Unlucky (14 page)

Granted, there was no way to catch all perpetrators, but sometimes he wondered if what he did made a difference at all. Did his putting those ten or twenty criminals behind bars save lives, or did it just open a job position for the next criminal to step into? It sometimes seemed to Jake that he made a bigger impact with the youth program he volunteered for. He may only be able to measure the difference he made one child at a time, but at least it was there for him to see.

They were questions he'd been asking himself a lot lately, and somehow that bothered him more than anything else. He'd always thought he needed to follow in his father's footsteps--protect the innocent, like his mother, from all the bad that was out there. He'd never considered the preventive maintenance that could be done on the front end. But chasing the likes of Silas Hebert for so many years had made him question the amount of time spent and people used to pursue one man. Granted Silas Hebert was a big gun and ran a huge organization, but the reality was, putting him in jail wouldn't alleviate the problem--it would only alleviate the problem from that one man.

He turned off the ignition and took one final look at the bar. Mallory Devereaux was probably the type of woman who had friends. And if she worked construction, there was little doubt in his mind that he would find some of those friends in this bar. The question was, would they talk to him?

There was only one way to get an answer.

At first, he was surprised to find so many people in a bar on a Monday night, but then Royal Rush wasn't exactly a cultural mecca, so he supposed the locals took what they could get. What they could get was a metal building with a cement floor, country music playing a little too loud and enough cigarette smoke to get a contact high in a neighboring state. He'd barely stepped inside the door before he was jostled around by a group of men headed for the pool tables.

Realizing he needed to find a seat or be steamrolled by local linebackers, he scanned the bar and spotted an empty stool at the far end. Squinting a bit in the dim light, he studied the guy on the stool next to the empty one. He looked familiar, but it took a minute for Jake to place him. Then he remembered, this guy was on the boat all day, but wasn't a player. In fact, the only thing Jake had noticed he did was drink beer. Granted he'd consumed an admirable amount if the stack of spent bottles in the lobby was any indication--sort of a leaning tower of beer arrangement on a coffee table. Obviously he'd needed more.

Which was fine by Jake. Drunks were usually easier to get information from, and since he'd seen Mallory sitting with the marathon beer drinker and another dealer at lunch, he had to assume this guy knew her. Maybe well enough to cough up some information. Mind made up, he began to thread his way through the clusters of bodies, the mingling of smoke and cheap perfume almost knocking him out.

He was only a couple of steps from his destination when the heel on his dress shoe decided to take a leave of absence. As the shoe, now sans any rubber treading, hit the polished concrete, he promptly slid a good foot farther than he was actually stepping. Jake put one hand down on the table next to him, trying to steady himself, and managed to dip his fingers in a very agitated-looking woman's Bloody Mary.

Apologizing profusely, he took a twenty from his wallet and presented it to the woman. Her companion, a guy resembling a cross between a WWF performer and a Harley biker, grabbed the money and glared at him. Taking the hint, he located his missing heel and stuck it in his pocket, then hobbled like a one-legged man over to the bar. It took him a while to make it, but at least there were no more disasters along the way, and the stool was still empty when he got there.

Taking a good look at the legs of the stool, he pressed down on the back of it before pulling it out and sitting. He took a second to ascertain that no more mishaps were in the works, then nodded to the guy next to him. The guy stared at him for a moment, confused, then smiled.

"Hey," he said, and pointed a finger at Jake. "You're the dealer at Mallory's table. I saw you when everyone was leaving."

Jake nodded and extended his hand to the other man. "My name's Jake."

The other man grabbed his hand and shook it, surprising Jake with his viselike grip. "I'm Scooter. I'm the maintenance man for this tournament." He gave Jake a big grin. "Mostly I'm maintaining a buzz. Lucky nothing's broke yet. Well except the engine, but that was no big deal."

There was an encouraging thought, Jake decided. They were on a pit of a boat, out in the middle of the Gulf of
Mexico, surrounded by criminals, and the drunken idiot in front of him was whom they were depending on to get them back and forth to dock. The same man who thought a broken engine on a boat cruising approximately two hundred miles offshore was no big deal. The labor pool in this town was seriously lacking.

