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."
In the tradition of the fast-production pulps of old, I've got a wild plot and some zany, but dangerous characters, and through Twitter and Facebook, we'll create a crime fiction short story while posting less than 140 characters per day.