Thrill Kill

by Don Bruns

  ‘You eatin’ all that shit? Damn, Case, you know what that does to your arteries? Just make you old before your time.’

  Glancing up at the tall bald man, he swallowed hard. William ‘Gangsta Boy’ Washington stood over him. The gangly man sat down on the adjoining stool and picked up a strip of bacon. He took a bite, then wiped the grease from his hand onto Blount’s jacket sleeve.

  ‘Greasy shit gum up your innards. Be healthy, man. And speaking of health, you are asking for some unhealthy solutions. What you think you are solving you are only making worse. What’s the word I’m lookin’ for? Exacerbating the problem.’ He looked the short fat man in his eyes and smiled. ‘You didn’t expect a word like that comin’ from a nigger like me, did you? Shit, you might not know the damned word yourself.’

  ‘William, I’m not sure what you’re referring to.’ He stared at the greasy smear on his newly dry-cleaned sport coat.

  ‘Listen, slimeball, we can go back and forth all day on this shit. You want to cut us out of the business, we would like a chance to renegotiate.’

  Blount buried his head in his hands. There was no solution.

  ‘Excuse me, asshole. I’m talkin’ to you. The two of us, we need a solution. Right here and right now.’

  ‘William, what the hell do you want me to do?’ In a whisper, he said, ‘Delroy wants an exclusive. If I don’t deliver that, he kills my people and your people. Do you want more Hector Sanchez stories?’

  ‘Like a brother he was,’ Washington said.

  ‘Well? Just like Hector, there will be more brothers killed, trust me. Do you want a summit? You and Delroy? I don’t know what else to suggest. We are all making money here. And if this gets fucked up, there are people at the top who will bring shit down on you like you’ve never seen. You have never seen a bloodbath like this before. To quote a famous line, “Why can’t we all just get along?”’

  ‘An LA banger, Rodney King, right? He said that?’

  ‘Among others,’ Blount said.

  ‘A summit? What do you have in mind? Like we get all one side of the street, they get the other? A summit? Like you get the drug sales in the Quarter, I get them in the Warehouse District. Or maybe over in Treme? Do you think that this is a good idea? We’re practically at war here, Case. I don’t see how a summit is going to solve this problem.’

  ‘A summit,’ Blount said, dipping his napkin in a glass of water, ‘like you guys work it out. No more stabbings, shootings. No more war. No more asserting yourself. A summit where the two gangs make a lot of money and quit fucking up the system. I swear, William’ – he dipped his napkin in his water glass and dabbed at the grease smear on his jacket– ‘you guys don’t come to an agreement, the money stops. The business stops. And the higher ups will, as I promised, kick your ass. Nasta Mafia, Warhead Solja, will cease to exist as you know them. The people who are at the top of this organization, and they are very powerful, believe me, will cut off your balls. Mr Vocabulary, they will emasculate you. You probably didn’t think a white guy from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, would know a word like that, right?’

  Gangsta Boy leaned back, surprised at the response. Pulling a plastic toothpick from his shirt pocket he stuck it in his mouth and stared at Blount.

  ‘So you’re saying we, us and Warhead Solja, we need to work it out together? Or the shit gonna hit the fan?’

  ‘Nasty shit. I’ll make it happen, William.’ Fueled on chocolate and caffeine, he reared back. Voice still soft but intense, he said, ‘You guys get a grip. This isn’t some fucking terrorist gang where just killing people for the fun of it makes sense. We are a business. A goddamned business. People make their livings on what we do. Families put food on the table. Raise families, pay child support and alimony. Some people buy pussy and wheels and high-end living quarters. My man, we deal in property and commodities. Even though the commodities are sometimes human beings, we do deal in commodities, William. Do you even understand that? I hope you do.’

  Washington stood up, towering over the short fat man.

  ‘You threatening me, you white-assed honkey? You fucking cracker. Is that what you are doing?’

  ‘You’re goddamned right I am,’ he whispered, staring at the gang leader, his gaze focused on the spot between his eyes. The most focal spot on a person’s face. Staying on his stool, he was aware that people were staring.

  The fire in the dark man’s eyes slowly died, and he nodded, lowering himself back to his stool.

