Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 08 - Death in the French Quarter (3 page)

The coincidence of Stewart and Savoie employed at
the same business was too compelling to dismiss. I
pushed to my feet. “I can’t promise a thing, Emerente,
only that we’ll do the best we can”

She smiled up at me gratefully. “Thank you, Tony”

As Emerente closed the office door behind her, Marty
grunted. “What was she talking about, that mixed race
stuff? Mela-what?”

“Melungeons. Redbones. Mixed race people going
back three, four hundred years. They have their own little communities. Stick together pretty much because
the Anglos treat them like dirt. Truth is, like Emerente,
you wouldn’t know she was Redbone unless she told
you. They have their doctors, their lawyers, and yeah,
their Indian chiefs.” I chuckled. “Like Anglos or Hispanics or Asians, they have their bad apples.”

“She don’t talk or look like them mixed race people.
I thought they all had that-well, I’m not prejudiced,
but you know how they look and how some talk, kinda
ignorant.”

I sighed. “You’re right, Marty. They sure don’t have
your way with words.”

“Yeah. That’s what I mean.” And in his own inimitable crass manner, added with a lecherous leer on his
lips, “She’s sure a looker even if she is mixed. Why, she
don’t look any different than us except she’s darker.”

“You noticed, huh?” I was irritated by his prejudice,
a prejudice he probably wasn’t even aware he possessed. Of course, that was Marty. Not a biased bone in
his body to hear him talk, not about race nor religion.
“But, you didn’t notice her left hand, did you?”

He frowned at me. “Her left hand? What about it?”

“All the Melungeons only have three fingers on the
left hand”

He stared at me in disbelief. “What?” His eyes narrowed, then he snorted. “No lie?”

“No lie.”

The disbelief on his face deepened. “Honest?”

I couldn’t help shaking my head at his gullibility.
“Jeez, Marty. What do you think?”

I could see the gears turning in his head. Finally, he
grinned. “You’re pulling my leg, Tony. Aren’t you?”

Shaking my head slowly, I laughed. “Yeah, Marty.
I’m pulling your leg”

Marty grinned and slapped me on the shoulder. “You
had me going there for a minute, but thanks anyway,
Tony. I appreciate it.”

“For what?”

“Why, for taking the case. She wanted you. If you
hadn’t taken it, we’d be out twenty-five Gs”

“What do you expect, Marty? I’d be cutting my own
throat if I turned it down” I kept quiet about the real reason I decided to take it, but anticipation of possibly discovering Stewart’s murderers coursed through my veins.

Back at my desk, I tried to run down Kahlil Guilbeaux and Sebastian Mancini with no luck. I tried the
white pages online with an equal lack of success, so I
decided to drive out to Austin Expediters, 201 Third
Street, not one of Austin’s classier neighborhoods.

Austin Expediters had closed shop.

And from the layers of grime covering the windows,
and the trash and sleeping winos piled at the front door,
it had not been a recent closure. Third Street is one of
the streets frequented by vagrants and day laborers, that
flotsam of humanity desperate for a few bucks to buy a
bottle of Thunderbird wine.

As I climbed out of my pickup, two or three started in
my direction, but I waved them away. “No work,” I called
out. I pointed at the red brick building. “Just looking.”

Disappointed, the three shuffled back to the dark alley from which they had come. I thought of my old
man, wondering if he was still alive, still panhandling
and riding the rails like these hobos. For all I knew, he
could have been one of the three I waved off, but no, I
told myself. I’d recognize him-maybe. I pushed him
from my mind, and cupping my hands around my eyes,
peered through the window.

The two or three desks inside were covered with
dust. A chair lay on its side.

I wandered around in back where I found a shattered
door hanging from the jamb. The lock had been ripped
out, probably by some homeless bum trying to escape
the cold of Austin’s winters.

Pausing before entering, I peered inside at a large
storage room with metal shelves lining the wall. I
stepped around the sagging door and squinted into the
shadows. The musty smell of long undisturbed dust assailed my nostrils.

