he’d at the very least put the fear of God in the man before he did. He knew no one left the Jokers club with that tattooed patch still on their back. So, a man with a welding scar on his back was bound to be suspicious of people, even if he hadn’t been before. He did doubt somehow however, that a man who would have to be in his fifties by now would still be living with his parents.
“The old woman had shifty eyes,” Patrice said.
Gabe laughed. The old woman had peered out at them through the frosted glass in the door, dark eyes scrunched up and surrounded by a pair of round, dark-green framed glasses. Behind those eyes all they could really see was the top of the old man’s head. The old woman’s eyes had looked suspicious, but “shifty” wouldn’t be the word he would have used. “Yeah, baby, I guess she did,” he said.
The drive between the two addresses took them another twenty-five minutes. The sun was just beginning to go down as they pulled the car up in front of the 1970s style brick house. It was one of those ’70s mini-mansions with dark-tinted floor-to-ceiling windows, dark paneling, and bricks going up the sides. The lawn was neatly manicured and a row of neatly trimmed rose bushes lined the flowerbeds along the front of the house. Patrice knocked on the door and Gabe stood slightly behind her with one hand resting on the gun he had tucked in the back of his jeans. They waited several seconds and when no one answered her knock, she rang the doorbell, and again, they waited. After several minutes, and another ring of the doorbell Gabe said, “I don’t think they’re here, babe.”
“Do you know how to pick a lock?”
Gabe nearly choked. Chuckling nervously he said, “I probably could, but you really don’t want to end up in jail for breaking and entering, do you?”
“If we can get a look inside, maybe we can figure out if it’s him before he even gets here.”
“And if we do?”
“We wait for him to come home and make him tell us what he knows about my mother’s death. If he’s responsible we kill him and dump him in the river with cement shoes on.”
Still smiling at her Gabe shook his head slightly and said, “I think you have our club confused with the mob.”
She smiled at him then and said, “I’m kidding...sort of. But seriously, if it is him, do you think he’ll just admit it? Going in now will give us a jump...” The sound of the car driving into the driveway stopped her and startled them both. The man staring at them through the driver’s side window of the late model BMW didn’t look happy to have company and when he stepped out and Gabe saw how big he was, he began to wish he’d overridden Patrice and somehow forced her to wait for Blackheart and the other Jokers to arrive. “Is it him?” she whispered. Gabe shrugged. He wished now he’d asked Blackheart or Lowlife what the guy looked like. The man coming toward them was definitely the right age and both of his big arms were covered in tattoos. His dark hair lay curled against his shirt collar and he had a neatly manicured beard and mustache. He had a scowl on his face and when he was about six feet away, Gabe was glad he’d left his kutte in the car.
“Who are you?” he asked, rudely.
Before Gabe could speak Patrice said, “My name is Patrice Cormier.” The scowl on the man’s face changed to a look of surprise. He studied Patrice’s face for a long while before looking at Gabe and saying:
“And you are?”
“He’s with me,” she said.
Gabe smiled again and shook his head. Holding out his hand he said, “Name’s Gabriel Broussard.” The man looked at his hand for a long time. Gabe almost dropped it before the man’s big hand reached out and took it and asked:
“Any relationship to Raoul Broussard?”
“My paw,” Gabe said. “You knew him?”
The man nodded. “I went to school with him, and your mother...I believe? Susan?” Gabe nodded and he said, “You look like her.” He looked back at Patrice then and with a sour look on his face he said, “And you look like your father, unfortunately.”
“Then you do know who my father is?”
He chuckled, but not happily. “Yes,” he said. “Unfortunately. What do you want with me?”
“Can we go