Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller Read online

  “See you Monday,” the Dumonts said as their guests bundled themselves into the limousine. They waved as the car pulled away from the house, then they stepped inside, closing the door behind them.

  “How’d we do?” Elise asked.

  “Brilliant. We worked our magic.”

  “Was it worth it? I mean, he’s just another judge.”

  “Maybe more than that,” Ray said. “He might leave the bench; he’s not happy there. A former federal judge with his contacts? I could always use a man like that.”

  • • •

  They were silent on the short drive home, but Malika spoke the instant they entered the house. “I was confused by what you said when we were introduced. What was all that about?”

  “Something happened the night I returned from Washington. We’ll talk about it later. What did you two discuss?”

  “Ayurvedic medicine and transcendental meditation,” Malika said, walking away from him toward the bedroom. “She assumed I knew all about them because I was born in India.”

  “Do you?” He locked the front door and followed her.

  “Jock, my father is a doctor of nuclear medicine. I tried to be polite.”

  “You didn’t like her.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. I just thought they were trying too hard. Didn’t you think it was all a bit much?”

  “I thought they were acting like rich folks do.”

  “You’re not exactly poor. You don’t act like that.”

  “I’m not in their league, not by a long shot.”

  “I think they’re too concerned with wealth. For some people, there’s never enough. But I liked them fine. I’ll be happy to spend time with them, if you want.”

  Jock got into bed and turned out the light. In the dark, Malika said, “She said something curious to me.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “She said to excuse her husband if he drinks too much. It’s the way he compensates for the loss of his son.”

  “That’s strange,” Jock said in the darkness. “He said exactly the same thing to me about her.”

  “Let’s go to sleep.”

  • • •

  Next morning Jock fixed a pot of coffee and sat at the kitchen table while Malika showered. The sun was rising over the former slave quarters at the rear of the property. Boucher stared at the second-story banister, recently repaired. He had crashed through it, taking two murderers intent on killing him to their well-deserved deaths only a few months ago. He thought of the street criminal, now dead, against whom he had defended himself. He thought of the man they had fished from the gulf. He had not even thought to ask his name. Then there was the crippled father whose son was dead, the circumstances curious. He poured himself a cup of coffee and noticed his hand was shaking.

  “Good morning,” Malika said. She sat down and put her hand on his arm. “If you want to talk, I’m ready, Jock.”

  As if he’d been given a reprieve by a higher power, his landline rang. He got up to answer the retro kitchen wall phone with its spiral cord.

  “This is Fitch. I didn’t want to bother you, but I thought you should know this. I had a friend do some research for me. There are hundreds of active offshore rigs in the gulf and many others shut down, due to lack of production or destruction by Katrina or Rita. There are lots of offshore service vessels, but Dumont is the big player. He’s got a lock on servicing the deep-water rigs.”

  “If that’s what the ship we saw is being used for, then it’s perfectly legitimate.”

  “Guess so. Something’s still bugging me, though. Anyway, sorry to interrupt, I know you’ve got company.”

  “Is anything being done concerning that young man whose father we met?”

  “I’m sorry. Jock, I’m shut out on that one.”

  “I had dinner with the Dumonts last night, and we’re going to their riverboat casino with them tomorrow evening.”

  “No shit. You be careful around that guy.”

  “I will. Thanks for calling, Fitch.” He hung up the phone. “Malika, there’s something I try to do on Sundays. I’d like to have you join me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I drive around storm-damaged neighborhoods. Sometimes I pick up trash and haul it off. Sometimes I see somebody trying to patch together what they can, and I try to help. I never have a grand plan, just drive out, do a little something, drive back. That’s all.”

  “I’m ready when you are,” she said.

  Driving through St. Barnard Parish, they spotted a group of volunteers rebuilding homes. Jock asked if they could join in, and they were graciously welcomed. At the end of a satisfying afternoon, he wrote them a check for their charitable efforts.

