Thrill Kill

by Don Bruns

  ‘Got to rethink the story to the reporter, Dushane.’

  ‘Shit man, I told him we wanted to blow the cover on N.M. He’s got that much already.’

  ‘Can you shut him up? We called Case Blount’s bluff and it worked. But maybe we took it too far.’

  ‘Shut up a honky cracker reporter who thinks this gonna be his shot to glory? I hardly think so. You should have made this deal with Blount long ago, brother. You know, I’d just as soon pull some triggers and end this here and now.’

  ‘Call the man, Paul What’s-His-Name. Tell him you made it up.’

  ‘He’s not gonna believe it. I mentioned to him the names of a couple of spots. Hotel, restaurant, strip club.’

  ‘Shut him up. We’ve got a thing right now.’ Houston took a large bite from the small burger. Mustard, pickles, onion, tomato and lettuce. A burger salad so to speak. ‘We get a cut, Dushane. We get a chance to call the shots. The story gets out and, my man, we are toast. Worse than toast. Burnt toast. Nasta Mafia ain’t gonna go for negotiations if we’re responsible for blowing their cover.’

  ‘Shit, Delroy. Should have thought about that, my man. Now what do you propose that I do?’ White absentmindedly stroked the long scar on his cheek.

  ‘Shut down the report. Any means, you dig?’

  ‘I can kill the reporter.’

  ‘Except for that. Too much flack. No blood this time, bro. They dig into it, it comes up we had something to gain.’

  ‘What do you think, Delroy?’

  ‘I think, Dushane, maybe you tell him to shut up, drop the story, then issue a serious damn threat. One that tells him you are not fucking with him. There are serious consequences. He drops the story or—’

  ‘OK, I’ll work it out. But I’m telling you, killin’ him is the easier solution. It sends a clear message, my friend.’

  ‘No killing anyone. I need to break you of that bad habit, my friend. And take care of this soon.’

  ‘Soon?’

  ‘Next twenty-four.’ Houston pulled a quarter from his pocket and spun it on the table. ‘Heads, he gets the message.’

  ‘Tails,’ White said, a grim smile on his face, ‘I get to kill the punk.’

  Houston shook his head and cupped his hand over the coin.

  ‘No. I’m telling you, Dushane. For the moment I promised Blount there’d be no more killings.’

  ‘Let me see the coin, Delroy.’

  ‘You hear me? No.’

  ‘Let me see the coin.’

  Houston lifted his hand.

  The quarter lay tails side up.

  Archer couldn’t sleep. It was getting to be a ritual. No sleep, work his ass off, no sleep, work his ass off. He thought about taking a day off, but the time lost would just add to the problem. Tom Lyons was one of the good guys, an officer who sincerely believed that his participation mattered, that his job was to protect and serve and not get rich at the expense of those who hired him. The citizens of his city. Detroit, Michigan. Tom Lyons was waiting for the right moment. On his own, he was waiting for the right time to spring the trap and bring Bobby Mercer to justice.

  And then he thought about Josh Levy, another cop he admired greatly. In the short time he’d gotten to know him, Levy had shown himself to be someone who showed passion, empathy and concern for the people he served. A detective with a heart. And like Lyons, Levy was one of the few officers he felt he could trust implicitly. He could do nothing but wait for Lyons and his team to get back to him. Meanwhile, he and Levy were waiting for lab tests on the knife. It seemed like all he did was wait.

  Waiting was the worst part of his job. He’d waited for the photo of the killer. They’d finally figured it out. He’d waited through how many viewings of the varied camera recordings. Finally they’d seen the results when the perp buried the knife in the bush. Now he was waiting on the results from the knife. Fingerprints? Blood on the blade? He wanted TV results. The crime solved at the end of the hour. He imagined it was probably hard to sell advertising to a client for a show that was made up of hours, days, weeks and months of waiting. Just waiting.

  Finally, Archer forced himself out of bed. Checking his phone, he saw a message from headquarters. Three overnight murders, including one of a tourist who ended up in the wrong end of town. The problem was, any part of the Crescent City could be the wrong end of town. You never knew.

