Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 13 - The Diamonds of Ghost Bayou (7 page)

A flicker of anger clouded his dark eyes for a moment. “Since
you know Vasco, you know how the system works. My uncle,
Big Tim Strollo, financed the casino. He and Vasco had an
agreement. After Tim passed away, Mr. Vasco and I honored
the previous agreement.”

What O’Donnell meant was that Vasco received a slice of the
profits-not as much if he’d put up the financing, but in all probability more than three dozen hardworking Louisiana shrimpers made in a year. “Well, from what I saw, business is good.”

He smiled in reply.

A knock at the door interrupted us. O’Donnell called out,
“Come in, Carl.”

The door opened, and the bald man in the striped polo shirt
stepped inside. In a deferential voice, he said, “You wanted to see
me, Mr. O’Donnell?”

“How long have we been together, Carl?”

The soldier shrugged his shoulders. “A long time, Mr.
O’Donnell. Close to fifteen years.” He cut his eyes nervously at
me, then slid his gaze back to O’Donnell.

Expansively, O’Donnell replied, “Fifteen good years, and I’ve
always been able to trust you. Isn’t that right, Carl?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. O’Donnell.”

“So I want you to tell me the truth, Carl.”

A sheen of perspiration glinted on his bald pate. “Anything,
Mr. O’Donnell.”

O’Donnell explained, “This gentleman says yesterday, he
saw two men running away from his friends’ house down on
the bayou. They got away in a yellow boat, which happens to
be the Stratos in the boathouse.” He paused. “What do you
know about it?”

His wide eyes bouncing between O’Donnell and me like a
Ping-Pong ball, Carl dragged the tip of his tongue over his lips.
Taking a deep breath, he dropped his gaze to the floor. “That
was me, Mr. O’Donnell.”

With a merry twinkle in his eyes, O’Donnell winked at me.
“Who was with you, Carl?”

His eyes still glued to the floor, he replied, “Patsy.”

“Where is he?”

Carl lifted his head. “Down at the marina nursing the headache this guy gave him.”

“Any others? Mule? Bobo?”

“No, sir. Just Patsy and me.”

“I see. Why did you and Patsy go there?”

Carl chewed on his lips as if he were embarrassed to reply.

“I’m waiting, Carl, and you know I don’t like to wait.”

“The jewels, Mr. O’Donnell. Patsy and me had been hearing
the rumors of loot from some diamond heist was hidden down
there. We figured to prowl around. There ain’t been nobody
living down there.”

The twinkle faded from O’Donnell’s eyes. “This gentleman
also said the owner of the house was worked over the night before. You know anything about it?”
— - - — - - - - - - - - - -

The middle-aged button man shook his head emphatically.
“No, sir.”

“Was
yesterday
your
only
time
there?”

Carl swallowed hard. “No, sir. Two more times. That’s all.
We never seen anybody there.” He looked up at his boss. “That’s
the truth. I wouldn’t lie to you. We didn’t work nobody over down
there.”

Three times. That matched what Valsin had said.

O’Donnell snorted. “I hope not, Carl.” His face grew hard.
“That’s a big swamp out there. You understand?”

Carl croaked, “Yes, sir.”

“Good” O’Donnell waved his hand, dismissing the man. “Tell
Patsy what I said.”

“Yes, sir, I will,” Carl replied, backing away to the door. “Thank
you, Mr. O’Donnell. Thank you.”

After the door closed behind O’Donnell’s soldier, the dapper
casino owner gave a half laugh. “They won’t bother you again,
Mr. Boudreaux.” He paused. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you find
those who assaulted your friend, but I have no doubt Carl told
us the truth.”

Well aware of the unwavering loyalty mob soldiers had for
their boss, I knew O’Donnell was right. I scooted forward in my
chair. “Naturally, I’d like to get my hands on those who worked
over my friend, but to be honest, you and I both know I’ll probably never find them.”