  “That was rewarding,” Malika said on their drive home. “Jock, folks in this town are certainly resilient.”

  “I have my own word for the people of New Orleans.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Indomitable.”

  CHAPTER 11

  BOUCHER GOT TO HIS office early Monday morning. There were new boxes of files inside his office, stacked high against the wall. Mildred was at her desk.

  “They say be careful what you pray for,” she said. “I’m afraid my prayers have been answered.”

  “I’m glad the good Lord’s taken a liking to you. You can put in a word for me.”

  He hurried through documents, then made his exit for his previously scheduled appointment. He was on time. The administrator wasn’t. Boucher was fuming when the man arrived half an hour late, and it only got worse. When the meeting was concluded, his blood pressure was off the charts. He feared for his driving and pulled off the road into the empty parking lot of a restaurant not yet open for business. He pulled out his cell phone and punched numbers.

  “Fitch, I have to talk to somebody, and right now that somebody is you.”

  “I would say ‘be still my beating heart,’ but it sounds like you’re just pissed off at something.”

  “Boy, you’ve got that right. It’s a travesty. That guy administering the funds from the oil spill paid himself millions in his first few months on the job, and he hired his own law firm, and they’re getting paid millions more. Guess what else? He lost a computer with the applications and personal data, including Social Security numbers, of thousands of claimants.”

  “You’re not behind the wheel at the moment, are you?”

  “No. I pulled into an empty parking lot.”

  “Good. Now get out and lean against the car. Lift up your head and shout, ‘I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet,’ as loud as you can, as many times as you can in a single breath.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “It’s Robert Frost. He always calms me down. If it doesn’t work that way for you, then at least you’ll feel like an idiot for hollering poetry in an empty parking lot. That’s better than being pissed off.”

  “I’ve got another idea. I met a shrimper whose claim was denied. I think I’ll pay him a visit.”

  “That’ll work. Just drive carefully.”

  Boucher called Fred Arcineaux and told him he was coming for a visit. The shrimper’s response was not enthusiastic. Then he reported in to Mildred and told her where he was going. She was more encouraging. As he drove, he smiled at the thought of the crusty New Orleans detective and his surprising affection for the New England poet. Fitch and Frost. Roscoe Fitch and Robert Frost, same initials. He chuckled. At least his blood pressure was dropping.

  • • •

  “Come aboard. Watch your step,” Arcineaux said.

  Nothing had changed since the last visit, save perhaps a few more empty beer cans and paper wrappings from sandwiches. Boucher wasn’t sure if the man had bathed. He definitely hadn’t changed his clothes. Boucher stepped carefully onto the littered deck, pulled over the same cooler, and sat down. “You look like shit,” he said. “So does your boat.”

  “If you came here to tell me that, you wasted a trip, and now you’re wasting m
y time.” Arcineaux threw back a large gulp of beer.

  “You sit here wallowing in this filth,” Boucher said. “How do you expect anyone to help you? You and this stinking floating shithole are a disgrace to your profession. You said you were glad your late wife wasn’t here to see you like this. Amen to that, brother. Your surrender to self-pity would break her heart.”

  Arcineaux sat up in his chair, his back stiffening. “You son of a bitch. Nobody comes onto my boat and talks to me like that. How dare you mention my wife? How dare—” His face reddened and his hands blanched, the knuckles turning white as he dropped his beer can and gripped the armrests. He tried to stand but fell back in his chair, gasping for breath.

  Boucher stood and grabbed the man’s wrists and bent toward him, their faces inches apart. “Take a deep breath and repeat after me: ‘I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet.’ Say it.”

  “What the fuck? Let go of me.”

  Boucher did. He backed away from Arcineaux’s beery breath. “You okay?”

  “No. I’m mad as hell. Who are you to talk to me like that?”

  “I want to help you, but I can’t if you won’t help yourself. Look at you. Look at this mess around you. I might be able to do something for you, but you’ve got to take the first step.”

