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

mind.
    “Simple. It’s a long shot, but if there are as many
bikers motoring up and down the Interstate as our friend back at the convenience store said, then maybe,
just maybe one of them saw something when they
crossed the bridge over Whiskey River.”

    Flexing his fingers about the steering wheel, Jack
glanced at me, his jowls flopping when he turned his
head. “You really think someone saw the Suburban going into the river? That’s the craziest idea I ever heard”
    I gave him a wry grin. “It’s the craziest idea I ever
heard too, Jack. Now, just drive.”
    At the first exit beyond Whiskey River, the bikers
turned off. Remaining on the Interstate, we followed
from a discreet distance and spotted them turn off the
access road onto a narrow dirt lane winding back into
the woods.
    “Now what?” Jack asked.
    “Find me a liquor store.”
    At Bayou Din Liquors, I bought ten cases of cheap
beer and a case of cheaper vodka. “Payoffs,” I replied
when Jack questioned the purchase. “There’s no way
I’m walking into the lion’s den without enough steak
to keep him off me.”
    “Huh?” Jack frowned. “What are you talking about,
steak?”
    I rolled my eyes and nodded to the driver’s seat.
“Just get in and drive, Jack. Head back to where the
bikers turned off.”
    Suddenly, his eyes lit with understanding. “You
mean-”

    “Yes, Jack. I mean we’re going into the bikers’
camp”
    He gulped hard once or twice, then started the
Cadillac.
    Thirty minutes later, we pulled off the eastbound
Interstate onto the access road, and I instructed him to
park just before the dirt lane the bikers had taken.
    “Park? I thought we were going to the bikers’ camp”
    I shook my head. “Not without an invite.”
    He frowned once again, so I explained, “The old
boy back at the convenience store said bikers were all
over the Interstate. I plan to stop a couple out here.
Show them the booze and offer it to them for answers
to a couple questions.”
    Jack muttered a curse. “They’ll cut our throats and
leave us out here to the wolves and panthers and whatever else is roaming out here in this forsaken wilderness. I tell you, boy, I’m-”
    “Look!” I exclaimed, pointing to the westbound
lane, down which two bikers were approaching.
    Jack growled. “So what? They’re not coming over
here. They’re heading for Texas.”
    “There’s always the crossover on the other side of
the river.”
    He sneered. “That’s going to take almost thirty
min-”
    Like the good, law-abiding citizens they were, the
two bikers had no intention of wasting another thirty minutes. They slowed, cut across the median dividing
east- and west-bound traffic, shot over the highway and
bounced over the shoulder, and slid to a screeching halt
a few feet from the grill of the Cadillac where I had
gone to stand when I saw them coming toward us.

    They were the archetypal bikers-big, burly, and
belligerent. Burgeoning bellies bulging over their
belts, they sat on their hogs, glowering at us. The one
on the right, his head shaven, and his hairy torso covered by a tank top five sizes too small and covered with
holes through which bright red hair curled, unwound a
length of chain from his handlebars and climbed lazily
off his bike. Gently pounding the length of chain into
the palm of a hand that looked the size of a baseball
glove, he sauntered toward me. The other, decked out
in full leathers, followed.
    At that moment, I figured I had made the worst mistake of my life, but there was no turning back. Grendel
personified would be on me before I could reach the
door, so I gulped and nodded amiably.
    “You want something?” He growled, eyeing me
malevolently.
    Much more casually than I felt, I leaned back
against the hood of the Cadillac and folded my arms
across my chest and nodded. “Yeah. I do. I want information.” His eyes narrowed, and I continued. “And
I’m willing to pay.” I pushed