Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 07 - The Swamps of Bayou Teche (7 page)

He snorted at the retreating backs of the bikers. “Be
two twenty,” he replied by way of greeting.

While he rang up the sale, I pulled out the photo of
John Hardy. “Maybe you can help me, friend. By any
chance, have you seen this gent the last few days?”

He returned my change, glanced at the photo, and shook his head. “Them stinking bikers,” he growled.
“Come in and try to steal me blind.”

I shrugged. “Haven’t seen him, huh? Maybe three,
four days back?”

“Nah. Sure wish they’d find someplace else to
camp. They been driving us crazy for the last six
months, in and out, in and out” He looked up at me.
“Tell me, why don’t they go into Baton Rouge instead
of coming here. It’s just as close.”

I was having trouble hanging onto the thread of his
conversation, but a couple of his words piqued my curiosity, arousing a crazy idea. “You saying those bozos have been coming in here regular?”

“Too regular. About six months back, forty or fifty
set up a camp somewhere on the other side of
Whiskey River. Since then, them bikers on the Interstate are thicker than crabs on a dead catfish”

The crazy idea of mine burgeoned into insanity. I
jammed the change in my pocket. “Thanks, buddy,” I
said, glancing around as Jack emerged from the hallway of stench. “Let’s go! We got no time to waste!”

Outside, we spotted the bikers heading for the Interstate. “Follow them,” I said. “Now! But stay far
enough behind they don’t notice us.”

As we sped along at a steady fifty-five, Jack demanded to know what I had in mind.

“Simple. It’s a long shot, but if there are as many
bikers motoring up and down the Interstate as our friend back at the convenience store said, then maybe,
just maybe one of them saw something when they
crossed the bridge over Whiskey River.”

Flexing his fingers about the steering wheel, Jack
glanced at me, his jowls flopping when he turned his
head. “You really think someone saw the Suburban going into the river? That’s the craziest idea I ever heard”

I gave him a wry grin. “It’s the craziest idea I ever
heard too, Jack. Now, just drive.”

At the first exit beyond Whiskey River, the bikers
turned off. Remaining on the Interstate, we followed
from a discreet distance and spotted them turn off the
access road onto a narrow dirt lane winding back into
the woods.

“Now what?” Jack asked.

“Find me a liquor store.”

At Bayou Din Liquors, I bought ten cases of cheap
beer and a case of cheaper vodka. “Payoffs,” I replied
when Jack questioned the purchase. “There’s no way
I’m walking into the lion’s den without enough steak
to keep him off me.”

“Huh?” Jack frowned. “What are you talking about,
steak?”

I rolled my eyes and nodded to the driver’s seat.
“Just get in and drive, Jack. Head back to where the
bikers turned off.”

Suddenly, his eyes lit with understanding. “You
mean-”

“Yes, Jack. I mean we’re going into the bikers’
camp”

He gulped hard once or twice, then started the
Cadillac.

Thirty minutes later, we pulled off the eastbound
Interstate onto the access road, and I instructed him to
park just before the dirt lane the bikers had taken.

“Park? I thought we were going to the bikers’ camp”

I shook my head. “Not without an invite.”

He frowned once again, so I explained, “The old
boy back at the convenience store said bikers were all
over the Interstate. I plan to stop a couple out here.
Show them the booze and offer it to them for answers
to a couple questions.”

Jack muttered a curse. “They’ll cut our throats and
leave us out here to the wolves and panthers and whatever else is roaming out here in this forsaken wilderness. I tell you, boy, I’m-”

“Look!” I exclaimed, pointing to the westbound
lane, down which two bikers were approaching.

Jack growled. “So what? They’re not coming over
here. They’re heading for Texas.”

“There’s always the crossover on the other side of
the river.”

He sneered. “That’s going to take almost thirty
min-”

Like the good, law-abiding citizens they were, the
two bikers had no intention of wasting another thirty minutes. They slowed, cut across the median dividing
east- and west-bound traffic, shot over the highway and
bounced over the shoulder, and slid to a screeching halt
a few feet from the grill of the Cadillac where I had
gone to stand when I saw them coming toward us.