  “Do something for me like what?”

  Boucher sat down again. “I just came from my first meeting with the claims administrator. I don’t like the guy, I don’t trust the guy. And I’ve got to be honest, I think pursuing your claim would be a waste of effort.”

  “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  “I think you might have a cause of action against Dumont Industries for collision and damage to your boat if you can prove it, but a lawsuit can take years, and they have deep pockets. You might lose.”

  “You’re just full of good news today, aren’t you?”

  “Listen to me. I was thinking about getting you a job.”

  “A job? Working for who?”

  Boucher took a breath. “Dumont Industries.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “You’re a seaman, Fred. You have skills, experience.”

  “They’d never hire me. Look at me.”

  “Why don’t I step off and come back aboard. That was my point. I was trying to shake you up so you would take a look at yourself. Take a shower. Shave. Put on some clean clothes. Clean up this filthy boat like you have some pride in it, then shower and put on clean clothes again. When you start to feel like your old self, I think I can get you an interview.”

  “You really think I could get a job?”

  “I might be able to pull a string or two.”

  “You know somebody?”

  “I told you, I know the owner of the company. I’ll ask him personally.”

  The shrimper studied his dirty fingernails. “I haven’t worked for anybody in a long time. I been my own boss.” He paused, then looked up. “But if you’d do that for me, I’d do my best for you.”

  “I know you would.”

  They both stood. Fred excused himself and went below. Boucher could hear the sound of water running in the head. The shrimper came back on deck and offered a handshake. A clean hand.

  • • •

  Boucher called Fitch. “Ours is an unusual friendship, you know?”

  “Yeah, we’re a regular odd couple. You feeling better?”

  “It came to me as I was talking to the guy. I can get him a job. Dumont wrecked his boat. I can get Dumont to give him a job.”

  “That has a certain symmetry to it,” Fitch said, his mind obviously elsewhere. “Wait a minute. What did you say?”

  “I was thinking like a lawyer. In tort law, there’s—”

  “No. You said something about Dumont giving him a job.”

  “I thought I’d ask him to find the guy something. He owes him.”

  “Do you really think you could get Dumont to do it?”

  “Of course. Low-level, but the guy’s capable. I’m sure Dumont would do it for me. He’d probably love to have me owing him a favor.”

  “Are you on your way to your office?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll meet you there.” Fitch hung up.

  When Boucher got there, Fitch was waiting, sitting uncomfortably in a small chair placed a little too close to Mildred’s desk. She was looking at him as though he didn’t pass the admissions test, and she wasn’t about to let him into the judge’s office to wait unobserved.

  “I guess you two have met,” Boucher said. “Come on in, Fitch.”

  As soon as they were in his office, Fitch closed the door and sneezed hard enough to burst a blood vessel. Boucher had a box of tissues on his desk, and Fitch grabbed one. “Talcum powder.” He sneezed again. “I’m allergic to it. Sitting there so close to her. In that little room.”

  There were four more nasal explosions before he could regulate his breathing. Boucher was laughing. “You called this meeting. What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “You said you could get this guy, the shrimper, a job with Dumont. Maybe you could get him a job on the Gulf Pride.”

  Boucher frowned. “I wasn’t thinking along that line. I don’t want to put him in any danger. I was really just trying to get him an income.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m not sure I’d want to do it either. I just thought it was a chance.” Fitch started cracking his knuckles.

  “Don’t do that,” Boucher said.

  “Look, we don’t really need him to get a job on the ship. Maybe he could get an interview with the captain or mate. It might be enough if they’d give him a tour of the vessel.”

  “Are you thinking of planting a wire? A camera? That’s too dangerous.”

  “I was thinking more like shoes. He wouldn’t even have to know.”

  “Shoes?”

  “The soles of his shoes. They’d be treated to pick up trace chemicals. If we could get him aboard and they gave him a tour of the ship . . .”

