She settled back into his arms, he didn’t give an answer, and finally he heard her sleep. Only then did he close his eyes and let himself drift away, and in his sleep his breathing matched hers.
Lucy decided to put in a day at work and Whit, not due at court for two hours, followed her into Port Leo. Early Friday morning was not phone-jamming rush hour at Coastal Psychics Network. The little office was squeezed in between a grimy doughnut shop and a grimier liquor store in an old strip shopping center that had never seen better days. Two bored college students sat on duty at the phones, a black woman reading a physics textbook, chewing on the end of her highlighter, and a white woman watching Today.
‘Hi, y’all. Slow night?’ Lucy asked as they walked in.
‘Yeah.’ The first woman looked up from her textbook. ‘People just don’t have problems like they used to.’ She slipped a tarot card into her textbook, shut the book.
‘It’ll pick up,’ the other psychic said. ‘We’re moving into the Bored Housewives hours.’ There was an embarrassed silence. ‘We’re sorry about your uncle, Lucy.’
‘Thanks, Amanda.’
‘You don’t want to talk,’ Amanda said. ‘It’s okay. I sensed that in your aura. Let me know if you want a reading later.’ She glanced at Whit. ‘Oh, dear, isn’t someone’s aura a little thin today.’
The two phone psychics looked at him, looked at each other, then back at Whit. ‘You’re the disbelieving boyfriend,’ Amanda said.
‘In more ways than one,’ Lucy said, but not sounding mad anymore.
‘Man, ditch your negativity,’ the black woman said. ‘It’s an anchor on your soul.’
‘I think I like being weighed down,’ Whit said.
‘It’s not insurmountable negativity,’ Amanda said. ‘You have a beautiful spirit. You just need a cleansing influence. Some healing crystal treatments should clear you up.’
People pay a buck twenty-nine a minute to hear this crap? he thought. But he smiled and gave the peace sign. The two psychics frowned.
‘C’mon back to my office, Whit,’ Lucy said. She hustled to the back, to a small office. She had a foil mobile hanging from the ceiling, an assortment of thick multicolored crystals and sculptures on a shelf above the desk, books on ESP, the tarot, and guerrilla marketing on a table. She shut the door. ‘Baby, after everything else, I don’t need you upsetting the employees.’
‘They started it.’
‘They did not. They read you like a book. These are very sensitive, sweet girls and there you stand, thinking how stupid all this is. They can tell, you know.’
‘You didn’t read my mind.’
‘I know you think this is bullshit, but it isn’t to me, to Amanda and Lachelle, to our customers. Okay?’ She was being loud and for a minute he wondered if it was for the women’s benefit.
‘Okay.’ He took her in his arms. ‘I love you. Does my aura show that?’
‘Yes, actually it does.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘I love you, too. Tons. Beyond tons.’ She hugged him hard. ‘This’ll all be over soon, won’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can we go away then? For a week, just us? Maybe Mexico. Hawaii. Disney World. I don’t care.’
‘Sure, Lucy. You pick.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘You pick, and then I’ll read it in the cards. I’ll prove this works.’
‘Deal,’ he said. He left, letting her think he was headed to court.
20
Jason Salinger, at first glance, reminded Whit of a lawn gnome. He was short, bearded, with apple cheeks and fat pink lips surrounded by a thick beard. He wore a T-shirt that read FOOTNOTE FETISH.
Jason said, ‘Don’t knock over any of my books.’
Easier said than done. Whit followed Jason into a dingy living room converted into a library. Books tottered against a computer desk. More books covered the sofa and lay scattered across the floor.
‘You’re a big reader, then?’ Whit stepped over a smaller stack of books and took a seat on the corner of Jason’s sofa.
Jason looked at Whit as though he were mentally damaged. ‘Why, yes, I am.’
Any books on social skills? Whit nearly asked but instead he smiled.
‘Excuse him. He’s a bear in the morning,’ Jason’s wife said. Cute and plump, dressed in faded jeans and a blue T-shirt, she was as sweet as he was dour. ‘Aren’t you, sugar pop?’
Jason made a strangled noise of agreement.
‘Would you like some coffee, Judge Mosley?’
‘No, ma’am, thank you. I’ve already filled the tank for the day,’ Whit said.
‘I’ll have a cup, please,’ Jason said.
‘You know what the doctor said about you and caffeine.’ She patted Jason’s shoulder, gave Whit a maternal wink, although he guessed she was six or seven years younger than he was. ‘I’ll let you boys talk.’
Then Whit noticed the headless pirate in the corner. Not headless. But an old tailor’s mannequin, just the body’s form, with a fancy blue coat, a red sash under the jacket, grayish pants. A sword and a revolver – they looked genuine – hung off the mannequin.
Jason swiveled a chair away from his computer desk and sat facing Whit. The Salingers’ house was in an older, slightly untidy section of Port Leo. The lawn looked untended, the furniture in the house fresh from the consignment store. But the books in Jason’s work area were fat, expensive hardbacks, lots of them, and his computer system was a top-of-the-line model.
‘What can I help you with, Judge?’
‘I understand you’ve done a lot of research on Jean Laffite.’
‘I do freelance magazine writing, substitute teaching, some book editing for a couple of very small presses.’
‘But Laffite’s your own particular interest.’
‘Sure. Gonna go to grad school in another year or so, write the definitive book on Laffite one day. Probably get a doctorate with a focus on Gulf history. Be able to teach anywhere from Texas to Florida that way. I don’t do cold winters well.’
‘I’m interested in the Laffite League.’
‘This has something to do with Patch Gilbert, right?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well, he came to the last chapter meeting in Corpus in May. I figured he was interested in joining. Sorry to hear about him getting killed.’
‘You knew Patch?’
‘No. I just met him that one time at the meeting. He was a friendly guy, introduced himself to everyone. You don’t forget a name like Patch.’
‘Let’s talk about the League first. What exactly is it?’
‘I can slice the Laffite League into three groups for you. The vast majority are people with a strong interest in history, perfectly nice and respectable. Then there are those who are interested in the legends of buried treasure, although there’s never been anything other than old rumor to say Laffite buried his gold instead of spending it. But those folks have seen the movies, like The Buccaneer, and they think Laffite is Yul Brynner as a romance-novel swashbuckler.’ He swiveled on his chair. ‘Then there are the very small but fascinating subset of wackos. A few have claimed to be Laffite descendants, and have forged journals and documents to sell to the gullible or to try to live off the name.’
‘Dangerous wacko or amusing wacko?’
‘Amusing. There’s a guy who calls himself Danny Laffite – it’s not his real name. Nutcase in Louisiana, says he’s Laffite’s great-great-great-great-grand whatever. But harmless. He tricked some guy in Houston into paying ten thousand for letters supposedly written by Laffite to Andrew Jackson. Fakes, obviously. He ended up giving the
