Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller (27 page)

“Dumont’s ship is still in the neighborhood. They’ll hear an emergency call and recognize our call letters as comin’ from New Orleans. They might come running out of curiosity if nothing else. I don’t want the kind of help we’d get from them when they see our faces. The captain of that ship knows me, and it won’t take too long before they figure out who you are. They can add two and two. No, we’re gonna wait awhile. If we get to the point where more water is comin’ in than goin’ out, we call for help or we jump in the dingy. Sorry, Judge, the return voyage ain’t gonna be uneventful.”

“I can call Fitch on the ship-to-shore phone.”

“Do that.”

Boucher climbed to the bridge and called Fitch, who answered on the first ring. Jock gave him their situation and position. “I don’t want you calling anybody just yet.
I don’t know who the hell to trust. We’re taking on water from a crack in the hull, but we’ve got things under control for the moment. One thing you can do is check on a vessel named
Zephyr.
It’s a cargo carrier, not as big as the
Gulf Pride.
Somebody will be putting in an insurance claim on it. It went down with all hands.”

“Christ. Stay in touch and stay dry.”

Boucher hung up and went below. “Fitch is monitoring our position, and we’re on the satellite. I’m hoping we’ll also get pictures of the third boat and be able to track it to see where it goes.”

Arcineaux was shaking his head. “I went along with this,” he said. “I even asked to be included, so I have no one to blame but myself. But I gotta ask you. Seems to me all you got was the name of a ship that’s now at the bottom of the sea, and you’re getting all the information you need from communications satellites. Was this trip worth it?”

“I’ll make sure you are fully compensated for—”

“I’m gonna throw you overboard if you finish that sentence. Answer my question.”

“Probably not,” Boucher said. “It was foolish. It was reckless. I’m sorry.”

“What are you really chasin’, Judge? You got any idea? I’m just a Coonass water rat, and God knows I’ve made mistakes of my own, but I’m gonna leave you watching a hole in the boat that shouldn’t be there—one that might end our lives a lot sooner than either of us planned—just because
you wanted to play eyewitness. You might give that some thought.” He stared over the wheel and out to sea. “Now go below and keep an eye on that leak.”

Boucher went below and scavenged the boat’s complement of fishing gear. He found a pair of waders, sat on a bench, and put them on. He was reasonably warm and dry and could sit in relative comfort while the water rose around his legs and he watched the leak that might doom them. He thought about what Arcineaux had said. Fitch had told him much the same. Impending demise does concentrate one’s focus.

He found a wooden spoon for mixing salads in a galley drawer and used it as a gauge to measure the water. After several hours of slow cruising, it had risen several inches. He called for Arcineaux to come below.

The skipper looked at the rising water. “I’m on a heading for Port Isabel, Texas. I think I oughta call in our situation.”

“You must. Dumont’s ship isn’t anywhere near us now. We’re headed for Texas, and his ship’s returning to Houma as fast as it can. We should be fine.”

“I ain’t been worried about him for a while now.”

“Then why haven’t you called for help?”

“Salvage laws. I call for a tow, I might be givin’ up my boat. You know anything about salvage law on the seas, Judge?”

Boucher nodded. For centuries courts had favored
those who engaged in rescuing lives and property at sea, and the definition between rescue and salvage could be a fine one. Professional salvors were generously compensated. Arcineaux might lose his boat to a salvor successful in bringing it in. It was a tough call. He was weighing the odds as he examined the damaged hull. “If the hull splits, there might not be time for you to get on deck. I’m gonna call for help.”

Arcineaux got on the radio’s emergency frequency. There were a number of fishing boats close enough if they had to abandon ship. With a salvor, he had a chance.

“When the salvage boat gets here,” Boucher said, “let me do the talking. We’ll set a fee and sign a contract. I’ll tell them I’m a judge. I’m not going to let them take your boat, Fred.”

Arcineaux shrugged. “Might help.”

Boucher then called Fitch. “Three nearest airports from Port Isabel are Brownsville, McAllen, and Corpus Christi. There are several smaller regionals. Don’t know when I’ll hit land, but I’ll get the first flight back. Skipper’s going to stay with his boat, bring it back when repairs are done. I’ll have a lot to talk to you about.”

