Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller (3 page)

A shower, a nap and change of clothes, a bourbon with bitters, and Jock was ready for his evening meal. The night air was cooled by the breeze blowing off the river, but his sport coat was enough protection from the elements. He walked from his house on Chartres Street, a couple of blocks, then right on Dumaine toward Bourbon. Mardi Gras was over, and though there was still plenty of pedestrian traffic, the annual crush with all its chaos and color was gone. With no specific destination in mind, he knew something would speak to him, and the accent was Cajun. He called the game restaurant roulette, and the odds were in his favor. It was impossible to lose when his love of the French Quarter and its restaurants was so absolute and consuming. As he walked, he admired the eighteenth-century facades, looking up at the decorative hand-wrought iron filigree on the narrow second-floor balconies of the Creole town houses. The larger of these extended farther out from the building. These were add-ons
built in the 1850s, called galleries. They were supported by columns cast from molds in local foundries. He was gazing up at a second-floor gallery when he bumped into a fellow pedestrian and began to beg pardon, though the collision had not been his fault. The man blocked his path.

“Keys, wallet, cell phone, credit cards. Quick,” the man said.

“What?” Boucher was stunned. He was on one of the most public streets in the Quarter, only blocks from his house, his neighborhood, in the early evening. His reaction was visceral, primal, and territorial. But not a muscle in his face twitched.

“I gotta spell it out for ya?” the gunman said.

Boucher froze; the barrel of a pistol a foot and a half from his gut. The man wore a hoodie pulled well over his head. The face was hidden, but a pair of eyes glared out, the whites opaque, almost yellow. High on something. His right hand held the gun. It shook. From the left hand, palm up, fingers fluttered like feathers in a breeze; the classic “gimmee, gimmee” motion. Boucher slowly raised his hands to his chest.

“What’re you doin’?”

“My wallet. It’s in my jacket pocket.”

Boucher was wearing one of his two-button patch-pocket blazers. Making sure his eyes engaged those of the robber, he grabbed his lapel with his right hand, slowly pulling the garment from his body; he slid his left hand inside
to retrieve the billfold. It was a ruse. His intention was to get his arms above those of his assailant. Boucher had spent most of his military career as a member of the All-Army Boxing Team and had added to his martial arts skills over the years. He was fast, and now he was angry. Anger added an edge. As he continued to stare into the man’s eyes, his motions were a blur. His left hand, fingers extended as if preparing a salute, chopped down on the assailant’s right wrist with enough force to shatter bone. The right hand pulling the blazer lapel was already formed into a fist and a short distance from the gunman’s head, too short for a hook but enough for a jab. Elbow next to his body, Boucher extended his right arm straight out, rotating his fist, turning the thumb inward as he dropped his chin. He stepped forward with his right foot, connecting with his target at the same moment his right toe struck the ground, magnifying the force of contact. Caught on the chin, the man’s head snapped to his right with enough force to break his neck. The pistol clattered to the sidewalk. Boucher crouched, ready for another swing, but it was unnecessary. The man fell back onto the sidewalk like a toppled tower, his head hitting the cement. It sounded like an egg thrown on the pavement.

Boucher pulled the silk kerchief from his breast pocket, draped it over the pistol, picked it up, and stuck it in his belt. Though not an expert in firearms, he knew that this was a lot of weapon for a common street criminal. He
bent over the unconscious man and pulled back the hood for a look at his face. Blood oozed from the assailant’s left ear, dripping down to form a scarlet pool on the sidewalk.

Boucher stood up. “Everything’s fine,” he said to those within earshot who had stopped to watch the street drama as if it were no more than a page of flash fiction played out for their amusement. The attempted robbery and takedown had happened so fast that those over twenty feet from him hadn’t known what was happening. He pulled his cell phone from his sport coat and dialed 911.

“I need an ambulance. Now!” he hollered into the device.

“Let the bastard die.” A man had walked up and was standing next to Boucher, who ignored him.

“A man is injured,” he reported, giving the address, then answering the expected questions. “It was an attempted armed robbery. I knocked him out. I think he’s seriously hurt. My name? Jock Boucher. Federal District Judge Jock Boucher. I’ll wait right here, but hurry.” He hung up.

“Guys like him are ruining the Quarter for the rest of us,” the spectator said. “I think you did a good thing.”

