Jeff Abbott - Black Joint Point

She heard only the hard rasp of his breathing.

‘You’re not like those guys, are you? You’re a little older, a little wiser. They’re in this for the money. You’re in it because you want the money and you hate Stoney. That’s a big and.’

Now the silence stretched for half a minute. She couldn’t stand it, so her words came out in a flood. ‘Look. All I know about Stoney is he’s got a big-ass house full of security. And I can get you past that security. Ben showed me the codes for the house last night, ’cause I might do some house-sitting for him and his brother when they go out of town. But I’ll only help you if you don’t hurt me or Ben or Stoney.’ She wished she could tear the blindfold off, see his reaction to this lie. How did the blind navigate the emotions of the world, gauge human reaction? She listened for the quickening of his breath, for nervous tapping fingers against the table, for uneasy shifts in posture. But there was only the silence.

Then he said, ‘Do you know why Stoney Vaughn’s boat is called the Jupiter?’

‘Because he thinks he’s a god?’ She spiced a little bitterness into her tone, figuring she might as well play into his resentment of Stoney by faking anger.

She heard him tap ashes. She sensed him leaning his head close to hers, his breath smelling of garlic, rum, tobacco. ‘What do you know about Jean Laffite?’

‘Who?’

‘Laffite. The pirate Laffite.’

The words were so unexpected she didn’t answer for a moment. ‘Well, uh, he was a famous pirate in the Gulf a long time ago. I guess the last of the great pirates. There’s all sorts of legends that he buried a lot of gold along the coast.’

‘Jean Laffite had a schooner in his fleet called Jupiter. Stoney named his boat after Laffite’s. He even has that picture of Laffite in his stateroom. Not nearly as good as the paintings I have, but still an okay one.’

She remembered the print. Yes. Laffite the pirate, confident and cocky.

‘And do you know why this boat is the Miss Catherine?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Laffite’s great love was a woman named Catherine Villars. She was a New Orleans quadroon – part black, mostly white – a legendary beauty. Skin like yours, Claudia, perhaps a bit darker.’ He ran a finger along her hand but it didn’t scare her.

‘So you and Stoney are pirate wannabes,’ Claudia said. ‘Rent an Errol Flynn movie and get it out of your system.’ This talk of pirates made her nervous. Pirates cut throats. Pirates made victims walk planks. Pirates raped and killed.

‘Do you know what happened to Jean Laffite?’

‘I don’t imagine he ended up in a rest home.’

‘No one knows. Terrible and beautiful, the not knowing.’ His voice took a strange tone, one of slow, sickened anger that goose pimpled her skin. ‘Here’s the basics. Laffite used Barataria Bay in Louisiana as a base. Made his fortune attacking Spanish shipping. He sold his booty – mostly slaves and luxury goods – in New Orleans. His pirating kept New Orleans fat and happy in black-market merchandise, except Laffite didn’t pay taxes.’

‘They had IRS agents then?’

‘Laffite’s the social god of New Orleans, but he’s an outlaw to the American government. So during the War of 1812, the British navy makes Laffite an offer: help the English capture New Orleans, and they’ll give him gold, land, a high commission in their navy. Think how different our history might have been if the British had taken Louisiana.’

‘Yorkshire pudding with jambalaya.’

‘But Laffite tricks the British. He warns the governor about the British plans. Know what the Americans did to repay him?’

‘What?’

‘The Americans attacked Laffite’s base, burned his operations to the ground. All for warning them. There’s a goddamned sweet thank-you note.’

‘Well, that wasn’t very nice,’ Claudia said.

‘But Laffite’s a patriot. A man of honor.’ The heat in his voice rose. ‘When Andrew Jackson arrived to defend New Orleans, Laffite offered his pirates to help defend the city. Jackson badly needed experienced fighters and weapons. So Laffite armed New Orleans – he still had more guns than the government, even after they destroyed his camp. With Jackson’s blessing, Laffite and his pirates took charge of key positions as the British attacked.’

‘And Laffite helped win the day,’ Claudia guessed.

‘He fucking dominated the day for them,’ Danny corrected, battle in his own voice. ‘His cannons shredded an overwhelming British force. The pirates became national heroes. President Madison pardoned Laffite and his men of their past crimes.’

Maybe Laffite just didn’t want to lose his market, Claudia thought, but instead she said, ‘And they all retired to Club Med.’

‘Well, he wasn’t gonna take a nine-to-five job. Once a pirate, you know. Eventually he left New Orleans for Texas.’

‘And ended up on Galveston Island.’ This part of the history Claudia knew – standard lore of growing up on the Texas coast.

‘Imagine. A thousand, pirates on Galveston, working all the waters of the Gulf, bringing Laffite their booty, funneling the goods to Louisiana. But one of his ships attacked an American merchantman. Laffite hanged the captain responsible on a beach gallows so that the American navy, from their ships off Galveston, could see the body dangling – but the US government wasn’t appeased. They ordered Laffite out of Texas, out of the Gulf.’

Laffite sounded like ninety-percent asshole to her, barely a hero, but Claudia sensed Jean Laffite burned as real as the sun for Danny.

‘The man had saved New Orleans but they forgot about that. Typical American arrogance. But Laffite obeyed. In spring of 1820, he sailed away, leaving Galveston burning to the ground.’ He stopped, as though picturing the scene, a fading shot of an old black-and-white movie in which the cutthroats were the gallant heroes.

‘Then what?’ Claudia asked, wanting to slap him, to shake him, to say, This happened almost two hundred years ago. Why am I gonna get killed over this?

‘The stories vary. Some say he went to Yucatan and died of fever. Some say he went to Cuba and died in a sea battle. Some claim he tried to rescue Napoleon from St Helena. One man, a supposed descendant of Laffite’s, claimed Laffite returned to America under an assumed name, and lived out his life in small-town Missouri.’ This last option was pronounced with sarcasm dripping from every word. ‘But no one knows. Of course, so many say that he buried a treasure, worth millions, somewhere in Texas or Louisiana.’

‘Treasure,’ she repeated, thinking of Ben talking yesterday at lunch about Stoney. He’s financed some treasure dives in the Florida Keys… Crazy-ass way to risk your money.

‘Imagine the scene, Claudia. The government Laffite served so well in a time of need has completely betrayed him. He left as he promised, but the American navy shadowed and harassed him all the way down the coast. He would have had reason to believe the navy might board or attack him at any time. Or the British or the Spanish might attack him. Remember, he was being evicted, leaving his base, leaving nothing behind. Nothing.’ A pause. ‘His only option to keep his treasure from falling into others’ hands would have been to bury it so he could return when the heat died down and retrieve it.’

‘It seems risky,’ she said.

‘Laffite knew the shallows and reefs in getting through the barrier islands and the bays. The American navy couldn’t follow him there.’ Danny cleared his throat. ‘The proof was in the journal – real, actual documentation – that Laffite buried a fortune near St Leo Bay. Before Stoney stole it from me. Like you said, you help me, maybe I help you?’