“Nothing that would hold up in court,” Pitt admitted. Then the opaline-green eyes became intense and a faint glint radiated from them. “But all that could change in the next forty-eight hours.”
THE MARINE DENIZENS LITTLE JET BOAT SPED ACROSS THE Intracoastal Waterway and then slowed as it cruised past the Morgan City waterfront. The town was protected from a flooding river by a concrete levee eight feet high and a giant seawall that rose twenty feet and faced the Gulf. Two highway bridges and a railway bridge span the Atchafalaya River in Morgan City, the white headlights and red taillights of the traffic moving like beads slipped through a woman's fingers. The lights of the buildings played across the water, wavering in the wash from passing boats. With a population of 15,000, Morgan City was the largest community in St. Mary Parish (Louisiana's civil divisions are called parishes instead of counties, as with most states). The city faced west overlooking a wide stretch of the Atchafalaya River called Berwick Bay. To the south ran Bayou Boeuf, which circled the town like a vast moat and ran into Lake Palourde.
Morgan City is the only town on the banks of the Atchafalaya and sits low, making it susceptible to floods and extreme high tides, especially during hurricanes, but the residents never bother to look southward toward the Gulf for menacing black clouds. California has its earthquakes, Kansas has its tornadoes and Montana has its blizzards, “so why should we worry” is the prevailing sentiment.
The community is a bit more urbane than most other towns and small cities throughout the Louisiana bayou country. It functions as a seaport, catering to fishermen, oil companies and boat builders, and yet it has the flavor of a river town much like those along the Missouri and Ohio rivers, with the majority of the buildings facing water.
A procession of fishing boats passed. The sharp-prowed boats, with high freeboards and the cabins mounted well forward, masts and net booms aft on the stern, were heading into deep water in the Gulf. The boats that stayed in shallower water had flat bottoms for less draft, lower freeboards, rounded bows with the masts forward and little cabins at the stern. Both types trawled for shrimp. Oyster luggers were another breed. Since they mostly worked the inland waters they had no masts. One chugged by the NUMA jet boat, its decks barely above the surface and heaped with a small mountain of unshucked oyster shells piled six to seven feet high.
“Where do you want to be dropped off?” asked Gunn, who sat behind the wheel of the propless runabout.
“The nearest waterfront saloon would be a good place to meet the river men,” said Pitt.
Giordino pointed toward a rambling block of wooden structures stretching along a dock. A neon sign over one building read,
CHARLIE'S FISH DOCK, SEAFOOD AND BOOZE.
“Looks like our kind of place.”
“The packing house next door must be where fishermen bring their catch,” Pitt observed. “As good a spot as any to ask about unusual goings-on upriver.”
Gunn slowed the runabout and steered her between a small fleet of trawlers before coming to a stop at the bottom of a wooden ladder. “Good luck,” he said, smiling, as Pitt and Giordino began climbing onto the dock. “Don't forget to write.”
“We'll stay in touch,” Pitt assured him.
Gunn waved, pushed away from the dock and turned the little jet boat back downriver toward the Marine Denizen.
The dock reeked of fish, the authentic aroma made even more pungent by the nighttime humidity. Giordino nodded at a hill of shucked oyster shells that rose almost to the roof of the waterfront bar and cafe“. ”A Dixie beer and a dozen succulent
Gulf oysters would suit me just fine about now," he said in happy anticipation.
“I'll bet their gumbo is world-class too.”
Walking through the doors of Charlie's Fish Dock saloon was like walking back in time. The ancient air-conditioning had long ago lost the war against human sweat and tobacco smoke. The wooden floor was worn smooth from the tread of fisherman boots and was scarred by hundreds of cigarette burns. The tables that had been cut and varnished from the hatch covers of old boats showed their share of cigarette bums, too. The tired captain's chairs looked patched and glued after years of bar fights. Covering the walls were rusty metal signs advertising everything from Aunt Bea's Ginger Ale to Old South Whiskey to Goober's Bait Shack. All had been liberally peppered with bullet holes at one time or another. There were none of the modern promotional beer signs that proliferated in most watering holes around the country. The shelves behind the bar, which held nearly a hundred different brands of liquor, some distilled locally, looked like they had been haphazardly nailed to the wall during the Civil War. The bar came from the deck of a long-abandoned fishing boat and could have used a good caulking job.
The clientele was a mixed bag of fishermen, local boatyard and construction workers, and oilmen who worked the offshore rigs. They were a rugged lot. This was the land of the Cajuns, and several conversed in French. Two big dogs snoozed peacefully under an empty table. At least thirty men filled the bar with no women to be seen, not even a barmaid. All drinks were served by the bartender. No glasses came with the beer. You either got a bottle or a can. Only the liquor rated a cracked and chipped glass. A waiter who looked as if he wrestled on Thursday nights at the local arena served the food.
“What do you think?” Pitt asked Giordino. “Now I know where old cockroaches go to die.”
“Just remember to smile and say 'sir' to any of these hulks who ask you the time.”
“This would be the last place I'd start a fight,” Giordino agreed.
“Good thing we're not dressed like tourists off a cruise ship,” said Pitt, reexamining the soiled and patched work clothes the crew of the Marine Denizen had scrounged together for them. “Though I doubt it makes any difference. They know we don't belong by the clean smell.”
“I knew it was a mistake to bathe last month,” Giordino said wryly.
Pitt bowed and gestured toward an empty table. “Shall we dine?”
“Yes, let's,” Giordino countered with a bow as he pulled back a chair and sat down.
After twenty minutes with no service, Giordino yawned and said, “It would appear our waiter has refined the professional technique of pretending not to notice our table.”
“He must have heard you,” Pitt said, grinning. “Here he comes.”
The waiter approached them, dressed only in cutoff jeans and wearing a T-shirt with a longhorn steer skiing down a hill of brown that said, IF GOD MEANT TEXANS TO SKI, HE'D HAVE MADE COWSHIT WHITE.
“Can I get you something from the kitchen?” he asked in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.
“How about a dozen oysters and a Dixie beer?” said Giordino.
“You got it,” answered the waiter. “And you?”
“A bowl of your famous gumbo.”
The waiter grunted. “I didn't know it was famous, but it is good-tastin'. Whatta you want to drink?”
“Got tequila behind the bar?”
“Sure, we get a lot of Central American fishermen in here.”
“Tequila on the rocks with a lime.”
The waiter turned and began walking toward the kitchen, but not before he looked at them and said, “I'll be back.”
“I hope he doesn't think he's Arnold Schwarzenegger and drives a car through the wall,” Giordino muttered.
“Relax,” said Pitt. “Enjoy the local color, the ambience, the smoke-filled environment.”
“I might as well take advantage of the stale atmosphere and add to it,” said Giordino, lighting up one of his exotic cigars.
Pitt surveyed the room, searching for an appropriate character to probe for information. He eliminated a group of oil riggers gathered round one end of the bar and who were playing pool. The dockyard workers were a good possibility, but they did not look like they took kindly to strangers. He began focusing on the fishermen. A number of them were sitting at community tables pulled together and playing poker. An older man, in what Pitt guessed was his mid-sixties, straddled a chair nearby but did not join in. He played the role of a loner, but there was a humorous and friendly gleam in his blue-green eyes. His hair was gray and matched a mustache that fell and met a beard around the chin. He watched the others as they tossed their money on the poker table as though he was a psychologist studying behavioral patterns of laboratory mice.