Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 08 - Death in the French Quarter (4 page)

She informed me that she would be out of town for
the next two weeks. “Aunt Beatrice is exhausted with
all the details for modernizing the distillery. She wants
to spend time in Monte Carlo getting her strength and
energy back. I need to accompany the poor thing. I
hope you don’t mind if I postpone our dinner date next
week. After all, I’m the only family dear Aunt Beatrice
has left,” she added magnanimously.

I rolled my eyes. Poor little rich girl and her sacrifices. Of course, after all these years, I had grown ac customed to Janice’s spur of the moment decisions;
whether an impromptu ski trip to Vail, a cruise to the
Bahamas, or, as in this case, a gambling jaunt to
Monte Carlo.

“Well, I’m disappointed, but I understand. You have
a nice trip.”

I sat staring at the telephone, rethinking my upcoming confrontation with Mouton. How should I approach
him? The more I contemplated the dynamics of a white
boy barging into a Redbone community, the more I realized I needed something to make me less conspicuous, more as if I belonged instead of being a complete
outsider-but what?

I pondered the question then gave up. Maybe something would come to me.

Sighing wearily, I turned back to matters at hand.
Before I headed for Louisiana, I had to figure out just
how I could get in to question Blake “Lollipop”
Calderon.

I sat staring at my note cards. Austin Expediters. I
couldn’t get it out of my head. The hair on the back of
my neck bristled. Someone there knew the truth about
Stewart, and Paul-Leon Savoie. I felt that certainty in
my bones.

Then I remembered several months earlier when
Stewart was staying with me and had called to let me
know he was spending the night elsewhere. I heard a
woman’s voice in the background.

After hanging up, I located the address from the telephone number and drove past to make sure he was
there. He was. Unfortunately, a few days later, the kid
was dead.

On impulse, I drove down to that address, 314 Festival Beach Street, east of 1-35, and pulled up in front of the house where Stewart had spent his last few days in
Austin.

Out of deference to the Austin PD, and the fact I could
lose my license, I had never actively pursued Stewart’s
murder, for the case was still open. Over the years, I had
built a somewhat unwieldy but ongoing relationship
with the local gendarmes, and I didn’t want to jeopardize it by sticking my nose where it didn’t belong.

But now I had a connection. Paul-Leon Savoie, who
also worked at Austin Expediters. And the Savoie case
was closed.

The house was a weathered duplex, circa 1950, with
a lawn so small it could be mowed with nail clippers in
five minutes.

I paused on the porch, eyeing the two doors. With a
shrug, I knocked on the left door, 314 A.

No answer.

When I knocked the second time, I noticed the curtain in 314 B moved, so I tried that door. It opened a
crack, and an eye peered out at me. “Yes?”

I introduced myself, and as soon as I explained that I
was Stewart Thibodeaux’s cousin, a voice exclaimed,
“Just a minute.” The door closed. I heard the safety
chain rattle, and then the door swung open.

A young black woman with her hair in cornrows
pushed the screen open and glared up at me. She arched
an eyebrow in disbelief. “Stewart? You’re Stewart’s
family?”

“Cousin. Second cousin. I was the one he stayed with
when he came to Austin.”

She eyed me skeptically for several moments. In an
impatient tone, she said, “What do you want here?” Her
words were clipped and precise.

Surprised at her sudden hostility, I replied, “I’d like
to talk to you about Stewart”

Her black eyes flashed fire. “What’s to talk about? I
haven’t seen him since before Christmas.” She shook
her head. Then, in a voice heavy with sarcasm, she
continued, “Man, that boy has a smooth tongue, and I
fell for it like some starry-eyed little pickaninny.” A
wry smile played over her lips. “Tough way to learn a
lesson”

Puzzled, I studied her a moment. “Apparently, miss,
you didn’t know.”

She frowned. “Know what?”

“Well, I don’t really know how to tell you”

Alarm replaced the anger in her eyes. “Tell me what?
Is something wrong with Stewart?”

“I’m sorry, but Stewart is dead. Last December.”

Her face went slack. She stared up at me in disbelief.

A voice from the rear of the apartment called out.
“Who’s out there, Aayalih?”

I glanced past her as a tall black man entered the living room. We locked eyes. I nodded. He gave me a
brief nod. In the same precise speech as the young
woman, he said, “Can I help you, mister?”

Aayalih spoke up in a soft trembling voice. “This is
my brother, Xavier. Mr. Boudreaux is Stewart’s cousin.
He says that Stewart’s dead”

The young man froze. “Dead? What happened?”

I glanced around the porch. “Can I come in?”

The young woman shook her head sharply, jerking
herself from her trance. She pushed the screen further
open. “Please, come in. I’m sorry. The news stunned
me. Please, come in.”

The duplex was small, but neat. To my surprise, a
bookcase filled half of a wall. I was further surprised
when I noted some books on classical mythology, some
of the same titles I had on my bookshelves.

She gestured to a couch. “Would you care for some
coffee, water, a soft drink?”

“No, thank you.”

Xavier sat on the other end of the couch, and Aayalih
took the chair across the coffee table. The young man
leaned forward. “What happened to Stewart?”

I glanced at the young woman, wondering how I
could delicately phrase a gang execution, feet and
hands bound, two bullets in the back of the head. “He
was shot,” I replied simply.

Aayalih buried her face in her hands, and her slender
shoulders trembled. Xavier muttered a curse. “I told
him not to stick his nose into anything.”