Jock Boucher didn’t share that opinion. He’d already killed in self-defense. It was not something he wanted to repeat. Ever.

He bullied his way into the ambulance and accompanied the injured man to the Interim LSU Public Hospital on Perdido Street, then paced back and forth outside
emergency while the man underwent treatment. When a doctor finally came out, Boucher stopped him in the hall. “How is he?”

“You family?”

“I put him there. He tried to rob me at gunpoint. I hit him. I’m Judge Jock Boucher.” He offered a hand in greeting, which the doctor refused with a frown. Handshakes were discouraged during the course of intensive procedures.

“Go wait where you’re supposed to. I’ll keep you informed.”

Boucher found a chair within sight of the emergency room, and whether it was an approved waiting area or not, he sat. No one bothered him. Well over an hour later, the doctor came out, saw him sitting there, and walked over.

“He has expired,” the doctor said. His selection from the number of words available to convey the passing of a human being was his only concession to compassion. Death was commonplace here, its description blunt as a matter of course.

“My God, I killed him.”

“Not unless you punched him in the kidneys. He died of acute renal failure, the result of a long history of drug and alcohol abuse. You knocked him unconscious, but that was not life-threatening. You ever do any boxing? You must have quite a haymaker.”

Boucher turned and walked away.

•  •  •

“I see you’re back in town.”

It was Saturday morning. Boucher had hoped to sleep late. The jarring phone ring ended that plan. The speaker was Fitch—just Fitch—a detective with the New Orleans Police Department and his best friend.

“I’m looking at the
Times-Picayune,
page one, above the fold,” Fitch said, then sighed. “They’ve cut back on the number of editions they print. I guess I’m going to have to read about your exploits in their online edition.”

“Shit.” Boucher rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “What does it say?”

“You disarmed a gunman who tried to hold you up on one of the busiest streets in the Quarter at seven p.m. on a Friday evening. We’ve had a dozen calls already.”

“What?”

“Verdict’s still out, Your Honor, on whether you’re a hero or a villain. Businesses say the attention is scaring the tourists. Others wish you’d shot the bastard with his own gun. Here in the department, we’re concerned that your act is going to encourage copycat vigilantes. Not everyone has your martial arts experience. You should have let him have what he wanted. You can always cancel credit cards and change your locks.”

“I wasn’t thinking. I was out enjoying an evening walk just a few blocks from my home. I reacted instinctively.”

“I’m not criticizing you,” Fitch said. “Probably would
have done the same thing myself in your position—if I was your age and had your expertise. Understand you went in the ambulance and sat with the guy most of the night.”

“He died. You have anything on him? He had ID, but it was fake.”

“Wasn’t fake; just wasn’t his. He’d hit a guy earlier. Probably spent the cash to score some crack, was coming down from his high when he took you on. He might have done that over and over all night long. You ruined his evening.”

“I ruined more than his evening,” Boucher said. “He altered my plans a bit too. You know who he is—or was? How old was he? He looked in his mid-thirties.”

“He was twenty-five. The street life ages one fast. Record as long as my arm. Habitual.”

“He has no habits now. Look, Fitch, I’ll talk to you later, okay?” Boucher was about to hang up, but he heard Fitch holler at him.

“Don’t you
dare
hang up on me. You there?”

“I’m here.”

“I’ve got to work today, but I’m off tomorrow. I’m going to pick you up at five a.m. Got that?”

“What the hell are we going to do at five in the morning?”

“We’re going fishing. Today I suggest you go for a walk in the Quarter, make up for that dinner you missed
last night, and try to get whatever guilt you’re feeling out of your system. You’re moping over this already. I know you. Sometimes you liberal bleeding hearts need a right-wing boot up your butt. This man was an irredeemable recidivist. Now he’s off the street. I’m not going to have you feeling guilty about the loss of one dirtbag. Tomorrow we’re going out in the gulf, catch some fish, and do some talking, man to man. You got that?”

“I’m not a bleeding-heart liberal,” Boucher said, “and it’s too cold to go fishing.”

“The chill will help keep your mind off self-pity too. Dress warm. See you in the a.m.” Detective Fitch hung up.

