A Morning for Flamingos (Dave Robicheaux 4)

"Who?"

"Lionel. What's going on, Fontenot?"

"Nothing."

"Don't tell me that. Why's the man on the radio?"

"I don't know. You think he's calling the Coast Guard? Use your judgment, sir."

"Fontenot, if you guys—"

"I'm not up to any more words of assurance tonight, Mr. Robicheaux. I don't believe you belong in our business, to tell you the truth. It isn't the Rotary Club. It isn't made up of nice people. I've grown a bit weary of you wrinkling your nose at us."

The two deckhands carried two wooden crates out of the forward hatch and set them inside a cargo net that was slung from a boom. Lionel stepped out of the wheelhouse and waved for me to bring the jugboat alongside again. I waited until the shrimper dipped into the trough, then bumped up against the row of tires. When both boats rose with the swell, Lionel sprang from the shrimper onto my deck. His jeans and denim shirt and canvas life preserver were dark with rain.

One of the deckhands operated the motor on the boom and swung the cargo net out over the jugboat, letting the net collapse in a tangle, with the two crates inside, on the deck. Lionel pulled the crates free, and I put the engine in reverse and backed away from the side of the shrimper. The empty cargo net swung out in open space and cut through the tops of the waves.

I shifted the engine forward again and turned the bow toward the southern horizon.

"I'm going to help him stow it," I said. "Hold the wheel and keep it pointed into the waves. The throttle's set, so you don't need to touch it."

"Really, now?" Fontenot said.

Outside, the rain was cold and stung my face and hands, and the waves broke hard on the bow and blew back across the deck in a salty spray. I unlocked the forward gear box and lifted one of the wooden crates inside. It was heavy, and the sides were stamped with the name of a South American cannery. Lionel swung the second crate up on the edge of the gear box.

"What were you doing on the radio?" I said.

"What?" He wore long underwear buttoned at the throat under his denim shirt, but he was shivering with the cold.

"You heard me."

"I wasn't on the radio."

"You had the mike in your hand, partner."

He wiped the water out of his eyes, then focused on my face again.

"Maybe I got a weather report. Maybe I moved it to pick up my coffee cup. Maybe you need glasses." He dropped the crate on top of the first one. "It doesn't matter. Tony C. cut you in as a favor. If you want to know, the weight and quality are right. You got a sweet deal, man. I don't think you deserve it."

He flipped the top of the gear box shut and walked away toward the pilothouse, balancing himself against the roll of the deck.

It had stopped raining, but the fog was thick and white on the water and I could hardly see the bow of the jugboat.

"This stuff will probably start to lift with first light," I said. "When we come out of it, I'm going to turn northwest for Atchafalaya Bay. Where do you guys want to go ashore?"

Lionel was looking out into the fog through the front glass. His eyes were narrowed and red-rimmed with fatigue.

"Where do y'all want me to put you off?" I repeated.

We passed a shut-down oil platform. The waves were black and streaked with oil as they slid through the steel pilings.

Still neither Lionel nor Fontenot answered me. Then I heard a boat engine out in the fog before I saw its running lights. Fontenot looked up from his cup of coffee. I turned to port, away from the sound of the engine, just as the hull of a thirty-foot white cabin cruiser came out of the fogbank. I could see the silhouette of a solitary figure at the wheel. I turned to look again at Lionel and Fontenot, as though all the frames in a strip of film negatives had suddenly made sense, and I guess my right hand was already moving toward the .25-caliber Beretta strapped to my ankle, but it was too late. Lionel had taken a nine-millimeter automatic from the canvas carry-on bag at his foot, and he placed the iron sight hard behind my ear. His free hand went down my right leg and pulled the Beretta from its holster.

"Cut the engine," he said.

I didn't move.

"It's not a time for thought," he said.