Black Mustard: Justice by Dallas Coleman Page B

that a shit-dipped cigarette. Shit-dipped. Lord, he hadn’t thought of that phrase in ten years, easy.
    Since she’d died, for sure.
    Mr. Robichoux, Sr., poked him in the shoulder. “Do something, son!”
    All he could do was bark out, “Hibbideux! Control him!”
    “Eloi, put it out.” Justice looked more amused than alarmed, honestly. Possibly more tickled than amused, even.
    La Bauve blew a long, slow stream of smoke out, the scent odd, spicy, redolent of something Loic remembered from his childhood, maybe.
    It wasn’t tobacco, that was for sure.
    Gordon sneezed. Twice. Loic, though, he coughed a little, the spice and burn carried deep in his lungs. “Damn it.”
    Le Bauve took the cigarette, pinched the cherry off into his fist and closed his hand around it without even a wince. “It’s better now, eh?”
    “We’re on the docket, Hibbideux.”
    “That we are. Let’s go win our case, Eloi.” Justice’s hand looked huge somehow on the skinny man’s arm. How the man didn’t look scared just stunned him, really.
    Eloi La Bauve was going to go to prison for assault. At least for ninety days, and that was if he was lucky.
    Ninety days was a long time for a man to miss work. Long enough to lose his family home.
    Still, La Bauve shouldn’t have stuck his nose where it didn’t belong, shouldn’t have attacked a trio of wealthy, good men. Right?
    “I hope you handle things in the courtroom better than you handled that situation, son.”
    Roubichoux was giving him a headache.
    “We’ve got a solid case. Let’s go get ready. They’ll be calling us in soon.”
    Gordon shook his head. “I’ve been hearing rumors that Le Bauve’s granny’s got the hoodoo. That cigarette deal sure smelled like hoodoo.”
    “What, exactly, does hoodoo smell like, you horse’s ass?” Roubichoux, Sr. was getting red-faced. “Honestly, y’all’s momma’s should have listened to us and sent all you boys up East for school.”
    Loic wasn’t sure any school would take them, no matter what they had.
    “De Hiver, you tell these boys hoodoo is a sham.”
    Loic opened his lips to do just that, but all he could do was cough, not a single word came out. He waved his hand in apology, grabbed his bottled water that was sitting there. Damned cigar.
    “Stop that coughing, now! You’re supposed to be some silver-tongued damned devil!”
    “You’re turning a little purple, man, you okay?”
    “De Hiver! You stop this nonsense.”
    He looked at the men, fighting for breath, trying his dead-level best to let them know what the hell was going on. It didn’t work, though; the more he tried to talk, the tighter his throat got, until he felt like he was sucking air through a coffee stirrer.
    Loic grunted, growled a little under his breath, then grabbed his laptop case, counseling himself to patience, and headed toward the courtroom, those damned tiny seeds falling from the case, from the cuffs in his pants. The tiny damned things had gotten everywhere. Hell, they were probably in his throat.
    Daniel Roubichoux, Sr. stood, too, hand reaching to catch Loic’s arm. The tanned hand just missed, Daniel Roubichoux overstepping, sliding on something, just a couple of inches in the fancy, slick shoes. That couple of inches was all it needed, though, and one foot went up, one foot went out, and the old man went down with a bone-rattling crash.
    All three of them stood there a second, staring. Then Danny reached down, “Daddy? Daddy, you okay?”
    When there wasn’t an answer, Loic grabbed his phone, dialed 911.
    He just hoped that he could say something.
    ***
    Justice sat on the courthouse steps, lit up a Camel, and stared.
    Never in ten years of his professional life had he seen a three-ring circus like this. First Eloi lights up God knows what in the foyer. Then one of de Hiver’s clients falls and busts his head wide open like a ripe watermelon. That was bad enough, and he was all about just resetting the court date when Loic de Hiver --