Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 07 - The Swamps of Bayou Teche by Kent Conwell

the situation. “That little feller is
a standup comic, Pike. He does an act at the Red Pigeon Nightclub on Sixth Street in Austin.”
    An overweight mama in full leathers shouted, “Hey,
I been there! A real gas, it is. Almost as good as five
lines of coke.”
    Everyone laughed and clamored for Jack to do his nightclub act, and like all clowns, he agreed, regaling
them with a plethora of obscene jokes and stories.
There were no aisles to have them rolling in, so they
had to settle for the grass. Of course, by this time, so
many of them were zonked with the booze and pills
that it was impossible to say what put them on the
grass, Jack’s jokes or the booze.

    I couldn’t help noticing one of the older mamas was
paying special attention to Jack. I didn’t think too
much about it at the time. When his act was over, I
suggested we leave, but to my surprise, Jack backed
off. “A few minutes longer,” he said, his eyes fixed on
the adoring mama. “I’m having a good time. I was
wrong. These guys are okay”
    Before I could protest, Texas Red waved me over.
He pointed to a newcomer, a lanky, heavily bearded
biker with suspicious eyes. “This is Demonio, that’s
Portuguese for the devil, which is what he is when
he’s mad,” he said with a leer. “He saw something.”
    I forgot all about Jack. I held my breath. “At the
river?”
    Demonio eyed Texas Red, who shook his head. “No
sweat. Tony here’s one of us. Don’t worry”
    Demonio looked at me with eyes cold as ice. “Four
or five days ago, I was crossing the river when I spotted a black Chevrolet Suburban parked on the levee.
Just before sunup” He paused, then added. “There
was a red Jeep parked beside it.”

     

I stared at him, not absorbing his words at first. “A
red Jeep?”
    “Yeah. Looked like a new one. One of them
Cherokees.”
    Before I could question Demonio further, Jack
rushed up and grabbed my arm. “Tony. Let’s go. You
hear? Let’s go”
    “What’s wrong?” I looked around, and standing in
the open door of the ramshackle shack was the adoring mama, her hands on her expansive hips and laughing at the top of her lungs.
    That was fine with me. I had what I wanted. I turned
to Red and extended my hand. “Thanks, Red. Look
me up in Austin sometime.” I nodded to Demonio.
“Thanks.”

    He grunted. “Where’s the booze?”
    I pointed to Red. “He’ll show you”
    Despite my prodding and amusement at Jack’s discomfort, he refused to reveal any of the details that
prompted him to leave so hastily.
    Finally, he jerked his head around and glared at me. “You might as well shut up about it, Tony. You’ll never
find out what happened back there. Never!”
    With a chuckle, I leaned back and closed my eyes.
    At noon, Jack pulled up in front of Interiors by
Suzanne across the town square from the Cocodrie
State Bank in Maida. “Fancy looking place,” he commented.
    I had to agree. The building was white brick with the
name Interiors by Suzanne emblazoned in gold script
across windows black as coal. It was bold and striking.
    “Back in a few minutes,” I said, climbing from the
car.
    Jack grunted. “I’m going down and pick up some
beer and a toothbrush and a change of clothes. I’ll be
waiting out here for you.”
    The salesperson directed me to the main office.
    Sue Cullen was a petite woman, as striking as the
statement her building made to the public. Her ebony
black hair fell over her shoulders, a marked contrast to
her creamy complexion. Having grown up in the heart
of Creole Louisiana, I instantly recognized her ge nealogy. She wore a subdued, but striking knee-length
green skirt and a white blouse with ruffles about the
neck and wrists. Her fingernails were at least two
inches long, and shaped like green daggers-to match
her dress, I guessed.

    Sometimes I’m slow on the uptake around women,
but it didn’t take a brain surgeon to see why Hardy desired an intimate