“What the hell is the matter with you, Rach? You sound like a bad imitation of Lauren Bacall. And by the way, you’re the one who should be calling me. After all, I’m the one who’s in the hospital.”
I added guilt onto a pounding headache, having meant to call Terri yesterday and forgotten completely about it.
“Don’t you return your phone calls anymore? I must have left ten messages for you last night. You had me worried half to death.”
I counted the flashes on my answering machine. There were eleven. “I had a rough day and went out for a few drinks last night.”
“I hope it wasn’t that cheap crap that you seem to have such a fondness for.”
Terri made me smile in spite of myself. “Only good cognac. I promise.”
“Cognac, huh? You must have had a rough day. Tell me you weren’t drinking alone.”
Terri was the closest thing I had to a Jewish mother down here.
“No. I had company.”
“A certain detective we both know and lust after?”
“No. Just a friend. How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine, and don’t try to get me off a topic I enjoy. God knows how long it’s going to be before I get to do anything other than live vicariously, and you’re not providing me with very good material. Listen, Rach, you’re missing the boat here. I know my men, and beneath that brooding exterior, the detective is hot. So, what’s your problem?”
Thinking of Santou put my nerves on edge. I had just enough doubts to make me question the man. He also tempted me enough to make him that much more interesting.
“I don’t know, Ter. There’s just something that strikes me as odd.”
“Is that necessarily bad?”
I knew Terri wouldn’t let me off the hook until I had explained. “The day of the riot?”
“Go ahead; it’s one I’m not likely to forget.”
“I was in Valerie Vaughn’s apartment digging around.”
“Want to tell me how you managed to get inside Val’s place?”
I smiled in spite of myself. “I was given a key, compliments of one hot detective.”
“That’s it, Rach. We’re talking salt of the earth. The man rescues me from off your floor, and lets you play peekaboo at a murder scene. What more do you want? I don’t ever want to hear another word against him.”
“Then you’re not going to like what’s coming. While I was rummaging through one of Valerie’s drawers, I found a set of rosary beads. They’re an exact match to the ones Santou gave me, that he said had belonged to his grandmother. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
“What—that they’re the same? So what? You thought he gave you one-of-a-kind designer rosary beads? Maybe it was a popular pattern a few years back. Like they’ve got an extensive choice of design in the bayou? Get a grip, Rach. You’re making excuses. I know when you’re scared.”
Terri’s humor grounded me better than anything else could. “When can I bring you home?”
“I thought you’d never ask. How about early this evening? That way I’ll get in another backrub. Besides, what would life be like without three more bad meals? It’ll help me appreciate my freedom. By the way, you haven’t forgotten to feed Rocky, have you?”
Terri’s cat hadn’t been named for Stallone’s movie, but after the boxer Rocky Graziano. Or at least for Paul Newman, who had portrayed the boxer on film. “No, I’ve been feeding Rocky and ignoring your plants. But when I spoke to Dr. Kushner yesterday, she said you were grounded until tomorrow.”
Terri grunted petulantly. “What can I tell you? She changed her mind. I think she’s got her nose out of joint. Speaking of noses, she could use a bit of hers lopped off. I’ve been suggesting the three of us get a group rate for some plastic surgery. I must have pissed her off somehow.”
I had no doubt about that. I assured Terri that I’d check on his release orders and swing by after dinner.
I pressed the playback button on my answering machine and listened to Terri’s ten messages, which ranged from wondering what swamp I was stuck in, to prayers that I was doing something hot, hot, hot. The eleventh call was from Dolores Williams.
“D’ja hear how they killed my little Fifi?” She broke into a long, wrenching sob before continuing on. “Those bastards murdered her. But I’m gonna make ’em pay for it. An’ that goes for that dead whore of a coonass, too. I’m goin’ to the newspaper. Hell, I’ll make sure it gets on TV—one of those Hard Copy shows. By the time I’m through, that old goat’ll be runnin’ for cover. Let ’im just try ’n stop me.”
