by Don Bruns
‘Anything at this point would be helpful.’
Nodding, she pulled her silk jacket tight around her.
I know I told you this was urgent, and it is, but I need to give you some background. Be patient with me, OK?’
He nodded.
‘My friend from the care center has a … has been seeing a guy, a writer, who has seemed to be interested in her, too.’
‘And that impacts my investigation?’
‘I really think it does.’
Archer nodded. ‘OK, tell me the story.’
‘I’m not sure where to begin.’
‘Start at the beginning.’ He smiled. ‘And keep it on track. Stories that involve love and emotion tend to go off on tangents.’ He’d dealt with dozens of killings regarding relationships gone wrong.
‘Paul Girard is a writer.’
‘Wait. Paul Girard?’
‘The writer’s name. Paul Girard is the writer who is sort of dating—’
‘Damn,’ Archer said. ‘I know that name.’
‘Maybe you’ve read some of his work?’
‘No, someone told me about a piece he wrote several years ago about Sunshine laws. I’m trying to remember what he says in that column. It just recently came up in one of the thrill kill murders.’
‘How is that?’
‘One of the victims was a target of Paul Girard’s article. The coroner knew this victim. Didn’t like him at all. He was a city councilman and there were stories, rumors that he used city money to pay for work around his home. Landscaping, painting …’
‘Our tax dollars hard at work,’ Solange said.
‘Yeah. According to Marsha— the coroner—your writer Girard also accused the victim, Blake Rains, of hiring illegal immigrants to remodel his home. I’m sure that was the guy.’
‘Your recollection is more proof that I can help you,’ she said.
‘This councilman, Blake Rains, even had a Guatemalan maid that he grossly underpaid and possibly raped.’ Archer kept going. ‘Not a nice man. Sometimes it’s hard to consider someone a vic, a victim, when they cause so many people pain.’ He stopped, somewhat embarrassed by his rant.
Solange shook her head. ‘Illegal immigrants? Forced sex?’
‘I don’t have proof,’ he said. ‘We’ve been trying to find the maid, but she may have gone back to her country. She’s possibly a person of interest but … anyway, I’m sorry. Go on with your story. Now I really want to know how Paul Girard plays into the thrill kill solution.’
‘You really should have a drink, Detective. I think my story may dovetail nicely with yours. Maybe we should celebrate.’
Despite being on duty, Archer ordered a beer and listened as Solange’s story unfolded.
‘Kathy’s been beaten badly, Quentin, but she’ll recover. She was at a luncheon fund-raiser for Senator LeJeune with Girard but they fought and she left him at the hotel. As she was trying to get an Uber she was grabbed and shoved into a car by two men. They beat her badly and left her with a warning to give to Girard. The message was that he needed to drop his story about human trafficking.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Resting at my shop. She’s safe. And very shook up. She’s had some time by now to relax and maybe freshen up. It will be some time before the bruises heal but I feel certain they didn’t break any bones.’
‘Still, we’ve got to get her to a hospital, and if she’s ready, let me talk to her.’ He took a swallow of his Abita Amber and felt it warm his chest. ‘Has she called Girard yet?’
‘She hadn’t when I left, but she’s lost her cell phone. I’m not sure she wants to talk to him.’
‘She may be pissed off at him and the guy may be a jerk and not her ideal match, but someone needs to warn him. These guys who beat her up are likely to do the same thing to him.’
TWENTY-NINE
The body shop was located on Carrollton Avenue in Mid-City. In the front garage, it fixed car bodies, pounding out the dents, painting and replacing the fenders and rear panels of whacked vehicles. A perfectly legitimate and respectable business. But in the back garage of Dusty’s Carrossiers (some French name for auto-body workers), employees stripped down stolen vehicles and sold the parts till there was nothing left but a bare metal frame. And then they found a way to sell that too. It was your basic chop shop.
Case knew of the establishment but until now had never visited. This was not his territory. Not his line of work. This was neutral territory for the two gangs. Dusty’s was run by a third gang who had no interest in human trafficking, being much more comfortable with inanimate objects like cars, trucks and vans. All in all a very lucrative business.
