The Cottonmouth MCC had massed at the intersection of Pine Street and Lakewood Drive, for easy access to the I-90, which they planned taking over the Atchafalaya River to Berwick, then on up to New Iberia. There were upward of forty motorcycles, plus two support vans decorated with the club decals, and strewn with banners denoting the fundraising rally. There were also upward of forty riders, plus pillion passengers, and others solely on foot, toting plastic collection buckets. Passers-by and well-wishers had also gathered to see off the convoy, and there was a general air of carnival about the proceedings. The tough image of a motorcycle gang was leavened by joviality, face paint, and even fancy dress costumes. Po wasn’t buying it; despite Marnie’s assurance that the Cottonmouths were now good ol’ boys raising funds for charities, he knew it was all a public front to divert the cops from what they got up to in their private time. Charitable institutes didn’t make deadly enemies of the likes of Trey Robinson by shaking collection tins.
Marnie’s description of Jerome Benoit didn’t help, because he didn’t look like the actor Marnie had alluded to, dressed as an ape and waving a huge inflatable plastic banana. But Marnie had been correct when stating he’d be the only one riding a three-wheeler. Tess commented on the Honda Goldwing’s aesthetic beauty, but Po was nonplussed. ‘Those things are fit only for ageing baby boomers with weak knees and swollen ankles,’ he snipped.
They stood at the fringes of the parked convoy, watching while men and women in leathers and denim prepared for the reasonably short trip. They were inconspicuous enough, and twice already Tess had dropped coins into buckets rattled under their noses, so to the Cottonmouths they were simply a pair of onlookers like all the rest. Some of those that had come to see off the rally mingled with the motorcyclists, and they could have too, but Po had urged caution. He was waiting to get Benoit alone but until now he’d been ensconced firmly at the centre of the high japes and had attracted a crowd of his own. He hooted and danced on his trike, bopping passers-by over their heads with the banana, orchestrating laughter from the audience.
‘He’s got to be melting inside that costume,’ Tess noted. Without a heavy fur coat she felt as if she were smouldering under the afternoon sun. Benoit was now standing on the seat of his Goldwing, the banana wedged between his thighs, wagging it up and down like a huge phallus.
‘Marnie was right about him; that isn’t the behaviour becoming an officer or a gentleman.’ Po folded his arms across his chest and continued to watch Benoit’s lewd antics. It took a moment before others in the MCC noted what Benoit was up to, and a moment or so longer for them to act. An older guy with a shaved head and drooping white moustache headed over and waved Benoit down off the trike. Benoit wiggled his hips, making the inflatable dance, eliciting a round of laughter from the crowd, but the older guy wasn’t amused. He jerked his head, stabbing a hand at one of the parked vans. Benoit plucked out the banana, bowed for the audience, but then he hopped down and strode for the van. As he walked he pulled off the ape mask, and shook out glistening black hair that hung over his fur-clad shoulders. He did have Hollywood good looks, though his nose was large and slightly off centre. As soon as he was on the move away from the gathered audience, Po went forward. Caught out, Tess wavered a second longer before following. He looked back at her, shook his head gently. Tess slowed, then halted. Po strode into Benoit’s path and held out a hand. Benoit threw back his head, spraying drops of perspiration. Po asked him something, but it was lost beneath the babble of the crowd.
Benoit jabbered something and made to walk past, but Po’s hand on his chest held him in place. More words passed, Benoit shaking his head in denial.
Tess watched the younger man frown, then shake his head again, this time with some anger. She still couldn’t hear what passed between them, but Benoit didn’t look ready to make friendly conversation. He nudged past Po and headed for the nearest panel van. Po wasn’t going to be ignored though. He went after Benoit, grabbed the back of the ape suit, clamped his other hand over his mouth to stifle argument, and manhandled the biker to the open van doors.
Unbelievable, Tess thought, as Po forced Benoit into the van and climbed inside with him. Po leaned out, winked at Tess, and then pulled the doors shut. Some people nearby had noticed Po loading Benoit in the van, but accepted it all as part of the show, as if Po was playing the role of the bad-taste police. They shook their heads in amusement, then walked away. Good job too, because in the next moment the van rocked wildly from side to side, and something thudded against the nearest side panel causing it to ring hollowly. Tess made out a fresh dint in the panel, and it was suspiciously shaped like Benoit’s large nose. ‘Oh no,’ she moaned under her breath.
There was another dull ring from within the van, followed by a series of sharper bangs. The van rocked on its suspension again. The conversation from within was muffled and one-sided. It ended with a low cry of pain. Silence. Tess took an involuntary step in the van’s direction, but thought better of it. She looked around, checking if anyone had noticed the commotion. The carnival atmosphere prevailed, although she spotted one woman dressed in club tags squinting over. Maybe the sounds of moans and creaking suspension could regularly be heard from that van, because the woman suddenly smiled wryly to herself and turned away. She wandered off, rattling her collection bucket. Tess waited, and was relieved when the back doors finally opened and Po stepped out. She had no view of the interior, and fleetingly wondered if Benoit was unconscious, or worse. But after a second or two the younger man also clambered out of the van. He looked shaky, a little flushed, and his nose appeared more swollen than before and twin trails of blood smeared his top lip, but otherwise he was unhurt. He wiped at his nose and mouth with the front of the gorilla costume, while staring balefully at Po’s back as the rangy ex-con strode towards her.
