Swamp Team 3 (23 page)

He snorted. “What the hell for?”

I bristled a bit at his obvious dismissal. He was a brute, but I could still take him. “Business.
Personal
business.”

He didn’t look remotely inclined to humor me, so I decided to try my
Godfather
, tough-guy move. The characters in those movies seemed to get whatever they wanted by pretending they were due everything. Maybe that was the only language the mob spoke.
 

“I don’t really appreciate being questioned this way,” I said. “I’m not going to provide details of my business to a guard. Are Big and Little available, or do I need to report this to my people?”

Ida Belle and Gertie stared at me as if I’d lost my mind. The Hulk stared at me for a moment, then laughed.

“Your people? Babe, you got a lot of nerve coming in here with that line of shit.” He reached under his jacket and pulled out a nine-millimeter. “Do you know who I am?”

Gertie picked that moment to break her vow of silence. “Do you know Jesus Christ?”

I looked over at her and shook my head. “Not now,” I whispered.

The Hulk scrunched his brow, apparently not sure what to think. I didn’t blame him. The situation was probably far from his norm. I was just about to suggest we leave when a voice called out behind him.

“Yo, Mannie. You got a problem over there?”

I leaned to the side to peer around him and saw a little guy, wearing a silk pin-striped suit and alligator loafers, walking toward us.

Thirtyish, five foot three, a hundred twenty pounds soaking wet and with clothes. Less threatening than damp toilet paper.

Mannie, aka the Hulk, stuffed his gun back in his jacket. “No, boss,” he said and straightened the jacket over his firearm. “These three ladies would like to see you about business, but they’re not in the appointment book.”

I glanced over at Ida Belle, who shrugged. Who knew the Mafia made appointments?

The small guy walked up to stand next to Mannie and gave us each the once-over. He must have decided that whatever we were up to was something he could handle, because he extended his hand toward me. “I’m Little Hebert. What can I do for you?”

This was Little Hebert? I’d taken the nickname as a junior/senior sort of thing, not an indication of stature. As I shook his hand, I tried to visualize Big using proportions of scale, but I couldn’t make it work.

I realized I’d never replied to Little and said, “Well, um, it’s about a loan.”

He smiled. “Why didn’t you say so? Let’s go upstairs and talk out the details with my father.” He motioned to a staircase behind the reception desk and followed behind us as we proceeded to the second floor. Mannie gave him a nod and slipped off into a room with a glass front.

One-way glass. That explained it. He’d watched before approaching us.

“Third door on the right,” Little called as we stepped onto the landing. I proceeded down the catwalk, opened the door, and found myself staring at the largest human being I’d ever seen in my life.
 

Midfifties, six foot three, five hundred pounds—maybe in the left leg alone. Threatening only if he sat on me, but he’d have to catch me first.

Big Hebert wore the same silk pin-striped suit as his son, and no way did it come off the rack. The cost of the fabric alone probably equaled the cost of an economy car. He was seated on a park bench positioned behind a mahogany desk. Apparently a chair that could hold all of him had not yet been made. I wondered briefly if there was a freight elevator somewhere in the warehouse because clearly, Big hadn’t seen a set of stairs in years.

“They’re here about a loan,” Little said.

Big motioned to a set of chairs in front of the desk and we all took seats, me in the middle. I was fairly certain none of us had blinked or released a breath since we’d entered the room. Little grabbed a barstool from the corner and sat next to his father. The barstool and the park bench put them at about the same height sitting down, and I had to work to suppress a grin.

Big pulled a stack of papers out of his desk and pushed them across to me. “I’ll need your social security number, list of assets, last two months’ pay stubs, and two forms of ID. How much do you need to borrow?”

Fascinated by all the paperwork, I picked up the stack and began to thumb through it until Ida Belle jabbed me in the ribs. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m afraid you misunderstood.”

Little’s expression darkened, so I hurried to explain.

“Or I probably didn’t explain things well,” I said.

Little relaxed.

“I don’t need a loan. I need to know if you made someone else a loan.”

Big and Little looked at each other, then back at me. “You the police?” Big asked.

“Do we look like the police?”
 

Little scanned the three of us. “The one in the T-shirt looks like that broad on
The Golden Girls
. The stupid one.”

I coughed to hold in a laugh and out of the corner of my eye, saw Ida Belle rub her mouth with her hand.

Gertie came alive. “Oh hell no. I am
not
Rose.”

Little shrugged. “Didn’t say you was. Said you looked like her.”

“And you are?” Big asked me.

“Sandy-Sue. I’m staying in Sinful for the summer, settling up some of my late aunt’s business. I’m a school librarian, not a cop.”

I must have met the appearance standards for a librarian because Big nodded. “We’re not in the business of providing information about our clients.” He leaned back on the bench and crossed his tree-trunk arms across his massive chest. “Surely you can appreciate that, working for the school system.”

“I understand and respect your policy. It’s just that the person I want to know about is dead. So I figured if you gave me information about him, it wouldn’t matter.”

And that’s when Gertie lost her cool and her vow of silence all over again.
 

“Unless, of course,” Gertie said, “you’re the one who killed him, and then I guess it would matter a lot, and it would be really stupid for us to be here asking you questions.”

Chapter Sixteen

Gertie sat back in her chair and took a deep breath. I clutched my chair arms, waiting for the hammer to drop. Big and Little both studied Gertie, probably waiting to see if she keeled over from a heart attack. She already looked to be in the preliminary stages of cardiac arrest, her face ashen and her body stiff.

“I assume,” Big said, turning his attention back to me, “that you’re referring to the very unfortunate Floyd Guidry?”
 

