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

eyes on the interstate, I replied, “I did.
There was no answer. What about the other shops?
Think he might be over there?”
    “Well, he could be” Then with a little more exuberance, he added, “Yes, sir. It could very well be dat
Leroi, he be over at one of the other shops. You have de
numbers?”
    “No. Hold on” I pulled over to the side of the highway and fished a pen from my pocket. I don’t consider
myself over the hill, but my reflexes weren’t those of a
seventeen-year-old either. I’m too old to handle a
pickup hurtling down the interstate at seventy miles an
hour, write telephone numbers with one hand, and talk
on the phone at the same time the way I see many drivers doing.
    I jotted the numbers down as he called them off, but
I couldn’t help remembering that earlier hesitation on his part that tickled the hair on the back of my neck.
“Leroi’s all right, isn’t he? Nothing’s happened to him
or Sally”

    The unnaturally long pause answered my question.
“Look, I’m Leroi’s cousin from Austin, Texas. The
white cousin. I’m sure he’s told you about me. If something’s wrong, or Leroi has problems, I want to help.
He’d do the same for me”
    Several seconds passed.
    “Hello. You still there?”
    In a softer voice, he replied, “Yes, sir. I still be here”
His voice faded to a whisper. “Leroi, him and Miss
Sally, they done split de sheets. They been having bad
trouble since de boy of theirs got hisself kilt. Leroi, he
be drinking bad.”
    “What about Sally?”
    “Miss Sally, she back living with her mama”
    I leaned back against the headrest and closed my
eyes. “When was the last time he came by the shop?”
    “Oh, let’s see. Sometime last week. Leroi, he just sits
in dat old house and sees how much whiskey he can put
down before he passes out” He clicked his tongue.
“Sure hate to see him do dat to hisself, but dat one, he
don’t listen to nothing no one tries to tell him.”
    After hanging up, I sat at the side of the road for several minutes, trying to decide if I should simply cut
north and go to Melungo alone, or see if I could salvage
Leroi from his bottle. He could be of some help in
Melungo. Not only was his mother from the area, although that had been over forty years earlier, but a white boy coming to town with a black brother might
not be quite as noticeable.

    Muttering a curse, I pulled back onto the interstate
and headed for Opelousas. I had no choice. Leroi was
family, close family, and maybe, just maybe with his
help, I’d get lucky and find the truth about Savoie and at
the same time learn who had executed Stewart.
    I pulled up to the curb in front of Leroi’s house, a
story and a half white clapboard with two dormers
above a porch that spanned the front of the old house.
    His yellow pickup with the logo of a jumping catfish
on the doors was parked half on the grass and half on
the driveway.
    I climbed the stairs to the porch and knocked on the
door.
    No answer. I tried again. Still no answer.
    Tentatively, I turned the doorknob and the door
swung open. “Leroi” The curtains were drawn, casting
the room in deep shadows. I squinted into the darkness.
The living room was in a shambles, newspapers scattered about, empty bottles lying on the floor, halfempty glasses on the coffee table and end tables.
    “Leroi,” I called again, stepping inside.
    No answer.
    I eased down the hall, opening doors on either side
until I found Leroi sprawled on his back on an unmade
bed. His arms were spread and his mouth gaped open.
The only reason I didn’t hurry to see if he was still
breathing was that he was snoring like a chainsaw. I wrinkled my nose. The bedroom reeked with the sweetsour stench of whiskey.

    Looking about the room, I shook my head. If Sally
could see her bedroom now, she’d blister the skin off
Leroi’s hide. I muttered to the sleeping man. “Jeez, cuz,
you look like you been stomped on and spit