Empty boxes were strewn across the floor. A heavy
worktable stood against the wall separating the storage
room from the front office. On the wall hung a pinup
calendar, turned to February.

I wasn’t certain just what I was looking for, but whatever it was, I didn’t find it for the office was just as
empty as the storage room.

Back in my Chevrolet Silverado pickup, I called Bob
Ray Burrus, an old school chum who worked the evidence room for the local police. “Austin Expediters? You bet,” he replied when I asked him if he had heard
of the company. “We closed that sucker down a few
months back. I must have checked in a half-dozen
boxes of evidence from that place”

“So, it’s ongoing, huh?”

“Well, more or less”

“Who’s working it?”

“The great Jimmy Roth, junior G-man,” he replied
sarcastically. “At least to hear him say it, but between
you and me the investigation is at a dead end”

I muttered a curse under my breath. Roth played
everything by the book, unwilling to overlook even one
page. I wasn’t going to get anything from him, except
maybe a sneer. “Look, Bob Ray. Do me a favor. I need
to find out who owned the business.” I hesitated, having
second thoughts. I didn’t want Bob Ray to run into
trouble because of me. Years ago, among the rank and
file of the blue boys, bending rules rated nothing more
than a verbal reprimand, a slap on the wrist, but with
the new generation such a decision could lose a pension. “On second thought, never mind. I can find out.
You just keep your nose clean.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, but there is one thing. Don’t break any rules,
but if you run across any unclassified stuff on two guys
named Kahlil Guilbeaux and Sebastian Mancini, I’d
appreciate it.”

With the address of Austin Expediters, I headed for
the tax office at the Travis County Courthouse where, with the address, I could obtain a legal description, and
with that, the county clerk’s office could then provide
me names of the owner or owners of the business. At
least I would have a starting point.

An hour later, my starting point ended before it began. I grimaced as I read the document in my hand. The
owner of Austin Expediters was listed as Paul-Leon
Savoie, whom Louis Guidry had been convicted of
murdering three years earlier.

Back to the proverbial square one. If this had been a
baseball game, I’d already have two strikes against me,
one hand tied behind my back, and swinging with one
eye closed.

But one looming question stood out. If Savoie owned
the business, then who had been running it for the last
three years since his death?

Before I could pursue the question, Bob Ray called
me on my cell. In a hushed voice, he whispered, “Don’t
ask me where it came from and forget where you heard
it, Tony, but Austin Expediters was the front for a smuggling operation. Guilbeaux and Mancini worked there,
but they’re clean with Texas. Never been pinched.” He
paused. “The investigation was at a dead end, but apparently Roth found a pigeon who is copping a plea,
Blake `Lollipop’ Calderon. They’re stashing him at the
Plaza Hotel. You might be able to get to him. From
what I hear, Jack Fuller has the vampire shift tonight.
You know Jack. He’ll let you talk to Lollipop.”

I wanted to shout with glee. “Yeah, yeah. I know Jack. Hey, that’s great, Bob Ray, but-hey, you could
get in trouble over this.”

He chuckled. “Naw. I’m calling from a pay phone,
and if you squealed, I’d deny it.”

“That’s the last thing you’ll ever have to worry about,
buddy. I owe you.”

“Fix me up a pot of that gumbo this winter. We’ll call
it even.”

At eleven-thirty that night, I plopped down in the
lobby of the Plaza and waited for Jack. Just before midnight, a street-type bum with a beard and a stocking cap
sauntered in, waved to the clerk, and stepped into the
elevator. I frowned. As the doors hissed shut, I suddenly
recognized the bum. Jack Fuller.

I walked briskly to the second elevator and punched
the up button, all the while noting any stop made by the
first elevator. There was only one, the seventh floor.

