by C.G. Banks
Chapter 4:The Word On The Street
Frederick spent most of the next afternoon driving around through Algiers on the West Bank. His old pal, Lincoln, had several haunts in the area, and even though they all proved fruitless, he did run into a mutual acquaintance in a rotten dive called the Tattoo Stand. It was situated off the West Bank Expressway, less than a half mile from the Harvey Tunnel.
As he pulled into the pot-holed parking lot, Frederick laughed bitterly, the way he did every time he came here. The only tattoos here were a wild collage of graffiti that covered every square inch of the ramshackle building. Everything from muscle-bound gladiators glaring and gesturing at thinly-dressed damsels on horses, to demonic skulls pouring gouts of brightly-tinted blood and other foulness; crosses outlined in brilliant orange and gold, suspicious tapered cigarettes, and omens of destruction; a montage fashioned by the fancy of illicit drugs, alcohol, and the occasional cartoon genius.
But this was no place for kids. The men inside were reserved during the daylight hours and made it clear who was welcome and who was not. Frederick came as he infrequently pleased, a friend of a friend; Lincoln's influence stretched farther than his damaged imagination realized. Vietnam, prison, perversion, and drugs had refused to relinquish their hold on the man, but many patrons here had served one or more of these same savage sentences, and tried not to notice the doom in Lincoln’s bloodshot eyes. They seemed content to let him while away what was left of his life trying not to care too much about anything.
In actuality, Frederick had not seen the man in close to four months. The two usually handled their business over the phone, with Frederick straining to hear details amid the assortment of loud, barroom music and curses. Surprisingly, Lincoln's mind was still sharp when it came to deals and leads. But this time word on the street was not quite enough. These Franklin brothers were just a little too fucking strange, and since he was meeting them again tonight, Frederick thought it wise to hustle up as much information as possible.
In his head, questions refused to die. The last thing he needed was bad karma before a run. He opened the car door and stepped out onto the sun-blasted pavement. Tossed his cigarette into a mud puddle, watched disinterestedly as it fizzled and sank. He checked the bikes at the entrance, squinting into the sunlight he made out an emblem on one of the gas tanks: a clinched fist with a dilated eyeball in the center. A spot of blood dripping from the corner.
Jimmy Kennedy. Maybe he'd know where the hell Lincoln was. He walked up to the door, grasped the handle, and pulled it back. Stood motionless for a moment just inside the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Several shadows lurked around the pool tables set far off in the back corner, the overhead, swinging lamp providing the only semblance of light inside. As usual, Steppenwolf screamed into the room from ancient, frayed JBL speakers. He noticed the shadows pause in their game to inspect the newcomer.
He walked across the peeling tile floor, his boots scraping against the grit. The perpetual bartender, Dugout, sat motionless in his spot by the taps, his long hair braided like an Indian's and curled over his left shoulder. An incredible, mat-thick beard obscured his face, and his arms were black with Indian-ink tattoos amid a monkey-like profusion of hair. Frederick pulled a stool from a nearby table and sat down at the bar.
"How ya doin, Freddy?" the grizzled biker behind the bar said. He reached for two glasses and put them underneath the tap. He pulled down on the lever. "Beer?" he asked.
"Yeah. You been all right?"
“Sure enough,” Dugout answered, sliding a beer over while he rubbed his other hand along a deeply-grooved scar on his face that ran away in his beard. "Same shit as usual. Been awhile since I seen you."
Frederick drained the mug in one and pushed it back. "Yeah, I been on the run. Goddamn cops and women..."
"Fucking A," the biker murmured.
Frederick cocked a thumb over his shoulder. "Jimmy over there?"
"Yeah."
"Just the man I need to see." Frederick stood up and dug his wallet out of his jeans. Pulled out a ten and laid in on the counter. "Thanks, bro.” He grabbed the other pint Dugout pushed his way.
"You got it," he heard as he turned around.
Frederick cruised over to the pool tables, angling over toward one of the rickety wooden tables with about twelve bottles piled in the ashes. Jimmy noticed him coming on, hurried the shot and just missed the nine in the corner pocket. Scratched. "Muthafucka!" the biker said, slamming the edge of the table with his cue, flipping off Frederick as he turned to the approaching man. "Every time you show up it's no fuckin good," he said. Smiled. "How you doin you sonofabitch?" Frederick shook his head in feigned sorrow and they embraced briefly, stiffly.
"I need to talk to you in private," Frederick said.
Jimmy motioned toward a table away from the action. They moved over and sat down in the primeval light. "What you got?" Jimmy asked.
"Lincoln. You seen him?"
A wry smile flickered across Jimmy's face. "Lincoln? What kinda shit's he kicked loose?"
