The Ying on Triad (15 page)

Janice nodded to the shopping cart. "Is that all?"

"Just about. Catfish and then a visit to frozen foods,
and we're finished" I drew a deep breath. "After I left
Hastings' ex-secretary I was sideswiped. The cops figured
it was accidental. I went along with them more or less, but
now-"

She arched an eyebrow, "But now what?"

"One of the witnesses claimed Asians were driving the
maroon car that hit me. Today, I only caught a glimpse of
the driver of the one who tried to make us part of the
asphalt back in the alley. He was small. He could have
been Asian. And that ties in neatly with the Asian man
Natalie Simms says she saw exit the elevator just before
Albert Hastings was murdered," I added.

"What does that mean?"

"That could mean that whoever is trying to tell us to
butt out is Asian, and chances are, they're part of the local
triad"

Janice shook her head. "Traid? Now, what are you talking about?"

I chuckled. "That's right. I forgot you little rich girls
don't learn about Asian gangs in Finishing School"

She slapped at my shoulder. "Don't be so sarcastic. So,
what's a triad?"

"An Asian gang. Like the mob in America, the Asians
have triads"

"Oh" She nodded her understanding as I picked out
five pounds of filleted catfish, then a half dozen frozen
dinners. As we waited in the checkout line, I continued.
"Next was Pop Wingate. He didn't see the fight between
Packard and Hastings, but his shift partner did. He
claimed Hastings sucker punched Packard, and then
Packard cleaned up the place with Hastings.

"After leaving Wingate, I went to Marble Falls where
Don Landreth claimed he had proof Packard was innocent. When I got there, I learned that he had been shot. A
bullet in his head"

"Could it have been a suicide?"

I laughed. "Yeah, it could have, but I don't think so.
Then came Sally Reston at the day care center. Hastings
was a party animal, and Bradford, along with a
Chinaman, was at several of the parties. Asians again"

"I remember," Janice said, nodded her head. "And then
she told us about Eric Lavern"

"And Lavern claimed Bradford was behind it," I said as
I added a couple packs of cigarettes to the purchase and
then paid the bill.

"Then the car tried to run us down," Janice put in.

As I loaded the groceries in the back of the Silverado,
I said, "Just using drugs as a recreational thing was no big
deal. Hastings could always claim like old what's-hisname that he never inhaled. On the other hand, dealing,
supplying, trafficking is a big deal"

"So?"

"So, it makes sense that Hastings would want to get rid
of Bradford because if Bradford's trafficking came to
light, Hastings' political career would head south"

Janice shook her head emphatically as I pulled back
onto the Interstate. "I just can't believe Bradford is
involved. Have you ever met him? He's a sweet and gentle man"

"Never have," I said, "but I will tomorrow."

She looked around at me in alarm. "Tony! Not at Aunt
Beatrice's reception"

"Don't worry." I smiled charmingly at her. "I'll
behave"

Wearing the clothes I'd given him the night before,
my old man was squatting on the edge of my small porch,
his feet on the sidewalk, bony knees even with his chin.
He was smoking a cigarette and drinking the Old
Milwaukee he had found in my refrigerator. "Good thing
I bought some beer," I said to Janice as we unloaded the
groceries.

I gave him a six-pack of cold beer and a pack of cigarettes to keep him on the porch while we put everything away. When we finished Janice patted her stomach.
"I don't know about you, but I'm hungry. Do you have
anything around here that won't take too long to prepare?"

I winked at her. How about some Cajun caviar, peanut
butter and canned figs?"

She laughed, her cheeks dimpling. "With cold milk?"

"With cold milk"

"Tell you what," she said later around her last mouthful
of gooey figs and peanut butter. "Why don't you let me
help you prepare the court bouillon?"

Downing the last of my milk, I replied. "I don't mind
the help. You can dice the onions while I make the roux"

"Roux? That's the dark mixture of flour you start it off
with, isn't it?"

"I'm surprised you remembered" I reached for a skillet and the cooking oil. "I'll steam the rice in the morning
and bring it with me when I pick you up"

The recipe I used had been passed down through generations of Acadians, men as well as women. My
Grandmere Ola to my Mom, and on to me. Grandmere
cooked for multitudes, and most of her recipes would feed
at least thirty hungry Cajuns. For my use, I had cut the
recipe down to serve four or so, which in itself was difficult since there was more to it than just cutting quantities
if I wanted to maintain the true flavor.

Now I had to do just the opposite.

The oil in the skillet began to bubble and pop. Time to
make the roux.

Roux is the Cajun secret of delicious gumbo, jambalaya, court bouillon, stew, and etouffee. I pulled out the
recipe that served four and multiplied the ingredients to
make five gallons.

Stir CONSTANTLY over medium flame until
chocolate-colored. If it's black, it's burned.

Add four quarts of water and mix well before
adding eight more quarts.

Then for the catfish court bouillon, add:

Simmer for 20 to 30 minutes or until cubed fish
flakes.

