Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 08 - Death in the French Quarter Read Online Free Page A

along and mentioned the same thing. That’s
when I decided to find another job. After all, the job was only part-time and paid minimum wage. You can
find those everywhere”

    “Who hired you?”
    “Guilbeaux. He hired everyone”
    “What about a guy named Lollipop or Mancini? You
ever hear of them?”
    “Yeah. Mancini was called Punky. The three of them
hung together. Thick as thieves.”
    “One more. What about a man by the name of PaulLeon Savoie?”
    Xavier pursed his lips. “I heard the name, but I never
saw him.”
    “Do you remember anything that was said about him?”
    He grinned sheepishly. “No. Sorry”
    On the way back to my office, I detoured by the police station. Chief Pachuca is a by-the-book man, and
although he and I had worked together a few times, I
didn’t expect he would grant my request to speak with
Lollipop. Still, I told myself, even if he said no, I
wouldn’t be any worse off than I was now.
    When I turned the corner, I slammed on my brakes.
Several police cruisers were parked at various angles in
front of the police station, their strobes flashing red and
blue. And a Green Cross EMS ambulance was backed
up to the front door.
    Pulling to the curb, I jumped out and started for the
station, but a uniform in SWAT gear materialized from
behind a automobile, and ordered me to my stomach.

    I started to protest, but then I spotted several SWAT
members surrounding the station, their eyes searching
the skyscrapers around us.
    “Uh oh,” I muttered. I’d stumbled into a touchy situation. The smartest move I could make was to do exactly what the uniforms said.
    As I lay on my stomach, the automatic doors in the
police station opened and two paramedics, followed by
half a dozen armed officers, hurriedly pushed a gurney
up to the rear of the ambulance.
    Moments later, it sped away, siren screaming. “What
happened?” I called out.
    The SWAT member glanced around. He hesitated.
“Boudreaux? Is that you?”
    I frowned, but when he removed his face shield, I
recognized Corporal Lester Boles, who lived down the
street from me on Peyton-Gin Road.
    “Yeah. What’s going on?”
    He dropped to his knees beside me. Keeping his eyes
quartering the buildings around us, he growled,
“Sniper.”
    “Who got it?” I asked, referring to the body on the
gurney.
    “Some stoolie. They called him Lollipop.”
    I squeezed my eyes shut and muttered a curse. That’s
all I needed.
    Lester looked around at me. “You know the guy?”
    “No, but I wanted to”

     

I pulled out of Austin while it was still dark the next
morning, having left enough nuggets and water to take
care of Alligator Bait for a couple days. By the time I
reached the Louisiana border I still hadn’t decided just
how to approach Mouton, and then the solution hit me.
I shook my head. “Why didn’t I think of this before?” I
called my cousin, Leroi Thibodeaux.
    Unlike many, I feel much more secure keeping both
eyes on the road and both hands on the wheel. That’s
why I prefer the speaker mode on my cell phone. I just
lay the phone on the seat and talk.
    Leroi was Stewart’s father and my cousin. He is the
son of my Uncle Patric and his deceased wife, Lantana,
a Louisiana Redbone who came from Beauregard
Parish along the Sabine River.
    Their mixed marriage did send a few shock waves through the more proper and stuffy limbs of our family
tree, but if the truth was made public, three quarters of
the Louisiana population has traces of mixed blood
somewhere among their ancestors.

    Leroi and I grew up together, separating finally when
Mom and I moved to Austin before I entered high
school.
    There was no answer at his home, so I called one of
his Catfish Lube shops. The shop manager answered,
identifying himself as Jimmy Joe Lincoln. I identified
myself and asked if Leroi was around. The manager
hesitated momentarily. “No, sir. He not be here.
Maybe, you best try his house”
    Keeping my