Riotfish, Inc.: In Debt: Chapter 32

After a leisurely time with the coffee, Daugereaux slapped his legs and stood up.

“I got to give you de nickel tour of my place,” Daugereaux said expansively. “You got to know what y’all defending.”

Fleer nodded, and the Riotfish followed Daugereaux out the door.

The cabin itself was quick enough to show, just an open room that constituted the kitchen/dining room/living room, and a couple small rooms tacked onto the back for a bedroom and storage. Daugereaux took them outside and rambled around the yard. Every feature of the land had a story behind it, and Daugereaux was only too happy to tell each and every one.

“Now dis dock here I rebuilt about thirty years ago, to replace de one dat mon pere built here when I was growin’ up.”

The Riotfish dutifully admired the dock that was next to the house, the gutted propane tank in the yard, the gravel driveway, and the mountainous pile of scrap metal Daugereaux had been collecting. “I got to take dat in one of dese days,” he said of the scrap.

“Dis house is on de southeast side of my proppity,” he said, rambling through the knee-high grasses and weeds that surrounded his home. “The proppity is long, running nort’-sout’. De highway is off to de west some, wit’ some of my land on past it. De Tiamagua Basin runs all up along de east side, so you cain’t go dat way except by boat.”

“And up north is where the Cryocorp facility is,” Fleer filled in.

“Like you say,” Daugereaux continued. “I don’t go up dat way much, de huntin’ ain’t worthwhile up dere and it’s all sticker bushes and weeds.”

“Maybe we can do some scouting out there tomorrow,” Fleer suggested, looking at the beginnings of dusk.

“Dat sounds about right. Now de house up dere,” he gestured toward the Acadian cabin, “was built by my parrain back in eighty-five. We used to had us a cabin fu’ther up de bayou, but de flood dat year came up high enough to float de house right off de blocks, and washed it on out to de Miss’ippi river. Dis over here,” he gestured to a building lower and larger than the house, partially hidden by the tall grass, “is my workshop, where I tinker wit’ things. I can show y’all some of dat, hol’ on.”

Daugereaux pulled a giant ring of keys out of the pocket of his bib overalls. He fumbled interminably with the shifting, multi-limbed monstrosity of old brass, bent rings, and shredded plastic key fobs advertising local businesses. Finally finding the right key, Daugereaux used it to click open a padlock. He slid a long rusty chain out of the door handles, and cast open the wide doors.

The interior was dim, with bare wooden walls and a dirt floor. Daugereaux opened a few wooden shutters, which didn’t really brighten the place much, but at least gave the dimness some texture. Worn wooden workbenches hugged each wall, and they were covered with a variety of stuff. Metalworking, woodworking, various bits of disassembled machinery, over here some sickly plants growing, over there some old farm equipment, hand tools of all kinds lay scattered around various projects without apparent rhyme or reason.

The Riotfish moved in slowly, taking in the overwhelming sight of oilcans and drums of gasoline, mysterious putties and compounds, a random pile of firewood, and enough scrap lumber to build a medium-sized house. They separated and began examining various projects.

Daugereaux seemed well pleased.

They wandered quietly around the shed. D’khara found an arc welder made from what looked like an old marine battery, a microwave transformer, and a jumper cable. Little Timmy found a chest freezer that clearly hadn’t been plugged in since shortly after the invention of electricity. With a horrified fascination, he tried pulling the lid open, but it remained firmly stuck shut. Thinking better of his curiosity, he moved on. Fleer looked shrewdly at a couple of long, narrow swords that were plated with rust. Roger simply darted from place to place with delight, reveling in the heaps of aged projects, here caressing a moldy can of gunpowder, there gently licking an old pile of weeds.

“What’s this, Mr. Daugereaux?” Oliver asked.

“Oh, don’t touch dat, shah,” Daugereaux said, walking over. “Dat’s my fam’ly’s punt gun.”

“A what now?”

Daugereaux laid a proud hand on the long tube. It looked like a gun, mostly, except it was enormous. It was nearly ten feet long, and the barrel bore was at least two inches across. The stock was cypress, and ran most of the length of the gun, with thick iron straps holding the ridiculous barrel snugly against the wood.