  ‘OK,’ Washington said in a soft voice. ‘Get it set up. We will work this out, Case.’ Wiping his hands and lips on a paper napkin he said, ‘Obviously we don’t want to lose a revenue stream. You know? We’re not insensitive to the flow.’ Looking down, he read the headline. ‘Fuck, what are we? The murder capital of the fucking world? Damn, it just keeps getting worse, don’t it?’

  Blount shook his head as the bald-headed gangster walked out of the restaurant. Revenue stream? The flow? These gangs were getting far too sophisticated. It could be a good thing. It probably was a very bad thing.

  TWENTY

  He’d had a short dream. Fifteen minutes maybe and he couldn’t remember it. It seemed important. Something about the parade and the Chill cans. Maybe something he was missing and should be able to see.

  Today was the day. If they could isolate the killer it was a huge start. If tech could clean up the photo. He was doubtful. This wasn’t a television show where everything could be wrapped in forty-five minutes. And while technology was wonderful, it didn’t solve nearly as many crimes as it did on CSI.

  Archer took a quick shower in the tiled bathroom he could barely turn around in. The water only got lukewarm much like his refrigerator only got cool. Shivering, he dried off, put on a clean shirt and khakis then strapped on his shoulder holster. He stepped out onto the porch and put on his jacket as he took a deep breath of bracing air. The putrid smell of rotting garbage and stale beer was gone. Walking to Bourbon he saw no signs of the trash mountains. No signs of stumbling drunks weaving down the street.

  The streets and sidewalks actually looked clean. They had been washed down as usual by water-powered high-pressure flusher scrub trucks with a patented deodorizer in the early morning hours. God knew, New Orleans had plenty of water.

  On the off chance that Solange Cordray was in her shop he walked to her little store. The door was locked and he didn’t really want to knock and bother her if she was in. Still, he’d like to get her take on what had transpired so far. Her reading of the energy from the can had led him to where he was. And maybe living so close to her, he’d hoped she would agree to a short walk and a cup of coffee. He wanted to see her and wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.

  Finally he knocked. Softly. There was no answer. Disappointed, he turned and walked to PJ’s Coffee on Chartres. Three squad cars were parked in front of the establishment. No problem, it was just a popular spot for the local police. Coffee and donuts. A stereotypical cop stop.

  A green tea, a brief conversation with two of the patrolmen and he was out the door. Down to Canal, on the streetcar with an early morning crowd of misfits. Walking into headquarters, he felt a twinge in his chest. So hoping he would discover the killer today. So hoping that the world of TV fantasy had come to the New Orleans homicide squad. So hoping the picture would show exactly who had committed the hideous crime. He doubted anything would come of it, but it was one of the few leads they had. He wished he’d asked Solange for a prayer. A spell. A gris-gris bag. Something to clean up this unholy mess.

  Josh Levy was at his desk as Archer walked by.

  ‘Morning, Q. PJ’s Coffee?’ He glanced at the cup. ‘I tasted ours this morning. Yours is probably a better bet.’

  ‘Tea,’ Archer said. ‘Any word on the photo, Josh?’

  ‘They want to see us in half an hour and show us what they have. They assured me there’s a rush on it.’

  ‘Half an hour? That’s like a week from Thursday.’ He was anxious.

  ‘Tech
is slow, Detective Archer. I’m certain they’re doing everything possible to clean up that picture.’

  ‘Damn.’ Archer walked over to his desk. As in most situations, anticipation was the worst thing. OK, sometimes anticipation was the best part of an experience. But not this time. They needed to see that picture.

  Sergeant Chip Beeman tapped him on his shoulder.

  ‘Detective Q, they’re running a little late on blowing up our photo. Should be ready in an hour.’

  An hour? Damn. This was supposed to be priority. They’d had it overnight, since yesterday afternoon, but now they wanted a fucking hour? Might as well be into next week. A killer was on the loose and who knew when he would strike again? And Tech was backed up. So much for the value of a human life.

  Kathy Bavely threw her arms around Solange.

  ‘He asked me to meet his father, Solange.’

  ‘Paul? Paul Girard?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She had been waiting as usual, right inside the door.