Frederick leaned closer. "A couple of brothers that run some action. I've been tryin but he ain’t answering his phone. Usually I’d say it was no big deal, but these motherfuckers are whacked."
Jimmy laughed. "Lincoln knows how to pick his friends, don't he?"
"We both know it." A minute of silence passed between them, a moment in which they drank their beers and listened to the excitement of an unusual shot that had happened to fall. Then Frederick tried again. "So you seen him?"
"Man, last time I seen that fucker must’ve been two, three months back. Told me he was clearin out for a while. Said something about Natchez but you know how that fucker is..."
"Shit," Frederick said and pulled on his beer.
"So who are these dudes? Maybe I've heard a little something."
"William and Samuel Franklin. Across the river. Old man owns a commercial shipping business in the Warehouse District."
Jimmy’s whistle was long and low. "Jesus Christ," he said. He squinted in the darkness and shook his head slowly. "Bad motherfuckers. One of 'ems supposed to be a freak."
"A freak?" Frederick said, scratching at his temple.
"Yeah…" and Jimmy trailed off before fixing a steel gaze on Frederick. "Lincoln turned you on to those two?" The silence was answer enough. Jimmy whistled again. "Maybe he's more fucked up than I thought." He drank his beer and looked over Frederick's shoulder toward the pool table.
"So you know 'em?" Frederick said.
"Not personally, but I've heard shit. About the freak, mostly. Don’t know which one he is," Jimmy said.
"Samuel..." Frederick said, more to himself than Jimmy.
"What's that?"
"Samuel. The one that doesn't talk much. He’s got a weird look in his eyes; hard to put the finger on what I’m talking about, though."
"What I heard," Jimmy said, nodding his head. "Better watch those," he finished.
"What do you mean, 'a freak'?"
"The one you’re talking about, the one with the eyes. Word got it he was put away for butcherin up some people years back." Jimmy leaned forward in conspiracy. "Hear he used to run girls in the Quarter but the old man and the heat finally persuaded him otherwise. Only not before they found a pimp and a coupla whores diced and sliced in a deserted building down by the wharfs. Fucking blood everywhere. You never heard any o’ this?" He raised an eyebrow at a now very intense Frederick Paol.
"Nothing."
"Yeah, well, supposedly that shit happened in the late 70s, what I hear. Only thing it never hit the papers. The old man had the Quarter precinct in his back pocket, the story goes, and since the hits were trash it didn't turn over in the news." He noticed Frederick's skepticism and leveled a finger in his direction. "Don't look at me like that. You wanted to know so I'm tellin you. That's what I heard. Fuckin Lincoln oughta know."
"He should?"
"Yeah the motherfucker should."
"How’d the finger get pointed at Samuel?"
"Stories in the neighborhood. It goes he got packed away to Jackson years once before the whore trouble. Heard he was into animal mutilations and shit. Lately their names been popping up a few times." He paused to take a sip. "Like right now..." as he finished both the beer and the statement.
"How you figure Lincoln knows 'em?"
Jimmy laughed and slapped the surface of the table. "Shit, Freddy. Think about it. The guy’s a dirtbag and a beast. How would he not know em?"
Frederick wrinkled his face. "Yeah, seems like it. I'm meeting them tonight," he added, nodding his head.
Jimmy shrugged. "I don't know, Freddy. Lincoln told you the deal was up-and-up?"
"Yeah. Told me about it two weeks ago. Called me up out of the fucking blue asking if I'd be interested."
"And are you?" The question hung in the air like bait.
"You know me, Jimmy. Always a sucker."
"Then you got to go with it, my man. Lincoln never fucked me over before. I been in a few tight spots, sure, but I knew that going in. You know how it is." A moment of silence followed.
Frederick took out his pack of Marlboros, lit one with an eye cocked at Jimmy. "Ain't it the goddamn truth," he said.
The moon was high and bright above the clouds which cast ominous shadows around the city by the time Frederick drove down South Carrolton, leaving the CBD behind. At a red light he checked his watch and wheeled it right, down Jefferson Avenue. It was a nice street for houses but it was hell on cars with all the jagged craters and manhole covers breaching street level. He swerved deftly down the split avenue, glancing up at the haunting lights seeping out of the many upper-storied rooms. Live oaks crowded the boulevard, creating a ghostly ambiance.
He slowed down a block from the pink neon Copeland's sign, blinking its constant welcome. It was nice inside, very cordial, dimly lit; Frederick had been there once before with some friends from Houston.