  Paul Girard had been expecting the call. The banger from Warhead Solja had promised him he’d be in touch. Girard just hadn’t expected the contact at five a.m. on the following morning.

  ‘Girard, I’m calling off the interview.’

  Cold feet.

  ‘I thought you wanted to bury your competition?’

  ‘The story can’t be told. Understand?’

  Girard was silent for a moment.

  ‘You there?’

  ‘If you back out of the interview, then anything is fair game.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I promised you anonymity if you gave me the story. I wouldn’t use your name, I wouldn’t mention your gang. I was simply going to refer to you as an underground source.’ Girard was somewhat surprised at his own bravado. This guy had threatened his life just yesterday.

  ‘I’m not a source. The story was bogus. You don’t write it, you don’t print it. No story.’

  Girard felt a tremor in his phone hand. He wasn’t clear whether it was from fear or anger. Right now he felt a little of both.

  ‘I’m going to write a story. Maybe not yours, but I am going to write about trafficking in New Orleans.’

  ‘With or without me, you’re going to write the story?’

  Girard took a deep breath. ‘I am.’

  There was a long, uneasy silence on the other end of the call.

  Finally, ‘OK. I’ll call you back later this evening. We’ll set something up.’

  It was too easy, thought Girard. The man backed down way too fast.

  ‘I’ll be waiting.’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone about this call.’ The tone was threatening. ‘Not a soul, you understand? We’re still on, and you still play by the rules. You don’t rat me out, and we’ll talk later.’

  ‘Understood,’ Girard said.

  He sat on the edge of his bed and rolled the conversation over in his head. First the man said he wanted to tell his story, then he said no. In a matter of seconds he was back on board. Without the gangster’s insight, without his details on how the trafficking ring worked, the story didn’t have legs. Senator LeJeune’s background information wasn’t enough. He needed strong information from the inside. That’s what he’d pitched to The New Yorker, for God’s sake. He’d bluffed his way back into the interview. And this could be the most important story he’d ever written.

  Rising, he went to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. He checked his watch. He was taking Kathy to lunch at Phillips Restaurant and Bar to see Marcia LeJeune in just a few hours. Almost seven hours. Damn, he could go back to bed but he wouldn’t sleep. He decided on coffee and a review of his notes. And then he’d figure something else to do for the next six.

  She woke up in a cold sweat, shivering. The wine bottle next to her bed was empty and the young voodoo lady realized she’d probably had one glass too many. It was six in the morning, a morning that could have been hers to enjoy. She was only obligated to the dementia center from noon till four today. As a volunteer, she could call her own hours. Kathy Bavely, a trained professional, was salaried and worked the regular nine to five. But today was her friend’s off day, and she was attending a talk by Senator LeJeune with Paul Girard. Solange shivered again inside the thin tee, thinking of Kathy. She felt certain that her friend hadn’t followed her instructions. Soak a paper in rum, burn it and scatter the ashes. It sounded ridiculous even to her. And yet it was exactly what she should have done. If she hadn’t, bad things might happen to her.

  Unplugging her cell phone from its charger, she called Bavely. The phone rang six times and went to voicemail. She c
alled again with the same result. She was still in bed, or taking an early jog. Maybe taking a shower.

  Solange stripped off the T-shirt and walked naked to her shower. Turning the handle and adjusting the water to warm, she let the sharp spray beat on her skin. This and a strong cup of chicory coffee would do a lot toward recharging her system. She would go in early to see Ma. If Kathy was right that the old woman waited by her door, anticipating her daughter’s arrival, she didn’t want to disappoint her.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Phillips Restaurant and Bar was tucked back off St Charles Avenue in Midtown. From the charming outdoor courtyard bar the waitstaff served glasses of champagne and Bloody Marys to the invited guests, 120 strong. Dressed in mostly business casual mode, they sat around tables decorated with red-and-white-checkered cloths. Heating lamps were placed around discreetly, taking the chill off the afternoon air.

