Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 08 - Death in the French Quarter (18 page)

I looked up at Punky, whose stunned face was dimly
lit from the peripheral glow of the light. “What-what—”

“So,” I exclaimed, grabbing the flashlight. “What are
you waiting for? Let’s get out of here.”

Outside Marie LeVeau’s tomb, I headed for the north
exit, but Punky stopped me. “Not that way. Over here”
He turned west, weaving through the ancient tombs of
the old cemetery to an exit hidden by ancient crepe
myrtles.

To the east, the sun was peering over the Mississippi
River, and tourists were beginning to fill the streets. We
circled a complex of apartments and headed down
Rampart Street where we spotted a cluster of out-oftowners and fell in among them as they turned onto
Canal Street and ambled along the sidewalks.

Punky frowned at me. In a hushed voice, he said,
“Have you gone nuts? You’re dead meat. You can’t run
from him.”

I shook my head. “They didn’t recognize me. You’re the one who’s dead meat unless you do something
about it.”

He rolled his eyes. “I plan on it, right now.”

“What? Run? You can’t get away from Bones, not
here, not anywhere. You better than anybody ought to
know that.”

He frowned curiously at me, then ran his fingers
through his curly hair. “You got a better idea?”

“Maybe”

His frown deepened. “Like what?”

I studied him a moment. Finally, I drew a deep
breath and committed myself. “Why not the cops?”

Punky looked at me as if I had grown a third leg. “You
got to be kidding. The cops? Why would I go to them?”

“You know enough about Bones to put him away for
life, maybe even help him ride the needle. Cut a deal.
You get yourself a deal, and for once in his life he gets
the shaft he’s given to everyone else.”

Pursing his lips, Punky studied me as if seeing me
for the first time. “Why did you stick your neck out for
me anyway?”

Half-a-dozen replies ran through my head, all
shaded versions of the truth, but time was running out,
both for Punky and myself.

We were approaching a McDonald’s. I pulled him inside. “I want some breakfast. How about you? My treat”

He started to pull back, but my grip tightened on his
arm. “You know better than me, there’s no running
from him, so what’s another ten minutes? Your bus
doesn’t leave until seven.”

He studied me for several seconds.

“This might be your only chance to see another night.”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

“So,” he demanded when we sat at a rear table.
“What’s the story?”

I took a bite of my sausage and egg biscuit and studied him while I chewed, still debating. After swallowing, I grinned and said, “I’m a private detective.”

He shrugged. “So? I knew that. Bones is checking
with his man in Austin to make sure you wasn’t lying.”
He paused, and a quizzical frown wrinkled his forehead. “You wasn’t, was you?”

I chuckled. “Well, maybe not a lie, but a little twist
of the truth. I am a private investigator, and I’m working with the New Orleans police to nail Bones for two
murders back in Austin.”

The frown on Punky’s face blossomed into disbelief.

I continued. “No sense in going into details, but if
you’ve ever believed anything in your life, you better
believe me when I say I can get you a deal with the
New Orleans police. You agree to turn state’s evidence
against Bones about those two murders in Texas, and
I’ll guarantee you a break. Not a clean one, because
we’re talking felony murder, but I honestly believe you
can get yourself a substantially reduced charge, maybe
even manslaughter and just a couple years. That’s a lot
better than felony murder.”

The overhead lights glistened on his black, curly hair
as he stared at me, his face reflecting his indecision.

Slowly I nodded. “Now you know the truth about me.”

He shook his head. “I always thought something
about you didn’t fit. An old dude running with them
half his age. It just wasn’t natural.”

I guess I could say he hurt my feelings calling me an
old dude, but at the time I was more concerned about
his answer to my offer than my own vanity. With a
shrug, I replied, “Well, now you know. What about it?”
I took another bite of my breakfast sandwich.

He pondered my offer for several seconds. A crafty
grin slid over his face. “This is a juicy story. How do
you know I won’t go to Bones with it? It might be just
what I need to get back in.”

I sipped my coffee and gave a nonchalant shrug of
my shoulders. “Do what you want, Punky. I’d deny it.
Who’s he going to believe-the one who tried to give
his shipment away or the one who saved it?”

His face contorted in anger. “That was a lie. I never
had nothing to do with 7ojo”

“Oh, I believe you, Punky. In fact, I know you didn’t,
but what I believe doesn’t matter. It’s what Bones believes that counts. Right?”

He stared at me, a flicker of understanding growing
in his eyes. “You set up last night’s heist, didn’t you?”

I shook my head. “Makes no difference, and you
know it.”

He arched an eyebrow, a shrewd gleam in his eyes.
“You’re forgetting about Mule and Hummer, ain’t you?”

Feigning innocence, I replied, “Mule and Hummer?
What about Mule and Hummer?”

“Huh? You know, down in the tunnels.”

“Why Punky, what in the world are you talking
about? I was nowhere near the tunnels tonight. In fact, I
spent the night with a friend who will swear I was with
her all night. I came here for breakfast, and you found
me. You tried to talk me into helping you” I arched an
eyebrow as if to say `Now what?’

The smug expression on his ruddy face transformed
into disbelief, then faded into resignation.

“Look, Punky, do what you want, but you aren’t a
stupid man. You know what’s waiting for you. I’m offering you a way out. At least, talk to the cops. I’ll set it
up, away from the police station, anywhere you say.
Listen to them, then decide.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.” He blew out
through his lips. “I ain’t never played the snitch.”

