“Interesting enough to make for a good story.”

  “Still working on that. I’ve got a colorful local guide and have met quite a few people that have given me some good background on Tre’vell Baker. But I’m still searching for an angle.”

  “Well, don’t go snooping around the bayou at night. I hear the gators down there have been known to eat a man whole.”

  Cal laughed. “You obviously haven’t been down here if that’s the tale you’re hearing. I’ve already heard far more terrifying stories about gators—and baby gators at that.”

  “Be safe and check in tomorrow and let me know if anything noteworthy pops up. I think if this story pans out, we’ll have a winner on our hands.”

  Cal hung up and went inside the story to buy some batteries. He eyed Potter, who was jabbering away on his phone.

  Once Cal made his purchase, he pushed open the door and nearly hit an old man. “Excuse me, sir. Sorry about that,” Cal said.

  The old man stopped and stared at Cal. He hadn’t shaved in quite some time and his clothes looked like something picked out of the Army surplus bargain bin. He wore a camouflage mesh cap with the bill pulled down just above his eyes.

  “Hey,” the old man said. “Are you that reporter guy snoopin’ around here?”

  Cal stopped. He glanced at Potter’s truck where his guide was still yapping away on the phone. “Yeah, I’m from the Atlanta newspaper. How do you know that?”

  “New travels fast around here. But I wanted to tell ya to be careful.”

  “Why’s that? Am I doing something dangerous?”

  “Could be. Just watch yer back.”

  Cal walked off and glanced back at the old man over his shoulder. The old man hadn’t moved. He stood glaring at Cal.

  Once inside the truck, Cal remained quiet as Potter ended his call out of courtesy to his guest.

  “So, ya got to meet old man Boudreaux?”

  “Who is that guy?”

  “Meanest man in a hundred miles of here. Rumor has it that he wrestled a bear to the ground and killed it with his bear hands. He knows where all the bodies are buried.”

  “Maybe that’s why he told me not to go poking around.”

  “Yeah, he’s scared of any outsider. He thinks they’re out to get him. He’s almost certifiable. But the people of Saint-Parran tolerate him. He’s pretty harmless.”

  “He kind of creeped me out, to be honest.”

  “He’ll do that to ya. But I’ve got a cure for that.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, Bons Temps is calling your name. You need a drink.”

  CHAPTER 11

  ACCORDING TO POTTER, the water and woods surrounding Saint-Parran buzzed with activity during daylight. For fisher and hunters, the daylight hours were spent on the water with a rod and reel or in the swamps with a shotgun or rifle. But at night, everyone returned to Saint-Parran, unwinding at the ever-popular Bons Temps, the only bar within twenty miles. A wooden porch fronting the grey cinder block structure appeared vulnerable to a strong gust of wind, much less a hurricane. In 1965, the bar gained legendary status throughout the region when it survived Hurricane Betsy with barely a scratch. Rumors spread of Bons Temps’ ironclad walls, starting a tradition of hurricane parties there.

  Drunk patrons unable to hold their tongues made for fantastic background sources. On occasion, they also provided great leads.

  “This looks like the place to be,” Cal said as they pulled into a gravel parking lot filled with outfitters’ trucks and SUVs.

  “It’s the only place to be,” Potter said.

  As Cal pushed through the large wooden door, the place looked more like a dance club than a bar. In an open area at the center of the room, several couples twirled around to the rhythmic sounds of Zydeco music, a Louisiana tradition. Fiddles, accordions, and an unfamiliar song wailing from the jukebox drowned out the chatter between patrons sitting at nearby tables.

  Cal felt Potter poke him in his back.

  “Head left,” Potter said.

  Cal turned to his left and saw a small opening that led to another large room, one that had been added on. Instead of cinder block, the walls were made out of brick. The music switched to a Hank Williams Jr. song about a lying jukebox and followed them into the next room.

  Potter stepped in front of Cal and headed straight for the lone empty table at the back of the room.

  “Is this place always like this?” Cal said as he sat down.

