Black Mustard: Justice by Dallas Coleman Page A

dry.
    Little and dark, with a bright, quick smile and not enough money on him to even pay for a lawyer, Eloi La Bauve was going to, indeed, be sent to the pen and would, most likely, take it up the ass for the extreme crime of making sure Danny Roubichoux, Gordon Maille, and Endo Hollis -- who’d fled to Houston as soon as the shit hit the fan, thank you very much -- didn’t gang rape a pretty little waitress who had more tattoos than juries thought an innocent gal ought.
    God, Loic hated his job.
    The money was good, though, and bleeding heart liberal lawyers spent their careers eating ramen noodles and wearing $79 suits from the Men’s Warehouse, getting screwed by hard-luck cases and not making the payments on their house or their Lexus, thank you very much.
    Not that Loic had a Lexus, not yet. His ink from UT’s law school wasn’t really dry yet; hell, the only reason Plante, Miller, and Achioux had taken him on was the fact that Giles Plante had been his roommate for six years and Loic had single-handedly gotten the lazy, charming fuck through the bar exams. That was all the push he’d needed, though. He’d tried ten cases for the firm now, including one that was a sure loss. “The Silver Tongued Loic” they’d called him. He liked it. He liked making juries see his way in things. He liked winning. He liked knowing that, when the partnership committee met next fall, his chances had moved from dismal to damned good.
    Pleasing these clients, though, would move damned good to a sure thing, and there was very little Loic de Hiver loved more than a sure thing.
    “You just take care of it.” Mr. Robichoux, Sr. snarled at him a little, his too-big, too-white dentures making him look more and more like a shark with every year. “Son, if it wasn’t a done deal, Jacques Plante would never have sent this kid to do the work. He’d’ve sent a real lawyer.”
    “I said, it’s a solid case. We’ll get what we want.”
    “What I want is for that junglebunny to fry.”
    “Watch your language, Danny. That is not appropriate here.” Or anywhere else, either. But one nasty slip of the tongue like that could turn a jury, a judge, and this was supposed to go quick and easy.
    Loic saw Justice Hibbideux head down the hallway, Le Bauve beside him. Hibbideux was one of those left-leaning, bleeding hearts. There wasn’t a bigger sucker in four parishes. Le Bauve was in jeans and a button down shirt, black hair slicked back, looking like he’d just slipped out of the marsh. Justice, on the other hand, was one of them throwbacks -- blond and short and square, stocky.
    Square jawed.
    Like a little bull.
    Loic shook his head, hoping against hope that they didn’t stop, didn’t draw the boys into conversation. Justice looked like he was going to walk on by, but Eloi La Bauve stopped, almost vibrating with it. “Y’all gon’ do this? After what y’all do to that ‘tit fille?”
    “Fuck you, Mudbug.”
    “Danny. Stop it. Hibbideux, control your client, please?”
    Justice looked down his stubby little nose, which wrinkled like he smelled bad. “I hope the money’s worth it. It sinks in, you know? Stains your soul.”
    He looked down at his hands, at the heavy gold watch that he had bought himself for Christmas, at the crisp, white shirt he wore. It was. It was worth it.
    “Sticks in your craw, oui? Like bad honey.” La Bauve reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a cigarillo, then pulled a silver lighter from one pocket, tiny black seeds or dirt or what have you spilling everywhere -- landing on him, on the Roubichouxs, on Gordon.
    “Jesus!” He jumped up, brushing himself off, the little things flying. “You can’t smoke in here! What is this mess?”
    “I cain’t? You sho’?” La Bauve’s voice got lower, accent as thick as gumbo. “I jes’ need me a puff or two.” That lighter clicked, the dark, hand-rolled cigarillo lit just like that. It occurred to Loic, distantly, that his granny would have called