Ice Fire: A Jock Boucher Thriller by David Lyons Page B

me that my grandfather must be rolling over in his grave. Grandpappy favored the other side of the law.”
    They reached the bayou country and its two-lane causeways built on levees crossing one mangrove swamp, then another. Small towns formed where spits of raised dry land separated the marshes. Dusk had fallen, and before them a garish neon sign blinked next to a shack on the side of the road.
    KISS MY ASS, SUCK MY HEAD, EAT ME, the sign read.
    “Looks like just the place,” Jock said, and pulled into a gravel-covered parking lot. He killed the engine and turned to his passenger. “Honey, you are about to learn the fine art of eating crawfish.”
    They were early to the crawfish boil, but not the first customers. A mom, dad, and three kids were digging into a small mountain of the shrimplike crustaceans. They looked up at the new arrivals, the children wide-eyed until the mother told them not to stare at people and to eat their dinner. They did as they were told.
    “I’m surprised to see children here,” Malika said, “with that crude sign out front. In fact, I’m surprised that kind of language is allowed on a public road.” The waitress coming to seat them wore the same crude commands on her T-shirt.
    “Hon,” the waitress said, “that’s one of the prettiest outfits I’ve ever seen. Where on earth did you get that?”
    “It’s made in India,” Malika said, returning her smile. “Like me. But I bought this one on the Internet.”
    “Umm, umm. I had me one of those, my man would never let me out of the house. You folks hungry?”
    “That’s why we’re here,” Jock said.
    She gave him an approving once-over as well. The judge was dressed in simple tan slacks, a blue oxford shirt, and Top-Siders. They were shown to a picnic table covered with newspaper. A young boy carried a large stainless steel pot and dumped its contents in the center of the table: a mountain of crawfish, ears of corn, potatoes, and whole onions. He flashed a dazzling smile for the benefit of the exotically dressed woman.
    “We got beer, ice tea, and Pepsi,” he said.
    “Couple ice teas,” Jock said; then, to Malika, “We’ve got a long evening ahead of us.”
    In addition to the crude language emblazoned on each worker’s T-shirt, KISS MY ASS, SUCK MY HEAD, EAT ME was on half a dozen signs around the restaurant.
    “Folks here don’t find it offensive,” Jock said. “It’s how you eat these things. Now do as I do. Take one in both hands. Take the head in the fingers of your left hand, grab the tail in your right, and pinch. Good. Now twist. That’s it. Okay, put the head down for now and bite down just to the tail. Chomp. Good, huh? The next part is optional but if you don’t do it, you’ll be treated like an alien. Take the head and suck out the juices.” Malika watched him, then gamely followed suit.
    “That’s delicious,” she said, “maybe the best part.”
    “Glad you like them. I thought you might.”
    “Just wait till I get you to Mumbai,” she said with a coy grin.
    Jock and Malika finished their mound of shellfish but declined the offer of another. Their principal destination lay ahead. “The zydeco place is not much farther,” Jock said, “but I like to get there before the band and get the best seat.”
    They beat the band, but just. Two musicians followed them inthe door and set up on a small raised stage. Jock picked a table nearly touching the dance area.
    “Is that the band?” Malika asked.
    On the small stage was a black drummer, skinny as a snake, with a single snare drum. His wrists were not much thicker than the drumsticks he held in bony fingers. Sitting next to him was a short stocky white man with a several-day-old beard as counterpoint to a head as bald as an egg. He pulled an accordion from a battered carrying case, and plugged in a mike to a portable amplifier. Both men looked hungover.
    “Just the two of them? That’s the band?” Malika asked.
    “Usually guest musicians drop