“Got some news for you too,” Fitch said with a dry laugh. He hung up.

Boucher joined Arcineaux on the flybridge, the better to look out for boats in their vicinity. Within no time they spotted several, then several more.

“Some are Samaritans,” Arcineaux said, “some are scavengers
waiting to see if we go down. All types of men are called to the sea; all types.”

Boucher had drafted a contract before the salvage vessel found them. He introduced himself and presented the document. The numbers were agreed upon. All were satisfied. There was no more time to waste;
Daddy’s Little Girl
was listing badly. The wounded craft and its rescuer were joined, and additional pumps were brought aboard. The cruiser began to right itself. At that point another sport fisher pulled alongside and asked if it could help. It was headed to Port Isabel.

“Catch a ride,” Arcineaux said. “There’s nothin’ you can do here, and somebody needs to know about what went on out there. I’ll be all right. Let you know when I’m back in port.”

“Give me a call if you need anything,” Boucher said.

“You can bet I will. Have your checkbook ready.”

W
HEN BOUCHER PULLED INTO
Port Isabel, he compensated the charter fisherman who’d given him the ride by buying a tank of fuel, which he put on his credit card, then set off in search of an ATM. He bought some comfortable clothes, rented a motel room for long enough to shower, then checked airline schedules on his cell phone. The best route was a flight out of McAllen to Houston, changing planes to New Orleans. There was a drive and then a layover, but he’d be home tonight. He found a taxi for the drive to McAllen. A trip of seventy miles, it was probably the best fare the driver had seen in a while. The woman was short and thin to the point of emaciation, but ebullient.

“How you doin’?” she gushed. “First time here?”

“Yes, I’m going to McAllen to get a flight back home to New Orleans.”

“Pity you can’t stay awhile. McAllen’s a great place to visit. It’s not New Orleans, of course.”

“This close to the border, with all the drug violence, I would think business would be down,” Boucher said.

“You would think wrong. Tourism is down, but otherwise, business is booming. Trade with Mexico is at an all-time high. We’ve got more jobs than people to fill them, and not many places in the States can say that. The drug situation is a problem, but it’s a work-around. Know what I mean? There’s a lot more going on between the U.S. and Mexico than the drug problem. We’ve even got our own free-trade zone. We also get a lot of wealthy Mexicans coming here to shop. Many of them are buying houses here because of the violence in their home neighborhoods. Nice folks. I feel sorry for what’s going on other side of the border. I pray it never reaches us on this side.”

Just past the halfway point of his road trip, Boucher was drawn to the sight of military vehicles being transported on a convoy of flatbed trucks. “What’s that?” he asked the driver. “I didn’t know there was an army base around here.”

“There isn’t,” the driver said. “We’ve got a National Guard armory, but it’s never had that kind of activity, and I’ve been here all my life. My husband and I both served in the Guard. That’s how we met.”

Boucher got to the airport, bought his ticket, then sat in the departure lounge doing what most of his fellow
travelers were doing—making one call after another. He called Mildred. She had left for the day. He had fences to mend there. Malika seemed glad to hear from him but had to cut their conversation short. Fitch was also in a rush. Something was up with him, something not for discussion over a cell phone. Boucher had made three calls, all brief. If broadband communications were the only indicator, one would be tempted to assume there wasn’t a whole lot going on in the life of Judge Jock Boucher.

The flight from McAllen to IAH was barely long enough to serve drinks to the few passengers. As Boucher walked through Houston’s mammoth airport, his growling stomach was a reminder that he had not eaten all day. He opted for Starbucks, coffee and a sandwich. He seated himself at a small table and engaged in the only activity still enjoyable in airports forever changed by high-security concerns: people-watching, maybe the chance of catching a celebrity on the move. One guy was a double for Denzel Washington. Boucher had spent very little time in Houston and did not expect to see anyone he knew. But there he was, speed-walking to his departure terminal, the poker-playing lawyer Carl Benetton. The lawyer wasn’t looking around, absorbed in a cell phone call.

“Lord, say it ain’t so,” Boucher whispered.

