Another week of Pay Dirt in the swamp. Let’s review what happened…
"Leta, let me apologize. I do appreciate you delivering my friends here. Let me follow you in."
Rarick cranked the Evinrude and thought he heard the F word somewhere in the fog.
At Rarick’s camp, Kat climbed up to the dock. Leta handed her Rarick's bag. And DJ stayed in the boat with Leta.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"I'm not cool with this water shit, and Leta's pot of Jambalaya's got my name all over it. We'll pick you up later."
"Bullshit..."
Before Kat could continue, Rarick's boat coasted in. "Son, you'll throw rocks at Leta's rice, once you've tasted my Gator Sauce Piquant."
"What time you need me to pick'em up, Rube?"
"Forget it, Leta. You've got enough to do at the shop. I'll take care of my friends here."
Halfway back to the bait shop, Leta noticed the boat following her. Muscle boy with his tattoos and tight ass. She wondered if he had anything against drinking at 6:AM.
Bobby Grim followed Leta into the shop, and she said, "So what can I overcharge you for today? Coffee. Beer. Dynamite?"
"Nope. Information."
Leta slapped two whiskey glasses on the counter and filled them with Seagram's Sweet Tea. Grim raised an eyebrow. "The sun's barely up."
"Depends on what you're willing to pay for this information."
"What makes you think I'm willing to pay what you're gonna ask?"
She clinked her glass with his as he raised it. "You're drinking, ain't ya?"
Rarick dipped half a bread slice, triangle cut, into egg and vanilla, then dropped it into the deep fry. "French Toast?" Kat asked.
"Almost, my momma called it Lost Bread. I think of it as French Toast, done Cajun-style."
"Your mother was coon-ass?"
"Yes-mam, I was born and bred a pirogue ride from the Atchafalaya Basin."
"Oh, ain’t this sweet?” DJ interrupted. “Kat, I thought this was business. You said we'd get the money and get the hell out of this shit-hole."
"Chill, Dipshit. Rube says the Sauce Piquant won't be ready for hours, and I'm starving. We’ll do our business after breakfast."
"Don't worry about me, Son." Rarick sprinkled sugar over the plate of hot oozing bread. "I'm just thrilled to get my bag back."
"Really? You're gonna pay the reward?"
"See, Dipshit, I told you. I know people."
"Ya'll, I come from a long line of blackmailers. I'll pay, and I’ll make some calls, get you outta that mess in New Orleans."
He took a bite of toast and continued to talk with his mouth full. "But you gonna have to trust me."
DJ's took a bite of bread. His stomach felt a little queasy.
"We'll eat, put the pot on, then we'll hit the bayou," Rarick said. "I'll bait lines till lunch and snag two big ones before dark-thirty. Tomorrow, we’ll drive to Hammond, find a bank, collect your money, and we need not see each other again."
"I just hope someone else does." DJ whispered to Kat, who only smiled.
"Mr. Rarick," she said.
"Call me Rube."
"Of course, Rube. We really do appreciate your hospitality, but before you go making plans, you should know that I uploaded everything on your little hard-drive to a network share. If we don't get back to stop it, an automated e-mail goes to police and press Monday morning."
For those just joining the party, here’s what we’ve been doing: In the tradition of the fast-production pulps of old, we’ve got a wild plot and some zany, but dangerous characters, and through Twitter and Facebook, readers are giving me hints, helping me create a crime fiction short story in posts of less than 140 characters.
Our plot again: When Wild Child Kat LeRouge hooks up with Bad Boy DJ Ponchatoula, they find out the hard way that some New Orleans cab drivers carry guns. Desperate for safer income, Kat decides to blackmail a crooked Louisiana politician—a scheme that brings this modern day Bonnie and Clyde face to face with CIA Black-Ops Baddie Bobby Grim.
No comments:
Post a Comment