Robert Crais - Voodoo River

Holly Escobar ran toward her house, and Frank wiped blood from his right hand onto his shorts. "Go with her, Ronnie. Make sure she's okay."

Ronnie set off after Mrs. Frank Escobar.

The guy with the shirt said, "You all right, Frank?" Like it was Frank doing the bleeding.

"I'm fine. Fine." Escobar picked up his glass and seemed almost embarrassed. "Jesus. Fuckin' stupid women." Then he looked over at us and must've seen something in Pike's face. Or maybe in mine. He said, "What?" Hard, again. A flush of the purple, again.

Pike's mouth twitched.

Escobar stared at Joe Pike another few seconds, and then he waved his hand to dismiss us. He said, "I'll think about it, okay? I know where to reach you." He motioned toward the guy in the shirt. "Call these guys a car, huh? Jesus, I gotta get another drink."

He walked out and went back to the little round table and picked up someone's glass and drank. Nothing like a gin and tonic to take off the edge after tossing a fit, nosireebob. I stared at him.

The guy in the shirt said that he'd call a cab, and we could wait out front. He said the cabs never took long.

Frank had a deal. He said we could take a sandwich, if we wanted. Joe Pike told him to fuck himself.

We walked out past the pool and down the drive and into the street. The little boy was riding the Big Wheel round and round in circles, looping up into one driveway then along the sidewalk and then down the next drive and into the street again. He looked like a happy and energetic child.

Pike and I stood watching him, and Pike said, "Be a shame to drop the hammer on his old man."

I didn't answer.

"But it wouldn't be so bad, either."

We were stopped for speeding outside St. Gabriel, Louisiana, and again outside Livonia, but we passed under Milt Rossier's sign at just after five that evening as the air was beginning to lose the worst of the day's heat. The people who worked the ponds were trudging their way toward the processing sheds and the women who worked the sheds were walking out to their cars. Quitting time. Everybody moved with a sort of listless shuffle, as if their lot was to break their backs for Milt Rossier all day, then go home and break their backs some more. It wasn't the way you walk when your body has failed you; it was the way you walk when you've run out of heart, when the day-today has worn away the hope and left you with nothing but another tomorrow that will be exactly like today. It would be the way Holly Escobar would walk in another few years.

We drove up past the processing sheds like we owned the place and headed toward the house. The women on their way home didn't look, or, if they looked, didn't care. It's not like we had a big sign painted on the car, THE ENEMY. Pike said, "This is easy."

"What'd you expect, pill boxes?"

We could see the main house from between the processing sheds, and the little figure of Milt Rossier, sitting out on his lawn furniture, still wearing the sun hat. René LaBorde was standing out between the ponds, staring at their flat surfaces, and didn't seem to notice us, but LeRoy Bennett was coming out of the processing shed with one of the skinny foremen when we passed. He yelled something, then started running after us. He'd have a pretty long run. His Polara was parked at the house.

We drove the quarter mile or so up to the house and left our car on the drive by LeRoy's Polara. The house looked pretty much deserted except for a heavy-set black woman we saw in the living room and Milt Rossier back on the patio. We were going around the side of the house when Milt met us, coming to see who we were. He was in overalls and the wide hat, and he was carrying a glass of iced tea. I said, "Hi, Milt, remember me?"

Milt Rossier pulled up short, surprised. He knew me, but he'd never seen Pike before, and when Pike took out his.357 and let Rossier see it, the old man said, "Well, goddamn."

Pike said, "Let's go back to the patio. Comfortable there."

Rossier looked back at me. "We ran you outta here. I thought you left."

I said, "Everybody always thinks that, Milt, and everybody's usually wrong."

Pike said, "The patio." Down below us, LeRoy Bennett was yelling for René to get his ass up to the house. René looked our way, but you couldn't be sure what he saw or what he was thinking.

Rossier frowned at Pike's gun and then we went back to the patio. I said, "Sit down, Milt. We've got a business proposition."

Milt Rossier eased his bulk down into one of the white lawn chairs, and Pike lowered the gun. Rossier said, "Somebody got to old Jimmie Ray. I told you he'd stop messin' with that little gal, and he has. I thought we were shut of that." He tried looking at me, but he kept glancing at Pike and the gun. Nervous.

I smiled. "Not that kind of business, Milt." LeRoy Bennett was a white midget down between the ponds, arms and legs pumping as he ran toward us. Rene" La-Borde was finally headed our way, walking with a stiff-legged lumbering gait like Frankenstein's monster. I said, "Milt, here's the word. You're gettin' screwed by Donaldo Prima, and we can double your money."

When I said Donaldo Prima the old man's face tightened and he tried to put down the iced tea, but he missed the little table and it shattered on the patio. Just like Frank Escobar. Maybe poor hand-eye went with a life of crime. He said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

I looked at Joe Pike. "Man, these guys come up with the good lines, don't they, Joe?"

Pike didn't move. LeRoy was closer, and Pike was watching him. René was still down between the ponds, but he was getting up a head of steam. I guess Pike was thinking about having to shoot them.

I said, "You and Donaldo are moving illegal aliens upriver through bayous upon which you hold the leases. Donaldo deals with the people down south and contracts with the illegals, and you provide inter-coastal transportation and a secure location through which they can enter the country."

Rossier was waving his hands, feeling panicked and trying to push up out of the chair. "I don't know any of that. I don't know what in hell you're talking about." Pike leaned forward and shoved him back. Rossier swatted at Pike's hand the way you would swat at an aggravating gnat, and Pike palmed him hard once on the top of the head. Milt stopped the swatting. "I don't know any Prima or illegal alien nonsense or anything else. You'd better get out of here right goddamn now 'fore I call the law!" Giving us an old man's outrage.

I held up two fingers. "Two words, Milt. Frank Escobar."

He stopped sputtering, and his eyes focused on me.

"Escobar controls the coyote scene through the port of New Orleans and the intercoastal region. We left him a couple of hours ago. Prima used to work for Escobar, but now he's gone into business for himself with you, and Escobar doesn't like it that Prima's taking his business. Prima's getting the business because he's cutting prices, and Escobar likes that even less. You following me with this, Milt?"

Milt was squinting at me big time now.

"And because Prima's charging less, you are getting less. Do you see? You're getting, what, a grand a head for your end?"

Now Milt wasn't bothering with the denials. We were with the money, and when you're with the money you have their attention.

"Frank will give you two grand apiece, Milt. Double your money. If you're getting one load of illegals a week, thirty people on average, that's thirty thousand a week, one hundred twenty thousand a month from Mr. Prima. But Frank doubles it. The thirty becomes sixty. The one-twenty becomes two hundred forty thousand per month, every month, just for using Escobar and cutting out Prima. Are we talking about the same thing, now, Milt?"