by Matt Hilton
‘That’s the thing,’ said Darius, as he wiped froth from his drooping white moustache, ‘you just said you wus a man who could give me what I want. You a heart surgeon, bra?’
Zeke smiled at the sarcasm. ‘In a way I am. I can cut the heart outta somebody and serve it to you on a plate.’
Darius eyed him. ‘I’ve heard your name before. And his.’ He nodded at Cleary, whose huge form was now bent at the waist as he stared intently across the coulee. Birds flitted in and out of the foliage. ‘You’re Isaac Menon’s boys, right? I knew your daddy, once beat him senseless in a fistfight out back of Delancey’s bar.’
A grunt of mirth broke from Zeke. ‘Knowing my dad, he probably deserved it. There was a time or two when I’d have liked to beat him senseless too. He died before I got the chance.’
Darius gave him a sour look, then chugged down half the can of beer. ‘You don’t respect your old man?’
‘Was he the type to deserve respect?’
‘Fair point.’ The beer was finished in another long swallow and Darius crushed the flimsy aluminium can in his fist. As he lit up a cigarette, he ambled across the deck and pulled out the Budweiser Cleary had declined. Popped the tab. He aimed the frothing can at Cleary. ‘That why you’re stuck with him? Nobody left at home to look after him?’
‘Don’t let Cleary deceive you. He’s no dummy. Just has his own ways. In fact, if you know our names, I’m betting you’ve already heard that.’
‘Heard that he’s put the fear of God into some folks. By the looks of him, I can see why.’ His thick Cajun accent was smoothing out now that he had calmed down. ‘But I’m betting you’re the one people should be warier of.’
‘I’m far too modest to agree.’ Zeke spat over the railing. ‘But I can assure you that I don’t make promises lightly. When I say I can deliver your enemy to you, I’m not blowing smoke up your ass.’
‘I’ve plenty can do that for me. I’ve two boys of my own I can send. Plenty others I can call who’ll kill Villere … without hiking up the bounty. What makes hiring you better value for my money?’
‘You already lost two boys ’cause of Villere.’ Zeke held up a hand to forestall the spark of anger that jumped over the old man’s face. ‘Hold on, Darius. What I mean is there’s no need to risk another. Even if your sons finish him, they’re the first the cops will come looking for. You want them behind bars for the rest of their lives? You can keep them outta this, let me do the job, and your family stays clean, untouchable.’
‘You say Villere is in town? How’s it you know this, and yet nobody else does? I’ve plenty people looking out for the bastard, but I’ve never heard as much as a rumour about him being here.’
‘I saw him. Stood near enough as close to him as I’m standing to you now.’
‘And you’re positive it was him?’
‘Would I be here otherwise?’
‘I hear you bin working for Al Keane. What’s his interest in this?’
‘Keane has no idea who Villere is, or that I’m here. I told you Cleary has his own ways, well, so do I. I do some work for Keane, but I ain’t on his leash.’
‘Where is Villere?’
Zeke was about to mention coming across him at the hospital, but caution pinged inside him. Darius might wonder what the hell he’d been doing at Clara’s room. He considered lying, spinning a line about visiting a friend and coming across Villere by chance. But lies were easily discredited: Zeke wasn’t the type to visit sick friends. ‘Credit me with some intelligence, please. If I tell you, you’ll send over some of your punk-ass hired guns to do the job for less. You’ll save yourself some cash, but only at the expense of their failure. Pay me what I’m asking; Villere will die. You can take that to the bank.’
‘If he’s around I guess I’ll hear about it soon.’ The back of Darius’s thick wrist batted froth from his moustache. ‘I’ll pay you what you ask, Zeke. But I can’t offer exclusivity. Somebody else claims the bounty afore you, it’s your own fault.’
‘That’s why I want half up front.’
‘You ain’t gettin’ it.’
‘You gotta give me something for my time.’
‘I am. It’s called motivation. Go fetch me Nicolas Villere’s head, and you git paid yer askin’ price.’ Darius grunted in sour humor, took a long drag on his cigarette, then allowed the smoke to leak from the corners of his mouth. He flicked away the burning stub. ‘I can tell you’re pissed. I don’t care. You want paid, you get paid on delivery. You’re worried I won’t come through? Ask anybody. My word’s good. Can you say the same for yours?’
