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.”
“Leave it alone, Thompson, or I’ll head over to Paradise Point and sell my catch to old man Aldwin.”
“That’ll be hard to do. Ain’t you heard? He’s all washed up. Under-sellin’ me finally bellied him up. Either that, or that no-good worm of a grandson sucked him dry.” Spoon grinned, obviously pleased with the other man’s misfortune no matter what had caused it. “Besides, I heard you and Aldwin had a partin’ of the ways a year or so ago. Don’t suppose you’d care to set the record straight as to why that was?”
Blu had no intentions of trading information with Spoon Thompson. What had passed between him and Perch Aldwin was business of another kind. And it was too late to make amends—he’d already tried.
Spoon shook his head. “One of these days those old tubs of yours ain’t gonna make it back in. Why don’tcha—”
“My tally,” Blu reminded, growing tired of the sound of Spoon’s voice and the same topic they argued over daily.
“Those old tubs are bleedin’ you.”
“Those ‘old tubs’ still top your catch any day of the week.”
Spoon stood and came around the six-foot cypress desk. Side by side, the top of his egg-shaped head didn’t reach Blu’s massive shoulder. “It ain’t the tubs, boy. Your nose is what’s gettin’ the job done. I’ve got the money and you’ve got the talent. Together we could go places. How about meetin’ me at Cruger’s in an hour and we’ll settle this once and for all?”
“Save your money and your jaw, Thompson. I’m not interested.”
“You’re a stubborn bastard, boy. Ornery as hell, just like your daddy was. But one of these days you’ll see I’m right.” That said, Spoon picked up the tally sheet and handed it over. “I’m gonna keep askin’.”
Blu eyed the tally, didn’t like the figures, but knew it was the best he was going to get. He shoved the paper in his back pocket, then left without another word. Outside, he started up Bay Street, considering Spoon’s offer, as he did at least once a week. He knew a number of independent fishermen who would jump at the chance to sell out to Spoon and go to work for him. And it would certainly lift a mountain of bills and worry from his shoulders
