Larry finished off his second drink and shook the ice again at the waitress, who was standing by the bar. She got the hint and rushed over with another drink, placing it in front of Larry. “I’m going to need another drink to understand your thought process on this one.”
“I can’t believe the judge even set bail. A double murder?” Michael said.
“The DA’s office pushed for no bail, but Judge Spears set it at two hundred thousand,” Walter said, nervously arranging the flatware on the table.
Larry looked interested and thought about it for a moment. “So, you’re asking me to go to a bail bondsman, put up two hundred thousand, and sign my name and be responsible for her?”
“No, there will be a middleman,” Walter said.
“You understand if she disappears you owe me two hundred thousand, the fee, plus interest on the whole amount,” Larry said, not sure Walter had thought this out thoroughly.
Walter leaned closer to the table. “I know the risk. She will not disappear.”
Larry moved around in his seat and made a stupid face. It was unusual for someone to ask this of him. “What the hell do you need this Angie gal on the street for?”
“I need to help a friend. That is none of your business, and I need your word my name is never involved,” Walter said without hesitation. “All I need you to do is have cash ready by three o’clock today. Someone will pick the money up at your office and take it to a bail guarantor. You and I are not directly involved.”
“Okay. The going rate is twelve percent. I want twenty percent for thirty days,” Larry said with a somber look on his face, folding his massive arms over his chest, letting Walter know there was no room for negotiating.
“Done! You need to move fast. The judge will cave to the DA soon and revoke her bail.” Walter watched both of them, waiting for a reaction.
“Why don’t you take the two hundred thousand and go directly to the court and post the bail? You’ll save the twenty thousand dollar fee the bondsmen charge,” Larry said, glaring at him to reconsider the deal.
“What do you care? I’m borrowing the money and paying you interest. Your name never comes into play. You want to do the deal or not?” Walter blurted out, but couldn’t believe he even said such a thing to a man he feared.
Larry looked at his watch. He sat for a good while then looked at his watch again. “I’ll have the money ready in an hour.”
Walter smiled and stood up. Larry shook Walter’s hand and pulled him closer. “If this woman goes missing or your guy takes my money and runs, I want the two hundred thousand plus forty thousand interest within forty-eight hours. You understand?”
“Not a problem, don’t worry about my guy. He can be trusted,” Walter said, knowing he was walking a thin line with a man that could snap his neck in half with one hand.
Walter exhaled, sitting back in his chair as he watched the two of them walk out the restaurant. “We’re almost done,” he mumbled to himself with a slight smirk on his face.
“Sir?” the waitress said, standing next to the doctor. He was too deep into his thoughts to respond. The waitress got directly in front of him. “Sir, can I get you anything else?”
He was jolted from his stupor and blinked his eyes. “Sorry. Bring me a cup of coffee and a phone to the table.”
“Yes, sir,” the waitress said.
She returned and placed a small pot of coffee on the table and plugged the phone into a wall jack. “Pay when you’re ready, sir,” she said, putting the bill on the table in a leather folder.
Dante Cruz was only fifteen years old when his big brother Felipe went to prison. Time had passed, and while Felipe may be in jail, he still had control of the Cornerview Gang. Dante went through the ranks like everyone in the gang did to earn their status. There was never any doubt by the gang members or law enforcement that one day Dante would take over, and that day came about six months ago on his twenty-fourth birthday.
When you were the leader of a gang, you never stepped down—you died as the leader or shifted the responsibility while in prison for the day-to-day operations to continue. If your sentence was for five years or life, you were still the puppet master from inside the jail until your death. There was no one else better fit or trustworthy with Felipe’s criminal doings than his younger brother.
Walter picked up the receiver and dialed a number. Even with a secure line in his office, he preferred to use outside phones whenever possible for the kind of call he was about to make.
“Hello,” Dante said, answering the phone on the second ring in his flophouse on Frenchmen Street.