He finished his coffee and sandwich and walked to the gate. Boarding had commenced. The flight looked full. The lawyer was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he was already
aboard, first class receiving first call. Boucher was dressed in a twenty-dollar outfit he’d bought at Target. What reason could he have for traveling in what amounted to a laborer’s work clothes? He boarded the plane. Benetton sat in first class, reading a newspaper. The lawyer looked up as he passed.

“Carl?” Boucher said. “Is there a game I wasn’t told about?”

The lawyer was surprised to see him and at a loss for words. “Judge Boucher! What are you . . .”

Benetton sat next to the window, the aisle seat vacant. Boucher sat down and began to whisper conspiratorially. “I got a call this afternoon about a 1960 Mercedes convertible for sale in Houston at a great price. When a rare model comes on the market, the race is to the swiftest. I flew in to take a look at it.” He brushed his fingers down his newly purchased casual outfit. “When I’m trying to get a deal, I dress down. Will you be seeing Ray?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Give him my best and ask him to call. I’ll be in my office tomorrow.”

“I will tell him. Good to see you, Judge.”

“You too.”

Boucher stood and walked to his seat at the rear of the plane. The lawyer was making an emergency trip in to see Dumont. Dollars to donuts, it was to discuss the escapade at sea.

•  •  •

It was late when Boucher finally walked through the door. The red light on his landline’s answering machine was flashing, but first things first. He showered. Then he grabbed a toothbrush. Then a robe. Then a bottle of bourbon and a glass. He emptied the glass and followed it with a second before he went to the phone and checked his messages. There was only one. Fitch. “Call me,” it said.

“What’s up?” Boucher asked when Fitch answered, but the detective hung up on him.

Boucher stared at the phone in his hand and was about to call back when he heard his cell vibrating on the coffee table. The detective’s text was a message from someone severely afflicted, or whose opposable thumbs were too chunky to manipulate a cell’s minute keyboard:
ate d bk dr
, it read. Boucher stared and frowned. It was gibberish. The technology of texting was beyond ham-fisted Fitch. He stared at the text:
ate d.
Not ate. Eight. It meant eighth, as in Eighth District, the detective’s home base. Knowing the first clue, the second was easy;
bk dr
meant back door. Fitch wanted to meet.

The Eighth Police District served the French Quarter, and it was just a short walk from Boucher’s house to the historic building where it made its home. Boucher found a back entrance. Fitch was outside having a smoke.

“Why the text message?” Boucher asked.

“I need the practice.”

“I won’t argue that. Thought you quit,” Boucher said, pointing to the cigarette.

“I did, and I’ll probably quit again. I like to have a cigarette when I try to predict the next way you’ll decide to place your life in peril. You could be the cause of an unshakable habit.” Fitch took a drag and exhaled, then flicked the cigarette and ground it into the pavement. “So what happened?” he asked.

Boucher related the activities at sea. “There was another ship following the one that was firing on us. I don’t know where it came from or where it went. I didn’t see it do any shooting, but it might have. If the weapons were as old as you said—”

“They were old,” Fitch said. “The boxes had dates. No way of knowing how they’d been stored over the years, and there might have been flaws in their manufacture. Disarmament investigators use flashlights when they look at Russian nuke storage facilities. They’re afraid if they flick on a light switch, they might set off a detonator. Firing missiles from a ship loaded with forty-year-old black-market munitions? That’s like dropping a match into a cellar full of fireworks.”

“There were plenty of fireworks.”

“Did you get pictures?”

“Yes, names of both ships clearly identified. I even got
a shot of the APC falling into the drink. I also ordered satellite imagery.”

“Dumont’s ship should be coming back into port. We could arrest it.”

“Forget it,” Boucher said. “They’ll have transferred the cash to another ship.”

“Do you think this is just about gunrunning?”

“No, I don’t. I’ll be damned if I can figure out what their game is. But I might find out soon enough.”

“I’m not as optimistic as you. By the way, Pip’s at Harahan city jail. It ain’t the Royal Orleans, but I had someone check on him. He’s okay.”

“Fitch, I owe you a lot.”

“Yeah, you are racking up debts, aren’t you? You owe that shrimper fellow too. Big-time. Risked his life, wrecked his boat. I keep asking myself, why do we fuck with you?”

“To see justice served?”