They sat in the back office and waited, Blount having been the first to arrive. The bald-headed William ‘Gangsta Boy’ Washington and a new kid named Leon straddled wooden chairs, caps on backwards, both with lit cigarettes hanging from their lips. Weapons were left at the door. The smoke in the room was thick.
‘So, this is a three-way meeting, but only two of us show up. Your boy disrespects us already,’ Washington said, taking a drag off his cigarette and blowing smoke toward Blount.
‘Not disrespect,’ Blount said. He waved the smoke from his face. ‘He’s hung up in traffic.’
‘Not a good start, fat man.’
Almost immediately Houston walked in, nodding to Blount. ‘Gangsta Boy, I understand your frustration and apologize for being late.’
Gangsta Boy smiled.
The sullen-faced Dushane White followed, hat sitting crooked on his head. Surveying the assembled group, he said, ‘Nobody got no guns, right? Nobody got no knives? I want to make sure I’m not walking into some kind of trap.’
‘They collected them all at the door, Dushane. This is a friendly meeting. No need for weapons.’ Blount spoke in an even tone, ever the peacemaker. It was important, more than important, that these two warring factions settled their disputes right now. At this meeting.
‘They get yours?’ White asked, stroking the scar on his cheek.
‘I don’t pack, my friend.’
The faint sound of a radio could be heard in the shop, the song ‘Panda’ by Designer playing. Something about broads in Atlanta, dope and—
‘Let’s address the elephant in the room,’ Houston said. ‘No reason to waste time with formalities. Let’s get right to the point. We all make money off this thing, am I telling the truth?’
Washington frowned. ‘We do, but some more than others.’
‘Hear my story,’ Blount said. ‘Let me break this down where we all understand each other. Let’s assume there’s a bag of cash in a secret location. Hundreds of thousands of dollars.’
‘A metaphor,’ Washington said.
‘Yes, Mr Washington, a metaphor.’
‘What happens to that bag of cash?’
‘Excellent question. For two years, two people help themselves to an agreed upon amount every week. Two people. Like clockwork. They use the cash to buy food, booze, drugs, to buy cribs, women, vehicles, maybe one to support a family and these two people live very well. Very well indeed. They obviously have a job to do, place people in different positions, do a little legwork as far as organizing, but the work is minimal compared to the large amounts of cash they draw. And believe me, these two draw a large, let me emphasize, a large amount of cash. OK?’
‘So, they are comfortable?’
‘Damn, I would think so,’ Blount said. ‘But they are jealous motherfuckers. They think that the other party is taking more than his share. They want equal shares. And they go to war. They’ve been comfortable but now, because of petty jealousy, they put that bag of cash in great jeopardy.’
‘We’re not some fucking nursery school where you have to tell the story of the big bad wolf, Blount.’ Washington took a drag on his cigarette and blew smoke toward the stained ceiling.
‘Then, stay with me, William.’ He pulled a flask from his inside jacket pocket and took a swallow.
Washingto
n showed his disgust but nodded, signaling Blount to move forward with his story.
‘They show up one day and the bag is gone. Disappeared. Absolutely no cash. Nothing. And the rent is due, and the bitches are screaming that they aren’t able to buy bling and get a fix. Vehicles are being repossessed, the kids need formula and food and all of a sudden the Feds are breathing down their necks! Heavy shit. A little more serious than the big bad wolf, Mr Washington.’
‘And the bag went where?’
‘You see, the two guys argued over who got the bigger share. When there was no agreement, they went to war.’
The warring gang leaders glared at each other.
‘The locals, the Feds decided they couldn’t let it go any longer and they cracked down. There was no longer any cash to feed the bag. It had all disappeared. Now where the two gentlemen had some clout with their bag of hundreds of thousands of dollars, the feds had hundreds of millions of dollars and they shut, understand gentlemen, shut down the operation.’
