CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lausaux was supervising the loading of a cargo
aircraft at the New Orleans Moisant airport. A consignment of tinned formula
milk and disposable diapers destined for Cite Soleil. It was a regular
shipment, flown to the island once a month. Assist Haiti’s storage facility was
on the perimeter of the cargo compound, the far side of the airport from
the passenger terminals. He was wearing
a hard hat and was checking off a list on a clipboard. The frown that flashed
onto his face when he saw Val walking towards him Lausaux quickly replaced with
a welcoming smile.
“Chief Bosanquet. You’ve come to see for yourself what
happens to the money we raise?”
Val took a step sideways as a forklift truck bearing a
loaded pallet reversed past him. It pushed its way through the transparent
heavy plastic fronds hanging in front of the warehouse’s main exit.
“Your office told me I could find you here.”
Lausaux raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I came straight to
the airport this morning. What can be so important to bring you all the way out
here?”
“Is there some place quiet we could talk?”
“I’m very busy right now.”
“It’s important.”
Lausaux stuck his ballpoint into his breast pocket.
“The manager’s office. Follow me.”
Val followed Lausaux up a flight of steel stairs to a
small elevated office constructed in the upper corner of the warehouse. Windows
on two walls gave a bird’s eye view of the activity below. Lausaux closed the
door behind them. They had the place to themselves.
“This is our main collection and forwarding depot” he
explained. “I like to drop in every now and again unannounced to ensure that
pilfering is kept to a minimum. Now what can I do for you?”
“I want to discuss Marie Duval’s tuition funding.”
Lausaux’s
eyes
narrowed. “I wasn’t aware she had reversed her decision. Again.”
“She hasn’t as yet, though I’m hoping to persuade her
to do so. It I could reassure her that her sponsorship is still available, it
would be a step in the right direction.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. I have already
reassigned the funds originally set aside. When Miss Duval spoke to me on Friday,
she sounded resolute.”
“Surely you could put your hands on alternate funds?
What about using some of the cash raised at the auction?”
“No. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. It wasn’t just a
question of finance when I made the decision to back Miss Duval. I had to call
in a great many favors. Do you honestly believe any university would have
offered her a place without significant input from people in high office?”
“I appreciate what you’re saying, but ---”
Lausaux’s voice turned icy. “She has caused considerable
distress to some of the most influential people in Louisiana.”
“They would be vindicated if she were to take up her
place. You would be vindicated.”
“It’s too late. She has damaged my credibility with
these people. Nobody does that.”
Val was silent for a few moments, then asked, ‘There’s
one thing I don’t quite get. If you had to call in so many favors, why did you
agree to back Duval in the first place? What was in it for you?”
Lausaux’s mouth tightened. He opened the door of the
small office. “I have a lot of work to be getting on with. Good day, Chief
Bosanquet.”
“Did you know Duval’s father was smuggling large
amounts of money out of Haiti before he was killed?”
“No. How could I? My involvement with Haiti started
only when Assist Haiti came into existence in eighty-nine. Good day, Chief
Bosanquet.”
Val clattered down the metal steps and walked towards
the warehouse’s exit. The obduracy of Lausaux’s refusal to reconsider Duval’s
funding had taken him by surprise. Didn’t Lausaux realize he was cutting off
his nose to spite his face? The guy had serious trouble coping with reality.
He recalled what Richard Bickford had told him about
Lausaux. The man doesn’t do anything without a damn good reason. So what
precisely had provoked Lausaux’s change of mind?
As Val drove back into the city on the airline
highway, a convoy of coaches transporting conventioneers from the airport to
the city hotels overtook his car. A dozen traffic cops, blue strobes flashing
on their Harleys, escorted the speeding convoy. The mayor’s latest initiative
to help sell his city.
Val unfolded his cell phone and rang the sheriff’s
office in St Francis perish. He was in luck: the sheriff was at his desk.
“I hear the FBI lost their no claim discount.”
The sheriff laughed. “Ain’t that the truth? The only
thing the FBI can hold on to is their dicks. Take some advice from an old
coonass and keep your head down. Our Mister Gilett ain’t the forgiving type.”
“I’ve started carrying a gun. It holds sixteen
rounds.”
“You may need them all. What can I do for you?”
“Have you done any checking into the Jacksons’s
finances?”
“Now why would I want to do that? I already know who
killed them and why.”
“Because you’re a wily old coonass.”
He laughed again. “Maybe I am at that.”
“So you would know if the Jacksons withdrew a sizeable
amount from their savings account about a month ago?”
“Depends what you call sizeable?”
Val had no idea of the current cost of college tuition
fees, though he’d imagine that an art student’s fees would come in less
expensive than a science or engineering students. “Thirty-five thousand
dollars,” he guessed.
“Bit more than that. The Jacksons withdrew fifty
thousand in cash five weeks ago. It cleaned out most of the lump sum Roy had
received from the power company when he retired. Any idea where it went?”
Yeah, Val said to himself. To help make up for
something done ten years ago. “I’ll get back to you when I know for sure.”
Jean Moncoeur was the next name on his list. Va1
crossed Bayou St John on the Robert E. Lee Boulevard and headed north along
Paris Avenue onto the concrete paving of Lake Shore Drive. He pulled up at the
gates of the Moncoeur mansion and pressed the button on the security panel.
Staring straight into the lens of the camera, he announced his name and the purpose
of his visit — an interview with Jean Moncoeur. After a few moments a voice
instructed him to drive up to the house. The gates started to silently roll
open.
