‘But you admire him.’
‘I admire his decisiveness,’ Jason Salinger said. ‘We’re a much less decisive world now. We analyze. We agonize. We second-guess. Laffite never had that luxury. Maybe one day I’ll write a book for business managers: Business by Laffite. You know, you find different avenues to make your money these days as an academic. Got to go mainstream.’
‘So where did Laffite keep all his money? There were no banks in Galveston then, and presumably a legitimate bank wouldn’t touch him.’
‘He probably laundered money and gold back into the banks in New Orleans. He had the best lawyers in New Orleans working for him. And he and his brother, Pierre, filed bankruptcy, saying they had very little. But of course mobsters today have hidden under that same cloak.’
‘But any accounts would have always been in danger from the US government? If they suspected an account was Laffite’s, they’d’ve seized it, right?’
Jason frowned but nodded.
A large map of the Texas coast was pinned above the computer. Whit stood and studied it. ‘Indulge me. Let’s just say, over the years, Laffite amasses a tidy fortune in gold. At least enough to get him started over if he abandons Galveston or his New Orleans accounts get seized. Or maybe he makes a few big captures right before he’s forced out of Galveston. He can’t go into port in New Orleans – he’ll be arrested as a pirate if he steps on US soil, right?’
‘Yes,’ Jason said. ‘He’d have been arrested if he set foot in America. His forces had already annoyed the navy by attacking an American merchant ship, although he’d executed the captain responsible. What finally empowered the American government to kick him out of Galveston was the capture of one of his ships, Le Brave, during an attack on a Spanish ship. Le Brave’s captain had papers that outlined the division of booty, written in Laffite’s hand, with his signature. It was the smoking gun the navy needed.’
‘So Laffite’s on the run. He’s got no place to go. If he’s transporting gold he stands to lose it if he’s stopped or attacked, right?’
‘He was given a document guaranteeing safe passage by the US Navy to leave the Gulf. They wouldn’t have bothered him.’
‘But that wouldn’t protect him from the Spanish, right, or any other country whose ships he attacked?’
Jason frowned. ‘No, it wouldn’t. But pirates really didn’t bury treasure very often. That’s way more Treasure Island than common practice. I mean, it’s accepted that Captain Kidd buried a treasure up in New England. But it’s never been found.’
‘But maybe Laffite’s got a better chance for long-term survival burying this treasure – just for a few weeks or months – than hauling it around a gulf sailed by navies who are pissed at him and risk losing everything. He’s a man without a country. Put yourself in his shoes. Where would you bury it?’
Jason stared at him, as though wanting to ask a question, but didn’t. He ran a finger along the curve of the coast on his wall map. ‘Not Galveston or Bolivar. Far too risky to be caught by an American patrol making sure he didn’t return to the area to set up shop again. Maybe further south or north.’ His finger moved south along the map. ‘Laffite had camps up and down the coast. For sure in Matagorda Bay and on St Joseph Island.’
‘Did he have a camp on St Leo Bay?’
Jason glanced at him, then back at the map. ‘Legend says that he did, but no trace has ever been found.’
‘Maybe he wanted to erase the trace of himself here,’ Whit said. ‘If I had buried gold I wouldn’t have my name right over it in big letters.’
‘His camps weren’t fancy. Just shelters if he or his men needed to get ashore, say in a storm, or to hide from other ships. Just four walls and a spare cannon, maybe.’
‘And one assumes if he buried the treasure he would mark it or come back for it quickly, if he could.’
‘Sure.’
‘So what happened to Laffite after he left Galveston?’
‘No one knows. There were a variety of reports. He might have died, might have gone to Cuba or to Mexico. Recently it’s been theorized he died in South America, as a freedom fighter.’ He smiled. ‘People are always trying to redeem pirates. We like them too much to remember they’re murdering thieves.’
‘So – possibly – he could have been kept from retrieving a treasure. Killed. Or imprisoned.’
‘Possibly. Sure. We don’t know with complete certainty what happened to him.’
‘Do the legends get specific about where this St Leo Bay camp might be?’ Whit asked.
‘Some say Copano Flats, some say Black Jack Point. Obviously old Black Jack believed Laffite had been there.’
‘You know about him?’
‘Just that he was a crazy old hermit, lived out on the Point from the Civil War until about 1890. I don’t know if he was black or his name was Jack. I think the Point must’ve gotten its name from the blackjack oaks that grow there. And maybe the name stuck to him, too. He claimed he’d sailed with Laffite as a boy and Laffite was coming back to the Point, gonna kill everyone in Port Leo because they’d taken his gold. Loony. He sure thought there was a treasure – he dug up enough of the Point. I guess the Gilbert family – they’ve had that land for ever – tolerated him. Sad, though. A whole life dedicated to greed.’
‘Wouldn’t you say that was Laffite’s life as well?’
‘Yeah, you’re right. Except for saving New Orleans, which was pretty cool.’ Jason raised an eyebrow again. ‘You going to tell me about why you’re asking all these semiloaded questions?’
‘I’m trying to get a feel for Patch’s life in his final weeks. Everything we discuss, Jason, remains confidential. I’m conducting an official death inquest.’
‘Man, you’re covering your ass.’
Whit shook his head. ‘We have no indication that Patch had found any antiquities or relics of any sort.’ That was true – Patch hadn’t. Maybe others had. ‘I would hate for a bunch of rumors to get started. Have people stampeding around on that land like a bunch of Black Jacks when the Gilbert and Tran families are grieving.’
‘Of course not,’ Jason said. ‘I don’t get off on rumors. I’ll keep my mouth shut. But if there’s a story…’
‘There’s not. I asked about treasure pretty much out of curiosity. It’s what people first think of with Laffite and I knew Patch had this new interest in him. Nothing more.’ Jason didn’t look convinced so Whit shifted gears again. ‘You know Stoney Vaughn?’
‘Sure. He’s the president of the Corpus chapter of the Laffite League.’
‘Friend of yours?’
‘No. Cat litter has more brains than Stoney. He’s all into the treasure hunter mystique. He’s financed treasure dives in the Florida Keys, where a lot of the Spanish galleons wrecked over the years. Tried to finance a partnership to dive on galleon wrecks down off Padre, but the state blocked him. The Texas Historical Commission, they hate treasure hunters. Any treasure in state waters or buried on public land is theirs by law, and they make sure you don’t dive without their approval.’
‘He finances treasure hunts?’ Whit kept his voice flat.
‘Yeah, well, in Florida. Lot more wrecks there, in the shallows along the Keys. I think he might have been in the group that financed Barry Clifford diving on Whydah, up off Cape Cod. That’s the only sunken pirate ship ever recovered. They got a shitload of gold, silver, and jewels off it. At least Stoney likes to talk big about it. He paid for a trip for about a dozen of the Leaguers last year to go to Yucatan, see the town where Laffite’s brother died.’
‘Were Stoney and Patch buddies?’
‘Don’t think they knew each other, but they probably met at the meeting,’ Jason said. ‘Okay, now you got me hooked. You ask about Laffite’s treasure and then you ask about a guy who does treasure hunts.’
‘If there’s anything to say… I’ll give you the exclusive story. But don’t hold your breath. And if you say a thing too early, no story.’
Jason raised an eyebrow. ‘Okay.’
‘Are there any other… treasure-hunter types around here, or in the Laffite League?’