All the Devil's Creatures

by J. D. Barnett

  “Even in bars?”

  “Even in bars. Fucking nanny state.”

  Tony lit his cigarette and gestured the bartender forth with the deftness of an experienced bar fly. “What are you drinking?”

  “Shiner.”

  He ordered Geoff a pint and another bourbon rocks for himself. Geoff said cheers when they arrived and took a long drink.

  “Rough day?”

  “Rough week. And it’s only Wednesday.”

  “Oh shitty world.” He made a circling motion with his hand, but his slick grin and twinkling eyes suggested that his world was anything but shitty. “So what’s up?”

  “Just got back from the lake.”

  “Oh. Oh yeah. That lynching’s been all over the news. Bad mojo, man. Fucking awful shit.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. The victim worked for my consultant, and my lead client discovered the body.”

  Tony’s eyes widened as much as his fleshy face would allow. “No fucking way, man. You’re shitting me, right?”

  “Afraid not.” Geoff remained impassive, looking into his beer as he spoke. He wanted Tony’s advice, but more than that he wanted to drink.

  “Mild mannered you getting dragged into this shit storm. It’d be almost funny if it weren’t so fucked up.”

  “Yeah.” Geoff frowned into his half-empty pint glass.

  “Did you know the girl well?”

  “Only met her once in person. She was a grad student working for Eileen.”

  “That’s your New Orleans lady, right? Bet she’s taking it hard.”

  “Yeah.”

  They sat for a while. The bartender leaned against the opposite corner of the bar conversing with a young tattooed couple in black t-shirts. An old man sat alone in a booth drinking beer and working on a crossword. The sole cocktail waitress stood near the door to the kitchen holding her left elbow in her right hand as she smoked a cigarette. On the television over the bar, a soccer match played on mute.

  Tony said, “So, how’s it going to affect your shit?”

  Geoff gave him the elevator speech about the litigation and the additional time it would take to see it through with Eileen having to pick up the slack for Dalia. Then he looked up and met the fat man’s gaze and said, “Tony—confidential here. My client, his name’s Willie Kincaid. He might need a little help, in your department.”

  “Shit, Geoff, is he a suspect?”

  “I don’t think so. There’s no way he could have been involved in something like—he’s country, but he’s sure not a violent racist. No—the problem is, he pissed off the sheriff.”

  “Never a good idea in the sticks.”

  Nodding, Geoff met Tony’s gaze. “See, Willie had seen Dalia, that’s the victim, going in and out of the refinery complex. He’s seen dudes in haz-mat suits all around. He had to know they had something to do with our case. Probably knew Dalia was working for us, for Eileen. Should have, anyway. I mean, maybe I’m not the best about keeping my clients in the loop on the day-to-day shit, but—”

  “Yeah, yeah. So?”

  “So, when the sheriff interviewed him, Willie didn’t mention his involvement with the lawsuit, with anything to do with the refinery, or Dalia. But he did mention what he’s seen at the facility. Now, when Eileen and I went to talk to the sheriff, we didn’t even know Willie had been the one to discover the body. It just came out, kind of as an aside, that Willie was connected to us and, through us, to the victim. The sheriff sort of flipped.”

  The criminal lawyer’s fat lower lip jutted out as he pondered over the situation—big enough for a pigeon to perch on. “Because, I guess, it seemed like Kincaid had selectively withheld information. So why’d your guy act so screwy?”

  “Because he’s a nut job. He spends most his days alone on an old swamp island duck blind drinking cheap gin and running an illegal trotline. Probably shooting Lord knows what out of season to boot.”

  Tony laughed. “Clients—who needs them, eh?”

  “Anyway, if Willie gets dragged deeper into this, he might need a defense lawyer—not my department. He has a little money, apparently.”

  “Alright, here’s the deal-io. If Kincaid’s got nothing to hide, isn’t even a suspect, the last thing he wants to do is lawyer up. It’ll just arouse suspicion. You should advise him to cooperate with the authorities. And to act as little like the Unabomber as possible. If things heat up, I’ll be on call.”

  “Sure. Thanks, Tony.”