Scooter stopped smiling and studied Jake for a couple of seconds. "You feeling all right now?" he asked, " 'cause I ain't got time for a cold or nothing. There's a big fishing rodeo next weekend."

Jake stared at the man, uncertain what to say. He hadn't been sick at all and wondered what had given the other man that idea. At the same time and for some ungodly reason, he found himself really wanting to know what the heck a fishing "rodeo" consisted of, since that was the second time that day he'd heard the expression. But he wasn't about to ask. "I don't understand what you're asking," he said, deciding to stick with the more familiar of the two items. "I'm not sick and haven't been."

Scooter scrunched up his brow in thought. "Damn women never make any sense. You see, at lunch, Amy was saying as how you was hot and Mallory said you was hot but you was kinda an asshole."

He scratched his head, then continued, "So I said if you was hot, I had an extra fan in the engine room that I could put at your table. They just laughed. I thought it was kinda rude and all if you were uncomfortable, but sometimes women are just funny."

Jake stared at Scooter, certain the man was another species. No one could be that stupid. Not even in Royal Flush. Something told Jake he wouldn't get any useful information out of Scooter. "Yeah, women can be a mystery," Jake finally said. "But to answer your question, I feel fine." Fine for an asshole.

Scooter nodded. "Well, you let me know if you get hot again and I'll fetch you that fan. Summer colds are a bitch." With that Scooter jumped off his stool and hurried across the bar to a dartboard, calling out to someone as he went.

Jake stared after Scooter a moment more, then lifted one finger for the bartender. Someone in this town had to have evolved beyond the primates. Maybe he could get the information he was looking for from the bartender.

The bartender shuffled over, eyeing Jake from top to bottom. "You visiting?" he asked.

Jake shook his head. "No. I'm dealing in the poker tournament."

The bartender studied him a moment more, not looking entirely convinced. "You're wanting me to believe Reginald hired a Yankee to deal for him?" He laughed. "C'mon, man. You can do better than that."

Jake stared at the man, trying to hold in his frustration with small towns and small minds. "I've barely said five words to you. What indication could you possibly have that I am a Yankee?"

The bartender smirked. "Well, we could start with the words 'what indication.' Someone from south of the Mason-Dixon would have said, 'Who the hell are you calling a Yankee?' Then we would have fought."

Jake held in a sigh. "I'm not looking for a fight. I just wanted to relax a bit before I head back to my motel. It's been a long day."

The bartender studied him a moment more, then nodded. "I guess that's all right then. But mind you, I serve alcohol and beer here. No club soda with lime, no shaken not stirred, no drinks without alcohol. You sit at my bar, you drink like a man. So what's it gonna be?"

"Jack Daniel's on the rocks."

"Then I guess I'll be letting you stay," the bartender said, and walked to the back of the bar to fix the drink.

Now Jake did sigh. He hadn't intended to throw any back before his meeting with Mallory. The reality was, Jake rarely drank at all. He never wanted his senses less than 100 percent, because he never knew when the phone might ring. There were no real holidays or days off with the FBI--every day was a potential workday, no matter what the schedule might say.

Now he was sitting in a bar in the middle of Hicksville, slowly dying of lung cancer, and his manhood had been put into question based on the selection of his drink. And he'd fallen for it. But if he'd have thrown out "light beer" like he'd been tempted to do, he was afraid the bartender would have removed him right then or just shot him where he sat.

He was thirty-five years old, with a college education and a good pension some years down the line, and he'd just succumbed to peer pressure from a redneck.

Maybe he did need that drink.

The bartender slid the glass in front of him and stood there staring, probably waiting to make sure he was really going to drink it and not pour it under the bar like a five-year-old. Jake reached for the glass and took a strong swig, careful to keep from wincing at the bitterness of the liquor. He sat the glass back on the counter, but kept his hand wrapped around it, just so the bartender would know he wasn't done.

"Name's J.T.," the bartender said. "You're sitting in my bar."

Jake extended his hand across the counter. "I'm Jake McMillan."

