward the craft. It was a Hatteras, over fifty feet in length. He walked the short gangway and stepped onto the cockpit with its teak deck. There was a fighting chair and two removable seats. All was immaculate.

“You like her?” Arcineaux asked.

“How did you—” Boucher began.

“It was a trade. I used the money you gave me and fixed up my trawler, then traded it for this. Got a smokin’ deal. The previous owner passed away, and his widow wanted to get rid of it.”

“A widow took your trawler in trade?”

“She wanted to put a family member into a new business. I didn’t ask too many questions. You know what they say about a gift horse. It’s in great shape: reconditioned engines and extra-large fuel tanks. I could drive this baby to Cancún.”

“No more shrimping?”

“I’m getting into commercial charter fishing. I can make the money I need, and it will be so much easier. Take out a couple businessmen on a lark, maybe a family. I think I’m going to enjoy this. I only have to hire a deckhand when I need one. And I plan on paying you back, Judge, every penny. Want to take a tour?”

“Sure, Fred. Show me your new vessel.”

“I’m going to have to move, find another marina,” Fred said as he showed Boucher the helm and its instruments.

“You should talk to Detective Fitch about that. He’s a sport fisherman. Uses a marina out near Fort Pike.”

“I will. I called those folks at Dumont Industries and thanked them for the opportunity but said I was going into a new line of work. Anything happen after that interview? Those shoes I wore?”

Boucher hesitated. He shouldn’t have.

“Come on, Judge. You made a promise.”

“Let’s take a look at your boat.”

Arcineaux gave him the tour. The motor yacht was used but had been maintained with obvious loving care. The salon was small but as comfortable as a nice home’s living room. Below were the galley and staterooms. They went back up to the cockpit and sat.

“I can see there’s something you’re not telling me,” Arcineaux said.

“Fred, I know I promised, but there might be something very big going down; illegal activities on a large scale involving powerful men. You’ve been very helpful, but I don’t want to get you involved in a situation that could put you in danger.”

“Seems we already crossed that bridge,” Fred said.

“Yes, and I had misgivings when I asked you. Now we know something’s going on. That’s all I can tell you.”

“They’re smuggling, aren’t they? Under the cover of servicing offshore rigs, they’re smuggling. Can’t be drugs; that traffic goes the other direction. And if they need a boat that size, the cargo has to be—”

“That’s enough, Fred.”

“Guns. That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t have to answer. Dumont’s selling weapons. When I was out there trying to find a few shrimp, I asked myself—while trying to avoid collisions
with those reckless bastards—where the hell were they going?” He took a sip, just a sip, of his beer and set it in the cupholder. “That’s what they were talking about.”

“Who? What who was talking about?”

Arcineaux looked up, rubbing his chin and lowering his head, scratching his temple at the point where his sideburns stopped. Boucher repeated his questions.

“There’s a little joint just outside the Dumont Industries compound in Houma,” Arcineaux said. “After my interview, I stopped in there for a sandwich and a beer before my drive home. I was sitting in a booth, minding my own business. Two guys came in. Took the booth behind me. Started talking. Foreigners. French-speaking foreigners. Not French French; I know a French accent when I hear one. If I had to guess, I’d say they were Belgians. Poor fools didn’t know nothin’ about Cajuns. They thought their language was their cover. They were pilots. They’d just flown in a cargo for Dumont. One was saying it was his last run. He’d made his money and didn’t need to take any more risks. The other said the next flight would be his last too. Said it alone would make him rich. They were a talkative twosome.”

“Did they say anything else?”

“The one planning to make one more flight has put a down payment on his retirement home in Marbella, Spain. He plans to close in a couple weeks. Guess he’s coming into some serious money real soon.”

“They didn’t say their cargo was guns.”

“Not specifically, no. But when a man spends as much time alone as I do, he can see things. Know what I mean?”

“Fred, that’s called a vivid imagination.”

On the teak deck of the motor yacht, the two men sat watching the sun disappear, watching the slow-floating commerce on the Mississippi. They nursed their silent thoughts and now tepid beers.

B
OUCHER ARRIVED HOME FROM
his meeting with Arcineaux, poured a bourbon on the rocks, and took it to his new desk, not placing the glass on the antique wood. One-handed, he took out the first volume of General Scott’s memoirs and began to read but didn’t get far. His parents had raised him well, and he was bothered by the conflict rising within him from accepting Dumont’s generous gift in light of his suspicions of the man. The dilemma made him uncomfortable, and he decided to do something about it. He went out.

Royal Street had its usual pedestrian traffic for early evening, most ambling in search of a place to dine, but many with money to spend on impulse purchases, justifying the antique stores staying open. Boucher passed one and studied the display window, which testified to the
establishment’s expertise in a specific niche of the antique trade. Antique firearms. He went inside.

“May I help you, sir?” the attendant asked him.

“A gentleman gave me a valuable antique as a gift,” Boucher said. “I want to repay his generosity.”

“He is a gun collector?”

“He is,” Boucher said. “I know he appreciates antiques with historical provenance.”