  They drank. An indie-rock chanteuse sang through the juke box. Tony lit a cigarette. Then he said, “Okay, answer me this. Is there any chance the murder has anything to do with your lawsuit?”

  “I can’t see how it could. But …”

  “What?”

  “Well, there is some weirdness. I guess Dalia was doing some side-research down at the lake, for her dissertation maybe. I’m not really clear on it. Anyway, according to Eileen, Dalia thinks she uncovered something big. Her boyfriend, this dude T-Jacques in New Orleans, thinks it’s some powerful information involving big name people. He thinks they killed Dalia for it.”

  “No shit?” Tony squinted at him. “Now who’s withholding information, Geoffy?”

  “Hey, I think this T-Jacques is another paranoid lunatic. Anyway, he has Dalia’s research—proof of this grand conspiracy, he claims. And he’ll only share what he’s got with me.”

  “Because you’re the fucking grand crusader who Dalia was working for. Classic.” He snorted. “So when’re you taking a trip to the Big Easy to meet this mope?”

  “I’m not sure I’m going to.”

  “What?” Tony almost did a spit take with his beer. He put the bottle down hard. “Geoff, are you serious?”

  “I don’t think whatever Dalia was up to had anything to do with the lawsuit. She said so herself before she died. She left Eileen some kind of sample—but Eileen’s being cagey. Without all the facts, I don’t feel much like stepping up.”

  Geoff rested and sipped beer. Tony smoked in silence, waiting for Geoff to continue as if knowing his drinking buddy had more to report.

  “My lawsuit’s progressing; maybe I’ll even get paid. I guess I don’t want to muck it up by screwing around with this T-Jacques guy.”

  Tony made a derisive squinty face, his flabby features seeming like melting folds of rubber. He mocked: “‘Muck it up, muck it up.’ Come on Geoff, this might be nothing, but it might be big. You’ve got to look into it.” He looked at Geoff, eyes narrow, and pointed with his cigarette. “No, you have an ethical duty to your clients to explore this.”

  “Since when do you give a damn about ethical duties?”

  “Jersey was another life, my friend. I’ve clean as a whistle since moving to the fucking Lone Star State.”

  “Yeah, alright. But say I do talk to T-Jacques and he shows me … what? Evidence of some corporate shenanigans? What am I going to do with it? It’s not my bailiwick. Just like a criminal investigation isn’t my bailiwick.”

  Tony considered as he smoked. “You know what you need, Geoffy? A good private eye. Someone who can surreptitiously keep tabs on your redneck sheriff’s investigation down there, and help you out with this T-Jacques fellow.”

  “That’s your world we’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, no shit.” He took his overflowing wallet from his hip pocket and pulled out a business card. “Here.”

  Geoff took the card. Three lines, black on white: “Marisol Solis, Private Investigator.” And a local telephone number.

  “She’s the best in town,” Tony said.

  Geoff raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

  “I don’t know. But she’s good. You’ve seen her.”

  “Yeah? When?”

  “Just this afternoon. She’s the beauty I was talking to when you walked in.”

  Geoff cocked his head and smirked. Tony flashed his slick grin.

  “She didn’t look like any detective I’ve ever seen.”

  “That’s why she’s
so good. One reason. And she spent almost ten years with the feds—ATF. Got sick of infringing on honest citizens’ God-given right to drink, smoke, and shoot, so she went private. Anyway, she learned how to work a case. Plus, her father’s a police detective down in the Valley. It’s in her blood.”

  “Okay, Tony.” Geoff pocketed the card. “I’ll think about it.”

  •

  Geoff rolled his eyes with the phone receiver to his ear. The lush, New Orleans accented voice on the other end continued its spiel: “You remember those WMD’s? They weren’t never in Iraq; they’re right up there, under that lake.”

  “T-Jacques, slow down. That doesn’t make any sense.” Geoff closed his eyes and rubbed them with the thumb and forefinger of his free hand. He had called T-Jacques this morning first thing after pouring himself a big mug of strong black coffee in his own kitchen and padding into the spare bedroom. At first, Dalia’s boyfriend was furtive, had even insisted on calling Geoff back—presumably to trace the phone line and make sure he wasn’t an imposter. Now he spoke in a waterfall of paranoia but eschewed specifics.

