“I’m trying to clear up some title information regarding a tract in Jeff Davis Parish,” I said. “Specifically the Latiolais estate.”
“If this is about oil rights, we don’t own them. You’ll have to check the courthouse for that information.”
“My name is Dave Robicheaux. I’m with the Iberia Parish Sheriff’s Department. We’re investigating a shooting that took place near the old Latiolais property.”
“Sorry, I was confused. I thought you were a landman with an oil company. We get a lot of inquiries about oil rights.”
“I’m writing up a report, and I was confused about some land boundaries. The Latiolais land belongs to the Castaways Corporation?”
“Yes, sir, to my knowledge. Right now it does.”
“I didn’t catch that last part.”
“It does and it doesn’t. The St. Jude Project is a charitable group. I think that piece of land you’re talking about is being transferred to us. We get land donations from various corporations. One of those corporations we work real close with is Castaways.”
“Yes, I think I’ve heard of you guys. You all do a lot of good,” I said.
“Castaways and the St. Jude try to create what we call ‘empowerment zones,’” he said. “I’m not qualified to speak on it, but the short version is that Castaways buys run-down properties and rejuvenates and donates them to the St. Jude, more or less to put local people back to work.”
“That sounds like a noble endeavor. I’m glad to learn this. My question concerns seven arpents in the name of Bernadette Latiolais. Know anything about them?”
“No, sir, afraid not.”
“Just out of curiosity, does that empowerment zone include a casino?”
“Not likely.”
“Say again?”
“These are religious people. They don’t believe in legalized gambling. The St. Jude Project is real big on the work ethic, what they call ‘workfare, not welfare.’”
“Do you know what they might be building down there? That’s one of my favorite duck-hunting spots.”
“Maybe nothing. Or maybe something ten years from now.”
“What kind of something?”
“I got no idea.”
“I appreciate your time.”
“Yes, sir, happy to help,” he replied.
I set the phone back on its base. The man named Edward Falgout may not have given me the keys to the dark tower, but inadvertently he had dropped the dime on the St. Jude Project, which meant he had put Robert Weingart and Kermit Abelard and, by extension, Timothy Abelard right back in the middle of the investigation.
CHAPTER 18
AS IT TURNED out, we didn’t need the personnel at Castaways, Ltd., or the St. Jude Project to focus our attention once again on Robert Weingart. He did it for us.
That same afternoon Weingart went to a branch bank located in a residential neighborhood where most of the transactions involved the commonplace deposits and withdrawals of middle-income people. Weingart wanted to close out an account that had over two hundred thousand dollars in it. So far, no problem. Weingart wanted to have the money wired to a bank in British Columbia. The teller consulted with the branch manager, who was a black woman, and said a phone call or two would have to be made and wire and account numbers might have to be confirmed, but the transfer would be made that day.
Then Weingart was told what the exchange rate would be when he deposited American dollars in a Canadian bank. “That’s six percent less than the real value of the dollar. Check again,” he said.
“I already did,” the teller said. She was a Cajun woman in her late sixties, with gray skin and knots of veins in her calves, her bottom as wide as a washtub, probably someone’s relative who had been given the job at the bank to help her through her declining years. “I’m sorry, Mr. Weingart. I’m just telling you what the bank in Canada tole me.”
“Look, this is a simple matter. Try to concentrate on what I’m saying. Each American dollar I deposit in Canada should translate into a dollar and a quarter Canadian. You look like a reasonable person. If you were in my shoes, would you let someone throw twelve thousand dollars of your money away?”
“No, suh, I wouldn’t do that.”
“That’s good. We’re getting somewhere. What’s your name?”
“Lavern.”
“Okay, Lavern, go back to your manager, Mrs. Sasquatch over there, and tell her to drag her lazy rear end out of the chair and to get on the phone and straighten this out. Can you do that for me, Lavern?”
“I don’t like the way you’re talking to me, suh.”
“Sorry about that. My twelve thousand is insignificant when it comes to helping along a grand program like affirmative action. I apologize. Tell your manager I said fuck me. I apologize to you, too, Lavern. Fuck me twice.”
Robert Weingart was just backing out his white Mustang convertible from his parking slot when the deputy who responded to the bank manager’s call pulled in to the lot. Weingart was wearing shades and a stylish beige fedora and a scarlet silk shirt with blown sleeves. He cut his engine and smiled pleasantly into the deputy’s face. “If this is about me, the ladies inside worked out my problem,” he said. “It was a misunderstanding about a change in currency rates. I got a little hotheaded. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t tell me. Tell them,” the deputy said. He was a red-haired man with a florid complexion and a brush mustache and a chest that resembled a beer keg. His nickname was Top because he was a retired marine NCO, although he had been a cook and never a first sergeant. As a department comedian, he was considered second only to our dispatcher, Wally.
“I told both ladies I was out of line, sir,” Weingart said. “They seemed satisfied. I don’t see the problem.”
“You’re the author?” Top said.
“I’m
“My mother read your book. She wanted me to read it. That’s why your remarks were real hurtful to her.”
“Miss Lavern is your mother?”
“No, the branch manager, the black lady, is my mother. The one you called Mrs. Sasquatch.”
Weingart grinned from behind his glasses and inserted his hand in the top of his shirt and massaged his chest. “You’re pretty good.”
“Take off your glasses.”
“What for?”
“Because it’s rude to talk to people with sunglasses on.”
“I never heard that one.”
“You have now.”
“Anything to please.”
“That’s better. Thank you. I hear you’ve been down three times.”
“More than three if you count juvenile time.”
“So who taught you it was okay to come to a town like this and use the word ‘fuck’ in front of my mother?”
“Nobody did, sir,” Weingart replied, ennui creeping into his voice.
“You know you have a twitch in your face?”
“I wasn’t aware of it.”
“Right under your eye. You don’t have a couple of fried circuits, do you? Like a little too much crystal in the system? Because that’s what you look like to me. I think that’s why you said ‘fuck’ in front of my mother.”