J.T. stared at his hand for a moment, then finally shook it. The bartender's grip was as strong as Scooter's, and Jake fought the urge to shake some blood back into his fingers when the man released his hand. The men in this town had grips that would take the jaws of life to pry them loose and just for a moment, Jake wondered what the heck they did in their spare time.

J.T. twisted the top off two beers and slid them down the counter, then placed his elbows on the bar, leaning toward Jake. "So how did a Yankee hear about a private poker tournament all the way in Royal Flush? The town ain't even on a map. Hell, most of Louisiana don't even know we're here."

Jake shrugged. "I've got a buddy who runs a craps table in New Orleans. I'm visiting him for a bit, so he gave me the tip."

J.T. smiled. "And you thought you'd dash down here and make some quick money off a bunch of hicks, right? How's that working out for you?"

"Not bad. I had some good hands today. Hopefully, I'll come out okay by the end of the week."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Those are no lightweights you're playing against, but then I guess it didn't take you long to figure that one out. Who's your main competition?"

Jake took another swig of his drink, not really wanting to answer the question, but not seeing any way out of it if he wanted to turn the conversation around to Mallory. "There's a man named Silas who seems pretty good."

The bartender shook his head in dismay. "Silas Hebert is playing in the tournament? I should have known Reginald wouldn't leave well enough alone." He paused for a moment, seeming deep in thought, then finally continued. "Well, if you're thinking of winning any money off Silas Hebert, you might want to stick around for a while, order up another drink, and let me give you a reality check."

"Ah, shoot," Scooter broke in as he hopped back on his stool, "he ain't got nothing to worry about. Mallory's cooling his table."

The bartender stared at Scooter for a moment, in obvious disbelief. Then his face flushed red and when he spoke, his tone was barely controlled anger. "God damn it, Scooter. You're telling me Reginald put Mallory on Silas Hebert? That son of a bitch. I knew this whole mess would come to nothing but trouble, but you had to go and tell her about it." He banged a fist on the bar, causing Scooter to jump, "Damn it, Scooter. Sometimes you don't have the sense God gave a goose."

Jake studied the men with interest. J.T. was mad as a hornet, and Scooter had dropped his gaze down to the bar, not looking the other man in the eye, the guilt on his face clear as day. Scooter was going to be picking up his own six-pack for a while after this tournament was over.

"What's wrong with Silas Hebert?" Jake asked. "Is there something I need to know?"

J.T. turned back to Jake and threw his arms up in exasperation. "Hell, yeah, there's something you ought to know. But telling you would take all night." He leaned over the bar toward Jake and lowered his voice. "Let me give you the short run."

Jake nodded and leaned in toward J.T, who looked both ways, apparently making sure he wasn't overheard. "Silas Hebert is a plague on Louisiana. Hell, on humanity is more accurate. What he can't buy, he takes. What he can't earn legitimately, he steals. More than one holdout from a Silas Hebert offer has turned up at the bottom of the bayou and lo and behold, their heirs are always eager to sell."

Jake forced a surprised look on his face, hoping like hell J.T. bought it, because so far, the man hadn't told him anything he didn't already know. "Why isn't he in jail?"

J.T. waved a hand in dismissal. "Man's got half of Louisiana on his payroll. Besides, you think he'd actually get caught with his hands dirty? Silas Hebert has enough money to convince most people to strangle their own mothers in their sleep. Two-bit hoods are a dime a dozen. He's not lacking bad guys to carry out his work."

Jake nodded, only too aware of Silas's two-bit hoods. "Then I'm surprised someone hasn't testified against him for immunity. I understand that it's easy for him to find people to do his dirty work, but they can't be all that smart if they're working for hire so easily."

J.T. looked Jake straight in the eye. "They'd have to actually make it to trial before that could happen, now wouldn't they? Dead men don't tell tales."

Jake took another gulp of his drink and processed what J.T. was saying. Apparently, Silas's reputation was no big secret in Louisiana. And while the evidence--or witnesses--might be lacking, no one seemed to have trouble believing that Silas Hebert was capable of the urban legend that surrounded him. "Why in the world would Reginald St. Claire invite someone like that to play? I mean, I got the impression there was some bad blood between them. If this Silas is such a bad guy, why have him there?"