  “It is when there are a lot of fishermen in town,” Potter answered. “It’ll probably be like this until April or May when it thaws out up north. Saint-Parran is a great place to wait out Old Man Winter.”

  Cal motioned to the waitress to come over.

  “What are you boys havin’ tonight?” she asked. She worked over her gum while awaiting their response. Bright blue eyes and brown curly hair. She couldn’t have graduated from high school more than a year ago.

  “Two bottles of Abita Restoration Pale Ale, please,” Potter said. “My friend here needs to try some real Louisiana beer.”

  “You got it, Uncle Phil,” she said as she winked at Cal.

  “That’s your niece?” Cal asked after she walked away.

  Potter nodded. “Little Cassidy. She’s all grown up now. She’s a real peach, the sweetest gal in Toulon Parish.”

  Cal glanced around the room and took in the scene. Men competed with the loud jukebox and each other in retelling their conquests for the day. Every few moments, Cal noticed men demonstrating the length of the fish they either caught or let get away. The length between their hands seemed to grow with each new tale. Cal chuckled to himself.

  “What are you laughin’ at?” Potter asked.

  “This,” Cal said, waving his hand across the room. “Everybody sitting around and telling stories about fishing.”

  “You mean, lies?”

  “Yeah. At least, it looks that way from where I’m sitting.”

  “If there’s one thing you learn to do down in the bayou, it’s how to spin a good tale. Gotta pass the time somehow and real life ain’t nearly as excitin’ as everybody down here makes it out to be. We ain’t all wrestlin’ bears and giggin’ frogs and tannin’ gator hides every day. Most days, time moves about as fast as the water in the bayou. The hours drip by. Then we come here and make up stuff.”

  “It’s like that everywhere,” Cal said. He eyed Cassidy heading toward them with a pair of beers.

  “There ya go, gentlemen. Enjoy.” She put the beers on the table and scurried off to another table.

  “You ever talk about anything else other than hunting and fishing?” Cal asked.

  “Oh, yeah. We’ll get into politics and sports and religion and the weather. The usual.”

  “Do most of these guys live down here?”

  “Only for part of the year. Old men with money to burn. They buy a place down here and fish and hunt until they get tired of it. Then they sell their place and go somewhere else.”

  “What about that guy over there?” Cal asked as he nodded in the direction of Hugh Sanders.

  “Hugh Sanders,” Potter said with a hint of disgust in his voice. “I wish he’d get tired of the bayou and move on.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s a ’Bama fan, that’s what. And a big booster.”

  “Let’s invite him over,” Cal said.

  Before Potter had a chance to protest, Cal walked over to Sanders’ table and introduced himself. Sanders stood up and excused himself from his neighbor at the bar and joined Cal and Potter.

  Sanders sat down and extended his hand to Potter. Potter didn’t move.

  “Still bitter over that beat down the Tide gave your boys a few weeks ago?” Sanders said with a big smile.

  Potter leaned back in his chair and waved off Sanders. “You’re so dadgum annoyin’, Sanders. You know that?”

  Sanders smiled again and looked at Cal. “He’s just jealous. We got their old coach and now they can’t beat us. Ain’t much worse than an angry Cajun.”

  “When was the last time Bama won the national title?” Potter shot back.

  “Oh, that stupid new college football playoff. They keep putting Alabama against the best teams. It’s rigged.”

  “Wait a minute. I thought Alabama was the best?”

  Cal enjoyed the banter between the two rivals. Having grown up in the Northwest, great football rivalries were sparse and never this heated.

  Sanders ignored Potter. “What brings you down to Saint-Parran, Cal?”

  “Working on a story about recruiting.”

  “Let me guess—Dominique Dixon and Tre’vell Baker?”

  Call nodded.

  “It’s a shame about that Baker kid,” Sanders said as he shook his head. “He had a ton of talent and a world of potential. He could’ve been a superstar in the NFL one day. Too bad he never got a chance.”

  Potter nodded. “Yep, it’s a tragedy.”

