Page 91 of Axe-ing for Trouble
It took me a second, but recognition dawned. Dickie had been our contact at the department of fish and wildlife for decades before his retirement. “We shouldn’t be here.”
“Drive the car, Jude. He’s a harmless civil servant, and we came all this way.”
Nothing good could come of this. If Dickie was clueless to the drug trafficking, we’d get nothing out of him. But if he was involved? That could lead to a lot of trouble for us.
She grasped my hand and squeezed. “He knew Hugo. He might have information, and I need to know.”
It was the shakiness of her voice that got me.
My stomach twisted with dread. “First sign of anything strange, and we’re out of here.”
“Deal.”
With a deep breath, I put the truck in gear and rolled up to the house. From this close, it looked even more decrepit.
Mila jumped out of the front seat and was halfway up the sagging porch before I could cut the ignition.
Her knock was greeted by a muffled response from inside, then a little shuffling. When the door opened, Dickie Perkins stood before us, wheeling an oxygen tank and wearing an old bathrobe.
“Dickie,” Mila said with false sincerity. “You look like shit. Can I come in?”
“Who are you and what do you want?” he asked, looking me up and down.
I’d seen this guy off and on for the last decade, but he looked a lot older and beaten down than the balding guy in a fleece vest who used to do forest walkthroughs with us.
“Just to chat.” Mila walked in, skirting around him. “Nice house.”
“It was my mother’s,” he replied dryly. “She died and left this crumbling shithole to me. But it’s home.”
He seemed unmoved by Mila’s brash entrance, and with his hunched posture, general look of dejection, and oxygen tank, I didn’t get the sense he was a threat.
“I know you,” he said as I stepped inside. “A Hebert.”
I nodded, keeping my shoulders back and my eyes narrowed on him.
“Oh fuck. I need a drink for this.” He shuffled into the living room, which was equipped with a massive fireplace, faded floral sofas and piles of old newspapers stacked along the back wall, and took a bottle off a side table. He yanked the top off with his teeth and poured a healthy amount into a red plastic cup.
After he’d taken a swig, he surveyed me, then Mila. Finally, he opened his mouth and said, “Who the fuck are you and why are you in my house?”
Without responding, Mila slowly wandered around the room, admiring the dust-covered porcelain figurines on the mantel.
Eventually, she turned to face the old man. “Dickie,” she said, her voice dripping with honey. “I need information, and I know you’re my guy.”
He took another gulp from his cup, attention narrowed on her over the rim. “Jude.” He shook a finger at me. “That’s your name. Known your old man for decades. Total asshole, but great poker player.” He laughed heartily, but it was cut off by a hacking cough. He lifted the mask that had been dangling around his neck and brought it to his face, breathing deeply. “Emphysema. It’s a bitch, but my fault for not giving up my vices.”
He took another hit and cleared his throat.
“How’s Gus doing? Always liked him. Total opposite of your dad. Guess that’s a good thing, given how things turned out.”
“Focus, Dickie,” Mila snapped. “We’re here for information about my brother, Hugo Barrett.”
“Good kid,” he mused. “Smart. I trained him. Such a terrible tragedy.” He shook his head. “But I took early retirement. Don’t know anything about the attack.”
Mila’s jaw ticked, and she fisted her hands at her sides. “I’m gonna need more than that, Dickie.”
With a shrug, he took another sip of liquor.
“Okay, then.” Mila pushed her hair behind her ears and straightened her shoulders. “You retire at fifty-four from a job with the state. Then move to… where was it again?” She tapped her chin. “Oh yes, Macau. Where you fucked around for almost a year before fleeing some very bad people to whom you owe a lot of money. Do I have that right?”