He turned into the neighborhood on the right, spying a parking space in front of the Bus Stop. It was closer than the parking lot, which had appeared full as he passed. Typical. He parked and got out, walked over to the front door where a very pretty girl holding a menu greeted him with a hospitality that somehow achieved a quaint artistic overtone. "Good evening," she crooned. "Table for one?"
"Not tonight, honey. I'm meeting some people.” He told her who.
A smile came suddenly to her face, and Frederick felt her sizing him up. An envious want crept at the corners of her mouth as she led him to the booth near a crystalline fish tank.
William turned his way as they approached, but Samuel, seated across the table from his brother, hardly affected a movement as the waitress ushered Frederick into place. "Mr. Franklin?" she asked sweetly. "This man is a guest of yours?" Frederick could tell she felt good in this important role, so he stood off her left shoulder, giving her the chance she seemed such in need of.
"Yes, dear. He is." William waved his hand between Frederick and Michelle. "Frederick Paol...Michelle," he said as Frederick stepped around.
"We've met," Frederick said and sat down. Looked up at her standing there with nothing more to do. He could tell she didn’t want to leave, but she grudgingly nodded and backed away. Samuel stared straight ahead, as if absorbed in something stuck inside the mirror on the wall.
William checked his watch and smiled. "Punctual," he said.
"I try to be." Frederick offered a nod at Samuel, surprised to find the man looking at him now, having taken his eyes off the mirror. He even extended a faint tip of his glass. Frederick turned his attention back to William. "So what's the story, gentlemen?" he said.
William melted back into the soft leather booth, his eyes fixed on the same mirror Samuel had been looking into. He fretted with his hair for a moment, seemed satisfied, then gravitated back to Frederick. "You in or out?"
"I told you I'm the man for the job. Make it 60K and we got a deal." He fished in his breast pocket for a cigarette. Found it. Put it to his lips and bit the tip, noticing Samuel placing his Zippo on the table in front of him. The man was looking right at him but made no move to offer it. Frederick removed his own from the half-empty pack. Lit it. Watched the Zippo lying there on the table.
"Is there a problem?" he said.
"Money, money, money," William replied. "A bottom-line man. Direct." He laughed and reached across the table. Clapped his brother on the arm.
Frederick smoked in the silence that surrounded them for a few moments. The waitress, somebody else this time, returned with a bottle of wine and three glasses. She set them down and did her best to disappear.
William watched past Frederick's shoulder as the young woman walked off. "One hot bitch," he muttered. Frederick nodded. Chanced a look over at Samuel. He was also looking but when he felt Frederick’s stare he diverted his eyes to the empty glass before him.
William said something else but Frederick wasn't listening just then. Jimmy's story was playing back through his mind. He reached over and grabbed the wine bottle, poured himself a healthy dose before setting it down again in front of Samuel. The other man nodded and Frederick filled him up too. William smiled and made a grab for the wine himself.
"So, Mr. Paol, are you hungry?" he asked.
"No. Not this time of night. Thanks anyway." He took another belt of wine. "Cheers." They drank and Frederick gave them thirty more seconds. "So we gonna do business, gentlemen?"
William spun his glass in the wet circle it left on the table. “Sure like to get to the point, don't you, Mr. Paol?" he said.
"I guess it comes outta being punctual."
William leaned forward and his eyes were hard as coffin nails. "You got your goddamn deal," he said. "But only because Lincoln recommended you."
"Where is he?" Frederick asked.
William held up his hands. "How the hell would I know? He’s your buddy. As it stands he's just a business acquaintance of ours. He said we can rely on your services, but as for his private affairs, we have no interest." He paused. "I'm sure you understand?"
Frederick smiled thinly. Leaned forward. "I got you and I don’t really care either. Just making conversation. Wonderful, gentleman. I know you won’t be displeased. Just let me know the particulars and in the meanwhile, I'll get the plane ready and get my man."
"Your man?"
"Yeah, I don't fly alone. There's a guy I know. He flies with me."
"Then I'll go too," Samuel said abruptly
Frederick was taken completely off guard. "What?"
"You said you need a hand, and I'm telling you I'll go. It's a thing of trust, right? We trust you, you trust us." He smiled and spread his hands out in the air like a magic trick. Frederick turned back to William who’d inexplicably clammed up now, as if surprised himself at the words he’d just heard coming out of his brother’s mouth.
Frederick's eyes played back and forth between the two. He picked up his glass and finished off the wine. Even driving home later that night, he hadn't the slightest idea why he’d done what he’d done. "You want to come along," he said, staring straight into Samuel's eyes, "then come on."
Seemingly easy smiles traded around the table. William began filling up the three empty glasses again as Frederick sat, pissed, and tried to reason with this insanity. Fuck Jimmy, he thought bitterly.