My ears perked up. “You knew what was going on?”

“No. I worked at Austin Expediters with Stewart.
That’s how he met my sister, Aayalih.”

She forced a weak smile.

Xavier continued. “We delivered documents from
one business to another, attorney’s briefs, contracts,
blueprints-you name it. The second day Stewart was
there, he mentioned that he thought there was more go ing on than just document deliveries. I told him to mind
his own business. A few days later, Stewart didn’t show
up for work. Bones, that is, Guilbeaux said he had quit.
I wondered about that. Stewart hadn’t mentioned leaving, but anyway, my schedule at school was changing,
so I had to find another job”

“School?”

The young man grinned. “Studying to be a teacher
like my sister here. She teaches high school English.”

That explained the books and their speech. I nodded.
“I used to teach English out at Madison High.”

Aayalih dried her tears. “Really?”

“Reall”
Y•

Xavier frowned. “Why’d you quit?”

I couldn’t see any sense in telling them I just got fed
up with ambitious administration, pouting parents, and
surly students, all of whom were shocked, even outraged when a teacher actually tried to teach and demanded students study. Instead, I simply replied, “It
wasn’t for me” I turned to Xavier. “Did you work at
Austin Expediters long?”

The tall, straight-backed young man shook his head.
“June through the middle of January”

“Why did you tell Stewart he should mind his own
business?”

The younger man shrugged. “Hard to say. There
were rooms in the building Bones kept locked. I picked
up the feeling that something wasn’t right. Then Stewart came along and mentioned the same thing. That’s
when I decided to find another job. After all, the job was only part-time and paid minimum wage. You can
find those everywhere”

“Who hired you?”

“Guilbeaux. He hired everyone”

“What about a guy named Lollipop or Mancini? You
ever hear of them?”

“Yeah. Mancini was called Punky. The three of them
hung together. Thick as thieves.”

“One more. What about a man by the name of PaulLeon Savoie?”

Xavier pursed his lips. “I heard the name, but I never
saw him.”

“Do you remember anything that was said about him?”

He grinned sheepishly. “No. Sorry”

On the way back to my office, I detoured by the police station. Chief Pachuca is a by-the-book man, and
although he and I had worked together a few times, I
didn’t expect he would grant my request to speak with
Lollipop. Still, I told myself, even if he said no, I
wouldn’t be any worse off than I was now.

When I turned the corner, I slammed on my brakes.
Several police cruisers were parked at various angles in
front of the police station, their strobes flashing red and
blue. And a Green Cross EMS ambulance was backed
up to the front door.

Pulling to the curb, I jumped out and started for the
station, but a uniform in SWAT gear materialized from
behind a automobile, and ordered me to my stomach.

I started to protest, but then I spotted several SWAT
members surrounding the station, their eyes searching
the skyscrapers around us.

“Uh oh,” I muttered. I’d stumbled into a touchy situation. The smartest move I could make was to do exactly what the uniforms said.

As I lay on my stomach, the automatic doors in the
police station opened and two paramedics, followed by
half a dozen armed officers, hurriedly pushed a gurney
up to the rear of the ambulance.

Moments later, it sped away, siren screaming. “What
happened?” I called out.

The SWAT member glanced around. He hesitated.
“Boudreaux? Is that you?”

I frowned, but when he removed his face shield, I
recognized Corporal Lester Boles, who lived down the
street from me on Peyton-Gin Road.

“Yeah. What’s going on?”

He dropped to his knees beside me. Keeping his eyes
quartering the buildings around us, he growled,
“Sniper.”

“Who got it?” I asked, referring to the body on the
gurney.

“Some stoolie. They called him Lollipop.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and muttered a curse. That’s
all I needed.

Lester looked around at me. “You know the guy?”

“No, but I wanted to”

I pulled out of Austin while it was still dark the next
morning, having left enough nuggets and water to take
care of Alligator Bait for a couple days. By the time I
reached the Louisiana border I still hadn’t decided just
how to approach Mouton, and then the solution hit me.
I shook my head. “Why didn’t I think of this before?” I
called my cousin, Leroi Thibodeaux.

Unlike many, I feel much more secure keeping both
eyes on the road and both hands on the wheel. That’s
why I prefer the speaker mode on my cell phone. I just
lay the phone on the seat and talk.

Leroi was Stewart’s father and my cousin. He is the
son of my Uncle Patric and his deceased wife, Lantana,
a Louisiana Redbone who came from Beauregard
Parish along the Sabine River.

Their mixed marriage did send a few shock waves through the more proper and stuffy limbs of our family
tree, but if the truth was made public, three quarters of
the Louisiana population has traces of mixed blood
somewhere among their ancestors.

Leroi and I grew up together, separating finally when
Mom and I moved to Austin before I entered high
school.

There was no answer at his home, so I called one of
his Catfish Lube shops. The shop manager answered,
identifying himself as Jimmy Joe Lincoln. I identified
myself and asked if Leroi was around. The manager
hesitated momentarily. “No, sir. He not be here.
Maybe, you best try his house”

Keeping my eyes on the interstate, I replied, “I did.
There was no answer. What about the other shops?
Think he might be over there?”

“Well, he could be” Then with a little more exuberance, he added, “Yes, sir. It could very well be dat
Leroi, he be over at one of the other shops. You have de
numbers?”