Rumble on the Bayou (42 page)

"I heard the IRS has been sending him notices. Real regular-like and with bold print, if you know what I mean."

She took a deep breath, trying to make sense of what J.T. said. Anyone with a brain knew better than to mess with the IRS, and Harry was far from stupid. "So maybe there was a mistake or something. He'll work it out." He had to work it out. Whatever it was. There wasn't another option. "Maybe-"

"The mistake was not paying his taxes, and it's all on Harry, not the IRS," J.T. interrupted, a miserable look on his face. "He owes them a lot of money, Mal. Upward of fifty Gs."

"Fifty thousand dollars! You've got to be kidding me."

"'Fraid not. Rumor has it they're going to take the business and sell off the equipment unless he can cough up the money and real fast-like. Rumor also has it that the tax note may be for sale if there's an interested buyer, and it so happens that there is ... Walter Royal."

She tossed back a huge swallow of beer, trying to calm her nerves and think. It couldn't possibly be true, could it? Sure, Thelma's cancer had cost a lot of money, even now that she was in remission. The treatments and checkups and tests had seemed a part of her everyday life. But could Harry really have shorted the IRS fifty thousand dollars?

And Walter Royal? Heaven help them all. The man was already the Donald Trump of Royal Flush, but at the rate he was buying up property and businesses, the town would soon cease to exist and become a principality instead. Buying the IRS out of Harry's tax debt would be a quick, cheap way to pick up a business he'd had his eye on for years.

"This whole situation sucks," J.T. continued. "You know as well as I do that if Royal gets his hands on Harry's business, he'll fire everyone local and replace them with his useless relatives just like he has all the other businesses in this town he's managed to buy."

"Where'd you get this information anyway?" she asked.

He pointed across the bar to Father Thomas just as another round of cheers went up from the locals. Father Thomas's voice boomed above the crowd, "And God saw that Adam was lonely and sent him beer!"

Mallory shot a glance across the bar and shook her head. "Your source is Father Thomas? Please tell me he wasn't given this information in confidence. Besides, I thought Harry stopped going to confession after the last time Father Thomas blabbed." And if this was any indication of the church's position on confidential information, she'd just made her last confession too, at least locally.

"Wasn't Harry that confessed."

Mallory studied the man for a minute then sighed. "Stanley's been reading mail again, hasn't he?"

J.T. shrugged. "You know how Stanley is. Leopard ain't gonna change its spots."

"Good God, he's been a postman for over thirty years. Doesn't he have any appreciation for federal law?" Not to mention the privacy issue. She made a mental note to change the mailing address on a recently placed order for a "personal item" she'd bought from a "specialty" store in New Orleans.

"I swear, J.T," she continued, "I sometimes wonder why our government spends so much money on war. If we really wanted to cripple the intelligence of other countries, we'd just send the two of them over."

She was just trying to recall anything damaging or otherwise embarrassing that she might have mentioned to Father Thomas the week before when Scooter clapped her on the back and dropped a hundred in front of her.

"No problem collecting?" she asked. "I figured he'd argue for a rematch."

Scooter grinned. "Idiot claimed his hand went to sleep, then cut out of here with the rest of those Yankees. I asked if he wanted your number, but he didn't even look at me." He poked Mallory in the ribs with his elbow. "Guess that means your date is off." Laughing hysterically at himself, he motioned to J.T. for a beer.

J.T. grabbed a bottle, popped the cap and slid it across the bar to Scooter, then leaned on the bar in front of Mallory. "So if the tax note goes on sale, are you going to buy?"

She downed the remainder of her beer and picked up the hundred-dollar bill Scooter had dropped in front of her. "Fifty thousand dollars? Father Thomas would have to challenge the rest of Louisiana to a pool match for that to happen. Even with all my savings, I'm about ten grand short and no assets for a quick sale, none I can do without, anyway."

J.T. nodded. "I hear ya. Ten Gs is a wad of cash, especially to come up with in such a short time frame."

Scooter turned around on his bar stool and gave her a curious look. "You short on cash, Mal? You can have my other hundred. I was just going to buy new lures with it anyway.

Mallory smiled at Scooter, his offer confirming her opinion that her neighbor was silly as a goose but had a heart the size of the Gulf of Mexico. "I appreciate it, Scooter, really I do, but I need a lot more than a hundred."

Scooter scratched his head for a moment, his eyebrows scrunched together in obvious concentration. "There is probably one way you can make a lot of money fast - next week, as a matter of fact."

Mallory stared at Scooter. "I'm not doing anything illegal," she said, bringing up the only thing she could imagine Scooter would come up with. "Besides, ten grand in two weeks is a lot, even for a New Orleans prostitute. And I don't have the enthusiasm for the job anyway."

J.T. laughed. "She got you there."

Scooter stared at her, a dumbstruck expression on his normally jovial face. "Good God Almighty, Mallory, I never said you should do anything of the sort. I wouldn't even think it."

She narrowed her eyes at Scooter, still waiting for his suggestion. "So if it's not something illegal then why don't you just come out with it?"

Scooter glanced both directions, apparently making sure they couldn't be overheard, then leaned over closer to Mallory. "Your uncle is hosting a high-stakes poker tournament. I bet he'd cough up a pretty penny for you to cool for him."

J.T., who had leaned in to hear what Scooter said, jerked back from the bar, his jaw set in a hard line. "Hell no, Mallory. You're not working that tournament for your uncle. Even if I have to padlock you in the storage room to keep you from it."

Mallory stared at J.T. in surprise, trying to process what Scooter said and the bar owner's unexpected reaction. "What in the world has gotten into you, J.T.? I know Reginald flies on the wrong side of the law sometimes, but I've cooled for him before and you haven't had a problem with it."