I heard a hiccup, another sob, a long pause, and then a click, as she hung up. I thought briefly about stopping by to check on Dolores, but decided to put that on hold. From the sound of it, she had consumed enough bourbon last night to knock her out cold until noon. Besides, my plans for the morning were already booked. After feeding and watering Rocky, I intended to pay an unannounced call on Buddy Budwell.
The sky was calm and clear as a pristine lake after last night’s storm. I checked in on Rocky, then wheeled out toward Thibodaux. The town was best known by a handful of tourists for a dilapidated plantation called Rienzi. Originally built as a place for the queen of Spain to sack out after escaping Napoleon, it had never been used. What had settled in town instead was Buddy Budwell and his booming business in alligator heads and skins. I guessed that this was the place where Hillard had originally run his gator scam. The fact that Budwell hadn’t moved from the spot made sense. Now that alligators were off the endangered species list and limited hunting was legal, Buddy was sitting pretty, with all his contacts and hunters already in place. Former outlaws with an entrepreneurial flair had made out like the bandits they were, simply switching the signs on their doors from “illegal” to “legal,” with business running right along as usual.
While I didn’t have the exact directions to his shop, I had every reason to believe Buddy was well-known around these parts. I stopped at a 7-Eleven along the way to pump some gas, and then sat down for a bowl of hot boudin. I was hoping some food would settle the volatile mix of Percocet and coffee, which was playing havoc with my system. The girl behind the counter who served up my rice and pork sausage was as thin and spindly as a heron. Her small head perched precariously on top of a long, slender neck, and she wore a tube top and short shorts. Brown hair hung listlessly past shoulders that hunched over as if she were cold.
“Do you know where I can find Buddy Budwell’s shop?”
She looked at me blankly, her fingers lacing together and pulling apart in a slow, jerking motion.
“He sells souvenirs to tourists. You know, alligator heads and skins. Ever hear of him?”
She shook her head, drawing her shoulders tightly around her. As she turned her palms faceup in the air, I had a clear view of the track marks on her arms.
I paid for the gas and the meal and continued on, following Route 1 along the sinuous path of a lazy bayou. Lily pads burst with a profusion of flowers that made me want to forget about track marks and riots and poachers. A young boy appeared up ahead, a mirage holding a walking stick twice his size, as he emerged from a dense wave of heat. Covered in freckles and denim, he kicked at the bloated body of a frog that was ready to burst. I stopped the car next to him.
“I’m looking for Buddy Budwell. Do you know where his shop is?”
The boy planted the toe of his sneaker on one of the frog’s legs. He poked at the taut white stomach with the end of his stick, and a thin stream of fluid appeared.
“You go down a ways to a sign where an arrow points left,” he said. “You have to turn there.”
Thrusting the stick into the frog’s stomach, the boy watched it burst like an overinflated balloon, spewing its contents onto his dirty white sneakers. He mixed the guts into a pasty stew as the intestines baked on the top of his shoes.
Driving on, I glanced back. The boy had bent over his conquest and now lifted the remains of the flattened frog in his hand. Bringing his nos
e down, he took a good whiff.
I came to the roughly cut wooden sign and turned off the blacktop onto a gravel road, following the trickle of a stream as it meandered along before abruptly ending. In the distance, gunshots ripped through the air, cleaving the silence of an otherwise languid morning. Opening the glove compartment, I pulled out my .357 and tucked it under my shirt. I had no idea what to expect from my meeting with Buddy Budwell.
I drove about a mile before I came upon two vehicles sitting in front of a nondescript cement building. Planted in the middle of nowhere, its only sign was a metal RC Cola plaque, shot full of holes embedded in the building’s front door. The Ford Escort parked directly in front had seen better days. Chunks of paint had peeled off in large rusted patches, and its sole decoration was a cardboard air-freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. On each of its sides was the photo of a different naked girl. The Toyota Land Cruiser next to it was in better condition, its logo announcing Gators to Go painted in neat black letters against its cream-colored body.
Against the wall of the building, two long wooden benches held a macabre display of alligator skulls. A smaller bench displayed fully fleshed and preserved heads. Their eyes gleamed wickedly, and long snouts led to sharp teeth glistening as pearly white as bleached bone.
