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Authors: James Lee Burke
Tags: Fiction
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Jack?”
Now he owned a television station in Lafayette and one in Shreveport and was an editorial contributor on a national cable network. But regardless of his acquisitions, Val remained a hands-on journalist and took great pleasure in covering a story himself as well as immersing himself in the fray.
“You’re too late, podna,” I said.
“That’s what you think. I got a shot inside the ambulance at the intersection,” he replied. He motioned to his cameramen, who flooded the pond and the trees with light. One of them accidentally snapped the yellow crime scene tape that was wrapped around a pine trunk.
“You guys step back,” I said.
“Sorry,” the offending cameraman said.
But Val didn’t miss a beat. He extended his microphone in front of my face. “Does the victim have a name yet?” he said.
“No,” I replied.
But he slogged on, undeterred, and repeated the question, using the name of the missing DEQ official’s wife.
“Cut the bullshit, Val. You want information, talk to the sheriff,” I said.
He lowered the mike. “How you been?” he said.
“Great.” I slipped my hands into my back pockets and took a step closer to him, maybe because his aggressive manner had given me license I wouldn’t have had otherwise. “Did you know a guy by the name of Troy Bordelon?”
“No, I don’t think so. Who is he?”
“A dead guy who worked for your family.”
“A dead guy?”
“He gave me a deathbed statement about the disappearance of a prostitute named Ida Durbin. I think she was killed.” I held my eyes on his.
“I’m listening,” he said.
“A couple of rogue cops paid me a visit. Their names are J. W. Shockly and Billy Joe Pitts. These guys seemed worried about what Troy might have told me. Their names ring a bell?”
“Nope.” He looked idly at one of his cameramen who was filming the pond and the drag marks where the paramedics had pulled the body out of the water.
“And you never heard of Troy Bordelon?” I said.
“I just told you.”
“You’re a knowledgeable man, so I thought I’d ask,” I said.
He inserted a piece of gum into his mouth and chewed it, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You kill me, Dave. Come out to the plantation. We’ve got a cook from France now. I want him to fix a dinner especially for you.”
“I’m off butter and cream,” I said.
He laughed to himself and shook his head. “It was worth every minute of the drive out here. Have a good one.” He patted me on the shoulder and walked away, a self-amused grin on his face.
Let it go, I told myself. But I couldn’t take his imperious, fraternity-boy manner. I caught up with him at the passenger window of his van. “Ida Durbin worked in a hot pillow joint on Post Office Street in Galveston in 1958. Would your old man know anything about those places?” I said.
“You’re asking this about my father?” he said.
“Want me to repeat the question?” I said.
He touched at his nose and snapped his gum in his jaws. For a moment I thought he might step outside the vehicle. But he didn’t. “Dave, I’d love to get you your own show. The ratings would go through the roof. Let me make a couple of calls to New York. I’m not putting you on. I could swing it,” he said.
Then the van pulled away, bouncing through the dips in the road, the high beams spearing through the underbrush and trees.
You just blew it, bubba, I said under my breath.
I couldn’t find Clete for three days. The owner of the motor court where he lived said Clete had thrown a suitcase in his Cadillac early Friday morning, driven away with a wave of the hand, and had not returned.
But at dawn the following Monday, Clete called the house on his cell phone.
“Where are you?” I said.
“Across the bayou. In City Park. I can see your backyard from here.”
“Why the mystery?”
“My situation is a little warm right now. Anybody been around?”
“What have you done, Clete?”
“It’s under control.
Now he owned a television station in Lafayette and one in Shreveport and was an editorial contributor on a national cable network. But regardless of his acquisitions, Val remained a hands-on journalist and took great pleasure in covering a story himself as well as immersing himself in the fray.
“You’re too late, podna,” I said.
“That’s what you think. I got a shot inside the ambulance at the intersection,” he replied. He motioned to his cameramen, who flooded the pond and the trees with light. One of them accidentally snapped the yellow crime scene tape that was wrapped around a pine trunk.
“You guys step back,” I said.
“Sorry,” the offending cameraman said.
But Val didn’t miss a beat. He extended his microphone in front of my face. “Does the victim have a name yet?” he said.
“No,” I replied.
But he slogged on, undeterred, and repeated the question, using the name of the missing DEQ official’s wife.
“Cut the bullshit, Val. You want information, talk to the sheriff,” I said.
He lowered the mike. “How you been?” he said.
“Great.” I slipped my hands into my back pockets and took a step closer to him, maybe because his aggressive manner had given me license I wouldn’t have had otherwise. “Did you know a guy by the name of Troy Bordelon?”
“No, I don’t think so. Who is he?”
“A dead guy who worked for your family.”
“A dead guy?”
“He gave me a deathbed statement about the disappearance of a prostitute named Ida Durbin. I think she was killed.” I held my eyes on his.
“I’m listening,” he said.
“A couple of rogue cops paid me a visit. Their names are J. W. Shockly and Billy Joe Pitts. These guys seemed worried about what Troy might have told me. Their names ring a bell?”
“Nope.” He looked idly at one of his cameramen who was filming the pond and the drag marks where the paramedics had pulled the body out of the water.
“And you never heard of Troy Bordelon?” I said.
“I just told you.”
“You’re a knowledgeable man, so I thought I’d ask,” I said.
He inserted a piece of gum into his mouth and chewed it, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You kill me, Dave. Come out to the plantation. We’ve got a cook from France now. I want him to fix a dinner especially for you.”
“I’m off butter and cream,” I said.
He laughed to himself and shook his head. “It was worth every minute of the drive out here. Have a good one.” He patted me on the shoulder and walked away, a self-amused grin on his face.
Let it go, I told myself. But I couldn’t take his imperious, fraternity-boy manner. I caught up with him at the passenger window of his van. “Ida Durbin worked in a hot pillow joint on Post Office Street in Galveston in 1958. Would your old man know anything about those places?” I said.
“You’re asking this about my father?” he said.
“Want me to repeat the question?” I said.
He touched at his nose and snapped his gum in his jaws. For a moment I thought he might step outside the vehicle. But he didn’t. “Dave, I’d love to get you your own show. The ratings would go through the roof. Let me make a couple of calls to New York. I’m not putting you on. I could swing it,” he said.
Then the van pulled away, bouncing through the dips in the road, the high beams spearing through the underbrush and trees.
You just blew it, bubba, I said under my breath.
I couldn’t find Clete for three days. The owner of the motor court where he lived said Clete had thrown a suitcase in his Cadillac early Friday morning, driven away with a wave of the hand, and had not returned.
But at dawn the following Monday, Clete called the house on his cell phone.
“Where are you?” I said.
“Across the bayou. In City Park. I can see your backyard from here.”
“Why the mystery?”
“My situation is a little warm right now. Anybody been around?”
“What have you done, Clete?”
“It’s under control.
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