  ‘Kathy, you are all over the place with this guy. One day he’s too pushy, the next day he’s too cheap and now he’s the best thing ever. It sounds serious, meeting one of the parents. Are you ready for this?’

  Bavely backed away, squinting her eyes at her friend.

  ‘Didn’t you just introduce Detective Quentin Archer to your mother? He was here yesterday and you invited him back to Ma’s room. Tell me you didn’t. Come on Solange, isn’t this kind of hypocritical?’

  ‘Hey, I introduced him because I thought Ma might read something into his case. It was nothing to do about any relationship. I just—’

  ‘Paul wants me to meet his father. The last living member of his immediate family. Come on. Really, Solange, I just thought you’d be happy for me. If you’re not, then just tell me.’

  ‘I’m only happy if you’re happy. You’re hot and cold, girl. Or in this case, cold and hot.’

  ‘OK.’ Bavely put her arm around Solange’s waist and guided her to the coffee shop. ‘Let’s talk about this over a hot beverage.’ Their steps clicked on the cold tile floor, the smell of isopropyl alcohol in the air. ‘He’s got his faults, girl. God knows he’s got faults. But he’s substantial. He’s smart, got a good job, drives a cool Lexus and lives in a nice place in the Garden District. He’s talented, and not just in bed. He’s obviously a really good writer.’

  Solange smiled. ‘Well, even though you say he won’t take you anyplace nice, he’s got a Lexus and a home in the Garden District. He may be cheap but that’s a lot better than Warren Dooper. I never understood you and Warren. The guy across the river with a beat up Volkswagen and sheep dog hair all over his apartment.’

  ‘Yeah. I never understood that relationship either. Warren was a trip. And he wasn’t that good in the sack. It was kind of all about him. He had to be satisfied first. I think I was an afterthought. Although I have to admit his blogs were funny.’ She laughed. ‘His conversations with his dog Garcia? I thought those were a riot, but his blogs just didn’t pay the bills. Besides, I think his dog was the smarter of the duo.’

  ‘You always go for the creative types.’

  ‘I do. But the more I know about Paul …’

  ‘Well, then go for it. Meet his dad. Marry the guy.’

  Bavely poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Solange. The two sat at a table and tasted the brew.

  ‘For some reason it bothers me that he won’t spring for a nice night out. Or maybe send flowers on my birthday. Simple things. He’s cheap, Solange. Why does that bother me? Am I being shallow?’

  ‘Needs something,’ Solange said as she tasted her coffee.

  ‘Creamer? Sugar?’

  ‘A better brand of coffee,’ Solange responded.

  Bavely laughed. ‘Paul got a bite today. The New Yorker said they’re interested in his story about human trafficking in New Orleans. They are running a story about trafficking in New York and this would be, according to Paul, a companion piece.’

  ‘Congratulations to him.’

  ‘The New Yorker. That would be nice. He’s got an informant. Somebody who actually is inside the business. There are rival gangs that are involved in the trade, and this guy apparently wants to leak information to help bury the competition.’

  Solange sipped her coffee, studying her friend. She closed her eyes for a brief moment and saw fire. She saw frozen cliffs of ice. She saw the bowels of hell.

  ‘Stay out of this, Kathy. This isn’t good for you.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not in it.’ She laughed. ‘I just listen to Paul talk about it. His friend the senator is interested in who is leaking information. Paul said he can’t betray the source, but Senator LeJeune keeps insisting. She must call him once a day. The senator wants to nail these guys.’ She took a swallow of the black beverage. ‘Sometimes I wonder if she and Paul …’

  ‘You’re taking a pretty serious interest in this story.’

  ‘Well, I’m intrigued. And Marcia LeJeune is speaking at noon tomorrow at Phillips Restaurant and Bar for a fundraising event. The money goes to a shelter for women and children and he asked me to go. I’ll get to meet a United States senator. So I thought that was pretty cool. And I can kind of get a feel for the relationship.’

  Solange shivered. Fire and ice, not a good combination.

  ‘When you told me you were going to go to this event tomorrow I got a cold chill, Kathy. I can’t explain it, but please, stay away. I can’t stress this enough.’