“I need to speak with you now. Use phone five and hurry,” Dr. Ross said quickly and hung the phone up.
The phone system was put in by Felipe years earlier. There were five pay phones on the street at various locations. Phone five was several miles away in the heart of the French Quarter in Jackson Square where hundreds of tourists used the phone every day. Phone five was seldom used by the gang, making it hard for the police to consider tapping the line even if they found out about the location.
Dante and his trusted friend, who also acted as his bodyguard, got in Dante’s car and headed to phone booth five. It was not just any car, but a prestigious vehicle recognized in the gang world that showed you were the leader. It was a 1968 Pontiac Bonneville completely restored, and it turned a lot of tourists’ heads as it rolled down the narrow streets of the French Quarters. Tourists would stop and point at the car as it passed, and Dante would smile. Others recognized the car and stopped in fear, stared with blank looks on their face, then nodded their heads out of respect.
Dante’s car pulled up to the phone booth. Getting out the car, he stood and waited for the phone to ring. A few seconds later the phone made a funny ring, maybe because it was outside and had to fight the elements of rain, cold, heat, and high humidity in New Orleans. Dante took the call. “Hello,” he said with his thick Spanish accent.
“I have a job for you,” Dr. Ross said. This pay phone was one of the thousands in New Orleans, so he felt comfortable and secure in going over the details.
Dante didn’t talk much and listened to every detail. He finally broke his silence. “Did you speak to Felipe about this?”
“Of course not. I couldn’t trust this with a runner to deliver a message to Felipe in prison. Look, this is in his best interests as well as ours. You’re the boss now. That’s why I’m coming to you for help,” Dr. Ross said, knowing how to feed Dante’s ego.
That put a smile on Dante’s face, and his chest puffed out in pride. “Yes, I’m the boss. I will handle everything. It’s going to cost you—this is no little job. Are you prepared?”
“Absolutely, call me when she is out of jail and in a safe place,” Dr. Ross said. “I’ll give you the rest of the details at that time.” He hung the receiver up, disconnecting the call.
Doctor Ross made eye contact with the waitress. He met her halfway as he walked to the front door. With a slight smile, he slipped a twenty dollar bill into her hand.
She smiled back. “Thank you, Dr. Ross,” she said, gracefully taking the tip.
CHAPTER 20
Dante arrived at Larry Dunbar’s office a little after four in the afternoon. His posse escorted his 1968 Pontiac Bonneville with a low-rider truck in the front and a relatively new model Chev Suburban in the rear. Picking up two hundred and twenty thousand in cash at Larry’s downtown office was risky. Dante watched the street activity for anything out of the ordinary. Gang members never really trusted anyone regardless of past dealings or who recommended the person—Dr. Ross was no exception. The office was a two-story brick building on Rampart Street which was a membership gym on the ground floor and Larry’s condo and office on the second floor. It was only natural that a guy that was into bodybuilding would own a gym and live above it, partly for convenience but mostly to feed his ego.
The three vehicles parked in front of the gym in an area marked freight zone. Two gang members got out of the
escort vehicle and stood in the front and the rear of Dante’s car. Looking up and down the street, at rooftops, and parked cars, they saw nothing suspicious, so the bodyguards gave the okay for Dante to enter the building.
Dante got out of the Pontiac Bonneville in his traditional white sweats, a hooded shirt covering his head, and a thick gold chain around his neck. He entered the side door with one bodyguard walking in front of him. It was a small hallway with steep stairs to the second floor. At the top landing, the entry door locked with a sign to push the button for assistance. Two men quickly appeared after pressing the button, one holding a small shotgun.
The door opened. “Hand over your guns and turn around,” the man holding the gun said. Dante nodded to his bodyguard, and he reluctantly handed them his weapon. They were both frisked then let in the office.
Larry sat behind his massive desk. The room looked more like a trophy room than an office. Pictures hung on the walls with various celebrities and Larry in his Saints uniform during his glory days of football.
