Blood tracks, p.10
Blood Tracks, page 10
‘Had a falling out?’
‘And some. Ron caught Wynne with his wife, Celia, and there was a huge bust-up. Their dispute spilled over right here a month ago and they had to be pulled apart by the other boys. Most of them took Ron’s part and hustled Wynne outside. I didn’t see, but Wynne was sent packing – if you catch my meaning?’ Marnie didn’t elaborate, but didn’t have to. There had been some old-fashioned retribution laid on by the Cottonmouths. ‘I’m doubting that Wynne left a forwarding address with Ron or Celia, ’specially seeing as they’ve patched things up between them now.’
Tess mopped her brow with her fingertips, unconscious of the motion. Po brushed against her as leaned over the desk. ‘You said “most of them”,’ he said to Marnie.
‘Huh?’
‘Most of them took Ron’s part. Somebody didn’t.’
Tess was impressed, though mildly irritated. She was the details person and she’d missed the obvious, whereas Po had been right on it. Marnie shrugged slim shoulders with barely any effect on her oversized T-shirt. ‘There were a few of the boys thought Ron was overreacting.’ She made a face that said she disagreed strongly with the rebels. ‘You think maybe one of them stayed in touch with Wynne? Possibly.’
‘Can you put us in touch with any of them?’ Tess asked hopefully.
Marnie exhaled through her nostrils. She leaned back, meeting first Po’s gaze, then Tess’s. ‘I wasn’t entrusted with my chair position for being green.’ Marnie took off her spectacles, and cleaned the lenses on the tail of her shirt. Placing the glasses back on, she eyed Tess spuriously. ‘I know y’all ain’t friends of Crawford Wynne. Hell, girl, you’re the corn-fed type he’d eat for breakfast, and I don’t think ol’ Hank there would take too kindly to that kinda behaviour. There’s some other reason y’all are looking for Wynne and I can’t imagine it’s a good one.’
The old woman had apparently been around the block a few times and wasn’t as gullible as Tess hoped. The game was up, then. It was time to go for broke and tell the truth, but again Po interjected. ‘He owes me money. Wasn’t sure you’d tell us where to find him if you owed Wynne any loyalty. But I can see now that you don’t regard him too highly.’
‘Must be a lot of money to warrant a trip all the way here to Morgan City.’ Marnie sneered to show she wasn’t buying Po’s explanation either.
‘It’s not so much the cash that counts, it’s the principle,’ Po said without missing a beat. ‘Wynne owes me and I intend to make him pay.’
Marnie grinned. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’ But then she held up a finger, and Tess noted that the polish was in need of reapplication as urgently as her lipstick. ‘If you’ve a personal beef with Crawford Wynne, then that’s your business. But this here club is my responsibility. I don’t want you bringing trouble to its door, not when I’ve tried so hard to clean up its image. These days the Cottonmouth MCC is a charitable institution and we ain’t losing our licence for nobody.’
‘So point us in the right direction,’ Po said, ‘and we’ll go away. You won’t see or hear from us again.’
Marnie squinted behind her spectacles, cocking her head like a quizzical dog. A tiny rainbow flared off an oily smear she’d missed cleaning off the right lens. She glanced back at the trio playing checkers, and not a one of them returned the look. She leaned forward, flipping pages in the ledger. Then tapped a chipped nail on one name. ‘Jerome Benoit. You might try him.’
‘Thanks,’ Po said, ‘an address would be helpful, though.’
‘I’m not giving you his home address, but you could try speaking with him in person. He’s along with the others getting ready for the charity rally. You’ll find the club massing on Pine and Lakewood, readying for a ride to raise funds for Teche Regional.’
‘How will we recognize him?’ Tess wondered.
‘He’ll be riding the trike, the only three-wheeler in the group. But if he doesn’t happen to be astride it, look for the good-looking boy, looks like that Pretty Woman actor. But I’ll warn you up front,’ Marnie said with a sour grin. ‘That boy ain’t no officer or a gentleman.’
‘Noted,’ Po said.
