Thrill Kill

by Don Bruns

  ‘We do,’ Levy said.

  Surveillance. There wasn’t a cop who liked surveillance. It once again meant waiting, often times in vain. Coffee, tea, a fast sandwich, an occasional restroom break.

  ‘So, if I’m right, Dushane White beat up Kathy Bavely to send a warning to her boyfriend. The boyfriend, Paul Girard, is writing a story about human trafficking. This White is a piece of work.’

  ‘Now, this is the same guy, this White character, who buried the knife in the bush, right?’ Levy asked.

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Damn, Q, this thing is fucked up. We’ve got a gang that calls for initiates to kill random individuals and leave a can of Chill. Nasty shit. But we have this same gang killing people who may be involved in human trafficking and leaving cans of Chill there too. They’re trying to lead us in another direction. Am I right? Cover their tracks and confuse us?’

  Archer watched the entrance to Trixie’s. The chances of one of the gangbangers actually entering or exiting were minimal.

  ‘Josh, the guy who got knifed during the parade. Trevor Parent. You think he was involved in trafficking?’

  ‘Come on Q, I think we all had that thought. This amoral ass deals in bastard kids. He’s an uppity high-end adoption attorney and that’s legal. But then, when the kids are placed, he sells the mothers. And they’re placed in hotels, maid services, massage parlors that house them in terrible living conditions and take all the money they earn. Not so legal. You’ve read the background on him. Nobody liked the guy and there’s a good reason why. Now, we know that Dushane White is one of the murderers. We’ve pretty much got him dead to rights on video killing Parent. So Dushane White cut the heart out of this guy, this adoption attorney, and our Dushane White is not looking for initiation. Hell, the guy is already connected. He’s an established gangbanger and pretty high up in the ranks. Yet, he leaves a can of Chill with Parent’s body. Exactly like guys who are vying for membership in Warhead Solja.’

  ‘You’re right, Detective. He hopes we’re confused, thinking—’

  ‘To make it appear it’s the same reason the janitor and the bank teller were killed. Random. We’re supposed to assume that it’s all by chance.’

  ‘They’re messing with us.’

  ‘Damn straight they are,’ Levy said. ‘Big time. But if we’re right, we’ve answered one of your whys.’

  ‘So,’ Archer continued, ‘Parent is a bad-news guy. But why would Warhead Solja kill him?’

  ‘Good question. He screwed them out of money? Most killings are because of money, Q. You know that.’

  ‘True.’ Archer watched the doorway of Trixie’s and sipped his tea. ‘But let’s suppose that Kathy Bavely is right. Paul Girard is going to write a story that involves two gangs that are selling people. Parent sold not only kids, but their mothers. Low-life scum bag, but a very rich low-life scum bag, right?’

  ‘It would appear.’

  ‘Let’s say he’s selling the mothers to one of these gangs for massage parlors, strip clubs, to hotels, restaurants, maid services, and let’s say he crosses the line.’

  ‘What line is that?’ Levy asked.

  ‘What if he worked for both of these gangs. Solja and Mafia apparently place these women in strip clubs. I’ve got a …’ He paused. Alexia Chantel was a stripper but calling her that cheapened the respect he’d developed for her. ‘Anyway, I’ve got a source, a young lady who works in a strip club on Bourbon. She tells me that Warhead Solja and Nasta Mafia both work her club. They place girls and sell drugs. There may be some serious rivalry here. I remember in Detroit,’ he said, ‘where we had Seven Mile Hoods and Vice Nation. Serious competition. When they clashed, there was blood. Believe me, a lot of blood.’

  Levy nodded. ‘So, the thrill kill murders may be because of a gang initiation and a gang rivalry?’

  ‘Blake Rains, the councilman we found dead in the old Six Flags park,’ Archer said, ‘the guy was accused of having illegals working on his house. He had a maid from Guatemala who he apparently underpaid and tried to rape. And,’ he paused, drumming his fingers on the dash like a drum roll, ‘and, guess who exposed all of this? Guess who was the reason this all came to a head?’

  ‘Paul Girard, the infamous writer,’ Levy said.