“Gentlemen, sorry to put you through my security check, but we have a lot of money here,” Larry said.
Dante looked at the guy with the shotgun. “Dumbass. Why would I use my gun to rob you? I’m going to walk out of here with two hundred and twenty grand and you ain't going to say shit about it,” he said, folding his arms and gazing at Larry.
“Calm down, tough guy. It’s just procedure. No one comes to my office with a gun.”
“Give me the money and let me do my part of this job,” Dante said.
Larry threw a duffel bag at Dante’s bodyguard. “It’s all there. Now get out!” Their guns were returned, and they headed for the stairwell.
The money was now in Dante’s control; it was his responsibility to get the cash to the bail bondsmen. There was no doubt it must have run through his mind that he could just keep the money. After all, his first loyalty was to his gang. It would be the easiest ripoff job and the largest take they ever scored.
What do I care about getting some bitch out of jail or Dr. Ross? What is he going to do? I’m Dante, the leader of the Cornerview Gang. I run this town. And people fear me, he thought as they got to the bottom of the stairs. His bodyguard stepped out the door first and made eye contact with the other members standing by the car with the door open. They looked over everyone in their view on the street, between parked cars, even a few homeless rolled up in blankets on the steps of an abandoned apartment entrance before giving the okay for their boss to step out. Dante took the lead and walked cautiously to his car, firmly gripping the bag of money. Throwing the bag on the floor of the car, he got in the passenger's seat. They were now safe in a four-hundred horsepower vehicle that could outrun any attacker.
The thug driving kept looking at the bag of money on the passenger’s floorboard. He, too, felt that was more money than he would ever earn. Why not just take Dante down now and disappear with the cash forever? Wandered through his mind, but he knew the escort car in the rear had too many loyal guys that would want to make a name for themselves and hunt him down until they killed him. Dying would be the easy part. It was the torture process for forty-eight hours he had been part of when a member crossed Dante or Felipe. There just wasn’t enough money in the world to take that risk.
The driver glanced at the bag again and then to Dante. “So? Do we give it to the bail bondsmen or head back home?”
“Once we handle this, we will own the doctor. We’ll live up to our end of the deal. The doctor gets what he wants, muscle boy gets his fee, and in the end, the doctor will pay us off like a malfunctioning ATM,” Dante said with a smile, showing off his gold fangs.
The money was solely in Dante’s possession—there was no trusting anyone until he handed the money off to the bail bondsmen. They pulled up on the corner of Tulane Ave and Broad Street, a place Dante knew too well. On one corner was an ugly dirty stone courthouse built about a hundred years ago. On the right of that was City Central Lockup where detainees sat behind bars waiting for a court date. Directly across the street were four bail bond companies in a small shopping center. On another corner was a Popeye’s Fried Chicken where everyone hung out waiting for the wall phone to ring for them. Once they paid the bail bondsmen, they would have lunch and wait for the call that their loved one was out of jail on bail and ready for pickup. Of course, that was for small bond money, and Dante had done it many times himself. But this was two hundred thousand dollars, and it had to be in cash. There was a lot of consideration given to the safety of turning over this amount of money.
Directly across the street from the bail bondsmen’s office was a bank. The bank had been there since 1952 when Broad Street and Tulane Avenue was a booming area of the city. The public bus line which most people used stopped on all four corners where you could transfer to uptown, downtown, the Garden District, or just about any other part of the city you wanted to travel. Those days were long gone, and the bank was the only respectful business left in the area.
Dante’s Bonneville pulled up in front of the bank with the low-rider truck in front of him and the Chev Suburban parked on his back bumper. Four guys escorted Dante to the front entrance of the bank and Dante carried the bag of money through the old-time revolving glass doors. The manager who he befriended several years ago when his brother Felipe opened a safety deposit box, one of many the family business had around town, was there. They made eye contact and met in his office. The room was outdated with wood panel walls, big furniture, high windows, and décor from twenty-five years ago, but it was private, and that was all that mattered.