  Servers presented crispy unleavened bread topped with marinated grape tomatoes, black pepper, garlic, scallions and fresh basil. Serving plates of spicy pulled pork with barbecue sauce over toasted flatbread with crunchy Asian coleslaw were introduced to each table.

  ‘Better than food at the center,’ Kathy said.

  ‘Wait for the main course.’ Her date smiled at her as he took a bite of a brochette. ‘Filet, garden salad and eggplant fries in a spicy aioli.’

  ‘What does something like this cost?’

  ‘One hundred twenty-five per plate. For us, nothing. I told them I’d write a piece for some local publications and blog sites. No reason to pay.’

  ‘Kind of like singing for your supper?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘There she is.’ He pointed toward the canopied bar as a tall, statuesque woman in a gold knee-length dress and dark jacket made her entrance. A scarlet scarf fluttered around her neck. Immediately the sponsors of the event rushed to greet her. She shook hands like the politician she was, her animated gestures highlighted by the swaying of her shoulder-length auburn hair.

  ‘Very stylish,’ Kathy said.

  ‘You look pretty good yourself.’ Paul let his eyes look her up and down. A yellow dress topped by a blue sweater draped over her shoulders.

  ‘She does know you’re here?’

  Just then the senator glanced at their table and worked her way through a group of well-wishers.

  ‘Paul, so glad you could be here. We have things to talk about.’

  ‘Senator LeJeune, this is Kathy Bavely. Kathy is a caregiver at a dementia center on the river.’

  ‘Water’s Edge Care Center, am I right?’

  Kathy broke into a big smile. ‘So you’ve heard of us?’

  ‘I have several projects that are important to me. Today human trafficking, but I have spoken out for years on Alzheimer’s disease. Research is so important.’

  ‘We look forward to your talk,’ Bavely said.

  ‘Thank you. I just hope we raise the money we need for the shelter.’

  ‘I’m sure you will.’

  The senator nodded to Paul. ‘We’ll talk afterwards.’ She turned and hugged an older woman who approached her.

  It wasn’t a question or request. She obviously was used to telling people how it would be.

  Girard turned his attention back to Kathy.

  ‘Pretty impressive lady.’

  ‘She really is.’

  Thirty minutes later, Senator Marcia LeJeune was introduced and made her way to the podium.

  ‘I have a shocking announcement,’ she said. ‘Every one of you has promoted human trafficking. Every one of you.’

  There was stone cold silence.

  ‘If you bought a shirt, a blouse, made in China or Sri Lanka, you helped promote human trafficking. If you bought a fishing rod or a bicycle made in Bangladesh, India, Brazil, or any third-world country, you helped promote human trafficking. If you own a smart phone, some of the components, the materials used to build that phone were mined using slave labor. Because human trafficking is rampant in this world. Billions and billions of dollars are made on the backs of people who are basically held as slaves. By a very conservative estimate – very conservative – there are twenty-five million people in this world who are held in an industry, a trade that they want nothing to do with. Twenty-five million people. A staggering number. They work fifteen, twenty hours a day, some are forced to work twenty-four-hour shifts. They are starved, forced to work long shifts and made to wear adult diapers because they are denied restroom breaks. Eighty percent of these people are women, and the majority of them are not in manufacturing or mining. They are in the sex trade.’

  She studied the crowd, pausing, letting her opening remarks sink in.

  ‘Not the greatest opening for a lunch time talk that you’ll ever hear,’ she said.

  There was a tittering of laughter, but very brief.

  ‘You’re saying, “Come on, Senator, people have free will.” They do, they do. Unless they are underage and trust an unscrupulous adult who is taking advantage of them. Until their family is threatened with violence or death. Until they are tortured to make them do what they are told. Until they have their passports and visas taken away from them. Until they come under the influence of and become dependent on drugs. Then,’ she paused, ‘they have no free will. Did you hear me? They have no free will.’

  ‘She’s going to get the money she wants,’ Paul whispered to Kathy. ‘She’s really good at this.’

  ‘And you’re saying, “But Senator LeJeune, not here. Surely it’s not happening here. Not in Louisiana, not in New Orleans.”’ She stepped away from the podium, her high heels clicking on the red brick patio, and she pointed to her right, her left, behind her and in front of her.

