Every Dead Thing

THE FONTENOT COMPOUND lay five miles east of Delacroix. It was approached via a raised private road, newly built, which wound through swamps and decaying trees until it reached an area that had been cleared of all vegetation and was now only dark earth. High fencing, topped with razor wire, enclosed two or three acres, at the center of which lay a low, single-story, horseshoe-shaped concrete building. A black convertible and three black Explorers were parked in a line in the concrete lot created by the arms of the building. To the rear was an older house, a standard single-story wooden dwelling with a porch and what looked like a series of parallel linked rooms. No one seemed to be around as I pulled the rented Taurus up to the compound gate, Louis in the passenger seat beside me. Rachel had taken the other rental with her on a final visit to Loyola University.

“Maybe we should have called ahead,” I said as I looked at the silent compound.

Beside me, Louis raised his hands slowly above his head and gestured in front of him with his chin. Two men, dressed in jeans and faded shirts, stood before us pointing Heckler amp; Koch HK53s with retracted stocks. I caught two more in the rearview mirror and a fifth, wearing an axe in his belt, opposite the passenger window. They were hard, weathered-looking men, some of them with beards already tinged with gray. Their boots were muddy and their hands were the hands of manual laborers, scarred in places.

I watched as a man of medium height, dressed in a blue denim shirt, jeans, and work boots, walked toward the gate from the main compound building. When he reached the gate he didn’t open it but stood watching us through the fencing. He had been burned at some point: the skin on the right of his face was heavily scarred, the right eye useless, and the hair hadn’t grown back on that side of his scalp. A fold of skin hung over his dead eye, and when he spoke, he did so out of the left side of his mouth.

“What you want here?” The voice was heavily accented: Cajun stock.

“My name’s Charlie Parker,” I replied through the open window. “I’m here to see Lionel Fontenot.”

“Who this?” He motioned at Louis with a finger.

“Count Basie,” I said. “The rest of the band couldn’t make it.”

Pretty Boy didn’t crack a smile, or even a half smile. “Lionel don’t see no one. Get yo’ ass outta here ’fo you get hurt.” He turned and walked back toward the compound.

“Hey,” I said. “You accounted for all of Joe Bones’s goons at Metairie yet?”

He stopped and turned back to us.

“What you say?” He looked like I’d just insulted his sister.

“I figure you have two bodies at Metairie that no one can account for. If there’s a prize, I’d like to claim it.”

He seemed to consider this for a moment, then: “You a joker? You are, I don’t think you funny.”

“You don’t think I’m funny?” I said. There was an edge to my voice now. His left eyelid flickered and an H amp;K ended up two inches from my nose. It smelled like it had been used recently. “Try this for funny: I’m the guy who hauled Lutice Fontenot from the bottom of Honey Island swamp. You want to tell Lionel that, see if he laughs?”

He didn’t reply, but pointed an infrared signaler at the compound gate. It opened almost noiselessly.

“Get outta the car,” he said. Two of the men kept our hands in view and their guns trained on us as we opened the car doors, then two others came forward and frisked us against the car, looking for wires and weapons. They handed Louis’s SIG and knife and my S amp;W to the scarred guy, then checked the interior of the car for concealed weapons. They opened the hood and trunk and checked under the car.

“Man, you like the Peace Corps,” whispered Louis. “Make friends wherever you go.”

“Thanks,” I replied. “It’s a gift.”

When they were satisfied that it was clean, we were allowed to drive slowly up to the compound with one of Fontenot’s men, the axe man, in the back. Two men walked alongside the car. We parked beside the jeeps and were escorted up to the older house.

On the porch, waiting for us with a china cup of coffee in his hand, was Lionel Fontenot. The burn victim went up to him and spoke a few words in his ear, but Lionel stopped him with a raised hand and turned the hard stare on us. I felt a raindrop fall on my head and within seconds we were standing in a downpour. Lionel left us in the rain. I was wearing my blue linen Liz Claiborne suit and a white shirt with a blue silk-knit tie. I wondered if the dye would run. The rain was heavy and the dirt around the house was already turning to mud when Lionel ordered his men to leave, took a seat on the porch, and indicated with a nod of his head that we should come up. We sat on a pair of wooden chairs with woven seats while Lionel took a wooden recliner. The burn victim stood behind us. Louis and I moved our chairs slightly as we sat so that we could keep him in view.