  “Potter here tells me you’re a big booster at Alabama,” Cal said to Sanders.

  “Referring to my weight or my wallet?” Sanders quipped. “Yeah, I support Alabama. Always have. Always will.”

  “What do you think about the Dixon kid?”

  “Heckuva athlete. I expect he’ll wind up at Alabama. He’s certainly not going to Bryant, that’s for sure.”

  A voice then bellowed over their table that broke the flow of conversation. “Who’s not going to Bryant?” It was Frank Johnson.

  “Frank Johnson—I guess they stopped keepin’ the riff-raff outta here,” Sanders said.

  “You would know since they actually let you in tonight,” Johnson fired back.

  Cal wondered if he had magically transported back to middle school. The banter between the men was no less juvenile than anything he experienced prior to the ninth grade. He suspected a game of pencil break, paper football, or rocks, scissors, paper would break out at any moment to settle the mindless debate.

  Sanders stood up. “Well, gentlemen, I can see I’ve overstayed my welcome. Take care and don’t believe a word out of this man’s mouth.” He patted Johnson on the back before returning to his table. He didn’t look back, while Johnson made a face at him.

  Uninvited, Johnson took Sanders’ seat at the table and—after brief introductions—launched into a diatribe about how evil Hugh Sanders was and how he was a perfect microcosm for how vile the University of Alabama football program was. He extoled the virtues of winning while playing by the rules. It amused Cal, especially since Bryant had been placed on probation by the NCAA several times for skirting the established guideline for recruiting practices.

  Potter stared into his beer as Johnson droned on about how great of a school Bryant was and how its athletic program excelled in every sport.

  “Are you done yet?” Potter asked.

  “No, I’m just getting started,” Johnson answered.

  Moments later, Cassidy returned to get Johnson’s order and bring refills.

  Cal and Potter sat and listened to Johnson, who exuded passion and fervor for his favorite college football team. Johnson also explained how Dixon would be a fool to go to Alabama—or anywhere else other than Bryant.

  Cassidy returned with Johnson’s food, which brought an end to his uninvited soliloquy.

  “Have you ever had boudin, Cal?” Johnson asked as he doctored his meal with an array of spices already on the table.

  Cal shook his head.

  “A friend of mine told me it would put hair on my chest. Was he ever right!” Johnson said.

  “What’s in it?”

  “You need to try it for yourself to find out. The real secret’s in the spices. Better make sure you have a big glass of beer nearby to quench that fire. I make mine so spicy it’s liable to put a guy in the hospital if he’s not man enough.”

  Cal shook his head and smiled as he watched Johnson work his fork over the foreign dish. He didn’t really want to know what boudin was, much less put it in his mouth.

  As they were finishing their meal, Johnson stood up to leave. His not-so-concealed handgun caught Cal’s eye.

  “Is it that dangerous around here you need to carry one of those?” Cal asked, gesturing toward the gun.

  “Oh, this?” Johnson asked as he patted the gun. “This is my Glock 42. An excellent firearm if you’re looking for protection. It’s got its drawbacks, like only holding six rounds in a clip, so you better be a good shot or have a fast getaway if you intend to get into a scuffle. But other than that, she’s perfect. Can’t have it all, can you?”

  While Cal struggled to find a worthy response, Johnson broke into a hearty laugh. “It’s not like that, Cal—I just keep it for protection from wildlife. You know, like gators and bears and flyin’ fish with swords.” He winked at Cal. “You fellas have a good evening.”

  Potter suggested it was time to get Cal back to his motel. “Another big day ahead for you tomorrow. You need a good night’s sleep. Never know what will happen next in the bayou.”

  ***

  Hugh Sanders watched from his truck as Potter and Cal exited Bons Temps. He dialed a number on his cell phone and eyed the parking lot. The phone rang several times before someone picked up.

  “I think we may have a problem,” Sanders said.

  He listened intently over the next few minutes to a set of instructions. When the speaker finished, Sander nodded his head for no one but himself.

  “I understand,” he said. “I’ll handle it.” Sanders ended the call—the plan changed.

