I had no attic, but realized there might be another option. When the house had been remodeled twenty years ago, long before I bought it, part of its high ceiling had been closed off to install ductwork for central air conditioning. Fiberglass insulation had been blown up there. The wooden slats in the hall ceiling concealed the entry. It was so artfully done that you wouldn’t notice it if you didn’t know where to look.
Balancing on top of a step stool, I pushed out part of the ceiling panel. Pulling myself up into the narrow area around the ductwork, I found a spot that would work and hauled the suitcase up with the twine I had twisted around its handle. I moved the insulation aside until the beams were exposed, jammed the suitcase in, and covered it with insulation.
It took longer than I thought to put everything back in order so that no one looking at the hallway would suspect anything was amiss. I felt curiously relieved, proud of myself even, for finding a hiding place for Guidry’s suitcase.
But why had I let his sense of urgency force me to act? Because he paid me in cash? Because he was my only real client? Because having someone as famous as G.G. Guidry hire me stroked my ego, which had been beaten down pretty well over the last few years?
With G.G. as a client, I reassured myself, I had nothing to worry about.
Boy, was I wrong.
Chapter 5
TUESDAY
At seven a.m. I answered the gentle knock on my front door to find a man on the porch. Now, I’m 6’2, and the guy standing outside was about my height, but he was at least twice my width, and none of it was flab. Light brown hair cut short. A humorless gaze that took in everything.
“And you are?” I asked, suspiciously. Guidry had left only a few hours ago, telling me to keep his suitcase safe, and now a stranger was showing up at my office. Until Guidry hired me, almost no one came to my door except the bill collectors whom I kept dodging.
The man handed me a card. It read: “Maurice ‘Spider’ Louiviere,” with a phone number and email address.
Maurice! No wonder Spider didn’t go by his given name.
Spider didn’t ask to come in. He didn’t say a word. Rather, he went to his car and returned with a big cardboard box containing six huge volumes, each bound at the top. The old wooden planks on my porch barely creaked under his remarkably silent tread as he ascended and placed the box on my mildewed oak swing.
I recognized what was in the box. This was the abstract – copies of all the title papers from the courthouse. These were the documents Guidry had told me that Spider was getting and that I was to review. I’d examine these to trace ownership, making sure that the sellers really owned what Guidry was buying, and to obtain the correct property descriptions.
Spider pulled an envelope out of his back pocket. “Mr. Guidry said to give this to you. If I were you, I’d sure have all the final paperwork ready whenever he calls.”
If I was amazed at how silently this big man moved, I was astonished by his voice. It was soft and raspy. Almost a whisper. Flat and unemotional. I had expected a booming voice from someone who looked like he did. Now I understood the nickname. He was as silent as a poisonous spider and probably as deadly.
It’s strange how some people have nicknames that follow them through life, while others, through lack of close friends, or perhaps through some psychic parental power that discerned how the newborn’s personality would evolve over the years, always go by their given names and no other. Even as children they never seem to acquire diminutives.
Did I get a good nickname? Hell no! My parents had tagged me with “Hypolite Schexnaydre.” My folks were fourth generation Louisiana. When they were alive, we used to live downriver in Des Allemands, in the same house where their parents and grandparents had lived among the Cajuns, speaking their own French patois. By the time I came along, it was almost as if the fact that our ancestors had originally come from Germany – and had spelled it “Schexnayder” rather than “Schexnaydre” – had been forgotten.
My parents never thought about leaving Des Allemands, and they never thought that “Hypolite” was an unusual name. To them, it was a good French name of honor. But it wasn’t an honor to me. With a name like Hypolite, I had to run faster, work harder, and think quicker than anyone else.
How did I get treated by my classmates when I was young?
What do you think, with a name like Hypolite?
What did I get called while growing up? You name it, I’ve heard it. “Hippo.” Or “Po-Lite.” Or “Po-boy.” Or “Wheat Schex” or “Corn Schex” or even “Schex, Rattle &
Roll.” I hated them all, including the one that stuck – “Schex.”
Now, Catch – my former boss and mentor at Walker, Thibodeaux, LeBlanc & Adkinson – had a great nickname. D. Bennett “Catch” Adkinson. Little League champ. High school baseball star. Highly touted college third baseman who became a campus hero, which was quite an achievement in a local culture that worships basketball, genuflects to baseball, but downright grovels at the feet of football players.
There was a time when I used to love to watch Catch at work in the courtroom.
When he would demolish an opponent’s highly paid expert with a cross- examination as pointed and sharp as a scalpel.
When he would make a truthful witness appear to be deceitful and evasive.
When I thought that winning a case for your client was more satisfying than seeing justice done.
But that was then. When I still admired Catch. When I still could imagine a successful career in my future. When I couldn’t imagine what my life would become.
When I never suspected what Catch would do to me.
Chapter 6
After Spider left, I carried the box inside and put it on my scarred conference table. Only then did I look in the envelope that Spider had given me. Another $4,000 in cash. Guidry knew how to get and keep my attention.