I could never profess to have the skills and knowledge of a psychiatrist or psychologist, but I’d been
around the criminal element enough to learn that to the
hardened law-breaker, squealing to the cops was as immoral, as unthinkable as partner-swapping in a Baptist
household.

“Sometimes a man finds himself between the rock
and the hard place. That’s where you are now. You
don’t want to do it, say so. I’ll split.” I paused, then
added with a touch of black humor. “And I’ll read about
you tomorrow morning in the Times-Picayune.”

Punky grimaced and studied me uncertainly a few
moments longer before releasing a long sigh. “Okay.”

A wave of elation surged through my veins, but I maintained an impassive, almost bored expression.
“Where?”

“Wolf’s Lair on South Peters below Julia Street. You
know where it is?”

“I can find it. You sure it’s a safe place?”

“Yeah. We never go down there. It’s south of Canal.”

“Good enough. When?”

He grunted. “Soon as you can arrange it.”

I glanced at my watch. Six-thirty. “How about nine
o’clock this morning? That’s two and a half hours.”

Taking a deep breath, Punky nodded. “All right.”
He hesitated, staring hopefully at me. “You think
this’ll work?”

“Yeah. It’ll work, if you want it to”

He pursed his lips and nodded briefly. “We’ll see.”
With that, he rose and disappeared through the rear of
the restaurant, leaving me at the table with my cold
breakfast sandwich. I stared unseeing out the front window at the passing pedestrians. I drew a deep breath and
muttered a short prayer that I had played my cards right.

If I hadn’t, there would be no second deal.

Jimmy LeBlanc muttered an excited curse when I informed him of Punky’s willingness to cut a deal.
“And,” I added, “get word to Saint-Julian that I was at
her place last night from about one o’clock on”

“No problem. Nine o’clock at the Wolf’s Lair. I hope
it’s a classy place. I don’t hang around no dives.” He
chuckled.

“Can’t prove it by me. I’ve never seen it.”

“All right. See you then”

It was seven A.M.. I’d had no sleep, and now that the
excitement had waned, my weary muscles did the same.
I considered going back to my room and grabbing a
short nap but I didn’t want to chance oversleeping.

So, I headed up Canal Street, figuring on losing a
few bucks at Harrah’s Casino. Kill time for an hour or so, then saunter on down to the bar. And then I remembered my old man.

Instead of Harrah’s, I spent the next couple hours
searching the dark alleys for him. I stumbled over
dozens of bleary-eyed drunks, but no John Roney
Boudreaux.

Finally, I drew a deep breath and slowly released it. I
wasn’t going to find him, not here. For all I knew, he
was already out of town. I guess I should be ashamed to
admit it, but I hoped he had split.

Located in a rundown building that once served as a
warehouse, the Wolf’s Lair was a few blocks south of
Harrahs on South Peters. As I drew near Julia Street, I
spotted Detective Jimmy LeBlanc approaching the bar
from the other direction.

The windows of the Wolf’s Lair were painted black
as was the door, which was propped wide open. The
sign swinging from the porch was hand-painted, and
not by a professional. The leering head of the wolf on
the sign looked more like a mangy mongrel begging for
a bone than a menacing wolf.

LeBlanc shook his head and gave a disproving look
at the Wolf’s Lair. “You got no taste, you know that,
Boudreaux. This place, here, it be one scummy dive.”

I grinned and shrugged. “Makes you feel right at
home, huh, Jimmy?”

He snorted and peered through the open door into
the darkened room where the only illumination was a
few dim lights behind the bar and flashing strobes on the walls. “Man, it be dark in there. Only ones you can
see is de white boys like you.”

“Well, Punky’s white. Let’s go and see if we can
find him.”

LeBlanc nodded. “Right behind you, Boudreaux.”

Punky sat at a rear table, his face alternately lit by
green and red flashing strobes.

Best I could tell, there were only a few customers in
the cavernous room. Behind the bar, a surly bartender
with a gaudy earring in one ear welcomed us with a
sneer. Obviously, he had a problem understanding the
concept of customer relations.

What few sets of eyes were in the bar followed us,
sending chills up my spine despite the fact that I knew
LeBlanc was carrying heat.

Punky gestured to the chairs across the table from
him, putting our backs to the door.

Without wasting any words, I said, “This is Detective
LeBlanc, Punky. Talk to him.”

He pushed away from the table. “Be right back.”

LeBlanc stared at me. I shrugged. “Beats me”

Just then, Punky stopped at the jukebox and punched
in several recordings.

He returned to the table as the first rap song blasted
across the cavernous room. He grinned crookedly.
“Now, no one can hear us.”

He was right. I could barely hear us, and I was at
the table.

For a moment, he studied LeBlanc. “Can we make a
deal?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Me, I don’t know what you got.
Maybe, maybe not. What you be selling, boy?”

Punky cut his eyes at me briefly, then turned back to
Jimmy. “All right. Tony here says you want Bones. I
can give him to you on a platter.”

“So? Show me de platter.”

He cleared his throat. “Okay. I was with him when
he wasted two dudes in Austin, Texas, and one here in
New Orleans. I heard him give the order for two more”

LeBlanc arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Boy, that be
easy for you to say. Gimme some names”

A smug grin played over Punky’s face. “What about
Moochie Stanwikski? Two weeks ago”

I glanced at LeBlanc in time to spot a glimmer of
surprise in his eyes, which he quickly covered.