The Right Side Of The Law
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Frankly, Blu was fed up with the whole damn situation. Yes, he’d saved those kids, but there had been a reward, compensation for his trouble, and he hadn’t been shy in accepting it. Still, his picture had been plastered on the front page of the newspaper along with a lengthy article playing him up as some kind of modern-day hero.
Well, the nun had made a trip to the docks for nothing unless she had a few extra pounds to sweat off, because his pockets were empty for whatever charity she was selling. No one on this side of the river except for Spoon Thompson—the wholesale crook Blu was forced to sell his shrimp to—could afford to ante up weekly for a tax write-off.
Blu glanced at the nun once more and found her staring straight at him. Oh, hell, she was working him, all right. She had her eye on his shrimp.
Again, he cursed the unwanted publicity he’d received. If he had known how much trouble those kids were going to cost him, he would have never… No, that wasn’t true; Taber Denoux had earned his iron cage, and those scared kids had deserved a happy ending.
He was all done questioning his actions. He may not like it, and most of the time he didn’t, but long ago Blu had accepted that a higher power navigated his path. Oui, he was all through questioning why it had been him who had discovered Denoux’s merchandise that night. In all honesty, he’d felt good seeing those kids reunited with their parents, but he’d also been eager to accept the sizable reward.
Yes, indeed, the Lord did work in mysterious ways—he didn’t owe the bank his soul any longer, his men had regular pay checks, and he no longer had to work a second job.
An hour later, the shrimp unloaded and the boat cleaned, Mort said, “If that’s it, you mind if I take off for a while? I got something to do.”
“You got nothing to do, mon ami,” Blu drawled. “What you got is a few bucks in your back pocket and a memory burning your insides.”
Mort grinned. “She had a pretty smile.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
“If you were me, what would you do?”
Blu had no authority over Mort after hours. He’d been the oldest of the kidnapped kids Denoux had planned to peddle on the slave market—the only one who’d had nowhere to go after Taber Denoux had been put out of business and hauled off to jail.
It wasn’t as if Blu had any regrets inviting Mort to join his crew. The kid had turned out to be a hard worker. He’d easily earned his wage, plus room and board. But from the beginning Blu had made it clear that Mort was expected to take care of himself. He didn’t want the responsibility or the aggravation of keeping tabs on a teenager. He’d made it clear he didn’t preach morals, give advances, or advice—hell, that would be like satan giving a lecture on the benefits of reading the Bible.
“You got something more for me to do?”
Blu shook his head. “No. Cross the river and take her someplace quiet.”
Crossing the river meant catching the ferry and heading for New Orleans or taking the Crescent City Connection. The girl in question with the pretty smile worked at a hot dog stand along the Riverwalk.
“I’ll see you later then,” Mort promised.
“Oui. The Nightwing is all yours tonight. I’m staying at the Dump, again. I got payroll to finish,” Blu explained.
The Dump—rather, the building in discussion—had been a purchase Blu made with some of the reward money he’d received for his “heroic deed.” The rundown two-story on Pelican Street, a few blocks from where he’d grown up, seemed to be a good investment at the time.
He wasn’t so sure of that now, though it had certainly pleased his mother and sister. They had been after him to settle down—preferably with a nice girl.
Blu had laughed out loud on hearing that, then promptly told them both that “settling down” was for old people, and that “nice girls” were for saints not devils.
He glanced in the direction he’d last seen the nun, but she was no longer there. Relieved the heat had driven her off, he pulled on his gray sleeveless T-shirt and jumped from the boat. Swearing as a burning pain shot into his left leg, he reached down to rub his thigh through his worn jeans as he headed toward the fishery.
The bullet wound, courtesy of the Denoux ordeal, had been slow to heal. The doctor had told him the infection he’d endured for the four days he’d kept the kids alive had resulted in permanent tissue damage and that he would always walk with a limp.
The minute Blu walked through Thompson’s front door, Spoon looked up from his desk and grinned. He was a short, wiry little man with gray hair and insightful green eyes. In his fifties, twice married and single once more, Spoon had stepped into his father’s shoes in much the same way Blu had; the only differences between the two men was their age and which side of the desk they worked on.
“A good catch today, duFray. You doubled my boys.”
“Always do.”
Blu’s blunt reply didn’t offend Spoon. The duFray Devils were top-notch, and no one in Algiers would argue that fact, or that Blu duFray was the number one reason why his fleet was still in business.
“Like I’ve always said, you got the nose for it. Your daddy had it, too. But I think yours is even better. They say you can’t teach it. I sure as hell believe it. That’s what makes your nose worth paying through the nose for.” Spoon chuckled at his own joke.
Blu remained stone sober.
At twenty-five, he was the youngest fishing fleet owner in Algiers. But it wasn’t Blu’s age or ability that had sparked the number of outrageous wagers down at Cruger’s Bar over the past few years—with his uncle Pike’s help, Blu had taken over the duFray Devils at age eighteen after his father had unexpectedly died. No, the wagers had nothing to do with whether Blu was smart enough to step into his daddy’s shoes, but whether the “old tubs”—as his boats were referred to—would be able to stay afloat, what with the inflated prices on repairs over the years by the marine yards and the decreasing wholesale prices on shrimp.
“Name your price, duFray,” Spoon insisted. “Today I’m feeling generous.” Blu opened his mouth, but the older man held up his hand. “I’ve offered to buy you out before, I know. But I’ll say it again, mon ami, you’re too young to be workin’ like you do and gettin’ paid half of what you’re worth. If I was you, I’d lighten the load and—”
“You’re not me.”
“But if I was—”
“You got my tally ready?”
“I can appreciate you feelin’ loyal to your daddy’s memory, son. But if you would have taken my offer two years ago your reputation would still be worth a damn and your mama could hold her head up like she used to.”