“Yes.”

“Even if this man is no longer a customer,” Big continued, “why should I tell you anything?”

I stared at him, praying for a moment of clarity. What in the world would make this man talk—the jaws of life? I couldn’t appeal to him on a personal level. Neither one would care if I were a suspect. They probably lived every minute of their lives as a suspect for something. I stretched my mind back to the Mafia movies I’d watched, trying to find some common thread to use as ammunition.
 

And then I had an idea.

“The truth is,” I said, “you shouldn’t tell me anything. It would be unprofessional. I’m only asking because Floyd was killed on my friend’s property.”

Big cocked his head to the side and started tapping his pen on the desk.

“She’s a young, single woman, living alone,” I continued, “and someone set fire to her house three nights ago. Her mother is dying and had to be placed in a facility in New Orleans, so she’s already dealing with a lot. Now she’s afraid to live in her own house. I know it’s not your problem, and I’m sure Floyd didn’t plan on dying, much less in her backyard. But the crux of the matter is, I feel it was disrespectful to bring my friend into all this, and I’d like to get her some answers so that she feels safe again.”

The tapping stopped. Big and Little straightened in their seats and looked at each other. Little nodded and Big looked back across the desk at me.

“It’s unprofessional to talk about a client, but me and Little are old-school when it comes to the importance of respect. That’s especially true when it comes to women, and a young single woman already grieving her mother’s impending passing should be afforded all the help we can provide. I’ll tell you what I know about Floyd, but I don’t think it’s going to help you any.”

Relief flooded my body and I barely contained myself from leaping out of the chair and yelling. “Thank you. You never know what might turn out to be important.”

Big nodded. “Floyd had an affinity for sports betting and the wrong kind of women. He’s most often a big loser in both cases. We loaned him money about two years ago, taking the title to his truck as collateral.”

“How much did you loan him?” I asked, more out of curiosity than any perceived relevance.

“Ten thousand dollars. To be repaid over a six-month period.” Big frowned. “Normally, we wouldn’t do business with someone like Floyd. He couldn’t keep a regular job and I couldn’t see that situation improving. But he’d just signed on for roughneck work on an oil rig, and I knew the pay would cover the loan.”

“Floyd didn’t make his bets with you?”

“No. We got out of the bookie business several years back. Too much competition in New Orleans. It wasn’t worth the administrative paperwork.”

I nodded. “Do you know who he owed?”

“He didn’t say and we don’t ask. It’s better that way.”

“Did Floyd pay you back?”

“People
always
pay me back.”

“You said that was two years ago…has he borrowed from you since?”

“No, but not from lack of trying. His last attempt was about four weeks ago.”

“May I ask why you didn’t do the deal? I mean, if he paid before?”

Big clasped his hands together on the desk, intertwining his fingers. “Despite the fact that we had no problem collecting from Mr. Guidry, every time I met with the man, it left me with a taste in my mouth that even whiskey couldn’t eliminate. I didn’t like his attitude or his standards, and he was completely without respect or manners. The aggravation wasn’t worth the profit.”

Feeling brave, I launched into my final question. “How do I know for sure that he paid you back? How do I know you didn’t get what you could out of him and then kill him to cut your losses.”

Big smiled. “You don’t.”

And that was that. Deciding I’d pressed my luck as far as it would reach, I rose and thanked him for his time. Gertie and Ida Belle followed suit, and Gertie dug two palm-size Scripture books out of her purse and left one for each of them on the desk. They looked at the books, then each other, clearly not certain what to make of the three of us.

“Thank you,” I said. “I really appreciate your talking to us, especially given the sensitive nature of the information and your position.”

Big gave me a nod. “I hope your friend gets her answers and finds some peace. I’ll light a candle for her mother.”

I noticed he didn’t mention lighting a candle for Floyd.

We followed Little back downstairs, where he handed me a card. “If you ever need a loan, remember our services.”

We made our way back to the car and I’d barely gotten my door closed before Ida Belle started in on Gertie. “Are you insane?” Ida Belle asked. “That guard pulled a gun on us just for being in the building, and then you come right out and imply that Big and Little killed Floyd.”

“I didn’t imply,” Gertie argued, wearing a sheepish expression. “I asked.”

Ida Belle rolled her eyes. “Right. Because that makes all the difference to a criminal. What happened to that promise you made not to talk?”

“I panicked. Sue me.”

I shook my head. “You asked the guard if he knew Jesus Christ. That’s not panic. That’s surrender.”

“Fine,” Gertie said. “You two can keep ragging on me, but I’m going to get us the hell out of here before they change their minds about the information they gave us.”

“Good idea,” I said.

Gertie put the Cadillac in reverse and floored it, almost sending me to the floorboard, then she shoved the car into drive and took off so fast, the back tires showered the parking area with dirt and rocks. Ida Belle shook her head and clicked her seat belt in place. I decided that with the way she was driving, I’d rather be loose, just in case she put the whole car into the bayou.

By the time we hit the highway, Gertie had gotten the mad out of her system and seemed to be back to normal.
 

“So, what do you think?” I asked.

“It seems to add up with our theory,” Ida Belle said. “We figured Floyd was into things that weren’t on the up-and-up. If he tried to borrow money a month ago, it was probably for whatever got him killed.”

“Gambling, I suppose. Still, you’d think they’d want their money more than they’d want him dead, assuming he’s always managed to pay in the past.”

“Maybe the bookies disliked Floyd as much as Big did,” Gertie suggested.

“That’s possible,” Ida Belle agreed. “If he was a constant problem, they might have chosen to cut their losses and make an example out of him at the same time.”