Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 13 - The Diamonds of Ghost Bayou by Kent Conwell Page A

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