He shakes his head. “You offering me nothing, is that it?”
“Coleman, you have to think of this relationship like an investment. You want a big return over time, and that means putting in something up front, and putting in a little bit more every so often. Now, can I offer you anything right this minute? Probably not. I can’t move your next parole hearing forward. I can’t even switch you to a nicer cell. Think about it: if I did, would you really want to go back into general circulation and try to explain?”
“So you want something for nothing.”
“I want something today for nothing today. But a time’s gonna come when I can help you in a big way.”
“Man,” he says, “you the one put me back in here.”
I show him open palms. “My bad.”
He laughs a little, waits, then laughs a little more. Getting used to the idea. “There is something I can give you, and I got half a mind to do it. Only you gotta give some assurances that when that day comes when you got the power to do me a good turn, I can count on you to pay up.”
“Scout’s honor.”
“All right.” He leans forward. “There’s a story about this dude. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but I hear people talking-you know how they do. Anyways, this boy who was getting out, Mr. Donald Fauk, he gives him a job to do. And in return there’s something waiting for him.”
“What kind of job?”
Coleman shrugs. “A job out there. A favor, like. He gets paid to run an errand for the man. And there’s more of them got that treatment, too. All white boys. I don’t know what they gotta do, but when they done it, they get taken care of.” He sees my expression and laughs. “Not taken care of like that. I mean, financial-like.”
“So Donald Fauk pays inmates to do favors for him on the outside when they’re released? And you don’t know what kind of things they do?”
“Delivering messages? How should I know?”
“There have to be rumors. If guys are talking about this, what are they saying?”
“Man, I done told you I don’t know.”
I can think of a dozen reasons Fauk might want to recruit errand boys from the prison population, none of which include committing copycat murders. What I don’t understand is why a man with his kind of fortune can’t arrange anything he wants done in the outside world through his legal team. Presumably he’s up to something the lawyers won’t touch. Something he wants to keep from them.
“If you hear anything more,” I say, “you know how to get in touch. I’m not asking you to risk your neck or anything. Just keep an ear to the ground.”
As I start to rise, he motions me back.
“Hold up. There is one thing.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Is it true you done beat a confession outta this man? ’Cause I don’t wanna mix myself up in nothing illegal.”
Wait a second.
His broad smile tells me all I need to know.
Coleman saw me coming a mile away, and probably knows more about Donald Fauk than he’s prepared to say. Maybe he’ll leave here and report straight back, telling Fauk everything that’s transpired across the table. Fauk can do more for him than I can, after all.
“Don’t freak out,” he says, reading my thoughts. “I’m just messing with you, man. Look here, I’ll give you something. There’s a New Orleans white boy, name of Bourgeois.” He pronounces it Boojwah. “When he got out, Mr. Fauk give him one of these jobs. I knowed the boy, and while he wouldn’t tell me what the job was, I bet he’d get one look at you and give it up.”
“What’s the Bourgeois boy’s first name?”
“They call him Peeper in here. Don’t know his real name.”
I’m not sure I can trust what Coleman tells me, but by the time I pull out of the penitentiary heading back to I-45, there’s a computer printout in my briefcase courtesy of an obliging corrections supervisor. Wayne “Peeper” Bourgeois, another post-Katrina immigrant, did a two-year stretch in Huntsville for beating up a hooker. His release date was back in August and he was supposed to report to an East Texas parole officer whose contact information is now scribbled in my Filofax.
After driving through a fast-food joint for lunch, I dial the parole officer’s number. He picks up right away and, once he’s satisfied with my credentials, confirms that Bourgeois checked in with him after his release.
“But I haven’t seen the boy ever since. If you ask me, he hightailed it back to Louisiana. A lot of ’em do. They get sick of not living in the third world.”
The obvious next step is to call Gene Fontenot for an assist. But under the circumstances I’m not sure that’s the best idea. So I dial Wilcox instead to see what he’s managed to find out about the NOPD investigation. With any luck he’ll give Fontenot a clean bill of health and I can call in a favor on the Bourgeois thing. After the trouble he’s stirred up, Gene owes me.
“Where are you?” Wilcox asks. “Your voice is breaking up.”
I fill him in on my chat with Coleman, asking for the all clear so I can call Fontenot.
“So you really went up there? I wish you hadn’t.”
“Why not? I told you I was going to.”
He ignores my question. “This thing with Fontenot. . I think it would be best not to have any contact with him.”
“What did you find out?”
“Well. .”
“You did check around, right?”
“March,” he says with an exasperated sigh. “Not everybody works the same hours as you. This might come as a surprise, but I can’t just call somebody at NOPD on a Saturday night and get them to send over everything they’ve got.”
“Did you do anything at all?”
A pause. “I really don’t think you should get in touch with him.”
“You said you were going to help out.”
“And I will,” he says. “But not on your timetable. Give me a chance to get the wheels in motion, then I’ll call you.”
“When will that be?”
“Whenever it happens, okay? That’s the best I can do.”
I’m not sure if he hangs up on me or I hang up on him. We both hit the button so fast it could have been a draw.
I pound the steering wheel a couple of times before pulling onto the shoulder. I should have known better than to trust Wilcox to hold up his end. How many times does a man have to let you down before you learn not to trust him? Of course it cuts both ways. I’ve given him plenty of reason to ask the same question of me.
I’ve driven back and forth between Houston and Huntsville so many times I can do the trip with my eyes closed. But for the idea I’m hatching, I need a map. I take the next exit and circle under the highway, heading back toward town. Passing under Sam Houston’s gaze, I give the old man a wave.
At the next service station I buy an atlas and flip through the pages, working out the quickest route. From Huntsville I can take 190 east to Woodville, heading south on 69 until I connect with Interstate 10 at Beaumont. After that I’ll travel east into Louisiana, hitting Lake Charles, Lafayette, and Baton Rouge in succession, reaching New Orleans sometime between seven and eight in the evening. Seven hours to work out how to find Wayne Bourgeois, and how to break him once I do. Seven hours to decide if what I’m doing is crazy. With luck I can conclude my business by midday tomorrow and get back to Houston early in the evening.
There’s no point in cloak-and-dagger, but seeing the pay phone at the service station, I dig some change out anyway. I take my Filofax, open up to the page where I’ve written Gene Fontenot’s address and phone numbers, dialing him at home.
“Hello?” he says.
“It’s me.”
A pause. “I wondered when I’d hear from you.”
“You still have that spare bedroom?”
“What I have is a spare couch,” he says. “And you’re welcome to it.”
“I’m on my way. And in the meantime, there’s someone I need you to locate.”
Charlotte sounds icy over the phone, indifferent.