“Dis here is a punt gun. It came down through Ma Daugereaux’s side of de fam’ly. It is basically a great big ol’ shotgun. It takes dese shells here,” he said, pointing at brass shells the size of a man’s fist.

“How would you even fire something like that?” D’khara asked. “You can’t possibly hold it up.”

“Oh, you don’t hold it, shah. Dey used to use dese for huntin’ ducks. Mount dat in a little boat or pirogue, and you get all behin’ one end. You row your pirogue around to point at de ducks floatin’ on de water, and den BLAM!” he yelled, making everybody start. “You shoot de whole flock at once.”

“That’s amazing,” Fleer said. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Yep,” Daugereaux said, caressing the barrel. “You could wipe out a whole flock in a single shot. Dey ain’t made dese in a coon’s age. Dey’s all illegal now.”

“Then why do those shells look ready to fire?” Little Timmy asked.

“Now why you got to axe me a dumb question like dat? If you gon’ restore a old piece, you got to do it all de way. Dis is not for huntin’ dem ducks, just… collectin’.”

From outside came two short blips of a car horn.

“Oh, y’all got to excuse me, it sounds like I got some comp’ny.” Shooing the reluctant Riotfish out, Daugereaux slithered the chain back through the door handles and locked up before rambling back toward the house.

“Oh! Coon boy!” he hollered, waving at a long, silver sedan parked in the gravel driveway. “May I ain’t seed you in forever! Ma’s in de house makin’ red beans, go on and get you some!”

“That’s a Roucey Duchess,” Fleer muttered, marveling at the sleek silver vehicle. Somehow it had managed to navigate the road to Daugereaux’ house without a single scratch. “Now what’s a high-end gravroller like that doing way out here?”

The doors of the car opened, spilling out four massive men. They were heavily muscled, with thick lips and flowing curly hair and were dressed in suits that suited them poorly, bulging and distorting the expensive fabric in all the wrong places. Moving with surprising coordination, like four fingers of a single hand, they converged on the rear door of the Duchess as a round little man stepped out.

“Hey Coon Boy!” Daugereaux called, hustling up to the car. “You been diggin’ through any trash cans lately?” Daugereaux called, hooting laughter. The round little man laughed, joining Daugereaux.

Daugereaux, my old friend," he said with a hint of an Italian accent, wrapping the little Cajun in a giant hug. “I was in the area and thought I’d stop by. It’s been too long.”

“True dat. Howsyamommenem?”

It took Fleer a moment to parse out that “How’s your mom and them?” had been smashed into a single, horrible word.

“Oh, momma’s good, she’s good. Her condition flared up last year, but the doctor says she can’t take any more medicine.”

“Oh now ain’t dat a shame. Dese doggone doctors, dey’ll kill you dead if you don’t watch it.”

“True, true,” commiserated the little Italian.

“Well let’s not stand around bangin’ our gums where de mosquitoes gon’ eat us up. Let’s get in, I bet Ma’s got dem beans jus’ about ready.”

Oliver sat on the floor. Everyone else was seated at some kind of table– Ma Daugereaux had brought out a card table and folding metal chairs to accommodate everyone else, but she simply didn’t have anything that would hold Oliver. She was visibly upset over the oversight, regardless of how much Oliver assured her he was used to sitting on the floor. After a while she had to give up trying to find a solution and started serving the meal.

Oliver carefully watched her prepare each serving. First, a glutinous lump of rice was smacked down onto the plate, then a generous layer of sludge was spooned over it, steaming and silty, with sausages and what looked like the reclaimed souls of beans poking out of it. She handed the plates around.

Oliver held the plate gingerly in his giant hand, with a fork delicately held in the other. He gently sniffed the concoction on the plate, and clamped his lips together in shock.

“Don’t be rude, Oliver, just eat it,” Fleer hissed.

The little Italian and his four bodyguards started eating with hearty enthusiasm. They were halfway through clearing their plates before Ma Daugereaux was finished handing out thick slabs of cornbread.