  CHAPTER 12

  CAL AWOKE WEDNESDAY to the buzzing alarm clock emanating from his phone. He squinted at his surroundings—a motel room still adorned with wallpaper from the 1970s. The brown shag carpets were a mess as well. The beige rotary phone dominated the bed stand. Time didn’t just forget this place; it all but erased it.

  The alarm chirped at Cal until he finally turned it off. He rubbed his face and looked at his cell phone for the time. It was 8:30 and he needed to check in with Kelly. But before he did, he noticed he had a voice message.

  He played the message.

  “Hi, Cal. This is Mike Nicholson from Nicholson and Associates. I hope you’re doing well. I wanted to let you know that I just spoke with that publisher I was telling you about and he’s off the market now. Barry Anderson called him with a great recruiting story and the publisher thinks that Barry’s book will bale him out. In short, he doesn’t need the story any more. Sorry to get your hopes up, but I can probably find somebody else who’ll take it if it pans out and is any good. You just won’t get the kind of money we were discussing. Hate to start your day off with a message like this, but that’s how it is. Give me a call back if you have any questions.”

  Cal glared at his phone. Then he dropped it.

  How can this be happening to me? I seriously can’t catch a break.

  Before Cal had long to ponder his predicament, his phone rang again. It was Kelly.

  “Cal?” Kelly asked.

  “Hey, Kelly. How are you?”

  “Great!”

  “That’s good to hear. I’ve got something I have to tell you.”

  “No, I called you. I get to go first.”

  “OK, you first.” Cal didn’t mind the delay—until he heard the reason for her joy.

  “I started looking through some magazines today and I found the perfect nursery set.”

  “That’s great, honey. There’s not something else you need to tell me, is there?”

  “What? Like I’m pregnant?”

  “I don’t know. Are you?”

  “No, but I know I will be.”

  “Well, I just thought from how chipper you sounded that maybe you had some good news for me.”

  “You don’t think this is good news? I picked out our nursery already. That’s huge news!”

  “You’re right, you’re right. I know it is. I just hadn’t heard you this happy in a while.”

  “Maybe I’m a little bit too hopeful today. I know you’re going to land that big book deal that will help pay for my surgery and get our little family going.”

  “Yeah, that’s—that’s great, honey. I’m excited too.”

  “Super! So, what is it that you wanted to tell me?”

  Cal paused for a moment. “I’m making some headway in this story.”

  “Figure out who did it yet?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve met some colorful people down here.”

  “Any worth telling me about?”

  “My favorite so far has been the honorable Sheriff Mouton, who eat nails for breakfast and spits one-liners out like it’s his job.”

  “So he’s better at that than his real job?”

  “Well, considering he hasn’t caught the person responsible for shooting Tre’vell Baker yet, I’d say so.”

  “Stay safe and have fun, honey. I’ve got to run to the store to pick up some paint for the nursery.”

  Cal ended the call and collapsed on the bed.

  Could my day start any worse?

  Cal’s phone rang again. It was his editor, Jim Gatlin.

  “Good morning, Cal,” Jim said.

  “Mornin’,” Cal mumbled.

  “Too much moonshine last night, Cal?”

  “No, I just got crapped on, that’s all.”

  “Well, you’re about to get dumped on if those weather reports are true.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That little tropical storm brewing in the Gulf that meteorologists said was heading for Mexico made a sudden turn north. Now, they’re predicting it’ll make landfall sometime Saturday evening. It’s weak right now, but they think it’s going to pick up steam.

  “Oh, wonderful.”

  “If I were you, I’d try to get out of there as fast as you can. You don’t want to be down there when a storm hits.”

  “What about my story?”

  “I don’t want you stranded down there. We’ll figure something else out.”

  “OK, I’ll call you back in a little while and let you know what’s going on,” Cal said before ending the call.

  Cal needed to think. And he wasn’t going to get any thinking done in his 1970s time capsule. He needed the best coffee in Louisiana to perk him up.

 

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