Chapter 8: Pilot's License

Gaspard's POV

Maurice Villere's office stood on the thirty-first floor on Poydras, and he kept it cold enough to hang meat.

I had come straight off the river in my pilot's blues, with salt on my cuffs.

His secretary had said nine, and I did not own a better reason to dress up.

He rose from behind a desk the size of a pilot house and came around it with his hand out.

"Gaspard Ravenel," he said. "Your grandfather taught me to pour a bourbon."

"He taught a lot of people that."

"Sit, son. Sit."

I stayed on my feet.

He saw it and let it go with a smile, and went back around the desk.

The window behind him showed the whole bend of the river, the same bend I had steered ships through for eleven years.

I thought he had chosen the office for that.

"I'll be quick," he said. "I understand you've been seen with my daughter-in-law."

"Clem."

"Clementine. She's not been herself. She's had a shock. A woman in that state can attach herself to the nearest kind face."

"She hasn't attached to me."

"No?"

"I've been hauling boxes."

"At my son's gate. Before the entire street."

"Your wife put the boxes on the sidewalk, Maurice."

His smile stayed where it was, but the red in his face went up a shade.

"What do you want from this?" he asked.

"I don't want anything from it."

"Everyone wants something."

"I like that in a man."

"It keeps things clean."

He folded his hands.

"Let me guess."

"A pilot of thirty-eight, no wife."

"A girl from his own street, left with nothing."

"It's a very old story, and you'd be playing a very old part."

"What part is that?"

"The rescuer. Who takes the grateful woman home."

My hands had curled at my sides.

I opened them one finger at a time.

"What's your offer?" I said.

"You see, I knew you were a practical man."

He slid a folder across the desk.

"Villere Marine holds the harbor contract for that tugboat you love."

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