  ‘Bingo. Rains was up in Little Woods meeting with Nasta Mafia, I’d bet anything on it, and either they killed him because he was also working with Warhead Solja, or Solja killed him, but I know why whoever killed him moved the body. They didn’t want us looking at Hector Sanchez and Rains getting killed in the same neighborhood. We would have jumped to conclusions. We would have had our connection. And they didn’t want us to find a connection.’

  ‘And we would have been right. You checking on blood at the amusement park and having the soil tested on his shoes – good work, Detective.’

  Archer paused for a moment. He’d had his share of successes. But he forced himself not to think about the one case he still had to solve. Denise’s murder.

  ‘We’ve got to bring in White. Even if he’s reluctant to talk, we can learn enough to break this open.’

  ‘OK, Q, we’ve answered one of your questions. We know why the can of Chill shows up in multiple murders.’

  ‘Because of initiation into Warhead Solja and as a diversionary tactic,’ he said. Archer’s eyes caught two men walking into the restaurant. He couldn’t make out their facial characteristics. ‘How are your men going to identify any of these guys? We’re too far away.’

  ‘With luck, Q. With a little luck. Everyone has photos of four of the top members and team one has a high-powered telescope.’

  ‘We know White was Parent’s killer. We know he’s handy with a knife. We know this scar-faced punk beat up Kathy Bavely. We know he’s an enforcer for Warhead Solja. We’re pretty sure he sells drugs and people. What don’t we know about him?’ Archer asked.

  ‘Good question. We don’t know where Dushane White lives. His last known address goes back two years ago when he had the knife fight. A rental unit. That house got torched shortly afterwards. I believe it was a message, a little revenge.’

  ‘What else don’t we know?’

  ‘We don’t know if he has a job other than being an enforcer for Warhead Solja. Could be a dishwasher at a fast-food joint.’

  ‘Want to place bets?’

  ‘We don’t know of any known living relatives. Mother and father are deceased, and it appears he was an only child. According to reports he was turned out at an early age, like twelve or thirteen and lived on the street.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘We don’t know where he is right now. We don’t know if he knows we’ve found the knife.’

  ‘Damn, Josh. I’d hate to have this case depend on whether we see this guy enter a pizza place in Treme.’

  The two men walked out of Trixie’s, one carrying a six-pack, the other a large pizza box.

  ‘We’ve got a lot of feelers out, my friend. Good detective work is sifting through leads. And leads come from the common folk.’ He laughed. ‘We’ve been short on those in this case.’

  Archer nodded and swallowed more tea. Actually, Solange Cordray, Mike the bartender and Kathy Bavely had provided a lot of the information. They had some decent leads. He’d simply followed up on them. This was the way a case was solved. Good citizens report, good cops follow it up.

  A souped-up maroon 1990 Cadillac DeVille pulled up in front of Trixie’s, glasspack muffler roaring, and two men in black stocking caps stepped out. The late-afternoon light highlighted their faces as one of them leaned down and talked to the driver through his open window.

  ‘Beats the hell out of the cars we drive,’ Levy said. ‘Cheap, run-down drug dealer cars and …’

  ‘Pay attention to the passengers, Josh, not the car. That guy has a scar on his face. I’m not one hundred percent that it’s him but I’ve been watching enough video of White to be reasonably sure.’

  As the car pulled away the two men walked in the door. />
  ‘If that is him, he’s not making any effort to disguise himself or stay out of view,’ Levy said. ‘Just hanging out.’

  ‘This leads me to believe he doesn’t know we’ve got the knife. And if he does, he doesn’t think we can tie it back to him.’

  ‘Are we going in?’

  ‘No.’ Archer watched the door. ‘Do we have a black cop on surveillance?’

  ‘Green’s in the parking lot over there.’

  ‘We don’t know what we’re walking into, and two white guys going in will spook the hell out of them. Let’s have Green go in, order a slice and get a feel for the place. If it looks safe, then we go in. Personally I’d rather wait until they come out to grab him. In there, we don’t know what to expect.’

