Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 07 - The Swamps of Bayou Teche by Kent Conwell Read Free Book Online

what I had found on my 3” x 5”
cards before I walked across the lot to Barney
Knowles.
    “Find what you was looking for?”
    I shrugged. “Whatever it was, I didn’t see it. Let me
ask you a question. You pull many cars out of Whiskey
River?”
    He pursed his lips. “Some”

    “How long you figure that one was in the water?
There was a lot of mud in it.”
    The thin Cajun chuckled. “That old river, she be
nothing but mud. Still, I suppose three, four days.”
    Three or four days.
    That little tidbit of information supported my theory that he had driven straight to the river from the
lodge, but why?

     

The eighteen-mile bridge spanning the Atchafalaya
Swamp is actually two bridges separated by a strip of
low-lying land a little more than a mile wide, a strip
that provides a plethora of convenience stores, liquor
stores, beer joints, truck stops, gas stations, and
dozens of other small enterprises.
    On impulse I pulled off at the small community of
Rowan. On either side of the farm road were two convenience stores, Venable’s, a thrown-together structure of corrugated iron, clapboard, and plywood, all
painted a dark green.
    Across the road was a competing convenience
store, Kwik Stop, which was in even worse repair.
The gasoline lanes were filled with potholes, but the
pumps appeared brand new, a concession accorded the business by oil companies anxious to peddle their
wares.

    Three Harley hogs were parked near the door. In
bold Algerian cursive across the gas tank of one were
the words Angel of Death.
    The inside of Kwik Stop was as shabby as the outside, and from the hallway leading to the restrooms,
the cloying odor of unwashed toilets flooded across
the racks of produce next to the open doorway.
    Jack headed for the men’s room while I picked up a
couple Nehi creme sodas.
    A single biker was making a purchase at the counter,
blocking the owner’s view of the other two bikers who
were openly stuffing various items inside their leather
jackets. There was not one of the three I would have
cared to meet in a narrow alley on a dark night.
    When the three bikers left, I sat the soft drinks on
the counter. My experience has been no questions are
asked or no restrooms are used unless the customer
purchases at least one item.
    “Morning,” I said to the portly man behind the
counter, as I plopped down a twenty.
    He snorted at the retreating backs of the bikers. “Be
two twenty,” he replied by way of greeting.
    While he rang up the sale, I pulled out the photo of
John Hardy. “Maybe you can help me, friend. By any
chance, have you seen this gent the last few days?”
    He returned my change, glanced at the photo, and shook his head. “Them stinking bikers,” he growled.
“Come in and try to steal me blind.”

    I shrugged. “Haven’t seen him, huh? Maybe three,
four days back?”
    “Nah. Sure wish they’d find someplace else to
camp. They been driving us crazy for the last six
months, in and out, in and out” He looked up at me.
“Tell me, why don’t they go into Baton Rouge instead
of coming here. It’s just as close.”
    I was having trouble hanging onto the thread of his
conversation, but a couple of his words piqued my curiosity, arousing a crazy idea. “You saying those bozos have been coming in here regular?”
    “Too regular. About six months back, forty or fifty
set up a camp somewhere on the other side of
Whiskey River. Since then, them bikers on the Interstate are thicker than crabs on a dead catfish”
    The crazy idea of mine burgeoned into insanity. I
jammed the change in my pocket. “Thanks, buddy,” I
said, glancing around as Jack emerged from the hallway of stench. “Let’s go! We got no time to waste!”
    Outside, we spotted the bikers heading for the Interstate. “Follow them,” I said. “Now! But stay far
enough behind they don’t notice us.”
    As we sped along at a steady fifty-five, Jack demanded to know what I had in