Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 08 - Death in the French Quarter (6 page)

“Probably the other way around,” I replied, nodding
to the neighborhood.

With a chuckle, he climbed out. “Whatever you say,
cuz”

Albert Mouton answered the door promptly. He was
a short, roly-poly Cajun with black curly hair and long
sideburns and a neatly trimmed mustache. He frowned
at me, then glanced at Leroi. The frown disappeared.
“Oui, monsieur?”

I introduced Leroi and myself. “Mr. Mouton, I’m a
private investigator from Austin, Texas. This is my
cousin, Leroi Thibodeaux.” He arched a quizzical eyebrow as I continued. “I’m not a cop, and I don’t have
any authority over here, but I would like to visit with
you a few minutes about Louis Guidry.”

His face stiffened momentarily, then relaxed.
“Louis? What about him? Last I heard, dat one, he be in
prison.”

“He’s dead, Mr. Mouton. Some trouble in prison.”

Mouton scratched a sideburn. “So, what for you want
to talk to me then?”

“Just information, that’s all. You might be able to
help. You might not.”

He studied us a moment, then pushed open the
screen. “Oui. Come in.”

The living room was small. He gestured to a flowery
couch with arms so worn that the flowers were faded.
“Coffee? Me, I just make a pot”

“Thank you.”

The walls of the living room were covered with photos, as was the top of his console TV. Idly, I studied them
awaiting his return. There were several of him and a
comely dark-haired woman, darker than he. And at the
back of the TV was a photo of Mouton and Louis Guidry
standing in front of a black Chevrolet pickup about two
or three years older than mine sitting out by his front gate.

I could hear the clatter of dishes and the hum of a
microwave from the kitchen. Moments later the rotund
man returned, carrying a tray with three demitasse cups
and saucers, sugar and cream. In the middle of the tray
was a stack of hot bread and next to it was a saucer of
butter.

I arched an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me. Homemade
bread?”

He beamed as he sat the tray on the coffee table.
“Me, I make it, but my wife, Clothene, she do it better.”
A tiny frown knit his brow. “But, her, she be passed
now five years”

“I’m sorry. That must be her picture on the TV.”

Mouton glanced at the photos and sighed. “Me, I
miss that woman like I never thought I could”

I felt Leroi glance at me, but I kept my eyes on Mouton. “It must be hard.”

A sad smile played over his lips. He gestured to the
tray. “Help yourself.”

One of the simple pleasures among past generations
of Cajun gatherings was the serving of freshly baked
bread with a wipe of butter and syrupy coffee strong
enough to shrink your gums.

I washed the first mouthful of yeasty bread down
with the thick, rich coffee and licked my lips. “This is
delicious. It’s been a long time since I had coffee and
homemade bread”

He looked at me in surprise. “You be from around
here?”

“Church Point. I still have family there. My cousin,
Leroi here, is from Opelousas”

Mouton seemed to relax somewhat.

“Tell me, Mr. Mouton. The name of your town,
Melungo. It’s an unusual name.”

“Means shipmate,” he replied, buttering a chunk of
hot bread. “This part of de state is mostly Melungeonsmixed race. Sometimes, they be called Redbones. From
what me, I hear, is dat Melungo is some kind of African
language. When de black man, he was brought over, they
called each other Melungo, shipmates.” He shrugged.
“At least, dat’s what I hear.”

Nodding my understanding, I sipped my coffee.
“Sounds like a friendly little town,” a comment I would
later choke on. Causally, I asked, “You and Louis
Guidry were good friends?”

A guarded look filled his eyes, giving me the distinct
impression he was hiding something. He picked his
words too carefully. “Oh, non. Not good friends. We
know each other. Him and me, we don’t see each other
for eight, ten years now.”

“He claimed that on Tuesday March 12, 2002, he
was here with you. Spent the night here.”

Mouton nodded, his flabby cheeks bouncing up and
down. “Dat’s what he say, but me”-he cleared his
throat-“me, I was in New Orleans.”

I shrugged and frowned. “Odd. Wonder why he said
that? He had to know the prosecution would check his
alibi with you.”

“I never understand dat either. Poor Louis.” He
looked at me and then to Leroi. “Me, I do anything to
help him, but, I can’t lie.”

“You go to New Orleans often?”

“Oui. De French Market. About once a month to deliver goods”

I shrugged. “You have a shop over there?”

“Oh, non. Me, I supply leather goods for booths in
de market”

“Must keep you hustling,” I replied, laughing.

He grinned. “Me, I stay busy, sometimes busier than
I want”

“I see. Let me ask you one more question, Mr. Mouton, and then I’ll leave you alone. What about a man
named Guilbeaux, Kahlil Guilbeaux or one named Sebastian Mancini. You ever hear of them?”

He pondered the question a moment, then shook his
head. “Sorry. Not never.”

I’ve always believed that life is an uncertain mixture
of effort and happenstance. That’s the only explanation
I have for the phone ringing at that particular moment.
I couldn’t make much sense listening to half of a conversation, but I surmised he was being informed about
some business meeting.