I parked my car next to the Escort and followed the reverberation of gunshot blasts around to the back of the building, where a man resembling a large side of beef stood taking careful aim at a target.
Standing six feet tall with a shock of blond hair, he had skin a bloody shade of red. One pudgy cheek was pressed tightly against the barrel of a twelve-gauge Remington pump. A finger the size of a sausage pulled back on the trigger, and the rifle recoiled hard against his shoulder. Half-moons of sweat stained each underarm. He pumped another round into the chamber, a spent shell falling onto a mound of other empties at his feet.
Standing next to the man was State Agent Clyde Bolles. He ran to set up a fresh can for Budwell, nervously jumping back before another round could be shot. Spotting me as he turned around, Bolles flapped his arms wildly but Buddy ignored him, knocking the target neatly off its mark and onto the ground before bothering to see what all the fuss was about.
Still retaining a baby face with all of its fat, Buddy wiped the back of his hand across a scraggly mustache that could have passed for a smudge of dirt. Clyde ran up to his side, his mouth drawn into a sneer as his eyes darted back and forth between us.
“This here’s what the feds are hiring these days, Buddy. Pretty funny, ain’t it?” Clyde laughed in a series of hiccups, his fingers twitching nervously in the air.
Buddy pulled a navy handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the sweat from his face. “Ain’t it time for you to be heading out, Clyde?”
Watching him grind the heel of his shoe into an anthill, I half expected Bolles to refuse to go. Instead he hacked up a thick wad of phlegm, spitting it out on the ground before heading to his car. He revved up the engine and tore away in his Escort, a trail of gravel spewing behind him.
Buddy bunched up his soiled handkerchief and shoved it back in his pocket as he gave me a grin.
“Don’t mind that peckerwood none. He ain’t all bad. But everybody knows these state agents. They spend most of the time with their thumbs up their ass, bitching about their bad luck and hating everyone for it.”
Buddy’s bicep flexed as he lifted his rifle and a tattoo of Porky Pig sprang to life, complete with horns, a pitchfork and a shit-eating grin.
“You’re the new agent, right? Rachel Porter, isn’t it?” I nodded my head. “Hell, maybe you’ll be an improvement over that last bozo they had. Poachers had him chasing his own tail. He wasn’t much good except for a laugh. So, what can I do for ya, sugar?”
“I just wanted to come by and introduce myself. I was hoping you might show me around your operation.”
“Sure enough, darlin’. Come on inside and we’ll grab us a couple a beers.”
The inside of Budwell’s bunker was kept cool by a large fan whirling above. Gator skulls held down the piles of papers scattered on top of a wooden desk and along the Formica countertop that divided the room in two. A cot with its sheets askew sat in the corner of the room. Next to it was a small black-and-white TV, the volume just high enough to hear a woman on Love Connection describe her latest romantic disaster. From somewhere in the room, a clock ticked loudly, passing the time.
“I hear tell you’re ticketing the hell outta those ol’ boys in the marsh. Lord knows Delbart’s keeping busy, what with hauling ass back and forth to court and all.” Buddy screwed the caps off two bottles of beer and handed me one. “Don’t you worry none, sugar. I won’t go telling your boss on you for drinking on the job.” He winked slyly as his lips engulfed the neck of the bottle.
“How’s business these days?”
“Shit! Ol’ Charlie must have already told you how I was an outlaw, so I ain’t gonna bullshit you none. Poaching was mighty good to me in the ol’ days, but the legal business, it’s even better if you can believe that.”
Looking at his surroundings, it would have been hard to tell. Buddy caught my glance. “I like to keep a low profile around here, but I’m pulling in about a million and a half a year. Hey, I even got movie stars and rockers calling me to send ’em some gator heads. Why, Clint Eastwood’s got one of mine hanging in that restaurant of his.”
Buddy ambled over to a heavy vault door, grunting as he tugged it open to reveal a huge freezer room. Large wooden barrels stood stacked from floor to ceiling, filled with piles of salted gator skins, the excess lying in a heap on the floor. Buddy surveyed the scene with pride.