I examined the documents in the box. Spider had done a thorough job on the abstract. Now, there is no single book or piece of paper you can look at to determine who owns a tract of land here in Louisiana. You have to review years of paperwork, some of it stretching back to when Jefferson bought Louisiana from France in 1803, and even before that, back to when Spain and France kept flipping control of Louisiana between themselves.
Two hundred years of paperwork to wade through to figure out the ownership of big tracts of land. Older documents penned in beautiful but difficult-to-decipher handwriting. Documents in French. Documents with names reflecting Louisiana’s gumbo heritage, a stew of French and Spanish, with seasonings of German, Irish, Haitian, Italian, Czechoslovakian, settlers, slaves, freemen of color, brothel owners, casket girls, keelboaters, gamblers, privateers, and scoundrels.
I spent the rest of the afternoon working through it all, figuring out the complete chain of title of each of the five tracts, making sure the property descriptions met the legal requirements, and preparing the paperwork that Guidry would need for the purchase agreements.
Everything was ready by early afternoon.
I waited, but I heard nothing from either Guidry or Spider.
Guidry had said I couldn’t leave the house. My combination home and office looks like crap. An embarrassment to the Creole Town neighborhood in Baton Rouge where I live.
Now, the block behind mine looks all right. That’s where Washington and Durnella Eby live. Washington had been a housepainter all his life and is enjoying a well- deserved retirement in the place he had bought way back in the era when Creole Town was the area where “hard-working colored boys” starting families aspired to buy.
Washington and Durnella Eby, both in their late 80s but still full of vigor, have resided there for more than five decades. They keep a carefully tended vegetable garden in the narrow backyard. Every other spring Washington takes out his ladders, rigs up scaffolding, and carefully checks all the woodwork, sanding it down if needed, touching up where required, and repainting when necessary. It’s a remarkable sight. Washington, old as he is, up the
re at rooftop level, still following his routine.
My weed-laden backyard overlooks Washington and Durnella’s vegetable garden. Luther, their rangy Catahoula hound, jumps the fence regularly and has the run of the neighborhood. Washington loves that ugly old dog, with its mottled coat and webbed paws. Luther aggressively guards Washington. If he doesn’t know you, he won’t even let you near Washington’s house.
Luther is pure Catahoula. Marbled eyes. Loyal to a fault. Powerful and strong, a breed created by Louisiana Indians mating red wolves with Spanish war dogs.
When I’m around Washington, Luther tolerates me.
I couldn’t leave my crappy house today, not even to go on my usual jog. I run almost a dozen miles daily along the top of the levee’s sinuous curves, the wide Mississippi River bronze in the moonlight and a muddy burnt sienna in the sunlight. Until G.G. had shown up, running was the only thing I still felt good about.
But, there was no reason why I couldn’t eat well. I ordered a takeout dinner and a six-pack from my favorite dive, George & Beebo’s. I made sure to generously tip the delivery girl with some of the cash I had gotten from Guidry.
I sat at my kitchen counter. Over-ate. Finished off the six-pack. Fell asleep before it got dark.
Chapter 7
WEDNESDAY
I overslept Wednesday morning. In my T-shirt and shorts, I went out to retrieve the morning paper that had been tossed on my unmown lawn. They hadn’t yet cut off my subscription, but that was likely to happen any day now.
Above the fold, in the center of the front page, was a picture of a two men clothed from head to foot in white garments with sealed helmets. They were holding a stretcher on which rested a body covered with a sheet.
The story read:
DEATH AT CONTROVERSIAL INDUSTRIAL PLANT
Gaynell Guidry, Chairman of the Board
of Camellia Industries, was found dead yesterday in a holding pond at the plant.
Workers from the Department of Environmental Health have sealed off the site. Carter H. Herrington, IV, Director of the Department, told reporters that his office will be conducting a full investigation.
Camellia Industries, one of the major
employers in St. Bonaventure Parish, has been unable to ship product since last week because of a temporary restraining order issued by the St. Bonaventure Parish Court. PLEA, the Parish Local Environmental Action group composed of those who live near the plant, obtained the shut-down order.
PLEA’s attorney, Octavius Radolphus Doucet, issued a press release indicating that his organization would move ahead with the preliminary injunction hearing next week. Doucet told this reporter, “If the plant had been next to a white neighborhood, it would never have been allowed to operate.”
Gaynell Guidry left no immediate
relatives. The president of Camellia Industries is listed as Taylor Cameron. Attempts to contact Cameron have been unsuccessful.
I stopped reading.
I balled up the newspaper and tossed the crumpled mass onto the porch.
Now, you’d think that I’d be upset about Guidry’s death. Well, I was.
Upset. Furious. Angry. You name it.
But that wasn’t why I stopped reading.
It was the part about Taylor Cameron.
I still hated her.
Chapter 8
Just when things were starting to look up, Taylor was somehow back in the picture.
I had lost my only client. My chance to restart my career now faded to the point of invisibility.
Taylor always seemed to be associated with things I lost.