"I still don't believe Senator Bradford is involved in all
of this, Tony," Janice remarked as we sat at the snack bar,
sipping coffee and listening to the sharp little pops of the
bubbling court bouillon.

Several years in the PI business had done little to
enhance my opinion of human goodness. In fact, it was just
the contrary. After a few years dealing with the perversities
of human nature, cynicism had set in, and since then, little
had surprised me. "You could be right. There's no hard
proof, but we'll just have to see how it all plays out."

She arched an eyebrow. "You believe he is involved,
don't you?"

Clearing my throat, I replied, "Let me put it this way.
Until I know for sure he isn't, then he is."

"Sounds heartless"

I chuckled. "Sometimes that's all there is."

For several moments, she studied me. "We don't have
much time left before the . . " she couldn't say the word.

"I know," I glanced at the calendar, and a sinking feeling began to grow in the pit of my stomach, "we have only
three days"

My old man was still squatting on the porch when I left
to take Janice back to her condo. Cigarette butts littered
the sidewalk, and several empty beer cans lay scattered on
the grass. "Back later," I said as we passed.

"It's been nice seeing you, Mr. Boudreaux," Janice said
perfunctorily.

With his typical courtesy and eloquence, my old man
simply grunted and took another puff off his cigarette.

"How long is he planning to stay?" Janice asked as we
drove away.

"No idea," I replied with a shrug. "I'm going to talk to
him when I get back to see what he has in mind"

Sarcasm coated her response, "Good luck. Now, what
time will you pick me up in the morning?"

"The reception starts at 1 P.M. How about 11:30?"

"In the little car?"

I laughed, "In the little car"

My father was still squatting on the porch when I
returned. I'd stopped at a McDonald's on the return trip
and picked up some fries and burgers.

I held up the bag. "Hungry? I got us some hamburgers"

"Naw," he looked up at me and gave me a gap-toothed
grin. "Ate me some of that there court bouillon" He
dragged his tongue over his cracked lips. "Right tasty,
boy. You got your Ma's touch"

How I held my temper I'll never know, but I did. With
a growl I said, "I made the court bouillon for a party
tomorrow. I'll make you some for yourself if you want"

He patted his belly. "Reckon I'm full as a tick. Might
tackle the burgers later." His eyes slowly lost their focus and
he gazed across the lawn to the cars passing on the street.

I stared at him for another few seconds, then went
inside biting my tongue to keep from exploding.

Lifting the lid of the pot of court bouillon, I expected
to see the level down several inches, but to my surprise I
couldn't tell if he'd eaten any or not. There was a dirty
bowl in the sink, so I figured he had. I tossed the bag of
burgers on the stove and slid the pot of court bouillon into
the refrigerator. Believe it or not, for a couple moments I
seriously considered buying a padlock for the refrigerator.

I booted up the computer and to my delight, the information I had requested from Eddie Dyson was in my
mailbox. "I don't know how you do it, Eddie," I muttered
as I opened his e-mail, "but you're worth every cent"

What I read reinforced my belief that Bobby Packard
was innocent. In all his years with A. A. Aggregates and
Asphalt, he had never received an unsatisfactory performance report. In fact, most of the reports graded him above
average. The last report less than a year before marked him
superior, and in the section for comments were the
remarks, Mr. Packard is an outstanding employee who, by
his thoroughness and conscientiousness, sets a fine example
for his co-workers.

Those were not the accolades accorded a man fired
from his job.

In the last paragraph of his message, Eddie promised
me the background checks on Lei Sun Huang and Joey
Soong. "And the charge will be higher," he wrote. "Those
two are hard to find. Someone has deliberately tried to
keep them low-profile"

Quickly, I printed up a hard copy and put it in my files.

At that moment, my old man stumbled in and headed
for the refrigerator. I watched him closely, but all he
retrieved was a cold beer. He popped the tab and came
back into the living room where he plopped down on the
couch. "You be going home for Thanksgiving, boy?"

I turned to face him. "Plan on it," I replied flatly, deliberately-not elaborating on my plans.

He downed several gulps of beer and dragged his arm
over his lips. "Me, I'd like to ride with you if you don't
mind"

I didn't answer right away. I studied him, trying to peer
behind those wary, animal-like eyes. As much as I hated
to admit it, I didn't really like the man. And I didn't really want him in the truck with me for three hundred and
ninety miles. "I offered to take you a few years ago. You
agreed, and then you took some of my stuff and pawned
it. Remember?" I tried to contain my growing irritation
with him.

His forehead wrinkled in concentration for a few seconds. He ran bony fingers through his thinning, graying
hair. "Can't say I do. You say I hocked some of your
stuff?" his thin voice quivered.

"Yeah. A sheep-lined leather coat, VCR, camera-you
don't remember?"

He shook his head slowly.

My eyes narrowed. Sarcastically, I began, "You already
said you don't remember the family reunion on Whiskey
Island last year, so I'm sure you don't remember stea-"
I hesitated. Even if it were true, I couldn't say the word,
stealing. Instead, I said, "You don't remember selling my
laptop computer to a trucker?"