Marnie held up a warning finger. ‘And I’ll also remind you: the Cottonmouths are doing a charitable rally for the sick children, y’hear? I don’t want to hear of any mess or fuss when you talk to Jerome.’
‘I’ll keep things nice and quiet, under the radar,’ Po pledged.
THIRTEEN
The air shifted, and bars of light flickered, and without looking up from her work, Marnie Ross knew someone had entered the clubhouse, even before she heard the faint squeak of the hinge as the door was released behind them. Her first thought was that the couple had returned to prod her for more information on goddamn Crawford Wynne. She’d warned that she wanted no mess or fuss from them, and already they’d come back to bother her again. What part of fuss didn’t they understand?
The door opened again, and shadow was cast over her desk in the foyer. Only then did she glance up, hoping to see that ignoring them had done the trick and sent them off without troubling her a second time. But instead of the cowboy and the corn-fed girl, she found a different couple staring down at her. It was two men, one fair-haired, and the other one darker. They were dressed in shirts and sports jackets, over trousers, but to her the image didn’t fit: they looked like they’d dressed for the occasion, to form a false impression, and their disguises said more about them than the tough set of their jaws. They were detectives, or they were rivals from another outlaw biker outfit. Neither impression sweated her. She’d dealt with cops and punks in the past and likely would again in the future. She peered at them sourly over the rims of her glasses, waiting for them to announce their intentions.
The blond man swept a disdainful glance over her, before stepping aside and checking out the view inside the clubhouse. Back there a trio of the boys was bickering in good humour over a game of checkers. The blond took an uninvited step past Marnie’s desk and she held up a hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but who are y’all?’
The blond ignored her, moving to the doorway for a better view of the club. The darker guy stepped closer to her desk, and he pulled the ledger towards him that she’d earlier checked for Ron Edgerton’s details, but had neglected to return to its drawer. Marnie snapped a hand down on it, caring a damn that her chipped nails almost raked skin from his fingers. He jerked his hand away, folding his fingers into a fist.
‘You don’t get to touch that without a warrant, son,’ Marnie snapped.
She expected him to badge her, start throwing around the weight of officialdom. He didn’t. He swore, and he wasn’t kind about her age or her looks. Marnie rocked back in her seat.
‘You ain’t the police, right? Trust me, son, I can see right through you. I’ve been cussed at by cops before and they make a darn better job of it than you.’
The man looked momentarily taken aback, and that suited Marnie. Place him on his back foot and she’d already started the process of deflating his bubble. To further disarm him, she ignored him, turning instead to the blond. ‘You! You’ve no right going back there. Unless you want to pay your subs and join the club, it’s for members only.’
The blond eyed her as if she was something he’d tracked inside on his shoe. He approached her, stood over her. ‘We’re only taking a look around. There a problem with that?’
‘My problem is that this is a private club,’ Marnie stated. ‘You do know the meaning of the term?’
Ignoring the remark, the blond sniffed. He looked at his pal. ‘Doesn’t look as if he’s here.’
‘No,’ said the dark-haired man.
‘Y’all are looking for Crawford Wynne, right?’ said Marnie, and she made his name sound like shit. ‘Just like the couple that just left are.’
The two glanced at each other, but didn’t elect to answer. They didn’t have to. It was apparent that Wynne had attracted trouble, but that didn’t surprise her: that man carried trouble like stink on a mangy dog.
‘Did you tell those others where Wynne is?’ asked the blond.
‘Nope. And I’m not telling y’all either,’ she said. ‘Now. There’s the door. Don’t let it hit you on the ass on the way out.’
Again the two shared a glance, but this time Marnie wondered if she’d gone too far. They weren’t put off by her spikey attitude.
‘We should get Hector,’ the dark-haired man suggested.
‘We should,’ said the blond, then directed his next words at Marnie, ‘I’m sure he’ll get you talking.’
Marnie crossed her arms beneath her breasts. ‘Fetch whoever you want, honey. I’ve friends I can call too. Henry! Jimmy! I could do with y’all through here. There’s a coupla bozos refusing to leave.’