‘What happened?’ she urged Po.
‘I’ll reveal all as soon as we’re on the move. Let’s go before Monkey Nuts decides to shout a few of his buddies over.’
‘I take it that asking him nicely didn’t occur to you?’
‘I did ask him nicely at first, you saw me,’ said Po. ‘But Benoit doesn’t understand the concept of being nice. So I had to ask in a way that would get through to him.’
‘By bashing in the questions with the wall of the van?’
‘It worked.’
They headed for the Honda, and only as they drove away did Po add, ‘I got a lead on Wynne, but we’ll have to be quick. Once Benoit shakes off the cobwebs he’ll get on the phone to warn his buddy we’re coming.’
‘I hope he’s not far off, it won’t take Benoit long.’
‘He’ll have to find a working cell first.’ Po dropped a phone he’d taken from the biker out of the window and it smashed into tinkling components along the asphalt behind them. ‘Besides, we’re not far off Benoit’s digs. That’s where Wynne is supposedly holed up.’ He told Tess an address on Union Street and she moved to punch it into the satnav.
‘Relax,’ he said, ‘I know where Union Street is.’
Their journey took them back across town and over Railroad Avenue, though at its opposite end to the Cottonmouth clubhouse. At the intersection the traffic was stalled by a number of police cruisers racing to an emergency call along Railroad. They had their lights and sirens on and responded in numbers.
‘I wonder what that’s all about,’ Tess said.
‘Nothing to do with us,’ Po replied. ‘If Benoit chose to report his assault then the cops are headed in the wrong direction.’
Once the fleet of responding police cruisers disappeared the traffic got moving again, and Po flicked a cursory glance at Tess. The delay might prove more than an encumbrance in their journey time. ‘Maybe I should have knocked out Benoit’s lights. Chances are he’ll have got to a phone by now.’
Tess grimaced. She couldn’t advocate violence, but perhaps this time her volatile companion was right. If Crawford Wynne received a warning they were coming he might take off before she was able to press the subpoena notice into his hands. Even afterwards he might not comply and what then? Did she give Po the go ahead to knock out Wynne too, so they could hogtie him and drag him back to Maine?
Po steered the Honda onto Union, and began checking house numbers.
‘How positive are you that Benoit gave you the correct address?’ Tess said.
‘He wasn’t in a lying frame of mind,’ Po assured her, ‘not when I twisted his arm up his back. He went over the address a couple times to make sure I had all the details. Check it out.’
He’d drawn the rental to a halt opposite a wood frame house perched on cinder blocks. It was dilapidated, with trash on the strip of dusty grass that passed as a front lawn. The frame of a motorcycle missing its wheels and seat was part embedded in the dirt. The bench seat from an old gas-guzzler had been set against the front of the house and around it was a scattering of empty bottles and flattened beer cans. Holes in the walls were plugged with wadded paper, and looked suspiciously like bullet holes, as if the home had once been the target of a drive-by shooting. The number on the mailbox corresponded with the number twisted at pain from Jerome Benoit. It was getting to mid-afternoon, but a light was on behind drawn blinds in what Tess took to be the living room. No tell-tale shadows moved beyond the grimy blinds, though.
‘Do you think he has left already?’ Tess asked.
‘Only one way to find out.’ Po got out the car. ‘Keep that pistol in reach, I’m not sure Wynne’s going to be overly happy to see us.’
Reaching into her purse, Tess adjusted the butt of the Glock so she could draw it if necessary. Her wrist ached, but she wondered if the pain was psychosomatic. She flexed her hand as she got out the car and walked round to join Po who stood peering across the street at the decrepit house.
When she was a sheriff’s deputy Tess had attended many similar dwellings, seeking to speak with homeowners who might be victims, witnesses, or in fact felons, and there’d always been a method of approach. Usually she had back up if the situation was deemed dangerous, and other deputies would take positions to cover all exit ports. She knew that on most occasions a nervous or desperate individual would try to escape from a rear door or window, and often it was the officer there who grabbed them. She contemplated sending Po to cover the back of the house, but he’d already made his own plan and began striding for the front. Anxiety trickled through her, and she wavered. One of them should cover the back, but the image of a coked-up lunatic flashed across her vision. He came at her with his huge knife glistening, already casting rivulets of blood in the air as he slashed at her. Biting down hard on the image, Tess hurried after Po, following him up the front steps.
Po glanced at her, lines puckering his brow.
‘You OK, Tess?’ he asked.
‘Sure. I’m fine,’ she lied.
‘You look … nervous,’ he said, and she was sure he was about to say ‘afraid’.
‘I’m fine,’ she said again, and a tad harsher, ‘don’t forget I’ve done this a thousand times.’
‘You’re sure? If you prefer I’ll go in and speak with Wynne first.’
‘I told you I’m fine. How many damn times do I have to repeat myself? Don’t forget, if he refuses to come with us I have to be the one to subpoena him.’
Her statement was untrue; either of them could serve the legal summons. What she really meant was that she had to do it, because beyond proving to anyone else she could still do her job, she must first prove it to herself.
‘Suit yourself,’ Po said and this time his gaze lingered. ‘It’s just that you don’t look yourself.’
Under his scrutiny Tess found holding a brave face difficult, but she managed.
‘OK then,’ Po finally said, balling his fist to knock on the door.