Zeke held out his hand.
Darius put aside his beer can. He spat in his palm, and held out his.
EIGHTEEN
They came across the young man sitting out on his front step, smoking what appeared to be a cheap brand of cigarettes he didn’t appear particularly fond of. Po made the introductions, while Tess stood slightly behind him. Pinky stayed in the van. Po asked about Jason Lombard. His roommate had missed Jason, but only because the spotty-faced guy was running short on weed and was pissed by his buddy’s no-show. He was annoyed more than concerned for Jason’s welfare, and to date hadn’t raised an alarm. Apparently he wasn’t his buddy’s keeper: Jace came and went when he chose, as did his pal, and it wasn’t unusual to go for a week or two without laying eyes on each other.
‘So how do you know he hasn’t been home lately?’ Po asked.
‘Food’s still in the pantry, the place is too tidy, and … uh, well, I just know.’ He was possibly about to add that their stash of weed hadn’t been replenished, but once he’d laid eyes on Tess he’d assumed that mentioning his drug habit wasn’t a great idea. It was understandable, because Tess still exuded ‘cop’ even after more than two years back on Civvie Street.
‘So he only uses this place as a drop in?’ Tess asked the young man. He had chosen not to let them inside the house, and had remained seated on the top step, blocking the open front door.
‘We share the bills. Occasionally chill together, y’know. But we aren’t really friends. I don’t know what he gets up to and don’t ask.’
‘Does he ever bring any friends back with him?’ Po asked.
The young man shrugged. ‘Like I said …’
‘Girls specifically,’ Tess added.
‘He scores now and again, yeah. We both do. We’re young guys, y’know?’
Tess raised her eyebrows a fraction.
‘Do you know Emilia Chatard?’
He rolled his head in thought. Then nodded sanguinely. ‘Think so.’
‘Has Emilia been here?’
‘Not sure. I know Emilia from around, y’know? Think I’ve seen Jace with her, but can’t say as she’s been here. Not while I’ve been home.’
‘What does Jason drive?’ Po asked.
‘He has a Ford truck. Black. Not new. Why d’you ask?’
Po didn’t answer. He didn’t push for a licence number, because Tess could easily find the details they needed. He shelved the information for later. ‘Does Jason have any family in town?’
The young man shrugged. ‘Like I said, I ain’t his keeper.’
‘Does he work?’ Po said.
The young man’s expression asked if Po was joking.
‘So how does he pay his share of the bills?’
‘Inheritance. He doesn’t have to work. Had rich grandparents, I heard.’
‘Where does he hang out?’ Po went on.
‘Around. Y’know?’
Tess took out a business card and handed it to the young man. ‘If you hear from Jason in the next few days, can you let me know?’
He studied her card, and then looked up at her.
‘You’re a private investigator? All the way from Maine?’ He frowned at the questions suddenly tumbling through his mind.
‘Jason isn’t in trouble,’ she assured him. ‘We’re looking for his girlfriend, Emilia Chatard. She isn’t in any trouble either, it’s a private matter.’
He put the card in his trouser pocket. Tess doubted he’d find a need to take it out again soon, but nonetheless he had her number if Jason did show up.
Po wasn’t finished.
‘Who is Jason’s dealer?’
Again the youth’s eyes flickered on Tess.
‘I don’t give a damn if you smoke weed,’ she assured him. ‘We’re only interested in locating Emilia. Perhaps Jason’s dealer knows where we can find them.’
‘He usually buys roun’ town, but lately he got in with the Thibodauxs.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Just a couple of guys. They ain’t heavy, if that’s what you’re worried about. Just some good ol’ boys who got a line on some headies.’