  “I will not spell it out for you on the phone, man. It’s not safe—but Dalia left everything you need to know on a flash drive. I’ll tell you this much, there’s illegal nasty shit going on—unnatural, godless evil shit.”

  “At the shuttered refinery? T-Jacques, there’s just no way—”

  “At the refinery, under the refinery, I don’t know. But they killed her for it.”

  Christ, I’ve got to get off this call. He let himself sound exasperated. “Who T-Jacques? Who killed her for it?”

  “I. Don’t. Know. Your answers start with the flash drive. But hear this: doesn’t Robert Duchamp own that refinery?”

  “What? No, Texronco owns it, the oil company—”

  “Man, Dalia had it figured out. It’s on here, I know.”

  “Did you tell Sheriff Seastrunk any of this?”

  “Hell no. No way I’m telling that cracker Texas sheriff anything. Especially not if it involves that rat bastard racist motherfucker Duchamp. At best he wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Alright, T-Jacques,” Geoff said. “Then I think you should talk to Eileen Kim, Dalia’s boss. She probably has a better idea what Dalia was working on—”

  “No, unh-uh. I don’t trust that woman. She’s working her own angle.”

  Geoff could not argue. He listened to T-Jacques’ breath in the long silence until the man continued: “Look, Mr. Waltz. I know all about what you’re up to up there—suing to clean up the lake and shit. But this is bigger than that. Dalia died for it, man. So just look. Please, man.”

  Geoff leaned back in his office chair and stared at the ceiling fan as he listened to the plea of a grieving stranger five hundred miles away. “Why me, T-Jacques?”

  “Because it’s on you, man. Dalia died for your shit. And it wasn’t worth it. But if any good’s going to come out of it, it’s on this flash drive.”

  Geoff sat up and looked over his IKEA desk. He had put it together just a few months after he and Janie bought the house. He remembered her standing in the doorway, arms crossed over her bulging belly: I snared me a hotshot trial lawyer and a handyman. How ‘bout that?

  “Okay, T-Jacques, mail me the drive. I’ll take a look.”

  “Mail? Forget that, fool—no mail, and no FedEx either. We meet in person. And I’m not coming to Texas—spent enough time stranded in Houston last year to last me a lifetime.”

  Geoff considered. A road trip might do him some good. “Fine. Will you be around New Orleans this weekend?”

  “Man, I’m around every weekend—playing four sets at least, just to make ends meet and rebuild my peoples’ houses. And that’s what I’m doing every minute I’m not playing—building houses. We all been dicked by FEMA, now we all getting dicked by Allstate. My weekends are booked. Shit, I can’t even take a weekend off when my girl—.” He seemed to have choked up. After a bit, he said: “But I’ll tell you—this Friday night we’re playing in the Marigny, at the Argentine. You been to New Orleans, know where that is?”

  “I know the club, T-Jacques. Glad to hear it’s still open.”

  “Alright then. Be there.”

  Chapter 5

  Sheriff Seastrunk stayed in his office till sunset, catching up on paperwork that he’d let slide as his department’s first full-fledged murder investigation in nearly five years got underway. There had been other killings, of course—a couple of hunting accidents, a meth-fueled lovers’ quarrel turned tragic—but those hadn’t required any real detective work.

  He signed his name one more time to one last piece of paper and decided he could just about call it a night—one more call to make, this one in person. He locked up, bidding a be careful to the baby-faced deputy who served as night watchman for the annex. Behind the wheel of his official Crown Vic, he turned south off the square, crossing the railroad tracks by the train depot that hadn’t served a passenger in over thirty years. The street became bumpy and rutted, but the little old frame houses on either side were, for the most part, tidy. Most had large flower beds out front, and, he knew, sizable vegetable patches in the back just getting underway. Kids played in the twilight, chasing each other in the yards and riding bikes in the street. Two barefoot boys watched him pass from the low hanging bough of a massive chinaberry tree.

  Near the edge of town, just before the residential lots gave way to open pasture and stands of pine, the sheriff pulled up to the finest house in the neighborhood, a brick ranch style on a curving corner lot, at least an acre. A plain but solid church of matching brick stood next door, its only ornament a white wooden steeple.