  Archer reached inside his jacket, feeling the Glock in the shoulder holster and he immediately thought of Denise. She hated the gun, hated the job, hated the fear of something happening to him. Was always afraid that she’d be working some night when they brought him into the hospital. When they’d grab dinner during a break, when he’d come home at night, the first thing she’d ask was, ‘Did you use your gun today?’ She hated the gun, yet she knew it was his only protection. These days, cops were targets. They needed something. Today, he probably was going to use his gun. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to fire it.

  ‘Let’s call for some discreet backup and call Green. It’s time to put this operation into gear.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  ‘We can make this happen, Dushane.’ Delroy Houston cupped a shiny quarter in his palm. ‘Damn, these boys are handing it to us.’

  ‘No disrespect, Delroy, but this could be bullshit. You know what I mean? Nasta Mafia is going to let us walk on their territory and only take a percentage? Give me a break, man. They are not going to let this ride.’

  They sat in a corner booth, staring at each other across a worn wooden table, Houston spinning his quarter on the rough surface.

  ‘I listened, same as you, Dushane. Blount made some damned good points and I think Washington gets it. We outnumber him, we got more girls and we got a mainline on the dope. Now I’m no math wizard, understand, but zero percent of nothing, is nothing. We destroy each other and we start lookin’ for a new line of work. No more job, no more income, my man. Me, I’m happy with the current job. Pussy, drugs and cash to blow. I just think, on a smaller scale, Gangsta Boy sees that too.’

  ‘For two cents, I’d pop that fucker. Son of a bitch needs to be popped, Delroy. You know that.’

  ‘Your answer to everything.’

  ‘Nasta Mafia is gonna fuck us, Delroy. They ain’t gonna settle for a percentage. They gonna go for the full amount. You mark my word. I’m not wrong about this. A full-scale battle is about to happen, my friend.’

  A fat bald man with a red, stained apron brought a sixteen-inch pepperoni and sausage pie, sliding the hot aluminum pan onto their table.

  ‘Another beer boys?’

  ‘We’re good, Pop.’

  The aroma of seasoned tomato sauce, Italian sausage and crispy dough silenced them for a moment as both men reached for a slice, stretching thick strands of mozzarella from the thin crust.

  Chewing slowly, White was the first to speak.

  ‘This is temporary, plan on it, Delroy. Nasta Mafia is gonna bristle when they have to play by our rules. Those boys will not play nice. What you plan to do when that happens? Uh? Because from today, they’re planning how to make a comeback and maybe take us out. I know that, you know that.’

  ‘Just let it go, Dushane. Eat your damn pie. Drink your beer. Be happy for once in your miserable life. You got money, you got women, you get a taste whenever you want—’

  ‘Back of my mind, Delroy. Be prepared.’

  ‘Speaking of, we take delivery of some very special stuff tonight.’

  ‘More girls?’

  ‘That’s coming tomorrow, Dushane. This is some premium Columbian, my friend. Excellent shit.’

  They heard the door open before they saw the young dark man, squeaky hinges on a rusted frame giving him away. The old wooden floor groaned as he walked to the counter, studying the choices sketched out on a blackboard hanging from the ceiling.

  ‘Do you sell by the slice?’ he asked the fat man.

  ‘You buy the whole pie, Mr’

  ‘Then I’ll take a twelve-inch pepperoni and whatever is on draft.’

  The man behind the counter drew a NOLA Blond and pushed the plastic mug to his customer.

  ‘About fifteen minutes,’ he said.

  The two in the corner studied him. No one else in the shop and this man was obviously a stranger. Pop didn’t know him.

  ‘You recognize him?’ Houston had his back to the wall, White turning to view the customer.

  ‘No.’

  Houston pulled the knit cap a little lower on his forehead and reached inside his nylon jacket, stroking the handle of the Sig Sauer three-eighty pistol tucked into his wide leather belt. Taken off of a white boy who threatened him over a drink. A simple task. The boy left the bar gunless with a limp and a left eye shiner.

  ‘You packin’?’ he asked softly.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘What I think is he’s got backup outside. We take him out, they’ll be here in seconds. Am I right?’

  ‘As much as I’d like to put him down, right there with his beer on the table, you’re right.’

  ‘OK,’ Houston said. ‘Back door, like I’m goin’ to the john. Then you.’