Po stared at the guy. Waited. Finally the guy got the message. ‘Wait on, I’ll see if I can find where they’re at.’ He left them standing on his stoop and retreated indoors. Tess heard the murmur of a one-sided conversation on a cellphone, and then the youth came back out. He leaned in the doorframe this time, one hand on the door handle, hinting that his time was precious and they’d taken up more of it than they were welcome to. ‘Hal and Jamie have a camp out near Bayou Chene, off Bayou Benoit Levee Road. I’d draw you a map, but that’s all I got.’
Po nodded. He knew the area.
Tess said, ‘Give us a call if you hear from Jason, OK?’
The guy closed the door without answering.
‘Waste of time?’ Tess wondered.
‘Not completely,’ Po said as they returned to the van. ‘We’ve confirmed that Jason’s missing too. He’s probably with Emilia. We’re not just looking for one missing person but two. Doubles our chances of finding them.’
‘I’m not sure I agree with your logic, Po,’ Tess said, ‘but at least we’ve another lead to follow.’
‘The Thibodauxs? It’s why I pressed for a name. Even if Jason and Emilia are lying low for some reason, I’m betting Jace still keeps in touch with his dealers.’
‘You’re probably right. But the Thibodauxs aren’t our priority.’ They had Emilia’s close circle of friends to speak with first, the young women whose names they’d gotten from the punks staking out Emilia’s apartment: Jenna Cornell, Tracey Redding, and Rachel Paterno.
‘I’m still tempted to go direct to Zeke Menon and beat some answers outta him.’
Tess exhaled. They’d gone over this more than once already. Zeke Menon didn’t know where Emilia was. He might give up why he was interested in finding her, but more so she believed he’d cause a delay they couldn’t afford.
‘We don’t have to waste time on house calls,’ she said. ‘I found Cornell’s phone number. I’ll speak with her, and take things from there. We should kill two birds with one stone, and go see these Thibodauxs before it gets too late.’
‘Bayou Chene ain’t a duck pond,’ he pointed out. ‘There’s a lot of swampland between the levee road and the Atchafalaya River where the Thibodauxs might be. But I’ll get Pinky on it.’
Pinky was in earshot. ‘What do you need, Nicolas?’
They waited until they were back in the van before Po explained who they were looking for.
‘OK, I have a few contacts roun’ here, me. Let’s get somewhere, and I’ll start axing and see if we can pin those swamp rats down.’
He drove them to a diner he knew. On the way, Tess rang Jenna Cornell, and was rewarded when the young woman answered on the second ring. She explained who she was, and told Jenna she was ringing on behalf of Clara Chatard who was ill and needed her daughter at her bedside.
Jenna was concerned, but of little help.
She had the cellphone number for Emilia that Tess had already identified. The one that remained resolutely switched off.
‘I haven’t seen or heard from Emilia in weeks,’ Jenna said. ‘We don’t exactly hang out like in the old days. I’m in a stable relationship, so don’t get to run around with my girlfriends the way I once did.’
‘I understand, Jenna. I’m wondering if you’d help me to contact some of your other friends. Maybe they’ve been in touch with her. Tracey Redding and Rachel Paterno?’
‘Boreas.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s Rachel Boreas now. She married and moved up to Lafayette with her husband and kids.’
‘Do you have telephone numbers for them?’
‘Tracey no. We … uh, well we had a falling out. She unfriended me on Facebook, so I returned the favour, blocked her in other ways too … the bitch. But if you hang on I might still have a contact number for Rachel.’
Dutifully Tess waited while the young woman found what she was looking for. Jenna recited the number, and Tess wrote it in the condensation on the van’s window with a fingertip. She asked Jenna if she would contact her if she heard from Emilia in the meantime, and Jenna agreed, noting that Tess’s number was in her call list.
Tess rang Rachel Boreas. The phone rang out and went to her voicemail service. Tess left a message requesting that if Rachel had a way to contact Emilia, could she inform her that Clara was desperately ill in hospital. Tess left her number, and asked if Rachel would please let her know when she received her message.
Two names were ticked off her list for now, so she set about finding contact details for Tracey Redding, but by then Pinky was parking at the diner. It prized itself on its authentic Creole cuisine, and offered po’boy sandwiches and bowls of gumbo – not to mention something called bowfin caviar that Tess decided would ever remain a mystery to her – as specialties. They’d eaten earlier from the sack of takeout food Pinky had brought to their motel, but they all agreed a strong coffee apiece was in order. Tess assumed it was going to be a long, restless night.