Perhaps it tastes better than it smells, Oliver thought, raising the fork to his lips. It might be like those pungent cheeses that smell bad but taste OH NO IT’S AWFUL AND I CAN’T SPIT THIS OUT HERE.

Tears streaming, he gathered together all his willpower and tried to force down the tiny bite of food.

“Look at me, de bad host,” Daugereaux said. “I ain’t introduce nobody. Fellas, dis here is Matthias Russo, he is from up nort’ on de eas’ coast, but I don’t hold dat against him.” They both chuckled. “We done us some bidness a few years back. Coon Boy, dese here is de Riotfish. Dey is rowdy fellas who is helpin’ me wit’ some troubles here on de proppity.”

“That’s good,” Russo said. “You know, we worry about you and Ma Daugereaux out here with nobody to help.”

“Oh, psh. We’s fine. We got folks comin’ by all de time, and T-Jean brings us groceries and supplies mos’ reg’lar.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you getting some help. With no family out here–”

“Well, dat ain’t important. You boys got enough to eat over dere? Ma, you wanna get dem some more to drink?”

Russo nodded and put his attention back on his food.

Fleer tried not to stare at him. He’d done some subtle digging in the conversation, to no avail. Clearly the man had some influence. But how did he ever come to know someone like Daugereaux? Russo was a genteel corporate type, and the old man looked like he’d never been out of the swamp.

Then again, looks could be deceiving.

Fleer would have given two teeth to know Russo’s background, but it was Not Done to whip out one’s datapad and start investigating the other guests over dinner. Anyway, he’d surreptitiously tried to find a connection earlier, with no luck. Daugereaux must have had some kind of hardline connection run out here to connect to the holonet.

It took a few minutes, but the conversation slowly warmed again. They all chatted amiably as they ate, with the Riotfishers talking shop with Russo’s bodyguards, Daugereaux talking with Fleer and Russo, and around it all, Ma Daugereaux wove through, keeping everybody’s plates and glasses full.

Eating slowly stopped as people filled up, but the conversation rattled on for another hour or so. Despite having spent most of the meal shuffling food around instead of eating it, Oliver’s plate was suspiciously clean. The window next to him had been left open to let air flow through, which was a fortunate coincidence.

Russo stood. “I hate to say it,” he said, “but me and my boys need to put in some more time on the road tonight. Fleer, it was good to meet you and your men. Daugereaux, Ma, it’s been wonderful seeing you again.”

“You too, shah. You got to come back by more often,” Daugereaux said, hugging the little man again.

The long silver car slid away down the wooded road in the darkening twilight, and the strong, steady thrum of its gravwells faded.

“Well, it’s all a little late for you boys to be setting up tents and all in de dark. You all can sack out on de floor here, or make whatever kind of arrangements you got.”

“It would be very kind of you to let us sleep here. We have some bedding in our equipment we can use.”

“Alright. Ma’s got some blankets put up if y’all want somethin’ to keep off de cold.”

Staring at each other, the Riotfish considered the rivulets of sweat running down and pooling in every crevice and undergarment. Even in the evening dark, the heat was stifling and the humidity gave the very air an oppressive weight.

“That would be great, thanks so much!” Fleer chirped, a thin sheen of sweat covering his face. “We would all be very appreciative.”

Daugereaux bustled off to help his wife with the blankets. Oliver, ever the one to have to start uncomfortable conversations, cleared his throat.

“David, far be it from me to question your methods, but do we really need blankets? It’s fairly warm in here already.”

Fleer smiled.

“This is not logistics, this is marketing. Never pass up the opportunity to let a client do you a favor. We’re not sure why, but letting someone do you a favor helps them like you more. It smoothes the relationship. It’s called the ‘Ben Franklin Effect.’”

“Aha. So what do we do with the blankets, then?”

At that moment a tall pile of blankets wearing Daugereaux’ legs wobbled into the room.

“I got dese to get y’all started,” it said. “Ma’s coming wit de rest.” And the plethora of blankets was dumped on the floor.

“Wee little cobwebs, tucked up for bed!” Roger said.

Fleer looked aghast at the mountain of bedding.

“Well. At least we’ll keep the frostbite off,” D’khara said.