Moments later, the adjoining elevator opened. Not
knowing who or what I would encounter on the seventh
floor, I instead headed for the sixth floor where I took
the stairs three at a time to the next floor. At the seventh
floor landing, I peered through the small window in the
door just as Jack and his partner ushered a smaller man
from the room and into the waiting elevator.

Muttering a curse, I turned and bounded down the
stairs.

By the time I reached the front doors of the hotel,
they had vanished.

I spent a restless night trying to figure out my next
move.

I had only one choice. I had to throw myself on the
mercy of Chief Ramon Pachuca and beg his help.

“Get serious, Boudreaux. I’m not going to have any PI
gumming up my investigation.” He snorted and chomped
on the ubiquitous cigar clenched between his teeth.

“But, Chief, I’m not messing with your investigation.
The one I’m looking into is already closed. Louis
Guidry, who was killed in a prison scuffle, murdered
Paul-Leon Savoie three years ago. It’s over and done
with. I just want to read the Savoie case file, that’s all”
I hesitated, wondering how to broach the idea of visiting with the stoolie, Lollipop, without putting myself
on the bad side of Pachuca’s temper-a temper that
could explode, according to Shakespeare, “swifter than
an arrow from a Tartar’s bow.”

While I was wondering, there came a knock on his
door. A uniform stuck his head in. “Calderon’s here,
Chief.”

Calderon? Lollipop Calderon? My pulse raced, and I
tried to hide my excitement. Pachuca nodded. “Send
him in.” He glared at me. “And usher Boudreaux out”

Disappointed, I headed for the door.

“Wait for me, Boudreaux,” he added.

For the next thirty minutes, I paced the floor. Finally,
Chief Pachuca emerged from his office, a sour look on
his face, a manila portfolio in his hand. He offered it to
me. “Here.” He pointed to a desk in the corner of the squad room. “You can use that desk. When you finish,
leave the file with Sergeant Hanks over there.”

For the next hour, I scanned the file, taking notes.
Savoie had been found by a fisherman in the Colorado
River under the Congress Street Bridge, shot two times
in the back of the head with a .25 handgun.

I paused, remembering Stewart. He had been executed in the back of the head with a small caliber handgun. Forensics guessed a .25 or .32 caliber.

Kahlil Guilbeaux and Sebastian Mancini had testified they heard Louis Guidry threaten Savoie over a
debt, testimony Guidry insisted was a lie. And just as
Emerente had said, her brother swore he was in
Louisiana at a friend’s at the time, but the friend, Al
Mouton, denied it.

The only reference to Austin Expediters was as
Savoie’s place of employment. The trial lasted only two
days-short, but not very sweet for Louis Guidry.

I sat staring at the notes I’d made on cards, realizing
with a growing sense of frustration that despite my
avowed declaration, I had to return to Louisiana. If
Mouton had lied under oath, he certainly would not reveal the truth by phone. I had to confront him, face to
face. And then I had to take a circuitous route around
my real intent for even if the Atchafalaya River ran dry,
Mouton would never admit to lying under oath.

I drew a deep breath and reminded myself that
Melungo was a small village just over the Sabine River.
Shouldn’t take more than a few hours, a day at the most.

Back in my office, I went online and ran down Mouton’s address and phone number.

My cell phone rang. It was Janice Morrison-Coffman,
my on-again, off-again Significant Other, who is the
only heir to one of the largest distilleries in the state.
Janice and I met a few years back when I was helping
her out of an insurance jam. Neither she nor I were interested in getting serious, but we had fun together even
though I quickly realized I was simply a dependable escort, an infrequent lover, an occasional confidant.

In other words, I was a tool to satisfy her needs. And
she was the same for me. We had reconciled our positions in our relationship. And both were fairly content.

Inexplicably, despite our skewed relationship, we
were very good friends who enjoyed each other’s company. From time to time, Janice did speak of `our relationship’ and where it was heading. After a few of those
little discussions, which I really didn’t understand, I
learned when to agree and when not to agree.