The Devil Always Collects
The Devil Always Collects
John Moore
Copyright © 2015 John Moore
Second Edition 2018
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13:9780996342803
Dedication
For Sam, My Son
Table of Contents
Chapter One: A Day in My Life
Chapter Two: A Night in My Life
Chapter Three: The Zombie Life
Chapter Four: Shopping day
Chapter Five: Bad News
Chapter Six: Stalker Trouble
Chapter Seven: Pesticide Pollution
Chapter Eight: Sugar Time Happy Time
Chapter Nine: Processed Food Show
Chapter Ten: Back in New Orleans
Chapter Eleven: Mardi Gras Ball
Chapter Twelve: Death is Lurking
Chapter Thirteen: Mourning a Loss
Chapter Fourteen: Changing Jobs
Chapter Fifteen: Seeking Redemption
Chapter Sixteen: Bail or No Bail
Chapter Seventeen: Search for the Truth
Chapter Eighteen: Funerals and Stashes
Chapter Nineteen: Hospital
Chapter Twenty: Interpol
Chapter Twenty-One: Chasing the Evidence
Chapter Twenty-Two: Unwelcomed Help
Chapter Twenty-Three: Back in Business
Chapter Twenty-Four: Devil’s Disciples
Chapter Twenty-Five: Setting Sail
Chapter Twenty-Six: Captured
Chapter Twenty-Seven: El Alacran
Chapter Twenty-Eight: More Bad News
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Blogging in the U.S.
Chapter Thirty: Small Victory
Chapter Thirty-One: Going Back Home
Chapter Thirty-Two: Reckoning
Chapter Thirty-Three: Debts Come Due
Chapter Thirty-Four: Trapped Again
About the Author
Chapter One:
A Day in My Life
“Reverse engines! Reverse engines,” the deck hand yelled trying to raise his Cajun accented voice over the pounding rain blowing sideways across the river. But his warning was too late. The barges, caught in the current, were heading toward the bridge, the Huey P. Long Bridge in New Orleans. The roar of the push boat’s engines now in full reverse throttle screamed as lightning flashed across the morning sky. He grasped the aluminum railing of the ladder leading to the second level of the tug. As if in slow motion, the lead barge of twelve, loaded to the brim with crude oil, crashed into the bridge. The sound of metal against concrete drowned out all other sounds and the deck hand struggled ferociously to retain his grip on the ladder lest he be thrown into the muddy, Mississippi water. He prepared himself for the worst, the darkness of the water, the pungent smell of the oil leaking from mangled barges. Would the bridge tumble down, crushing the tug boat and killing him together with God knows how many rush hour motorists on the bridge? He cast his prayers to heaven as the boat tilted on its side. He feared the boat would never come to rest until it reached the bottom of the river.
“Alexandra, get your ass in here! What do you know about this mess on the Bayou Oil account?” Mr. Jenkins, a crusty, balding man in his late sixties yelled. “Sarah slapped the paper on my desk and this shit’s on the front page. Huge headlines. Barton wants this incident to go away.”
Oh, shit. I knew this thing was going to blow up. I bolted out of my hidden section of the cube farm and dashed into Mr. Jenkins’s office, heart and pulse pounding. Mr. Jenkins is such a dick. He overreacts to everything, screaming and acting like his intestines were on fire. Maybe this time he had cause to trigger the fire drill. Maybe this is really, really bad. I barely entered the room before I was hit with a flying copy of the New Orleans Times he threw at me, the article trumpeting, “Bayou Oil Management Reckless: Barge Still Leaking.”Giant-sized print, no less. The words in the headline are taller than my outstretched hand.
“John, calm down,” Sarah said. “We’ll figure this out. After all, Bayou did run their barge into the Mississippi River Bridge. What did you think the paper was going to do?” If any of us knew the newspaper business, it was Sarah. She sold stories to the Times as a freelance journalist for five years after she finished journalism school at Tulane.
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