In the clubroom, the two guys set aside their checkers game, scraping back their chairs and standing. The third man also moved to join them. They were all big, muscled, tattooed, and wearing leather vests and denim jeans. Their faces were set with dire promises of violence, and they bunched their fists in anticipation.
The blond and the dark-haired man looked at each other but didn’t retreat. They smiled in anticipation, but it was because they’d seen another man appear through a doorway at the back of the room. Marnie followed their gazes and spotted him though, and indignation jolted her out of her seat. ‘Hey! How did you get in there?’
Her words turned the trio of bikers in their tracks.
The man named Hector kept coming, and he was only feet from them before he allowed a knife to slip from his sleeve and he palmed the handle.
If Hector’s intention in showing the weapon was only to motivate answers, Marnie would never know, because the Cottonmouth trio responded the way they would if confronted by a rival gang member: they switched to full testosterone mode. They went from gentle lambs enjoying their board game to angry bears. The air was split by curses, and the aggressive posturing of overheated bodies. The biker called Henry Thibodaux slapped his hands on his chest, then threw out his cupped palms, curling his fingers, challenging Hector to try it.
Hector complied, but he didn’t go for the big guy confronting him, he made a strange swooping motion of his upper torso, crabbed sideways and jabbed out with the blade. It went under James le Boeuf’s chin, stabbing upward through the hairy skin of his throat, and Marnie was positive she saw a glint of steel in Jimmy’s open mouth as it opened in shock. Hector withdrew the blade, snicking it down, and a line of blood spattered the floor. Jimmy’s hands went to his throat and mouth, and he staggered aside. It was a drama of seconds. When Hector turned to Henry, the big guy had lost his will for a fight and he backpedalled away. The third Cottonmouth charged for the far corner, and the exit door where Hector had entered.
Marnie was horrified by the fleeing biker’s display of cowardice, and she screeched out a cry. If she’d a gun she might have shot him in the back herself, but she didn’t have to. Beside her the blond pulled out a revolver, and he took a wild shot at the man. The round hit wood somewhere near him, and the biker bent suddenly at the waist, and practically threw himself for the door. He crashed through it out of sight, and out of Marnie’s immediate concern.
Jimmy was on the floor now, making muffled squeaks as he tried to stem the blood pouring out of him. Henry was still backpedalling from Hector, who came on with no emotion in his dull gaze. His dead eyes, and the surety of their promise of uncompromising violence, were enough for Henry. He spun and looked for an escape, but there was nowhere to go but through the two men and Marnie, who was hemmed between them. Rather them than the maniac with the blade. He hollered and came at a full charge, shoving desks and chairs aside. Maybe he intended scooping up Marnie as he barrelled through, but again she would never know. The blond shot at Henry. This close there was no missing. The bullet struck him under the sternum, and Henry crashed face down, arms reaching almost to their feet. He didn’t attempt a heroic crawl for them, because all life had fled as the bullet destroyed his heart.
Marnie’s mouth dropped open.
She was cold, even the inside of her mouth felt icy.
She was no newcomer to violence. Hell, she’d run with the Cottonmouth MCC back when they were feared outlaw bikers, and had witnessed dozens of knifings, shoot-outs, and brawls, often taking part in them when she was younger and ramped up on amphetamines and coke. But as age caught up, and sensibilities changed, and other avenues presented where the club could funnel funds without the need for violence, she’d been disconnected from that turbulent world. Having raw-edged viciousness present like this was like being doused in icy water one second then set aflame with gasoline the next. Her mind reeled.
When the dark-haired man grabbed her collar and yanked her forward, scalding heat finally washed through her. She could feel her face burning. Her eyes were too dry.
‘Why did you shoot him?’
Hector’s words were for the blond.
‘He was coming for us, I had to stop him,’ said the blond, and his tone said he feared his scarred companion.
‘I would have stopped him,’ Hector stated, and he lifted his knife. There was not a drop of Jimmy’s blood on it.