•  •  •

Walking and dining in the French Quarter always lifted Boucher’s spirits, but not today. His brooding concern for the man whose life had met with a violent end did not mix with the savory sachets of Cajun cuisine. His mood was such that the chef came out and inquired whether there was a problem with the food. Realizing he was ruining the evening for those around him, Boucher returned home and went to bed early, not at all looking forward to the Sunday plans Fitch had made.

B
OUCHER WOKE SECONDS BEFORE
his alarm sounded and turned it off, glad to have avoided the annoying buzz. He got up and had already completed a comprehensive inner monologue of invectives before reaching the bathroom.
Fishing,
he cursed. It was still cold, even though there had been a temporary warm spell. Why hadn’t he just said no? He could have done that. He was still a federal judge. By order of the president. His thoughts turned to audible grumbling as he showered, dressed, then fixed some coffee and toast. He heard Fitch pull into the driveway; he gulped his coffee, then grabbed his coat and walked out the back door, locking it behind him. Fitch waited in his car, an unwashed Ford Taurus missing a hubcap on the front wheel, passenger side.

“You had your coffee?” Fitch asked as he turned down the volume on his police scanner.

“Yes,” Boucher said.

“Then we’re off.”

They headed out of town to Route 90, Chef Menteur Highway to Fort Pike. They pulled off at Lake Catherine Marina, where Fitch kept a 1978 thirty-eight-foot Chris Craft Commander. The boat was gassed up and ready. Coolers of bait and beer were waiting, as Fitch had requested of the marina staff. All that was left was to jump aboard and motor out. A large thermostat on the pier showed the temperature to be sixty degrees, which meant the day might get into the low seventies. That was tolerable. Boucher felt his frown soften into a more neutral expression. The air was fresh. The morning held promise.

He studied his friend, remembering the first time he met Detective Roscoe Fitch. In the cop’s dank office with stains on the wall from bad plumbing, the air full of stale tobacco smoke, Fitch had sat with purple bags under his deep-set eyes, loose flesh hanging from his jowls. On this brisk morning, Fitch looked like he’d had a face-lift. It wasn’t a plastic surgeon’s knife; it was a new attitude.

“What’s so bad about this?” Fitch asked as they made their way to Lake Borgne, past Gamblers Bend, then toward gulf waters. They watched the coastline in silence. Much of this area had been closed during the oil spill, rescue crews cleaning beaches, treating oil-soaked wildlife. “Some are saying the long-term damage won’t be as bad as originally feared.”

“I’ve read contrary findings,” Boucher said. “Passing through these waters, I feel like a sea monster’s going to raise its ugly head out of the water and swallow us whole.”

There was a sense of danger lurking, unseen, biding its time. The next disaster. But the dawn rising on the gulf was something to behold, the gray sky and morning mist turning a soft pink. The water was calm, and warmth soon followed the early light of day.

“We haven’t talked in a while. What’s new with you?” Fitch said.

“Not much. Malika’s pissed off at me because I had to cut our vacation short and leave her alone in Mexico when the president sent a fighter jet to take me to the White House so he could personally chew me out for wanting to leave the bench. Then I came home, went out for dinner, and killed some thug who was trying to rob me. By the way, what do we know about him, and what kind of a gun was he carrying? I’ve never seen one like it.”

“His name was Tyrone Manley, in and out of jail so much you’d have thought we offered frequent-flier miles. Last known address was before Katrina, apparently homeless since then. He was just a common drug addict and street criminal. The pistol he carried, now, that’s more interesting. It was made in Romania for the Soviet army’s special forces in Afghanistan. It fires steel-core armor-piercing ammunition. A rifle caliber is bad news when it’s used in a handgun. Some call it a cop killer.”

“That was the most lethal-looking handgun I’ve ever seen. How did a homeless drug addict get ahold of a weapon like that?”

“That’s something I’d like to know. I’ve seen a couple of them before. We took down a Mexican narco last year. He had one. That gun is real popular with the cartels.”

“You arrested a member of a Mexican cartel here in New Orleans?”

“It’s not that surprising. They operate all over the States, keeping tabs on their market—and their money. They’ve got cells in Laredo, Dallas, and Houston, so I’ve been told, and some are saying they’re in Chicago. Not surprising that they show up on our doorstep from time to time. We’ve had a warrant out for one of the Mexican bosses here since before you were on the bench. So you flew supersonic to the White House. What did the president say?”