  ‘I’m not … I’m just listening, Solange. That’s all. It’s not like I have anything to do with his project.’

  ‘As a friend, I’m begging you, walk away. I have a very bad feeling about this. You shouldn’t insert yourself.’

  ‘You’re scaring me.’

  ‘I would hope so. I see this, Kathy. Paul is walking into a buzz saw. You must tell him that.’

  ‘You don’t know him,’ Bavely said. ‘You don’t know anything about him or his writing. You don’t know anything about the trafficking. Or do you? Do you really see things?’

  ‘I see enough. Right now. Please, don’t get involved.’

  ‘Solange.’

  ‘Kathy, you’re a good friend. I just don’t want you to be hurt.’

  Bavely shook her head.

  ‘I share things with you. I don’t ask you to pass judgment.’

  ‘Please just listen to me. I don’t want anything to happen to you. Please, Kathy. Somehow walk away.’

  A chill fell on the room and neither woman spoke. Finally Kathy Bavely stood up and walked out the door. Solange sat for another three minutes, lost in her dark thoughts and wishing as she often did that the burden of her gift would be removed. She knew more than she wanted to know.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘Detectives, we’ve done the best we can do using what you gave us to work with. I’ll apologize head of time for not being able to give you a clearer image. Without getting technical, this video camera was not designed to give you crystal clear still photos. It’s somewhat of a novelty device. Maybe in a couple of years from now we’ll be able to hand back a portrait photograph of your suspect. One you could frame and place on the mantel. But not yet.’

  Archer took a deep, cleansing breath. He’d secretly pinned so much hope on this discovery, largely because he needed a break, and because Solange Cordray had brought it to his attention and he wanted her input. He wanted the attractive voodoo lady to be a part of this case.

  ‘That said, please direct your attention to the screen in front of you. We will pass out prints of the photo after you’ve seen the screen image.’ There was a moment of silence as the three men waited with baited breath.

  A photo flashed on the screen and Beeman, Levy and Archer stared at the image with rapt attention. It was a blur. A defined blur, but still, just a blur. They studied the picture then looked at each other.

  ‘It’s a face,’ Archer said. ‘The outline is there. You can make out his gray hood, and it appears that he is showing hi
s full face. But isn’t there any way to define more features? Make things just a little clearer?’

  ‘We used everything we had, Detective. Resolution is a problem. A still shot would have been preferable but you only provided us with video. A video from a camera mounted on a stick, and carried through crowds numbering in the thousands. It’s not just the camera. There’s motion involved. Not only is the camera moving, but the moving camera is capturing motion and motion blurs the image. I’m sure you’ll agree that we don’t have the best of conditions.’

  ‘We captured stills from security cameras when I was in Detroit. They were usually much clearer.’

  ‘Security cameras are stationary, Detective. And, we’re talking about different types of cameras and a wide variety of variables.’

  The three of them stared at the screen, then looked at the glossy prints they were handed. Archer looked up.

  ‘OK, we’ve already checked security video in the immediate vicinity. Now, let’s recheck security cameras looking specifically for a guy with a tight gray hoody. Let’s review the shops and restaurants within a block. If we see nothing there, spread it out. We may have to review cameras on the entire route. Pick up any visuals of this guy with a hood. Before, we didn’t know what to look for. Maybe this time we get lucky, like the videos of the brothers who bombed the Boston Marathon. There were cameras that caught just about everything.’

  Levy nodded. ‘I’ll get on it, Q.’

  ‘Lots of people, lots of gray hoods. It was chilly that night.’ Beeman tapped his fingers on the table. ‘Still, we’re way ahead of where we were yesterday.’

  ‘We’re gonna need to do eight, nine thousand pounds of shrimp per hour, Mr Blount. Peeled, peeled and deveined, heads on, heads off, the works.’

  ‘We can supply the workers, Mr Morris. Untrained of course.’ Blount didn’t really care what the work entailed. He could supply the manpower, Warhead Solja could supply the muscle and keep things running smoothly. Or Nasta Mafia. Or somebody else who could come down hard on these immigrants. He just wished the warring factions would get along. Work out a truce. It would make his job so much easier.