NINETEEN
Parked in the empty lot of an engine-repair shop on East Main Street, Zeke had a view across the way towards the hospital. He had pulled into a slot opposite the hospital so he could keep an eye on most of the approach routes. There was a one-way system on the surrounding roads, but he was situated in view of the two main entrances to the hospital’s grounds. Evening visiting hours was over, and traffic entering or leaving the hospital minimal, so he felt confident he’d spot Emilia when she arrived. Ideally he’d have hung around in the corridors nearest Clara Chatard’s room, but he would draw too much attention now that most civilians had left for the night: plus there was the chance he might cross paths with Nicolas Villere or his queer pal, Leclerc, again and things would kick off. He wanted his showdown with Villere to happen on his terms and on a battlefield he could control. Besides, he couldn’t snatch Emilia in the hospital, and it would be best to grab her before she got inside. He’d come prepared, swapping the pickup for a nondescript panel van with no identifying decal and bringing backup in the form of two other men on Al Keane’s payroll, who were parked further along the road should Emilia make a run for it.
Cleary sat alongside him, but he wasn’t much good when it came to an extra set of eyes: his were fixed on a weighty paperback novel, the tenth volume in a sprawling fantasy epic he’d been reading. Zeke envied his brother’s ability to get lost in a book; he didn’t have the patience and hadn’t read anything without smutty pictures in years. That wasn’t entirely true. Lately he’d kept an eye on the newspapers and news websites, interested in the investigations into various killings that had occurred in New Iberia Parish. He paid less notice to the mainstream news, preferring the hysterical reporting of some of the websites proclaiming that there was a supernatural element to the deaths. When some of the more sensational reports had suggested that a rougarou was responsible for the slaughter of various animals, and even for a number of missing persons, he could only smile knowingly and squint sideways at his shaggy-headed brother.
There were many variations of the rougarou legend in Cajun folklore, and the manners in which a human could transform into the beast were as diverse and fanciful as in any other culture’s tales of the wolfman. The name was a derivation of the legend passed down through generations of French settlers, of
the loup-garou. Loup translated to ‘wolf’, and garou was ‘a man who transforms into an animal’. Yes, there were actually folks out there positive that a werewolf was stalking the swamplands, eating their livestock, and cannibalizing missing people. Zeke could forgive them their mistake, because Cleary could easily be misidentified as some sort of ravening half-man half-beast, especially when consumed by one of his psychotic rages. He’d heard tales of rougarou linked to various medical and mental conditions, including porphyria, hypertrichosis, and even schizophrenia, and had to admit that Cleary suffered symptoms associated with all of those. But most often the rougarou was associated with lycanthropy – in itself a dubious prognosis – where sufferers exhibited the characteristics of a wild animal, primarily in the belief that they transformed into a wolf under a full moon. Then again, he’d heard Cleary baying and howling after his kills, and the sound had sent shivers up his spine. Anyone else hearing them could very well believe it was the victorious howling of a beast.
He knew that Cleary was responsible for the animal slaughters, and of at least one of the missing people: an old man walking his dog. Cleary had killed the dog when it had growled at him, and then the old man when he’d tried to come to its rescue. There were others – Hal and Jamie Thibodaux, Jason Lombard, and a female animal-rights activist – who had also fallen victim. They were yet to be missed, so hadn’t been associated with the rougarou legend, but that was only a matter of time. So too Emilia Chatard when Zeke finally got his own claws on her.
‘It’s too dark.’
Zeke allowed his attention to slip from the approaches to the hospital to peer across at Cleary.
‘We’ll still spot her when she arrives.’
‘Too dark in here. I’m not done reading.’ Cleary held up the novel for emphasis.
‘I can’t turn on the light or we’ll draw attention.’
‘I’m not done reading.’
Cleary’s bearded chin jutted, and his bottom lip was drawn back over his lower teeth. Zeke could spot the signs.