  ‘Oh hell yes,’ she said. ‘Here in Louisiana, right here in New Orleans. Restaurant workers,’ she hesitated. ‘Not at Phillips. God no. That I can assure you. I know the owners of this fine establishment and you won’t find it here, but there are other restaurants.’

  There was a slight buzz in the courtyard, people talking, speculating.

  ‘Yes, other restaurants, my friends. Hotel workers just a couple of blocks from here, yes. Food-processing companies within a few miles. I’ve had that verified. Agriculture facilities, farms and the sex trade.’ She raised her index finger in the air. ‘Let’s talk about the sex trade for a moment.’

  There was a murmur from the crowd.

  ‘Right now, at the peak of Mardi Gras, the fun, carefree spirited celebration that we cherish, there’s a young girl, fourteen, fifteen years old, servicing ten, fifteen, twenty men a day in a hotel room in this city. There’s another one, and another one. They are controlled by a pimp, who is controlled by an organization, and this practice has to stop. It happens every year, people. Is this the kind of thing you want going on in your city? Well? Is it?’

  Using vague terms, never mentioning specific locations, but with fervor and passion, the senator pressed the message that a shelter for these victims was critical in saving lives.

  Thirty minutes later the lady brushed back her auburn hair, and made her final comments.

  ‘I need fifty thousand dollars,’ she said. ‘You’ll find envelopes with forms at all the tables, and credit cards and checks are welcome.’

  Around the courtyard were some gasps but mostly nods. They had been invited because they were well heeled. Five hundred a head was not that much.

  ‘And I’m going to match that fifty thousand dollars,’ she said.

  Now there was a loud gasp as diners looked at each other with surprised expressions on their faces.

  ‘Our shelter needs expansion, maintenance, more staffing and transportation. We need to protect the people who have escaped slavery. We need to make more efforts to find these people who are enslaved. Let’s be honest, people, you didn’t know how prevalent trafficking was before this speech. And when there is no outcry, when there are no complaints, then law enforcement does not get involved. They turn a blind eye. They’re overworked and they choose not to go looking for trouble.’
She paused for effect and let her gaze pass over the crowd.

  ‘By some accounts, New Orleans is short by five hundred officers. Five hundred law enforcement agents. There’s no money, and the salary that is paid is paltry. So only when trouble comes to them, only when the police are directly contacted do they get involved.’ She paused for emphasis. ‘Can you fathom that?’ This time even a longer pause.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we want trouble to come to them. With your generous donations, we will bring trouble to them, to the law enforcement agencies, and they will have to react. They will have to get involved. Law enforcement will help stop this crime.’

  ‘She is going to match fifty thousand dollars?’ Kathy Bavely was squeezing Girard’s hand. ‘Where does she come up with those kinds of dollars?’

  ‘She makes pretty good money as a senator, but Adrien LeJeune, her husband owns a transportation company. They’ve got a number of busses, a company called America Travel, and they bring tourists from Mexico into the States. Budget vacations with four or five stops along the way. He does pretty well. I think the matching fifty thousand is pocket change for someone like Marcia.’

  ‘Paul, are you going to contribute?’

  He studied her for a moment, paying close attention to the low-cut yellow dress and the cleavage from her ample bust.

  ‘No. I’m writing the story, not contributing. I look at it as maybe a conflict of interest and I—’

  ‘Really? A conflict of interest? You listened to her talk and you’re not even contributing to the solution?’ She pulled out two twenty dollar bills from her wallet. As the plates passed by she dropped the forty dollars in. ‘I look at it as being cheap. Seriously cheap. After everything she said, I can’t believe you don’t have any interest in helping,’ she said. ‘You’re a hypocrite.’

  ‘I’ll do more good with my story than any five-hundred-dollar donation will do. The power of the pen—’

  ‘Good luck with that story,’ she said, feeling a blush of heat rising from her neck to her face. She stood up, walking toward the exit.

  ‘Really?’ He yelled after her. ‘Because I’m not contributing money you’re walking out on me?’