‘You get her still,’ said the blond, with a jerk of his revolver towards Marnie.
‘But I do not get the time to fully enjoy her.’ Hector aimed the blade at the far door. ‘One of them got away. He’ll bring the police here. I told you, no shooting. Ustedes los norteamericanos: you watch too many fucking cowboy movies.’
‘Sorry, man,’ the blond said.
Hector sniffed away the apology, then stepped over the recumbent form of Henry, and stood with his gargoyle face inches from Marnie’s.
‘Tell me where to find Crawford Wynne.’ He set the tip of his knife against her left cheek. ‘Unless you want me to cut out your eyes? Dime, vieja mujerzuela.’
She didn’t require a translation to understand the urgency of his demand. Marnie pointed, and the blond grabbed the ledger from her desk. He jammed it into Marnie’s hands. ‘Quick about it,’ he snapped.
Shaking, struggling with the pages, she finally found what she was looking for. ‘Here,’ she indicated a name. ‘He’s staying with Jerome Benoit, right here in Morgan City. I … I don’t have Benoit’s address, but I’m … I’m sure you can easily find out where he is.’
‘The others that came looking for Wynne, you told them this also?’ Hector asked.
Marnie nodded, her head down. She clutched the ledger to her chest as if it would stop whatever was coming.
‘Then time is shorter than I thought.’ Hector’s head swivelled towards the blond man. ‘Shooting that fool might have been the right thing to do after all. Now. You may as well shoot her. As much as I’d like to I won’t waste any more of my time on the puta.’
Hector walked away.
The blond lifted his gun, but he paused.
It wasn’t because he was loath to shoot her, Marnie understood.
‘Better let her go,’ he said to his pal, who still held Marnie’s collar. ‘Unless you want covered in her brains?’
Marnie moaned.
‘You really want to do this?’ the dark-haired man asked.
Blondie took a quick glance at Henry and the blood pooling round him.
‘I’ve already crossed that line,’ he said, then winked at Marnie. ‘As my buddy Hector would say: Adiós, puta.’
FOURTEEN
The Cottonmouth MCC had massed at the intersection of Pine Street and Lakewood Drive, for easy access to the I-90, which they planned taking over the Atchafalaya River to Berwick, then on up to New Iberia. There were upward of forty motorcycles, plus two support vans decorated with the club decals, and strewn with banners denoting the fundraising rally. There were also upward of forty riders, plus pillion passengers, and others solely on foot, toting plastic collection buckets. Passers-by and well-wishers had also gathered to see off the convoy, and there was a general air of carnival about the proceedings. The tough image of a motorcycle gang was leavened by joviality, face paint, and even fancy dress costumes. Po wasn’t buying it; despite Marnie’s assurance that the Cottonmouths were now good ol’ boys raising funds for charities, he knew it was all a public front to divert the cops from what they got up to in their private time. Charitable institutes didn’t make deadly enemies of the likes of Trey Robinson by shaking collection tins.
Marnie’s description of Jerome Benoit didn’t help, because he didn’t look like the actor Marnie had alluded to, dressed as an ape and waving a huge inflatable plastic banana. But Marnie had been correct when stating he’d be the only one riding a three-wheeler. Tess commented on the Honda Goldwing’s aesthetic beauty, but Po was nonplussed. ‘Those things are fit only for ageing baby boomers with weak knees and swollen ankles,’ he snipped.
They stood at the fringes of the parked convoy, watching while men and women in leathers and denim prepared for the reasonably short trip. They were inconspicuous enough, and twice already Tess had dropped coins into buckets rattled under their noses, so to the Cottonmouths they were simply a pair of onlookers like all the rest. Some of those that had come to see off the rally mingled with the motorcyclists, and they could have too, but Po had urged caution. He was waiting to get Benoit alone but until now he’d been ensconced firmly at the centre of the high japes and had attracted a crowd of his own. He hooted and danced on his trike, bopping passers-by over their heads with the banana, orchestrating laughter from the audience.