While his face remained impassive, a glint of triumph filled
his eyes. “You’re probably right.” He rocked back and forth in
his chair a couple of times. “I’d heard the same rumors-about
the jewels, I mean. That was years ago, and from what I heard,
all those who took part are dead.”

I played dumb, thinking I might pick up some more information. “I hadn’t heard anything about that”

“My uncle, Big Tim Strollo, told me. From what he said, Vasco
went after the three in prison. Tim didn’t go into any detail, only
that it didn’t pay to buck Joe Vasco”

“But the diamonds have never been found?”

He smiled faintly. “Hard to say. A few years ago, rumors surfaced that some had been. Who knows? Not me. Personally, I
think it’s like all the old stories about old-timers hiding money
in glass jars and that sort of thing. If the truth were known, the
entire haul has probably been spread all over the world by now.
One thing’s for certain, I’m not going to worry about them.” He
gestured to his surroundings. “With all due respect to my patrons, this place is a diamond mine in its own right.”

Back in my pickup, I stared out the window at the casino.
O’Donnell had sounded sincere. To be honest, I couldn’t see the
logic of someone in his position chasing after a will-o’-the-wisp
or the feu follet for diamonds that would bring nothing but grief.

Of course, I reminded myself, he might believe retrieving the
diamonds would further ingratiate himself to Joe Vasco, the
New Orleans mob leader.

One discomforting aspect of the PI life is that you tend
to lean toward cynicism. The mantra of Al Grogan, our resident Sherlock Holmes at Blevins’ Security, was “believe
nothing.”

That proved to be a most valuable piece of advice, often permitting me to perceive alternative agendas in running down the
solution in various cases.

Another discomforting aspect of the job is the cold reality
that in many instances, assaults, robberies, and other crimes go
unpunished, the guilty managing to slither away to find other
victims.

If someone had asked me at that moment if I believed I
would find those who jumped Jack, I would have said no.

By the time I parked under the carport, the moon had risen,
lighting the yard and walkways in eerie relief. One thing every
Louisianan knows is that if you walk the shores of a bayou at
night, you carry a flashlight and a big stick, because somewhere
along the way you’re going to run into a tangle of snakes holding a family reunion.

When Diane and I left that afternoon, we’d failed to leave a
light burning, so the house was dark. I opened the door and felt
along the wall for a switch.

When I found one, light flooded the living room, and I almost jumped out of my skin.

Coiled on the carpet not six feet away was a black snake.
Instinctively I jumped back onto the porch and slammed the
screen in front of me. When I did, the snake uncoiled and slithered across the room.

To my relief, I spotted the red blotches on its black scales and
realized it was only a mud snake, not the dreaded cottonmouth.
Cottonmouths-or water moccasins, as they’re sometimes
called-are belligerent and aggressive. While most snakes retreat at human approach, the cottonmouth obstinately refuses
to move, his musky odor permeating the air around him, and
his sullen attitude daring anyone to take a single step closer.

Still, a mud snake will bite if cornered, and this one was at
least five feet long, going on fifty as far as I was concerned. He
glided under the couch.

I rolled my eyes. Diane would have a heart attack if she
walked in and found a snake staring up at her. I couldn’t suppress a chuckle. If she were to see one, she’d climb the walls
and perch on the chandelier.

Slipping inside, I kept my eyes on the couch while I hastily
closed all the doors leading from the living area and jammed
towels under them, sealing off the front room from the rest of
the house.

Having grown up in the country in my grandparents’ old
house, we’d had more than one snake explore the premises.
I’ll never forget when I was about five or six, I rose during the
night and padded to the bathroom. Grand-mere Ola always kept
a small light on in the kitchen. As I passed the kitchen door, I
glanced inside. A snake slithering across the linoleum floor
paused, looked at me, and then continued casually on his way.

Next morning, I told Mamere. She shrugged it off. “Oh, that
be Jean. He been here since before you was born. He help keep the rats down.” She winked at me. “He big help around here,
not like some little garcons, me, I know.”