"Damn it." J.T. grabbed a rag from the bar and shook it at Scooter. "You want to ask your genius neighbor how he knows about this tournament? Because he's been doing construction at your uncle's floating boat of fun. And do you know what he's been installing, specifically for this tournament?"

"Forget I said anything," Scooter mumbled. He slid off his bar stool and slunk across the bar, away from J.T.'s wrath.

J.T. tossed the rag on the bar and ran one hand across his balding head. "That idiot you live next to has been installing metal detectors at the casino, that's what. This unorthodox tournament of your uncle's is a chance to beat the house. Dealers have been flocking from all over the state to try out for a spot."

"Why would dealers care?"

"Because they're playing on the casino's behalf. They put up ten grand for the spot and get to keep half their winnings, less what Reginald kicks in. Reginald is matching the ten with another forty. He's got several hundred thousand at stake."

Mallory frowned. "Okay, so putting up his money isn't the smartest thing Reginald's ever done, but how do metal detectors fit into it?"

J.T. leaned across the bar, his voice low. "The tournament is invitation only. There's a couple of locals invited for good measure, I suppose, but the rest ..."

"The rest what?" Mallory prodded.

"Oh hell," J.T. said finally. "Your uncle has assembled a group of heavy hitters-Mafia, drug dealers, politicians, crooked law enforcement-and not a single one of them worth pulling out of the bayou if they were drowning. He's putting together a floating boat of criminals-hardcore, no-conscience-having, bad guys."

Mallory sat back in her chair and stared at J.T., stunned. "You're sure about that?"

"Not a doubt in my mind. The teller down at the bank said Reginald's been in there every day for the past week, depositing cash in fifty-thousand-dollar increments. He listed the name of each player on their deposit, so the teller was real clear on that. This tournament is going to happen all right - they've already bought in."

"What in the world is Reginald thinking?"

J.T. shook his head. "I don't know, and I don't think I want to. Word on the street is that he's into a New Orleans loan shark for a wad of cash. If this is his best idea for getting repayment, I'm afraid Reginald has finally lost his mind."

"Then I guess asking him to loan me the money is probably out of the question, and that was actually my original plan. But if he's really in that much of a bind over money, I'd be a sure bet for him to get a hunk of it back. I bet he'd pay a pretty penny for that guarantee."

J.T. sighed, knowing he was losing the battle. "But at what cost? Cooling for a bunch of bored husbands or businessmen is one thing, but this is an entirely different kettle of fish. Your uncle has been pretty good to you over the years, but that doesn't change what kind of man he is. Do you really want to get in the middle of one of Reginald's schemes - especially if he's as desperate as it appears?"

Mallory stared out the window of the bar, the billboard for Royal Port-A-Johns seeming to taunt her from its roadside perch. "I don't have a choice, J.T. It's the only way."

Purchase Unlucky at amazon.com or bn.com

family can be the death of you…

TROUBLE IN MUDBUG

Ghost-in-Law Series – Book 1

(excerpt)

CHAPTER ONE

“
I still can’t believe she’s gone,” Maryse Robicheaux murmured as she stared down at the woman in the coffin.

Of course, the pink suit was a dead giveaway—so to speak—that the wearer was no longer with them. For the miserable two years and thirty-two days she’d had to deal with her mother-in-law, Maryse had never once seen her wear a color other than black. Now she sorta resembled the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man dressed in Pepto-Bismol.

“
I can’t believe it either,” Sabine whispered back. “I didn’t know evil incarnate could die.”

Maryse jabbed her best friend with her elbow. “For Pete’s sake, we’re at the woman’s funeral. Show some respect.”

Sabine let out a sigh. “Maryse, that woman gave you holy hell. And her son was worse. I don’t even understand why you wanted to come.”

Maryse stared at the casket again and shook her head. “I don’t know. I just felt compelled to. I can’t really explain it.”

And that was the God’s honest truth. She’d had no intention of attending Helena Henry’s funeral. Yet after her morning shower, she’d stood in front of her closet and pulled out her dark navy “interview” suit and matching pumps instead of her usual work clothes of jeans, T-shirt, and rubber boots.

Looking down at Helena, Maryse still didn’t know why she was there. If she’d come for some sort of closure, it hadn’t happened. But then, what had she expected—the dead woman to pop up out of the coffin and apologize for bringing the most useless man in the world into existence, then making Maryse’s life even more miserable by being the biggest bitch on the face of the Earth?

It wasn’t likely when you considered that Helena Henry had never apologized for anything in her entire life. It wasn’t necessary. When you had a pocketbook the size of the Atchafalaya Basin in Mudbug, Louisiana, population 502, people tended to purposely overlook things.

“
I think they’re ready to start,” Sabine whispered, gesturing to the minister who had entered the chapel through a side door. “We need to take a seat.”

Maryse nodded but remained glued to her place in front of the coffin, not yet able to tear herself away from the uncustomary pink dress and the awful-but-now dead woman who wore it. “Just a minute more.”

There had to be some reason she’d come. Some reason other than just to ensure that Helena’s reign of terror was over, but nothing came to her except the lingering scent of Helena’s gardenia perfume.

“
Where’s Hank?” Sabine asked. “Surely he wouldn’t miss his own mother’s funeral. That would be major bad karma, even for Hank. I know he’s a lousy human being and all, but really.”

Maryse sighed as Sabine’s words chased away her wistful vision of her wayward husband in a coffin right alongside his mother. If her best friend had even an inkling of her thoughts, she’d besiege her with a regime of crystal cleansing and incense until Maryse went insane, and she was sort of saving the insanity plea to use later on in life and on a much bigger problem than a worthless man.