this girl of his. That’s why they’re not showing up. Can’t get the cash for a corpse.’
Stoney let out a blubbery sigh.
‘Now. Danny. He’s out there somewhere.’
Stoney looked up at him, his face as blank as a new blackboard.
‘Let’s say Danny’s still alive. But he’s lost his bargaining chips, ’cause maybe these fuckheads killed your brother and his girl. So he’s got to go somewhere. He’s gonna try to get at you again – he’d rather have the treasure than you in jail, if it’s one or the other. He can hardly accuse you of murder if he’s done the same now. So where would Danny go?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He’s got friends around here. You know him, Stoney.’
‘No… no one I can think of.’
‘Other folks in the Laffite League?’
‘Some in Corpus, maybe. He’s not well-liked; people think he’s nuts.’
‘Ah. You start making some phone calls.’
The doorbell rang. Stoney froze by the phone.
‘Not a word’ – Alex pulled his gun from the back of his pants, pressed the barrel beneath Stoney’s eye – ‘or I will kill you and whoever’s on the porch. You understand?’
‘Not – not a word,’ Stoney said in a broken voice.
Alex hurried to the front door, quietly. He peered through the peephole.
Some guy, blondish, tall, standing on the porch, looking around. His head a little rounder from the distortion of the glass. Wearing a bright orange tropical shirt.
Alex moved back from the peephole. The doorbell rang again, a knock followed.
Alex waited. He peeked through a living room window, barely edging back the closed curtain, and saw the guy in the driveway, talking on his cell phone. Then clicking off the phone.
A knock again on the door, doorbell ringing.
‘Mr Vaughn? Whit Mosley. I’m the JP here. I can tell you’re home. Would you please open up?’
Alex waited. A few more knocks. After about five minutes Whit Mosley climbed into a Ford Explorer and roared off. Stoney walked back into the foyer.
Alex put the gun on him. ‘A JP’s a judge, right? Why’s he here?’
‘Probably to tell me my brother’s body has been found,’ Stoney said. His voice sounded a lot more even.
‘They’d call. And it wouldn’t be a judge.’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ Stoney said. ‘Put that gun down. I can’t talk to you with it in my face.’
‘You’re not in a position to make demands. You’ve lied to me. We agreed we’d rebury the treasure on the land you bought out at the Point. Discover it together as Laffite’s treasure, make a mint, get famous,’ Alex said.
‘You don’t give a shit about that, Alex,’ Stoney said. ‘Not about the fame. You just want the treasure. But we can both get what we want. We need to work together, stop fucking each other over. Between the murders and now Danny everything’s gone south. I’m making a drink and we can talk.’
He turned and went back into the kitchen. Alex lowered the gun and followed him.
‘Where’s the courage coming from?’ Alex asked. Stoney poured a thin film of bourbon into a glass, topped it off with ice water.
‘From knowing I’m going to make a great deal with you.’
‘So. Deal.’ Alex never enjoyed killing but he thought he would really like killing Stoney, even if it was one bullet and quick, like snapping your fingers.
‘First we have to find Danny. And find my brother.’
‘This whole kidnapping shtick’s not a fake?’
‘I swear, Alex, it isn’t. You can’t take the risk that it’s not.’ He gulped at his drink. ‘Danny could screw us both over, end it for us easy. He’s nuts. He’s not going to behave like a normal human being.’
Alex took a deep breath. ‘So we sit and wait?’
‘I don’t start calling around to Laffite Leaguers, showing an interest in him. They’d remember that later. So get patient. He’s going to call. No way he’s not going to see this through. We wait here, together. You can kill him when he shows up.’
‘Me? Why not you? It’s your fucking brother he took.’
‘Because you’re good at offense. I’m better at defense.’ Stoney put down his drink. ‘And here’s how we both stay happy. I’m willing to give you three-quarters of the gold and silver. You can melt it down or sell the coins on the market. I keep the rest and the Eye. That I rebury on the land, dig back up, have my glory.’
‘As the only discoverer of actual buried pirate treasure in history.’
‘We’re both happy and we don’t commit mutually assured destruction trying to fuck the other over,’ Stoney said.
Alex tented his cheek with his tongue. ‘What about your brother and this cop girlfriend?’
‘They’ll have killed her. My brother, he can be reasoned with.’
‘Your brother might talk,’ Alex said.
‘My brother will never have to work again if he doesn’t want to,’ Stoney said. ‘You don’t worry about him. Now. You can play tough, try to rough me up some more, and completely fuck yourself over. Or you can crash here with me and see if Danny shows up tonight, and then we’re home free. What’s it gonna be?’
Alex crossed his arms. ‘I don’t sleep on couches.’
18
Gooch thought the Bayou Mee was appropriately named, as the two girls near its parking lot might say, Buy. You. Me. The Tulane Avenue open-court motel was grimy, the dive more residence than family fun stopover. It was a few blocks from the New Orleans Criminal Courts Building and nearby were several bail bond businesses, and Gooch wondered if maybe the Bayou Mee catered to those recently released from jail. He’d seen two women go from the darkened parking lot to rooms with new friends and return in a half hour, but they weren’t shimmying hot-panted rears on the street corner; rather, the two looked more like regular girls, T-shirts and denim shorts, just hanging out in the motel lot, gossiping, and maybe if you knew the password, you’d get a date. Gooch spotted one police cruiser go by, not even tap on its brakes. Late Thursday night, the girls not too busy yet.
He’d paid for his room and said, ‘I’m looking for a friend of mine.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Alex.’
‘Don’t know an Alex.’
‘You know a man named Alex?’ Gooch laid a fifty on the desk. ‘You know any Alex at all?’
‘What’s he look like?’ The clerk was a bony kid, dirty-blond hair, sullen, his nose pierced with a thin hoop of gold. He scooped the bill into his jeans pocket.
‘Alex was here about a month ago.’
‘But what’s he look like? Names don’t matter much here.’
‘He might have had some phone calls back to Texas on his bill. Does that ring a bell?’
‘You a cop?’
‘Do cops give money for answering questions?’
‘Sure, sometimes.’
‘I’m not a cop. Or a PI’
‘Alex don’t ring a bell. Most of the guys here have classier names than Alex, like Bubba or Hoss. Or John.’ He laughed.
‘Thanks,’ Gooch said. ‘Think about it.’
He went back to his room, started watching the girls. A truck pulled in, the taller girl leaned down, chatted, laughed. The shorter girl walked over to a plastic crate two doors down from Gooch, sat, lit a cigarette.