I knew she meant me, but I didn’t know she was teasing.

That was the last time I saw Jean, but a few months later,
Mamere told me she had found Jean dead and tossed him to the
hogs. “That what happens to all mauvais petit garcons.”

Remembering she had said Jean was more help to her than
me, and that I was sometimes a “bad little boy,” I had nightmares
for a week. If she would throw him to the hogs, what would
she do with me? For the next couple of months, I watched her
warily and made it a point to stay away from the hog pens.

Somehow, I didn’t think Diane would be quite as casual
about the presence of a snake in her house, so I planned to fall
back on a surefire method of ridding the area of snakes.

Rummaging through her kitchen spices, I found a bottle of
cloves. I crushed the small cloves and then boiled them in water.
The result was a poor substitute for clove oil, for which Grandmere Ola had had myriad uses, even my acne and occasional
warts.

After the water boiled down to a few ounces, I dumped the
contents from a plastic bottle of Formula 409 cleaner I found
under the sink and poured my solution of clove syrup into it. I
put some on my finger and tasted it. I could taste the clove, although it was much weaker than the real stuff.

I crossed my fingers and went back into the living room.
I propped open the front storm door, and then, with the handle
of a broom, raised the skirt on the bottom of the couch and
fired half a dozen squirts under it before jumping back.

The mud snake shot out one end of the couch and tried to
climb the wall. He fell back and headed my way. Stumbling
backward, I squirted again and yelled, “Hah!” He whipped
around and headed back toward the door. Ten seconds later, he
disappeared into the night.

I soaked the porch with my solution of clove. Finally, I closed
the door and relaxed on the couch. And then it hit me. How
did the mud snake get inside? If it had been my grandparents’ old home, it would be a moot question. That house was full of
holes, but this one?

I glanced around the living room. With the windows closed
and the doors shut, there was no way for a snake to slither in.
Besides, I remembered Jack saying they’d had the place sprayed
with snake repellent.

Digging out a flashlight, I turned on the porch lights and the
lights below. Downstairs, I searched the storage rooms as well
as the floor joists, which I discovered the contractors had completely closed in, leaving only tightly sealed hatches to access
various components needing service.

When I went back upstairs, the overpowering aroma of clove
smacked me in the face. I threw open the windows to air out
the house, wondering just how I would explain the smell to
Diane.

Later, after I turned off the lights, I stood staring out the storm
door into the pitch-black swamp. No question. My mud snake
had had help getting in.

But how, and why?

Obviously, someone wants to get rid of Jack and Diane.

And the reason why was a chump guess. The diamonds!

The next several minutes, I sorted through the tangle of events of the last couple of days, trying to put my thoughts into
order, if possible.

The scenario was simple. Someone wanted the diamonds, and
that someone figured the gems were on the premises. If they
could run Jack and Diane off, they could tear the place apart
without any interference.

I glanced out the window. As fanciful as it seemed, I had the
feeling the diamonds were close.

Of course, I reminded myself, I might be reaching too far,
trying to snatch at a possibility that never existed, but the snake
in the living room added enough to the conundrum to convince
me there was some substance to my tenuous theory.

I flipped on the kitchen light. Sitting at the snack bar that divided the kitchen from the dining area, I jotted down my ideas.
The mastermind of the ‘96 heist was Al Theriot, who owned a car dealership north of town. He was sent to Winn Correctional,
where he was killed in a riot in ‘97. I grinned. Killed? Not quite.
Assassinated was a much more apropos explanation.

According to O’banion, Theriot had had two accomplices,
both sent to prison and each leaving the slammer in a coffin.
Again, the handiwork of Joe Vasco.

Just recently, L. Q. Benoit, an ex-con fresh out of Winn, was
found dead on the outskirts of Priouxville. According to old
Rouly, it was the handiwork of the mythical loup-garou, a shapechanger that could take on the form of either human or animal.
That was a pile of nonsense. The old man was murdered, and
not by any specter.