  He hoped the old couple had finished their supper, expected they had.

  The Reverend Mose Carter himself answered the door. The two men were near contemporaries, but the Reverend, stooped and gray, looked every one of his seventy five odd years and then some. Except for his eyes—as sharp as cut stone.

  “John. What a glorious surprise. Please come in.”

  Seastrunk removed his tan Stetson. “Thanks Reverend. You look well.”

  “Hash was just clearing away supper. Pork chops and hominy. Can I get you a bite? Or a glass of tea?”

  “Tea would be fine, Reverend. Mind if we set for a bit?”

  “That would be marvelous.” Turning is head toward the kitchen, he said: “Hash, Sheriff Seastrunk has come calling. May we serve him a glass of tea?”

  She emerged almost instantly with two icy mason jars filled to the brim. Her face was chiseled and bronze with hardly a wrinkle. Seastrunk noticed that she was now taller than her husband.

  “Evening, Sheriff,” she said.

  “Ms. Hadassah. Lovely as always.”

  She smiled at him. “I’ll leave you two to your parley. A man works from sun to sun—”

  “—but a woman’s work is never done.” The Reverend smiled as he finished the saying. Hadassah Carter smiled, too, as she turned back to the kitchen throwing a wink to the sheriff.

  “Let us retire to the porch, Sheriff John.” He led them out a sliding glass door to a paved area in the back off the dining room. “I call it a porch. My children tell me this is a patio. I am blessed to have such a fine modern home. But I do sometimes miss sitting out front. Watching the world pass on the street …”

  They sat on comfortable iron chairs that rocked a little, a matching table between them for their tea. A single yellow light attached to the back eave illuminated the space. A brick barbecue pit stood in one corner of the patio; a dogwood bloomed just off the other. Beyond that, a vast lawn faded into gloom, the hundred-foot pines around its perimeter silhouetted in the dying purple light.

  “Reverend, I reckon you know what I’ve come to discuss.”

  “The poor Bordelon girl.”

  “It’s ugly. No two ways about it.”

  “Ugly. There is evil in this world, Brother John. And sometime that evil does pierce the hearts of men.”

  “I know it.�
��

  They sat in silence. Then the Reverend said: “The Lord has brought us full circle, John. I sat down with your father before the Freedom Riders came through in ‘62. He came right to my little church and sat down with me in the front pew on a Saturday afternoon.”

  “I know it.”

  “Went to every black church in town that way, and told us, ‘I won’t stand for no violence. My boys will be lining the streets when your people march by.’ He told me, ‘But them boys are there as much to keep the white folks in line as to keep an eye on y’all.’”

  “I know it.”

  “‘Course, the white folks wouldn’t see it that way. Anyway, he said, ‘I’ll protect y’all. But you got to be respectable.’ Respectable! Of course we were respectable! Dr. King wouldn’t allow it any other way. We marched in coats and ties in those days, John. This was before the hippies came on the scene.”

  “I know it.”

  “The white kids who came down from New York, John—they had their hair cut proper. They dressed right. And they marched beside us for justice. Not like … later—the dope, the lewdness.”

  “I know it.”

  “Your father did keep the peace. His deputies lined the sidewalks. Rifles. Dogs at attention—”

  “Daddy said that when word the Freedom Riders were coming to town got out, people from all over the state put their dogs on the train, addressed to him, in case a riot broke out.”

  “That’s right.”

  “He didn’t know what to do with them all.”

  “There wasn’t going to be any riot. But your father kept the whites in line, too. Times were tense. This could have been another Selma, another Montgomery. But your father was no Bull Connor, John.”

  “I know it.”

  “I always supported him. And I’ve always supported you.”

  “I know it. I appreciate it.”

  “There are people in this county who are bitter, who are filled with bile, who are ready to blow up fifty years worth of progress. Y’all never catered to those people. Not like some politicians.” The Reverend paused, and when he spoke again his voice had an edge. “Now someone has stoked those fires of hate, made a martyr of a beautiful young woman. And you want, what, Sheriff? For me to keep my people calm? ‘It’s okay, y’all, the white police are on it, nothing to fret about here.’ Is that what you want me to say, John?”