Seeing her name in print made the old loathing come back, along with a slew of questions.
How did Taylor get tied up with G.G.?
How did Taylor get to be “president” of Camellia Industries?
Was her route the same as Millie Sue’s? Had G.G. put his hand on her thigh and up her skirt, the way he had with Millie Sue? What else had they done?
Was she really back in town?
Why did my life continually intersect with hers?
Why did she seem to be like a vortex, sucking me in and setting me spinning in a new, and always lower, direction?
I couldn’t answer any of those questions.
All I had now were the bucks G.G. had given me that I hadn’t spent, all those now useless legal documents I had prepared, and his suitcase stashed above my ceiling.
I grabbed the stepstool, pulled my way up into the crawl space, and dug through the insulation until I found it, tossing it through the opening onto the hall floor below and dropping down after it.
The damn thing was sealed up but good.
No matter. G.G. wasn’t coming back for it.
I went into the kitchen, got the largest carving knife I could find, and attacked the wide yellow straps. It took some effort to cut through them.
The brass locks on the suitcase itself, however, held firm, bending the knife I was using to pry them open.
In the cabinet under the kitchen sink, behind empty glass jars, old paper bags, half-used scouring pads, and dead roaches, I found a long, heavy screwdriver and a second knife. Even shoving the screwdriver into one of the locks and twisting down as hard as I could, it still wouldn’t open. I thrust the second knife into the center of the leather top. The blade was dull, but it penetrated the leather. I sawed away, starting to cut the suitcase open.
But, before I could finish, as if the entire thing had been spring-loaded, green slips of paper started flying out of the suitcase, cascading into the air and fluttering onto the floor.
No, not slips.
Bills. Greenbacks.
Hundreds of dollars.
Thousands of dollars.
Hundreds of thousands of dollars.
My God, I thought, as the cash confettied down around me. It might be millions.
Chapter 9
After I had been fired by Catch, I had gone to work for Old Parish Mortgage. That lasted almost a year. Until the authorities closed it down. Which is when I hung out my shingle. Which is when I found I couldn’t get hired by anyone, until G.G. came along.
When I worked at Old Parish, I had handled lots of money, but it was mostly wire and electronic transfers. I had drafted reams of mortgages and promissory notes and became inured to numbers after a while. To get from a hundred thousand to a million dollars, all you do is add a zero at the end. Inserting a number into a computer is easy.
But dealing with cash is far different. Sure, at Old Parish one of my jobs had been to supervise the front teller, but all we handled were small loan payments. Old Parish wasn’t a bank and didn’t keep a lot of money on hand.
I had never seen so much cash in one place until I pried open G.G.’s suitcase. There were bills of every denomination, except ones, spilling out and littering the hall floor. Now, you might think that counting money is simple, but it’s not when you’ve got reams of loose bills. That’s why banks use currency counters. And I didn’t have hundreds of greenbacks. I had thousands.
Yet, the suitcase was still half full, so I starting pulling out the loose bills that were jammed inside and found something even more curious – stacks of cash lined the bottom of the large valise. Neatly wrapped groupings of fifties and hundreds. Still machine banded from a currency counter. One hundred bills in each. Fifties in $5,000 packs. Hundreds in $10,000 packs.
I knew from Old Parish that you couldn’t trust a currency counter pack from an unknown source, because you can’t assume that the packs are properly labeled or that they’re not striated – with one dollar bills, or worse yet, with plain green paper – filling out the center of each pack.
There was no alternative but to count it all by hand.
I closed the blinds and got a broom and a dustpan to sweep up the money.
I piled everything – the suitcase, the loose bills, the banded packs – in the conference room. A mess worth a fortune. But how much of a fortune?
I brought out all my pots and pa
ns from the kitchen and spread them around the conference room table. I worked systematically. Loose tens in the casserole dish. Loose fifties in the spaghetti pot. A container for each type of bill. I figured that once I had sorted them, the counting would be easy.
But I quickly found that there were not enough containers. I soon ran out of bowls and dishes and pots and started piling the cash by denomination on different parts of the floor.
It took more than an hour just to get the loose bills sorted.
Once I had all the money separated into different groups, I attacked each pile, making careful notes and keeping a tally of results with an old calculator that printed the results on a paper roll. That took another four hours, plus an additional hour to double check my figures.
Plus, more time to examine each banded pack. To make sure there was no striation. To make sure that the serial numbers weren’t identical and weren’t consecutive, because if they were, the banded pack wouldn’t have come from a bank but was either counterfeit or had come straight from the Treasury.
When I was finally through, my calculations showed $1,652,737 in loose bills and exactly $2.8 million in the packs.
So, G.G. had left $4,452,737 in cash for me to hold for him.
Whose money was it? I sure as hell didn’t know, and Guidry couldn’t tell me now. One thing I did know, however, was that it wasn’t mine.
Well, at least, not yet.
I took several handfuls of loose twenties and fifties and stuffed them in my pocket. No one would miss them.
But where to keep all the rest of the money? I had ripped up the suitcase getting into it.
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