  ‘What do you think he wants?’

  ‘Blount said he heard they’d found a knife.’

  ‘The knife? I thought I hid that pretty well.’

  Houston shook his head. ‘I don’t know but this can’t be good. I’ll hook up with you back in the Quarter.’

  The customer sat at a table where he could easily see both men. He sipped his beer and appeared to be checking his cell phone.

  Houston rose, flipped his shiny silver coin onto the table and looked squarely at White. He spoke in a quiet, easy voice, deep sounds resonating from his throat as he bent down close to the man’s ear.

  ‘No gun play, my friend. No knife play. Exit in two minutes, understood? Don’t fuck this up, Dushane. Don’t do anything stupid because our jobs and lives are on the line, mothahfuckah.’

  He walked back a hallway to the restroom and rear door. Carefully opening it to minimize squeaking, he stepped outside, dodging two overflowing trash cans and a black rat that scurried behind one of the containers. Dushane was on his own. If the cop was smart, he would have had someone cover the back exit just in case. Peering around the corner of the building, he saw a man looking straight at him.

  ‘Shit.’ He whispered the word, ducking back for cover. The police did have someone covering the rear exit.

  ‘You!’ The man was yelling at him. ‘Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?’

  Houston stayed in position, planning his next move. The guy could be an undercover detective. A narc or a cop who was investigating the murder of Trevor Parent or the killing of Hector Sanchez. Or who knew what else they could pin on his gang. No matter what he told Blount, Warhead Solja was responsible for a whole lot of killings in the Big Easy.

  Pulling the Sig Sauer from his belt, he risked another look, briefly sticking his head around the corner. His heart was racing and he realized if he used the gun, there could be three or four other cops who would be on him in seconds. In the cool afternoon, he felt sweat break out on his forehead.

  He could go back inside, but it was possible the cop, if it was a cop, had already taken Dushane out. He could double back the other way, but if they covered one exit, they certainly covered the other. A large concrete building was directly behind him with no entrance or exit visible. So with his gun pointed in front of him, he pulled back the stainless-steel barrel slide and spun around the corner, two hands on the handle, finger on the trigger.

  The stranger was pointing directly at him with his right hand, and Houston froze
for a second. Was there a gun in that right hand? Once again he ducked behind the pizza store and took a deep breath. Come out blazing and run for it or surrender? He couldn’t be tied to the knife. No way. Dushane White was the only one whose prints could be on that knife. They didn’t have anything on him. Putting his hands up, gun in the air, Houston stepped around the corner for the third time.

  The man was still standing there, still pointing. No gun, just his finger pointing accusingly. He carried a large package of some kind under his left arm. And then Houston realized. It was a bedroll. A frigging rolled-up sleeping bag. He saw them every single day, at one time or another in practically every doorway in the Quarter. The guy was homeless and probably slept behind the pizza restaurant, an easy place to grab a discarded meal from the garbage cans. This guy and the rats.

  Dropping his arms and keeping the gun in his hand he stepped out from behind the building and kept on walking, the homeless man pointing and shouting obscenities after him. Following a stone path he passed behind three other businesses, then took a right up to Claiborne. When he turned he could see the pizza place, Trixie’s, down the road.

  Because there were no police covering the rear, Houston wondered if the customer at Trixie’s really was a cop. Maybe he and Dushane walked out on one of Pop’s really good pizzas for nothing. And those two beers. Damn. There was a lot of paranoia going around these days.

  Archer checked his watch, wondering if backup had arrived. Should be two cars, parked close by. His phone rang and he remembered he hadn’t called Alexia. She’d given him some good information and he didn’t want to lose that contact.

  ‘Archer.’

  ‘This is Green, Detective. I’m almost positive it was him. Dushane White. I snapped a photo. Of both of them.’

  ‘It was him? Was?’

  ‘Past tense. I’m sorry, man. The two of them slipped out a back door. I thought they were going to the men’s room. When I went back to check …’

  ‘Damn.’ Archer glanced at Levy. ‘Back door. They’re gone.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure I recognized his partner,’ Green said. ‘Delroy Houston. Delroy runs Warhead Solja.’