After admitting his ignorance, he was given an introductory lesson. Antique guns in the United States were those manufactured before 1899 and were exempted from the Federal Firearms License requirements administered by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. Market values for the rarer and more collectible pieces had tripled, even quadrupled, in recent years. Boucher made his selection solely on the basis of price. This was payback. He knew what the desk cost, had a reasonable estimate of the value of the rare books, and selected an item that was in the same price range. An additional benefit—which he would be sure to point out in the accompanying card—it was small enough that Elise Dumont could not complain about it. His choice was a Colt Model 1851 Navy percussion revolver manufactured in 1863. It was in excellent working condition, with most of the blue left on the barrel and most of the varnish on the walnut grips.
Thirty-six-caliber
was visible on the trigger guard. It was perfect.
He gave Dumont’s address, attached a card, and asked that it be delivered tomorrow. He was most satisfied on leaving the shop, his dilemma resolved. He could keep the campaign desk without his conscience bothering him. He really liked the desk.

•  •  •

Dumont called him the following evening.

“I absolutely love it,” he gushed. “This is one of those ‘if this gun could talk’ kind of pieces. I don’t like it that you thought you had to give me something in return for my gift, but what a fantastic choice. How did you decide on this?”

“Easy,” Boucher said. “I liked it. You and I enjoy a lot of the same things. We share many of the same interests.”

“Yes. That’s partly why I invited you to join our poker group. There are few people I’d introduce to those men.”

“Again, I’m grateful. Are you planning another game anytime soon?”

“This Saturday. The man who canceled last time will be there. We’re going to have the game at my house rather than the casino. It’s more private. You’re invited, of course. By the way, Jock, have you read the Scott memoirs?”

“I’ve just started.”

“See if you can finish them before we get together. There’s some interesting history in there. I’ll see you Saturday. I’ll be using the limo for the general. Do you mind driving over?”

“Not if you don’t mind a used Ford pickup in your driveway.”

“It’s fitting. Nothing could be more American. See you then. Seven sharp.”

Dumont had assigned him a program for the remainder of the evening. Boucher retired to his study and read. Hours later, he was ready for sleep. The florid nineteenth-century writing style had demanded concentration, and after nearly finishing the first of the two volumes, he was exhausted. He set down the book and rubbed his eyes. Dumont had mentioned the rank of the new player: a general. No doubt he was an aficionado of American military history, Boucher thought. Why else would Dumont ask him to read this tome before the next meeting? Well, should the subject come up, he would be well versed on the life and achievements of General Winfield Scott.

It turned out that turgid prose was to be his lot for the remainder of the working week as well. Over the next several days, he was so overwhelmed with the arcane minutiae of jurisprudence that Scott’s reminiscences seemed light fare by comparison. Friday evening he felt well enough to visit his gym. He rationalized that a half hour on the treadmill did not fall within the “strenuous exercise” parameters his doctor had told him to avoid. He didn’t even work up a sweat. Later that night he read more of the general’s autobiography. If Dumont had expected him to find some revelation in the writings, Boucher felt he had missed it.

Saturday morning dawned with more than a promise of spring. He took his coffee in his courtyard. No jacket was required; the early chill, the haze, and the dew were quickly burned off by the sun. The season was here, and no one hearing the songbirds could have doubted it. Over their chirping, he heard his name called, and he answered, “I’m back here, Fitch.”

The detective joined him, looking every inch the role he was playing today—Louisiana sportsman ready for a day on the gulf waters.

“Sorry I’m late,” Fitch said. “Do we need to call Arcineaux?”

Boucher pulled his cell phone from his shirt pocket. “Fred? Fitch just got here. We’re on our way.”

“If there’s any left”—Fitch pointed to Boucher’s coffee—“I wouldn’t mind a cup before we go.”

“No problem.” Boucher went into the kitchen and returned with a full cup of coffee, black.

“Got him a slip at my marina,” Fitch said. “He’ll have some competition from other charter sports fishermen who dock there, but they’re good guys.”

“Arcineaux overheard some men talking in a bar in Houma,” Boucher said. “He thinks they were Belgians, pilots who had just flown in a cargo that they said would make them rich. They didn’t say specifically what it was. Fred suspects guns.”

“Interesting,” Fitch said.

The plan for the day was to motor over with Arcineaux in his new cruiser to the marina Fitch had recommended. A car and driver would bring them back in the afternoon. Fitch drank his coffee, then addressed what was on both their minds.

“I don’t want this guy involved any further,” Fitch said. “Hell, I’m not sure I want to be involved any further.”

Boucher agreed. He paused, then said, “I’m playing poker tonight at Dumont’s house. Same cast of characters, plus someone new. Should be an interesting evening.”

“I don’t think of you having too many dull ones. The old ennui isn’t a part of your lifestyle.” Fitch stood up. “Let’s get started.”

Fitch left his car in Boucher’s drive, and they took a cab to Arcineaux’s dock. Minutes later they were under way, part of the great river’s caravan rolling out to the sea. It would be a pleasant trip for the short distance along the coast but not the most relaxing. There was too much traffic for that. And Fred Arcineaux was about to ensure that their attention did not stray. He was at the helm and had barely pulled away from the dock when he said, “To smuggle anything into this country by air, you’ve got to have some people pretty high up the ladder in your pocket, don’t you think?”