There was silence in the room. Outside the room a rotary saw ground through metal, a high-whining electric driver drove in screws, a buffer polished damaged paint and Lil Wayne on the radio recited passionate lyrics about a girl named Tina thanking her ‘for taking my breath from me.’
Blount breathed in the cloying, acrid odor of stale cigarette smoke buried in the walls and moldy carpet of the room. He smelled the sweet sour sweat from the assembled and he felt his stomach roil. Pulling a used handkerchief from his rear pocket he blew his nose, an obtrusive noise in the quiet space.
‘Gentlemen, I believe I have a solution. An answer as to how we can keep the Feds off our backs and continue to make a lot of money. Let’s let jealousy disappear. Let’s let sanity rule.’
The new recruit, Leon, stubbed his cigarette out in a drink glass and stared dumbly in Blount’s direction.
‘What the fuck, we should take the whole fucking bag of fucking cash and the hell with the rest of you.’
‘Shut up, Leon.’ Washington turned to his companion and glared into his eyes. ‘You have no idea what you are talking about. Just shut the fuck up. I am sorry I even invited your sorry ass. We need some kind of meeting of the minds. Blount is right. If we fuck this up, we lose major revenue. There are hundreds of thousands of dollars to be parceled out, my friends. Let’s see what the fat man has in mind. I feel certain that we can all benefit from his ideas. Seriously.’
Blount hid a brief smile. If Gangsta Boy bought into his idea, they were home free and clear. Or at least until the next dust up. If not, the entire business would implode and there would be nothing left of it. And that wasn’t an option.
It was late afternoon when the tour bus dropped off the Mexican tourists at the Hotel Monteleone on Royal. The hotel, dating from 1866 would be their home for the next three days. With its Carousel Bar, restaurant, spacious rooms and the fabulous French Quarter right outside the doors, it was all anyone could want. A dream vacation. The budget-minded tourists lined up for check-in, supported by the hotel’s uniformed attendants. Good food, fun and maybe a little mischief in this decadent Disney World for adults.
The luggage was unloaded, the dozens of bags crowding the sidewalk outside the hotel as the bus pulled away.
Twenty minutes later that same bus pulled into Congo Square in Treme, behind the Sister Anne School of Divinity. The driver parked in a garage that went on for half a block, four similar busses parked in the same structure. A white panel van pulled up beside the bus, and three stocky men stepped out, immediately opening one of the luggage doors on the bottom half of the bus. Two climbed in, crawled to the back and opened a false bottom. They then lifted and shoved cardboard containers to the opening, twenty boxes in all.
The swarthy man on the outside lifted one of the cartons, slit it with a box-cutter and pulled out a plastic envelope. Opening it, he poured a small sample of the white powder into his palm and sniffed it. He leaned his head back and counted to fifteen. The feeling was euphoric. A high like no other.
‘Columbian hell dust,’ he said quietly. ‘Good shit.’
THIRTY
‘Tell me exactly what happened.’
Archer had made sure she was checked over at the hospital, explaining to the front desk that she’d been mugged and had no ID. They’d given her a couple of stitches above her left eye and cleaned up her lip. She was lucky. A lot of swelling, but nothing was broken. It looked worse than it was. Emotional stress aside, she’d recover OK.
‘They beat me up. Slapped me, hit me. I think it’s pretty evident.’
The three of them huddled at the oak table in Solange’s shop, over steaming cups of hot elderberry tea. Archer could smell incense burning in the small altar, fighting the aroma of the herbal beverage.
‘Miss Bavely, I am so sorry for what happened. I’ve been in this business for a long time and it doesn’t seem to get any easier taking depositions from an assault victim. I know this isn’t pleasant, but I just want to find the men who did this to you.’
‘And I’m not sure I want to find them,’ she said. ‘Look, they didn’t want me. I wasn’t the target. They wanted Paul. But if you find them and arrest them, it’s strictly because of me. And I know there are a lot more of them out there. You put three of them away and the rest will come looking for me.’ Glancing at Solange, she said, ‘I should have listened to you. From now on, I swear.’