They were the archetypal bikers-big, burly, and
belligerent. Burgeoning bellies bulging over their
belts, they sat on their hogs, glowering at us. The one
on the right, his head shaven, and his hairy torso covered by a tank top five sizes too small and covered with
holes through which bright red hair curled, unwound a
length of chain from his handlebars and climbed lazily
off his bike. Gently pounding the length of chain into
the palm of a hand that looked the size of a baseball
glove, he sauntered toward me. The other, decked out
in full leathers, followed.

At that moment, I figured I had made the worst mistake of my life, but there was no turning back. Grendel
personified would be on me before I could reach the
door, so I gulped and nodded amiably.

“You want something?” He growled, eyeing me
malevolently.

Much more casually than I felt, I leaned back
against the hood of the Cadillac and folded my arms
across my chest and nodded. “Yeah. I do. I want information.” His eyes narrowed, and I continued. “And
I’m willing to pay.” I pushed off the hood and motioned for the two to follow me to the rear of the convertible. “Pop the trunk, Jack.”

Jack did, revealing the cases of booze. I gestured to
them. “These are yours”

The one in leathers snorted. “What’s the catch?”

I held up my hands. “No catch. Just the answer to a
couple questions.”

“Me and Texas Red here don’t answer no questions
for nobody” He grinned at his partner. “Do we, Red?”

I glanced at the bright red hair on his torso. At least
the moniker was appropriate.

Texas Red eyed the booze and licked his lips. “Depends. What’s the question?”

At five-ten, I had to crane my neck to look up at
him, and I could see the warning in his eyes. “My
name’s Tony Boudreaux, Red” I stuck out my hand.
For a moment, he hesitated, taken aback by my affable display of friendliness. Finally, he took my hand
and grunted. “This here’s Pike.”

I nodded. “Pike.”

Pike nodded, but said nothing. Both of them eyed
the booze, then glared at me.

“All I want is for you to ask your friends if any of
them happened to see a black Chevrolet Suburban on
the levee beneath the Interstate at Whiskey River three
or four days ago.” I shrugged. “That’s it. The booze is
yours even if they haven’t.”

Red and Pike eyed each other. Pike shrugged. “I
ain’t seen nothing like that, but follow us on back to
the digs. You can ask the others.” He leaned into the
open trunk and tore a bottle of vodka from the case. He chugged two or three gulps, handed it to Texas
Red, and belched. “Let’s go”

As he passed Jack, who had remained in the driver’s seat, Pike hit him on the shoulder and laughed.
“You sure don’t say much, little fella, do you?”

We followed the two bikers up the narrow dirt lane
that lead back into the thick growth of oak and sweetgum. Jack’s normally flushed cheeks were pale as
what little snow we get down here in the swamps. “I
don’t think this is a good idea, Tony. I’ve seen guys
like these back on Sixth Street in Austin. I tell you,
they can be animals.”

“Keep your eyes on the road and stop worrying. Tell
them some of your jokes if you have to. Besides, we’re
not staying more than a few minutes.”

The dirt lane twisted through the dense forest several hundred yards before opening into a clearing the
size of a football field. Threatening to collapse at any
moment, a ramshackle house sat in the middle of the
field with a dozen or so tents of varied colors set up
around it and twice as many bikes parked about.

A dozen glowering Neanderthals converged upon
us with murder in their eyes and curses rolling off
their lips. Right behind them had half as many mamas, muttering scurrilous epithets even more chilling.

Jack whispered. “Tony, I think this is a big, big mistake. They’ll bash our heads in, and no one will ever
find us”

Texas Red and Pike went to meet them. After a few
moments, a nodding of heads and a chorus of cheers
told us we would live for another day. Thirty seconds
later, all the booze had been shifted to the ramshackle
house, and we were dragged along by several laughing, friendly bikers.

Within minutes, everyone had a beer or bottle, even
Jack. I held one, but only sipped at it. I’d battled alcohol for years, and this revelry was turning into the
kind of party that would make even the most dedicated abstainer swear off A.A.

