Jean Laffite, the great pirate of the Gulf one of the most unusual and mysterious figures in American history. Membership is open to all at dues of $50/year. We have chapters in New Orleans, Galveston, and Corpus Christi with a total membership over 100. We are academics, historians, teachers, students, businesspeople, jet pilots, nurses, retirees – anyone interested in the days of old. We sponsor trips to Galveston, Grande Terre, and other sites to explore Laffite history and also offer a quarterly newsletter on all matters Laffite-related.
Below the statement were links to newsletter archives, an on-line forum for Laffite discussion, and sites for historical research. And below that, a list of officers of the League, with Stoney Vaughn as president of the Corpus Christi chapter. He searched through the rest of the site. No mention of Patch Gilbert.
A fan club for a dead pirate. An overdue book about Laffite. Skeletons. Arid Stoney Vaughn, giver of whiskey, buyer of land, whose name kept sidling into view.
Whit clicked back to the newsletter articles, wondering if there was much discussion about buried treasure. He found none – this was all straight, well-footnoted history. The articles ranged from detailed analyses of the Battle of New Orleans during the War of 1812, where Laffite played a key role, to speculation of Laffite’s ultimate fate. Several of the articles were attributed to a writer named Jason Salinger, and the short bio at the end of each minutely researched piece indicated Jason was a freelance writer working in Port Leo, Texas.
He looked up Jason Salinger in the phone book. Not listed. He could track him down tomorrow.
He saw, through his window, his father moving in the soft glow of the kitchen lights in the big house and headed up there.
‘You want me to change the locks?’ Babe Mosley said after Whit explained.
‘Just as a precaution, Daddy.’
‘Why on earth would anyone be breaking in and then not taking anything?’ Babe sipped from a cup of decaf, still a big man at sixty, his face creased and handsome.
‘I don’t know. But I’d feel better if you changed the locks.’
‘I’ll call the locksmith tomorrow.’ He lowered his cup. ‘You staying out with Lucy again?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come stay here.’
‘She wants to be at Patch’s house, and I don’t want her to be alone.’
‘I wish y’all would just stay here,’ Babe said. ‘I’d sure sleep better.’
‘We’re fine.’
Halfway up toward Black Jack Point, he thought, Why wait? See if Stoney Vaughn’s at home tonight. Ask him about the Gilberts.
He drove past the Point, toward Copano Flats, looking for a big-ass mansion.
17
Stoney had only managed to keep Alex from shooting him outright by saying, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about with the emerald, but these guys are going to be here soon and we got to deal with them first.’
‘I looked at it. Closely. It’s not real.’ Alex’s voice was low and precise and getting impatient. The Eye’s looking a little bloodshot.’
‘I didn’t know you were an emerald expert.’
‘Where is it?’
‘You’re not supposed to have a key for both locks. We agreed.’
‘You fucking stole from me and you’re going to chide me?’ Alex, his tone disbelieving, shook his head, the gun in his hand pointing at the carpet for the moment.
‘I didn’t steal from you.’ Stoney glanced back out at the bay. ‘Oh, God, here they come.’ But it wasn’t Jupiter. It was a smaller fishing trawler, idling along the near edge of the bay.
‘The Eye, please. I’m not helping you with Danny and his boys if you don’t cough it up.’
‘Listen, I took it to protect it.’
‘Really. How’s that?’ Like he couldn’t wait to hear the details.
‘Danny. Look, he knows we’ve done the dig, he’s in the area, he’s seen the papers about Black Jack Point and the murders. He knows we’ve got the Eye. He might find out where we’d hidden it.’ He took refuge in outrage. ‘Listen. You had a key I didn’t know about. We’re even.’
‘We are so fucking not even!’ Alex’s gun came up, centered on Stoney’s chest.
‘If anything happens to me,’ Stoney said, ‘There are tape recordings of our conversations over the past couple of months. About Patch Gilbert. About the Laffite treasure, the Devil’s Eye, your little fuckup in New Orleans. Multiple copies, hidden in multiple places. In multiple forms. Tape. Sound file. A couple of ways you might never guess. But sure to be found if I go missing or die, Alex. I’m not Jimmy. I’m not dumb.’
‘You’re bluffing. You wouldn’t take that chance of fucking yourself over.’
‘I might. For insurance. I’ve always been overinsured.’
Alex put the gun down, turned, and walked out of the office.
‘Where you going?’ Stoney said. He followed Alex down into the big white living room, full of old nautical maps on the walls, thick leather-bound tomes of history. Alex knelt by the stone fireplace, opened a decorative cylinder of long matches next to the equally decorative stone fireplace. The match was about nine inches long; it could burn for a while and you wouldn’t singe your fingertips. He took the cylinder back to where Stoney stood at the bottom of the steps, punched him hard in the mouth. Stoney’s lip split. He fell back, a little dribble of blood and snot smearing on his chin.
‘Uhhhng,’ Stoney said.
Alex grabbed the front of his shirt, shoved him back onto the stairs.
‘Insurance,’ Alex said, ‘can be fucking expensive.’
Stoney spat blood. ‘I can’t believe you hit me, you shit.’ But a little quaver in his voice gave him away.
Alex slapped Stoney, lightly, almost playfully. ‘You steal the Eye from me. You call me, tell me Danny’s got your brother and wants to make a trade. For the Eye. So, what, we give them the fake Eye to save your brother? And I never know the real Eye’s gone? It’s sort of half clever.’
‘Like you’d let me give Danny the Eye. I’m not that stupid. You never would.’ He mopped at his nose. ‘You heard Danny’s friends on the phone.’
‘I did. I’m not impressed. You could have friends I don’t know about, Stoney. Playing a phone prank of sorts. All designed to fool me.’ He grabbed Stoney by the throat. ‘Where’s the Eye?’
‘I won’t-’
Alex ran the match tip – unlit – underneath Stoney’s eyebrows, along the rim of his ear. ‘Does it tickle?’
‘Oh, God, no,’ Stoney said. ‘Please.’
‘I don’t want to burn you.’ Alex struck the match along the wall; it flamed into life. ‘But I will. Start with this. Then I’ll drag you down to your dock. Get some gasoline worked in good on you. Kick it up a notch.’
‘Oh, Mary, mother of God, no,’ Stoney sobbed.
‘Where is it?’
Stoney watched the fire. ‘The Eye’s on the boat. My boat. That’s where I hid it. Danny’s got it. He don’t even know it.’
‘And they’re coming here?’
‘Yes. Please, you can get it then.’
Alex blew out the match.
It was now close to eight.
‘I don’t think the bad guys are showing up, Stoney.’ Alex watched the empty dock from the kitchen’s bay window. The stars had begun to glimmer in the dying summer twilight. ‘I think we’ve been stood up.’
‘Jesus. They said they would bring my brother… for the money after they killed Danny…’
‘You don’t look good, man.’
‘Christ.’ Stoney reached for the whiskey bottle, took a tiny sip. Alex watched. Tiny sips didn’t hurt until you’d taken a hundred of them.
‘I think, Stone Man, you need to prepare yourself for bad news. I think these guys killed your brother and