A truck was parked at the side of the driveway about
halfway along. It belonged to a firm of contract caterers who handled most of
the big-money party arrangements for the Lake Pontchartrain houses. A squad of
men in bamboo pith helmets was erecting an all-white marquee. Two Afghan hounds
loped over the grass, getting in the way and tangling the ropes. Moncoeur must
have a celebration planned, Val thought, though not the high profile spree that
MacLean was hosting.
A bulky bodyguard met Val at the main entrance to the
house: one of the two gorillas who had accompanied Moncoeur to the charity
auction. A man in tracksuit bottoms and a running vest was polishing the
Bentley which Moncoeur had bought that night.
“Mister Moncoeur is having coffee on the terrace. He
would like you to join him. Follow me and I’ll take you there.”
Val fell into step behind the bodyguard. The house’s
exterior belied its furnishings. Moncoeur had stuffed it with antique furniture
from the Napoleonic era, hand-woven Persian rugs, and a collection of
eighteenth and early nineteenth-century portraits in heavy, ornate gilt frames.
He recognized one of Dessalines, the first black governor of Haiti. Quite a
rarity, Val thought. Dessalines had been assassinated two years after taking
power. A mob had dragged his mutilated body through the streets and left it to
rot, until a lunatic woman gathered up the pieces and buried them.
Moncoeur was dressed in immaculate tropical whites. He
was thin but appeared healthy enough. He was cradling an all-white fighting
cock.
“Captain Bosanquet, please join me for coffee.”
Val sat down opposite him while the bodyguard sorted
out a cup and saucer and poured the coffee. He placed it on the glass-topped
table in front of Val.
“Help yourself to cream and sugar,” Moncoeur said.
“Unfortunately my doctor denies me their simple gratification.”
After the radio station’s, Val was looking forward to
some drinkable coffee. He wasn’t disappointed.
“Would you care for some cognac with it?”
“No, this is fine. It’s very good.”
“Thank you. The beans are from my estates in Haiti. I
don’t grow them commercially, purely for my own use.” Moncoeur stroked the neck
feathers of the cock. “What do you think of Makandal? Isn’t he a splendid
fellow?”
Val didn’t agree. The cropped comb, plucked lower neck
—
to deprive its opponent of a hold
—
and sharpened spurs made it grotesque. “I’m
not fond of birds.”
“What a shame The gamecock is one of the noblest of
creatures. Makandal is a pure bred Rajah. I permit no one else to handle him.
He is natural killer. Let me demonstrate.”
The bodyguard unfastened a bamboo cage that was
sitting on the flagstones at the edge of the terrace. An ebony-black gamecock
strutted out, its unplucked neck feathers already sitting up in a ruff.
Moncoeur placed Makandal on the ground.
“The black cock is a Cuban. They’re strong, but no
match for a Rajah. Breeding will always triumph in the end.”
Especially when their opponent’s spurs are blunt, Val
thought.
The birds circled warily for a minute, glaring at each
other and making hissing sounds. the Cuban, perhaps realizing he was the
underdog, made the first move and darted towards Makandal. They came together
in a clash of feathers and pecking. Neither bird gained an advantage and they
separated for another bout of circling. This time Makandal made the first
maneuver, and after a couple of feigning movements, flew at the Cuban. They
made contact like cartoon cats, rising into the air from the impact, their
beaks and claws clicking as they fought.
It was over in no time. The all-black Cuban landed on
his back and Makandal dispatched it with the efficiency of a slaughter house
butcher. He ripped at his opponent’s throat with his sharpened spurs and opened
deep gashes. Blood sprayed into the air, some of it staining the legs of
Moncoeur’s white trousers.
Makandal had opened a wound in the Cubans chest. It
beat its wings a few times then expired. Makandal raised his beak in the air
and gave a victory crow.
“More coffee?’ Moncoeur asked.
“Not right now.”
“I take it this is not a social call. What can I do
for you?”
“What connections do you have with FRAPH?” Val asked
bluntly.
Moncoeur didn’t react. His turquoise eyes never
shifted from Val’s face. “As little as I can possibly manage. In Haiti it is
necessary to profess some support for them, but I have no great love for
fascists. My father was killed in a Duvalier-inspired purge of mulattoes. Papa
Doc manipulated the Haitian people in much the same way as Hitler did the
German people. He declared the mulattoes the cancer within and made
inflammatory speeches about preserving the purity of the Negro. Blamed the
mulattoes for all Haiti’s economic woes. But history does repeat itself. As the
Thousand-Year Reich is gone, so are the Duvaliers. FRAPH is an echo of
Duvalierism and something I have no wish to encourage.”
“So you won’t have heard of Pierre Malen or Marcel
Gilett?”
“Of course I’ve heard of them. Most of New Orleans has
heard of them after what happened in St Francis.”
“What about Bill Trochan?”
Moncoeur raised his cup to his mouth and took sip of
coffee. He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin before he
answered.
“I don’t recognize the name.”
“He was an ex NOPD officer. He was murdered while
searching for Donny Jackson.”
“Again, the name is not familiar to me.”
“Jackson was a son of the St Francis victims. He
worked for Arena Victory. You have heard of them?”
Irritation flashed across Moncoeur’s face. “Naturally,
they have a plant on Haiti that employs several thousand islanders. What
exactly is it you want from me? A list of everyone I am acquainted with?”
“Just one more name. Have you ever met with Stuart
MacLean, the CEO of Arena Victory?”
“Frequently. I admire his business acumen and intend
to invest substantially in Arena Victory.”
Val pulled a puzzled face. “I was told that you
already were one of the main stockholders.”
“You are misinformed. My business interests are many
and varied, but, as yet, I own no stock in Arena Victory.”
“So MacLean has never discussed with you the extortion
threats made against his company?”