Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 07 - The Swamps of Bayou Teche by Kent Conwell Page A

entertainment centers, each with its own arrangement of leather couches. In the middle of the room,
surrounded by plush leather chairs, was a large round
table with a mosaic top replicating the LSU tiger, in
the middle of which sat a lazy susan cradling several
crystal tumblers and carafes of various whiskeys. Two
or three partially filled ashtrays and a few matchbooks were spaced about the table.
    Gesturing to a chair, he reached for a bottle of bourbon and held it up to me.
    I sat. “No, thanks. A.A.,” I added so as not to offend
him, a not unusual reaction of many people in that
neck of the woods when their offer of drink is refused.
This was a country where wine and whiskey and beer
were as much part of the scheme of life as coffee, tea,
and milk. In fact, I have family members who consider boiled seafood, fried seafood, baked seafood,
and a six-pack of beer as the four food groups.
    He poured a tumbler of bourbon and ran his thick fingers through his thinning white hair. “I don’t wish harm
to no one, but I hope it’s someone else and not John”

    I decided to see just how honest John Hardy was
with his mother. “Were you and Hardy good friends?”
    The portly man arched an eyebrow. “We are partners” He stressed the present tense are.
    Absently, I picked up a book of matches and toyed
with it. “And work well together, I was told. A partnership many admired.” Before he could reply, I
added, “On the other hand, I’ve been told that you and
Hardy were not personal friends. Now, they might
have been mistaken. I don’t know. I’m just asking.” I
opened the match cover and noted that the matches
had been torn from the right side.
    I studied him as he took a hurried drink of bourbon.
His reply was brusque. “We didn’t run in the same social circles, if that’s what you mean”
    I didn’t push that issue any further. I discovered
what I wanted to know. Mrs. Hardy knew what she
was talking about.
    Nodding, I replied. “It is. How long have you two
been partners?”
    “Thirteen years,” he replied, seeming to relax as he
slid into a plush chair. Long ago I had come to the
conclusion that bankers deliberately used thick, luxurious chairs to put clients off-guard so they could hit
them with usurious interest charges.
    “Nineteen ninety-three,” he added, downing half of
his bourbon. “Good years” He shook his head, then
leaned back in his chair. “Now, what else?”

    I touched on some of the same topics I had covered
with Laura Palmo and discovered no major fallacies
between the two. Gates elaborated on Hardy’s gambling. “I know Jimmy Blue. His real name is Jimmy
Opilitto. His place is as honest as any of them. John
and I argued from time to time about his gambling. He
lost big, and my fear was that word would spread
about his gambling losses and in turn the bank would
suffer.”
    “Did that happen?”
    A sheepish grin played over his face. “Fortunately,
no.”
    “I heard Hardy had some business dealings with
Jimmy Blue.”
    Gates pursed his lips and shook his head slowly.
“Other than the casino is one of our depositors, none
that I know of.”
    “You knew John Hardy once had a bank go under
up in Opelousas?”
    His face grew grim. “Yes. It wasn’t his fault. It was
his partner, or I should say, his partner’s wife.”
    I leaned forward. “The partner, that was Babin,
Duclize Babin?”
    “Why, yes,” he exclaimed, surprised. “How did you
know?” He paused, then chuckled. “You’ve talked to
other people”
    With a crooked grin, I replied, “A lot of them. So,
what happened with the bank?”
    “Well, I’m probably telling you what you already know. John and Babin started one up in the early seventies. Babin committed suicide in about seventy-nine
or eighty, and his wife-I think her name was
Karen-well, she took over his share of the bank.
Then she started embezzling. Went on for a couple
years before John learned of it. By