The banker sat behind his desk while Dante strolled around the room, looking at pictures of past mayors of the city and governors of Louisiana. Most served before the manager was born, but it made a good image for the bank to keep them on display.
The banker's secretary opened the door and said, “Mr. Chmura is here.”
“Send him in,” he replied.
Through the door walked Big Gabe Chmura, intimidating as ever.
Dante looked surprised. “Must be important for the Big Man himself to come out.”
Big Gabe seldom got involved directly with the customer, but there was too much money involved for one of his salaried employees to handle. “Don’t get dramatic on me, Dante. I’m just here to protect my money.”
Calming the situation, Dante took a step forward, extending his hand in welcome. Gabe stood back and spread his arms, showing two Colt pistols hanging from a shoulder holster ready to take on anyone that was bold enough to try. His history with the Cruz family was not one that was considered friendly, more so with Felipe than Dante, but they were both killer gang members from the same crazy family.
Ben Stein and Gabe had differences with Felipe Senior when they first came to this country. He tried to recruit them into the gang as he did with many immigrants as they entered the country and found their way to New Orleans, offering jobs, living quarters, food, all for loyalty to the Cornerview Gang. Ben and Big Gabe never got involved with the gang and paid the price. Their first business was burned down, and harassment became an everyday occurrence until Ben had a sit-down with Señor Cruz. Big Gabe never learned what they discussed, but from that day forward the gang never harassed them again.
“Keep your distance, and you’re safe,” Gabe said, towering over Dante by about two feet. “Nothing personal, it’s just business.”
“Felipe said to tell you hello,” Dante said, stretching as tall as he could.
Gabe smiled. “Yeah, I’m sure he wishes me well.”
“You’re still pissed because my brother jumped bail,” he said, showing his grill.
“Not me. Once I get even, I forget about it. Felipe is serving eighteen years, and the police are looking at unsolved crimes that might tack on more years. He’ll never get out of prison. Maybe you two will meet up with your father one day—in Hell.”
“Could we move on with business?” the banker said with concern as the conversation escalated to
a boiling point. He feared someone was going to get shot in his office.
The money was counted out on the desk, and a teller put it in a steel box, closed the lid, and rolled it into a walk-in vault. She returned shortly with a receipt for two hundred and twenty thousand dollars in the name of AAA Bail Bondsmen, Incorporated.
Big Gabe looked at Dante, rubbing his head. “Now tell me again why you are paying me a twenty-thousand-dollar fee and putting up the entire bond amount? I’d like to think you’re not a complete dumbass. Why not go directly to the court and save the fee?”
Dante took a deep breath and stepped toward Gabe. “There are a hundred bail bondsmen in this town. I was told to come to you. Some companies charge less of a fee. Your fee is paid to keep my associates and me out of this—I’m the frontman, and this can never lead back to me.”
The banker, wide-eyed, said, “Gentlemen, should I step outside?”
Neither Dante nor Gabe acknowledged him. The banker stood in his own office with his hands over his ears.
“You know the business I’m in,” Dante said with a pale-faced stare.“I know you’re a man of your word—are we cool?”
“Yeah, I’ve got some fake ID I can attach to this file.”
“Very well. A pleasure doing business with you,” Dante said.
Gabe wanted to take one fist and drive Dante’s head into the floor, killing this gangster thug. But it wasn’t worth it—Dante was right. He made his money by keeping his mouth shut and bailing criminals out of jail. “The woman will be out within the hour. You know the procedure,” Gabe said, turning and walking out of the office.
“What a prick,” Dante said out loud.
The banker, in shock over the ordeal happening in his office, cautiously replied to Dante, “When you’re that big and have guns visibly displayed, you can just about say and do anything you want.”
The bodyguards in the low-rider truck and the Chev Suburban headed back to the flophouse. They had fulfilled their duty of getting the money safely to the bail bondsmen.
Crescent City Detective Page 12