‘I get it.’ Archer sat back in the wooden chair. ‘But now Paul is in danger. And maybe Solange. Obviously these people know who your friends are. You know we have to find these guys. You’ve got to help me.’
Taking a sip of tea, she nodded.
‘Did they take you somewhere?’
‘No, they just did it in the car. When I came to, my lip was split and I could feel blood running into my left eye. I guess that’s when they figured I’d had enough.’
‘Were there any names mentioned? Did they refer to each other by name or some familiarity?’
‘I don’t think so. They referred to me as bitch and a couple of other words I’d rather not repeat.’
‘What exactly did they say to you?’
‘The guy who hit me said this was a message for Paul. Kept calling him the writer. “You tell the writer that he had better not tell the story. The writer had better not talk about gangs and trafficking.” He said Paul would receive worse if he did.’ She touched her stitches and winced.
‘It’s going to be sore for a while. How did you get here?’ Archer asked.
‘They dropped me off about two blocks from Dumaine Street. I’m not sure why. I walked from there. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t shown up, Solange.’
‘Miss Bavely, you said you lost consciousness at one time during the ordeal, but you heard the message. Do you have a physical description of the attackers?’
She held the teacup tight, shaking as it rattled on the table.
‘The man who slapped me, hit me, he was a black man with a black knit hat on his head. Big, but I don’t know how big. I weigh 112 pounds, so everyone is big to me.’
‘Anything else distinguishing?’
‘Yes. He had a long ugly scar on the side of his face, like he’d been in a knife fight or something.’
Archer closed his eyes for a moment. This guy, Dushane White, was everywhere. There was no question. It had to be him.
‘Kathy, have you talked to Paul? Does he have any idea?’ Solange leaned over the table.
‘No. I don’t actually care if I don’t talk to the son of a bitch again the rest of my life. He’s a narcissistic asshole, and I look like this because of him. I should have walked away long before this. You know that, Solange. Hell, you told me that several times. I really need to pay attention to you.’
‘That may be true,’ Solange said, ‘but he’s a narcissistic asshole who is going to be in a lot of trouble if he prints that story. So maybe you should warn him. Seriously, you need to connect.’
‘But how do I even contact
him? They took my purse, my cell phone, my ID. Detective Archer, how do I get any of that back? I’ve got absolutely nothing. I don’t even know where to start.’ Tears formed in her eyes.
‘We’ll file a report and call Phillips,’ Archer said. ‘Hopefully someone found them outside the restaurant.’
‘In the meantime’ – Solange placed her cell phone on the table in front of Kathy – ‘why don’t you call Paul? I really feel he needs to know as soon as possible.’ There was urgency in her voice.
Kathy slowly picked up the phone, studying the keypad. After punching in the numbers she held the instrument to her ear and heard it ring once, twice, three times and go to voicemail.
‘He’s not answering.’
She set the phone back on the table as it started vibrating. Solange answered and they all could hear the voice on the other end.
‘This is Paul Girard. Someone from this number just called me.’
‘This is Solange Cordray, Mr Girard.’
‘Kathy’s friend?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh my God. Is she OK?’
‘She’s—’
‘They found her purse, cell phone and wallet outside the restaurant. Obviously I couldn’t call her and when I drove by her apartment—’
‘Hold on, you need to talk to her, Mr Girard. Let me hand the phone to her. She’s had a rather eventful night.’
Levy picked him up at the voodoo shop, handing him a paper cup of green tea and they made the short drive to Treme in fifteen minutes.
‘Treme used to be a plantation,’ he said. ‘Of course a lot of places here used to be plantations.’
He parked his car across the street from Trixie’s Pies, a pizza place on Claiborne. The fading hand-painted sign that hung from the front depicted a large slice of pizza pie with round pepperoni slices spelling the name.
‘Hungry?’ Archer asked.
‘We’ve got undercover over there,’ Levy said, pointing to a parking lot half a block away. ‘Trixie’s one of three places that Warhead Solja hangs out.’
‘And we’ve got surveillance on the other two?’