“Yeah, I get calls from rock stars, movie stars. Even that Madonna. They all want gator heads and skulls to put in their houses. It’s hot stuff out in Hollywood these days. Makin’ me a rich man.”
Buddy sorted through a mound of skins piled like a bunch of old clothes for Goodwill. “You see this here? It’s all going over to the Japs. I take yen, I take lire, I take deutsche marks. If it’s any kinda money, I take it. It’s all the same to me.”
Buddy slapped his stomach in satisfaction, jiggling a layer of fat as we walked back out. Throwing some wrinkled tee shirts off a crate and onto the floor, he motioned for me to sit while he plunked himself down in an old easy chair.
“Between you and me, outlawing was the best thing I ever did. Hell, most of us dealing legal these days got our start through poaching.”
“It looks like you’ve got quite a business going for yourself.” I decided to play a hunch. “I hear you’re also keeping pretty busy working on Hillard’s campaign these days.”
Buddy grinned and gave me a wink. “That’s right, I sure am. And mark my words—we’re gonna make him mayor, too. N’Awlins is in bad need of someone like Hillard. Straighten that hellhole right out.”
Slugging back the rest of his beer, Buddy’s cheeks puffed out in large fleshy pouches.
“It must be hard finding the time to run a big business along with a campaign.”
Buddy hefted his bulk out of the chair with a forward swinging motion. “When something’s important, you find the time for it, know what I mean?” Opening an icebox that could have sold as an antique, he grabbed two more beers. “What’s your interest in all this anyway? You wanna stuff some envelopes for us? Ain’t ol’ Charlie keeping you busy enough, running ragged after all those boys out shooting his ducks? ’Cause the way you look, I’d say they’re winning.”
Buddy handed me another beer and lowered himself back into the chair, landing with a heavy thud.
“If you’re referring to my bruises, I was caught in that march in town the other day. Got whacked on the head for it, too.”
Buddy let out a belly laugh. “That’ll teach you to look both ways before you step out on the street next time. Better yet, don’t hang around with fags.”
I put the second bottle of beer down on the floor next to the first, which I hadn’t touched. “Is Hillard still
heading up the movement down here these days?”
Buddy’s tongue flicked across his bottom lip. “Naw. Hillard’s outta that now. I suppose you also heard I used to be his second-in-command.”
Smiling, I shook my head. “Yeah, at one time. But I heard you’re running the whole show now.”
“Sugar, who’d go and tell you a thing like that?” He winked as the neck of the bottle slid partway down his throat. “You ain’t Jewish, are ya?”
“What do you think? Do I look like I am?”
Buddy laughed as Love Connection turned into Concentration.
“Naw. I’d been able to sniff you out if you were.” Emptying his second bottle of beer, Buddy picked up one of mine. “Who knows, what with the two Germanys back together, maybe they’ll learn to do it right this time. Except those damn Jews are just like cockroaches. Seems you can’t kill ’em off, no matter how hard you try. Getting to be the same way with fags. That AIDS thing is gonna kill the rest of us, but the damn fags will still be out there marching for their damn rights. Now that’s one problem we’re gonna try to do something about.”
Buddy smiled as he stretched out and propped his feet on top of his desk, knocking a gator skull to the floor. “So, tell me. Didya meet Hillard yet?”
Picking up the skull, I held it in my lap. “I was at his house not long ago.”
“On a social visit like this one?”
“No, it had to do with an investigation into the murder of a dancer, Valerie Vaughn.”
Buddy twirled one of the empty beer bottles on his finger. “So what were you doing there?”
“I was called in because of a gator found in her apartment.”
Buddy put his feet down and leaned in close. “Bunch of wackos in that town. Listen here, sugar. Ain’t nobody don’t fool around if they get the chance, know what I mean? But Hillard had nothing to do with that two-bit piece of ass. She wouldn’t have been worth his getting in trouble over.”
“You knew Valerie?”
“Yeah, I knew Valerie. Who didn’t know Valerie? But you don’t go and shit in your backyard, and N’Awlins is Hillard’s backyard. Besides, that wife of his woulda killed him.”
Gator Aide (Rachel Porter Mysteries) Page 19