When he replaced the receiver, he grinned sheepishly.
“Sorry about de interruption. Dat was the city secretary
reminding me of de city council meeting next Tuesday”

Tuesday? Tucking that little tidbit of information in
the back of my head, I chuckled. “Like I said, you stay
pretty busy between the city council meetings and the
French Market in New Orleans.”

He eyed me warily, then grinned. “Ever since my
Clothene pass, me, I find something to keep busy”

“That’s when you went on the city council, after your
wife passed away”

“Oui.” He held up his hand, splaying his stubby fingers and thumb. “Five year now.”

“Five years?” I shook my head in appreciation.
“That’s a long time to serve your community. You’re to
be commended” I stood and extended my hand. “Well,
I guess that’s it. I appreciate your time.”

“Sorry, me, I couldn’t help you no more.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Mouton. Sometimes finding
nothing is as helpful as finding something.”

Back in the pickup, Leroi buckled his seat belt.
“Now, what?”

I slammed my door and reached for the seat belt.
“Now, I want to find out why Albert Mouton lied.”

Leroi gaped at me in surprise. “What did you say?”

I pulled onto the street and headed for downtown
Melungo. “Our Mr. Mouton lied about Guidry. Remember, he said he hadn’t seen him in eight or ten
years”

“Yeah. I remember. So?”

“So, there is a photo of Guidry and Mouton standing
in front of a black 2001 Chevrolet Silverado.”

Leroi shook his head. “I didn’t notice.”

“It was there, and if a person lies about one thing,
they’ll lie about others. Even at first, I felt like something
was wrong, that he was hedging on the truth. I’m convinced that fat little Cajun knows more than he’s saying.”
I peered through the windshield as we approached the
town square. “I don’t know how much he told us was a lie
or how much was the truth, but I’m going to figure it out.”

“Where are we going now?”

I glanced at my watch. Three-fifteen. “My breakfast
is down to my toes. Let’s find us a motel, and then get a
bite to eat”

“I won’t argue that, cuz”

After checking into the Redbird Motel on Highway
111, we backtracked three blocks up the two-lane hardtop to Andre Valerien’s Tavern, which, according to the
flashing green and red marquee by the side of the highway, was the Home of World Famous Andre Valerien’s
Barbecue.

A dozen or so pickups and sedans were parked in front.

Inside, both pool tables at the end of the tavern were
busy, four men in overalls sat hunched at the bar, and
diners filled three of the eight tables in the middle of
the room.

We slipped in at a table and ordered a barbecue plate
and a beer. Leroi arched an eyebrow when I ordered
beer. “What about AA?”

I shrugged. “Sometimes I backslide.”

When the waitress slid our plates on the table, I
glanced at her nametag. In a friendly voice, I said, “Hi,
Calinda. Listen, we’re new here in town. An attorney
hired me to find two gentlemen, Kahlil Guilbeaux and
Sebastian Mancini. They’re beneficiaries of a class action suit that will bring them a good deal of money. I
was told they lived in Melungo, but I couldn’t find an
address for them. The attorney has authorized me to
pay up to five hundred dollars to whoever helps me find them. We’re staying at the Redbird Motel tonight, room
two-one-three. “

She paused a moment, then shook her head. “Don’t
know nobody by dat name, mister. Sorry.”

After she left, Leroi leaned across the table. Under
his breath, he whispered, “What are you talking about?
You’re not working for no attorney.”

I arched a sly eyebrow. “Welcome to the dark world
of private investigators, cousin.”

He frowned and glanced over his shoulder. “Oh. Do
you think that’ll work?”

“Beats me, but I’ve always noticed that a few bucks
laid in someone’s palm usually gets a little action.”

He grinned at me. “Maybe more than you figure, you
ever think of that?”

“Yeah. More than once” From the corner of my eye,
I noticed the waitress pause to visit with some of the
pool players who glanced suspiciously in my direction.
I grinned to myself.

After I finished my meal, I circulated through the
tavern, giving everyone the same story.

Before eight that evening, we hit six more taverns,
spilling out the same story in each of them. “Now, we
go back to the motel and wait.”

Leroi shook his head “You know, cuz. This ain’t no
James Bond movie. Things like that”-he nodded to
the tavern-“just don’t happen”

“We’ll see, cuz, we’ll see” I grinned and started the
truck.

I spent the evening updating my cards and making
notes about the day’s activities while Leroi sprawled on
one of the beds watching reality shows on the boob
tube. I was still floundering without any real direction,
nor would I have one unless I could find Guilbeaux or
Mancini. I glanced at the cards spread on the table before me, focusing on Albert Mouton’s.

The little man was hiding something, but how could
I prove it? Then I remembered the phone call, reminding him of the city council meeting. I checked the calendar. Today was the third. That meant that next
Tuesday would be the ninth, and the second Tuesday of
the month.

An idea hit me between the eyes. Quickly, I pulled
out my laptop and, using the motel’s wireless, went online and discovered that March 12, 2002 was a Tuesday, the second Tuesday of the month.

A slow grin spread over my face. I knew exactly how
to find out if he were lying. All I had to do was check
the minutes of the March 12, 2002 city council meeting. By law, attendance had to be kept. “You didn’t
think of that, did you, Mouton?” I muttered.