  “I don’t know, Fitch.”

  “Then ask your buddy Dumont to give you a personal tour, and we’ll treat your feet.”

  “I like the first option better.”

  CHAPTER 12

  BOUCHER RETURNED HOME TO an exotic treat. Malika had prepared Indian snacks to accompany cocktails with their guests.

  “Smells delicious,” he said as he kissed her in the kitchen. “What is it? No, don’t tell me. I smell red chili powder, coriander, and cumin. What else?” He sniffed the air.

  “Mango powder,” Malika said. “That’s the samosas. I’ve also made tamarind chutney and mint-coriander chutney. They go with dhokla, a steamed biscuit of gram flour made from crushed chickpeas. Why don’t you mix a pitcher of martinis, since we know they drink those.”

  “I will later. First I need to take a shower. Better idea: why don’t we take a shower?”

  “Water conservation is a part of Indian culture too,” she said, unfastening her apron.

  • • •

  They heard the Dumonts’ limo pull up out front. They stood in the open doorway to greet them. The couple walked up the stairs to the raised porch.

  “This is one of the finest historical homes in the Quarter,” Elise said.

  “Thank you. Please come in,” Boucher said. “I hope you don’t mind my wearing my smoking jacket again. I thought it would suit a casino.”

  “You look great, Judge,” Elise said.

  “Wow!” Ray Dumont’s exclamation was immediate. He knew antiques, and Boucher’s collection was the result of over a decade of devotion. Dumont went from piece to piece, studying each one with a practiced eye. “These are museum-quality,” he said. “I can’t tell you how impressed I am.”

  “You have hit on his first love,” Elise said. “I live in fear of the day he’ll move me and my few meager possessions out of the house because he’s found yet another French provincial commode.”

  “What should I say, my love—that it will never happen because I
prize you the most, of all my antiques?”

  “You say that, and your prized wife will communicate with you through her prized divorce lawyer.”

  “Uh, I’ve made martinis,” Boucher said.

  “What is that marvelous smell?” Elise asked.

  “I’ve made some Indian hors d’oeuvres,” Malika said.

  “Aren’t you a dear. And look at you. You look lovely!”

  Malika had tried to dress down for the evening, not knowing what attire was expected on a Mississippi riverboat casino. She wore a simple saffron-colored cocktail dress and mid-heel pumps. These were set off by the diamond necklace and earrings Boucher had given her, and at any rate, Malika could look stunning wearing a pillowcase.

  They had a few drinks and bites to eat, during which the Dumonts’ repartee was reminiscent of Taylor and Burton in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? There was no argument when Ray said it was time to get to the casino. “We don’t want to miss the show,” he said.

  They arrived at the riverboat, the limo pulling right up to the ramp. Moored to the dock, floating on the grand, gently flowing Mississippi, it looked like a Christmas tree. No, a circus. No, a whorehouse. Or a combination of all three. The owners were given due deference by employees as they were led to the ballroom and shown to the ringside table. Ray looked around before sitting, saw faces he recognized, and waved. “There are some people here tonight that I’d like you to meet later on,” he said to Boucher.

  The show began in circus fashion—“Ladeees and GEN-tlemen”—but the spectacle was professionally done and geared to the escapist crowd. A cabaret singer embarrassed Boucher, wrapping her boa around him while singing suggestive lyrics, until Ray Dumont warned her away with a raise of his eyebrows. But all enjoyed the dinner and show. Again, the Dumonts were attentive and gracious hosts, only this time they had a lot more help.

  “Okay, let’s go lose some money,” Ray said when the floor show was over. “What’s your game?”

  “I wouldn’t mind playing some blackjack,” Boucher said.

  “I’d like to try roulette,” Malika said. “But I must warn you—when I went shopping in the French Quarter earlier today, I ran into a fortune-teller on Jackson Square. She not only told me I was going gambling, she told me to play eight and five.”