Unfortunately, no one had spotted a black Suburban
on the levee. Jack leaned close and whispered. “Looks
like a hundred and fifty bucks down the drain, huh?”

“Afraid so,” I mumbled. “You ready to get out of
here?”

At that moment, Pike, mellowed out by a bottle of
vodka, put his arm around Jack’s shoulders and
shouted. “This little feller don’t say much, boys. We
ought to find him some entertainment.”

I had no idea what direction the party was about to
take, so I hastily spoke up, trying to keep some semblance of control of the situation. “That little feller is
a standup comic, Pike. He does an act at the Red Pigeon Nightclub on Sixth Street in Austin.”

An overweight mama in full leathers shouted, “Hey,
I been there! A real gas, it is. Almost as good as five
lines of coke.”

Everyone laughed and clamored for Jack to do his nightclub act, and like all clowns, he agreed, regaling
them with a plethora of obscene jokes and stories.
There were no aisles to have them rolling in, so they
had to settle for the grass. Of course, by this time, so
many of them were zonked with the booze and pills
that it was impossible to say what put them on the
grass, Jack’s jokes or the booze.

I couldn’t help noticing one of the older mamas was
paying special attention to Jack. I didn’t think too
much about it at the time. When his act was over, I
suggested we leave, but to my surprise, Jack backed
off. “A few minutes longer,” he said, his eyes fixed on
the adoring mama. “I’m having a good time. I was
wrong. These guys are okay”

Before I could protest, Texas Red waved me over.
He pointed to a newcomer, a lanky, heavily bearded
biker with suspicious eyes. “This is Demonio, that’s
Portuguese for the devil, which is what he is when
he’s mad,” he said with a leer. “He saw something.”

I forgot all about Jack. I held my breath. “At the
river?”

Demonio eyed Texas Red, who shook his head. “No
sweat. Tony here’s one of us. Don’t worry”

Demonio looked at me with eyes cold as ice. “Four
or five days ago, I was crossing the river when I spotted a black Chevrolet Suburban parked on the levee.
Just before sunup” He paused, then added. “There
was a red Jeep parked beside it.”

I stared at him, not absorbing his words at first. “A
red Jeep?”

“Yeah. Looked like a new one. One of them
Cherokees.”

Before I could question Demonio further, Jack
rushed up and grabbed my arm. “Tony. Let’s go. You
hear? Let’s go”

“What’s wrong?” I looked around, and standing in
the open door of the ramshackle shack was the adoring mama, her hands on her expansive hips and laughing at the top of her lungs.

That was fine with me. I had what I wanted. I turned
to Red and extended my hand. “Thanks, Red. Look
me up in Austin sometime.” I nodded to Demonio.
“Thanks.”

He grunted. “Where’s the booze?”

I pointed to Red. “He’ll show you”

Despite my prodding and amusement at Jack’s discomfort, he refused to reveal any of the details that
prompted him to leave so hastily.

Finally, he jerked his head around and glared at me. “You might as well shut up about it, Tony. You’ll never
find out what happened back there. Never!”

With a chuckle, I leaned back and closed my eyes.

At noon, Jack pulled up in front of Interiors by
Suzanne across the town square from the Cocodrie
State Bank in Maida. “Fancy looking place,” he commented.

I had to agree. The building was white brick with the
name Interiors by Suzanne emblazoned in gold script
across windows black as coal. It was bold and striking.

“Back in a few minutes,” I said, climbing from the
car.

Jack grunted. “I’m going down and pick up some
beer and a toothbrush and a change of clothes. I’ll be
waiting out here for you.”

The salesperson directed me to the main office.

Sue Cullen was a petite woman, as striking as the
statement her building made to the public. Her ebony
black hair fell over her shoulders, a marked contrast to
her creamy complexion. Having grown up in the heart
of Creole Louisiana, I instantly recognized her ge nealogy. She wore a subdued, but striking knee-length
green skirt and a white blouse with ruffles about the
neck and wrists. Her fingernails were at least two
inches long, and shaped like green daggers-to match
her dress, I guessed.