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 money back and avoided prosecution.’
‘He’s in the Laffite League?’
‘Was. They revoked his membership. Forgers don’t make for trustworthy historians.’
‘What about all these legends of buried treasure?’ Whit asked.
Jason shrugged. ‘There’s no evidence Laffite buried an ounce of gold along the coast, but the rumors persist. Treasure means glamour. Adventure. Instant wealth attained in an interesting way, as opposed to the boredom of work.’
‘Romantic money.’
‘Sure. We all read or saw Treasure Island as kids. We all want to be Jim Hawkins, outwitting Long John Silver and finding the gold,’ Jason said. ‘Long John Silver. The only fictional murderer I can think of with a fast-food chain named after him.’
‘The truth is less romantic than the fiction,’ Whit said.
Jason jerked his head toward the mannequin. ‘Every year I dress up in that costume, pretend to be Laffite, go to the schools, and tell them the stories. The kids want to hear about Laffite being a movie-style pirate: storming ships, cutlass in hand, saving fair damsels on blood-soaked decks. That’s all crap. Laffite dodged taxes, sent out other captains to capture ships, dealt more in slaves and cotton than in gold. Was careful not to attack American shipping because that meant trouble. So he preyed on everyone else. More administrator than swash-buckler. And cold-blooded. A few months before he left Galveston a hurricane devastated the island. Not enough food for the thousand people living there. Laffite’s solution was simple: round up every black on Galveston, slave and free, and sell them in the underground Louisiana slave market. Even the free black women who were married to Laffite’s men. All hauled onto ships, the wives screaming for their husbands to save them. Laffite shot anyone who resisted. Fewer people to feed, fresh money in the coffers to rebuild after the storm. Simple and brutal.’