Cajun Justice(32)

He slowly made his way out of bed and into the kitchen, where Claude was already sitting at the table, working on a crossword puzzle.

“Asian mafia?” Claude asked.

“Um,” Cain said. “Can I at least get some coffee first—to get my brain going?”

Claude put down his crossword puzzle and grabbed coffee beans from a brown paper bag in the fridge, where he stowed them to keep them safe from the humidity. He ground the whole beans and placed them in his French press, then opened the cupboard and grabbed two mugs. He poured each of them a cup.

“Chinese triads,” Cain suggested.

“Not enough letters. Six letters an’ has a z toward da end.”

“Try yakuza,” Cain said.

“Dat’s eet! Hopefully Bonnie ain’t messin’ wit dem folks.”

Cain laughed out loud. “She’s so busy at work, I don’t think she has time for a social life, much less time to hang out with the Japanese mafia.”

“Well, you know your sister. She always liked dem bad-boy types.”

Cain smirked. “How many of her boyfriends did you run off the front yard with a shotgun?”

Claude chuckled. “I quit countin’ a lon’ time ago.”

The rooster crowed again.

“When did you get a rooster?” Cain asked.

“Dat’s Mignon. He’s ma li’l cutie. I rescued heem from an overcrowded chicken house. Da older roosters waz pulling out hees feders. Caused dat little fellow all kinds of stress. He’s happy on da farm. Dem feders will grow back. I guarantee eet. We have a competition each mornin’—to see who wakes up firs’.”

“Well, you’re up before Mignon. That’s impressive. How you sleeping?” Cain asked.

“Bon. Très bon! Happy you’re back home, son.”

“Me, too.”

“How you slept?” Claude asked.

“Like the dead. I didn’t toss once.”

“You needed dat. You waz starting to look older dan las’ time.”

Cain chuckled. “I am older than last time. Plus, I’ve gotten some extra city miles on this body since last time you saw me.”

“I hear dat. Give eet some time. Your feders will grow back, jus’ like Mignon’s.”

“Besides that little competition with Mignon, why are you up and dressed so early? Aren’t you retired by now?”

“Shhhhit. I’ll be retired when dey bury me. Dem floods hit dis region hard. Damaged soybean fields. People’s livelihood, son. I’m flyin’ to Abbeville dis morning. Need to fertilize a few soybean an’ rice fields.”

“Is Seth able to help you with the business?”

“Eet comes an’ goes. Sometimes I feel like I lost heem in Iraq, an’ other times he’s da old Seth we raised here on da farm. But havin’ your bes’ friend take hees last breath in your arms on da battlefield—eet’s a tough ting to experience. It would change anybody.”

“You have him flying any?”

“Nah. I can’t risk eet. Can’t have heem havin’ an episode in da air. As long as he’s on da ground wit Sunny, he’s fine. He helps me wit da maintenance. Da boy can fix anyting. He even painted dat bird a few monts ago.”

“Is that why it’s bright yellow now?”

“Easy to spot in da sky,” Claude replied, and winked.

They chitchatted in the kitchen for about ten more minutes and then Cain followed Claude to the barn. A light wind blew through the barn door, bringing the wind chimes to life.

Claude pointed to the corner of the dusty barn. “Eet’s still dare. Your punchin’ bag. Hittin’ dat old ting ees still da best way to get rid of any stress you got.”

“I can’t believe it hasn’t dry-rotted by now,” Cain said as he walked toward it.

“I can,” Claude said. “Eet’s American made. Eet’s built to take a beatin’. Jus’ like dis Air Tractor 802.” He pointed to his airplane. “Jus’ like dat rooster. An’ jus’ like you an’ me.”

Cain helped his dad pull the airplane out of the barn.

“I’ll be back soon,” Claude said. He hopped into the cockpit. “Clear prop!”

Cain looked around to make sure it was safe. “Clear!” he yelled back so his dad could hear from inside the cockpit.

Claude flipped the switch and the propeller started spinning strong after initially rotating lazily a few times. A cloud of smoke blew out the exhaust, which was normal for its first flight of the day. He taxied onto the grass and took off into the sky. He rocked his wings before turning westbound and disappearing into the distance.

Cain walked over to the heavy bag. His boxing coach had long since passed away, but Cain could still hear him talking. “Sometimes a fight jus’ comes a-looking for you. When dat happens, you finish eet.”

The more Cain thought about Tomcat and the SAC, the angrier he became. He picked up his old gloves and studied them. They were marred with sweat and dried blood. Unlike with the heavy bag, the years of abuse and heat and humidity had dry-rotted them. He tossed them on a stack of hay. He started punching the bag with his bare fists. He continued punching the bag until he couldn’t lift his arms anymore. They burned as if they were on fire, and his heart felt as if it was about to explode. His knuckles bled, and he was drenched in sweat. He took off his shirt to wipe away the sweat from his face and the blood from his hands. He plopped down on a bale of hay and watched squirrels play in the treetops as he tried to catch his breath and make his heart rate slow down. He remembered his navy training about how to combat-breathe to lower his heart rate. Inhale through the nose. Hold it for four seconds. Exhale through the mouth. Hold it for four seconds. He repeated this process several times.