The Plantation paj-1

by Chris Kuzneski

  “Did I ever tell you about my three-way with the Olsen twins?”

  Jones laughed at the comment. “What are you going to do about Levon?”

  “It’s not what I’m going to do. It’s what you’re going to do.” Payne handed him his cell phone. “I want you to dial his number for me.”

  “You want me to call Levon Greene? This is so cool!” Jones dialed the phone, then looked at Payne when it started to ring. “What should I say to him?”

  Payne snatched the phone from Jones’s grasp. “Not a damn thing. He’s my friend, not yours.”

  “You are such a tease!”

  Payne was still laughing when Greene answered the phone. “Who’s this?”

  “Levon, I don’t know if you’ll remember me. My name is Jonathon Payne. I used to run ball with you at North Park when you were living up in Pittsburgh.”

  “White dude, nice jump shot?”

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “Yo, man, wazzup? I haven’t heard from your ass in a long time. How ya doin’?”

  “I’m fine, and you? How’s the knee?”

  Greene winced. It was one topic that he didn’t like dwelling on. “Still not a hundred percent, but it’s better than it used to be. I’m still hoping some team needs a run-stuffing linebacker and gives me a look in camp. But I don’t know. It’s getting kind of late.”

  “Well, they’d be crazy not to take you, Levon. You’re as fierce as they come.”

  “Thanks, man. I appreciate it. So, wazzup? Why the call out of the blue? Are you coming to New Orleans? I got a big-ass house. I can hook you up with a room. Won’t charge you much, neither,” he joked.

  Payne wasn’t sure what he was hoping to find out from Greene, but he figured the only way to learn anything was to be up-front with the man. “Actually, Levon, the reason I called is an important one. You know how I told you I was doing fine?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, I lied. Something’s going on up here, and I was hoping you could give me a hand.”

  “I don’t loan people money, man. You’re gonna have to ask someone else.”

  Payne grinned. If Greene knew how much money Payne actually had, Levon might be asking him for a loan. “No, it’s not about cash. Nothing like that. I promise.”

  “What is it then? What’s the deal?”

  Payne exhaled, trying not to think about Ariane. “I was hoping to get some information about a gang that might be operating in Louisiana, and I figured since you play a lot of street ball, you might be able to find something out on the courts.”

  “Is that all you need? Shit! No problem, man. What’s the name of the posse?”

  “Actually, that’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “All right, but you gotta give me something to go on, ’cause there’s a lot of motherfuckin’ gangs down here. And every day a new crew pops up.”

  “Damn,” Payne mumbled. He had been naively hoping that New Orleans was a one-gang town. “Do any of the gangs have Holotats? You know, tattooed gang emblems on their wrists?”

  “Hell, yeah. A lot of crews do. Just tell me what it looks like, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “The letter

  P

  , with a bloody knife sticking out of it.”

  Greene thought about the information for a moment, then responded. “Off the top of my head, there’s nothing I can think of. But if you give me some time, I can ask around. If anything turns up, I’ll let you know immediately.”

  “That sounds great,” Payne replied. “And I’d really appreciate anything you can come up with. It’s a matter of life or death.”

  “Give me an hour, and I’ll give you a buzz at this number. I know a couple of brothers that know about this type of shit. Let me get ahold of them, then I’ll get ahold of you.”

  “Levon, thank you! I’ll be awaiting your call.”

  Jones, who’d overheard the entire conversation, questioned Payne the minute he hung up the phone. “So, he’s going to hook you up?”

  “He’s going to try.”

  “And what if he does? What are you gonna do?”

  Payne smiled as he put his hand on Jones’s shoulder. “How does Fourth of July in New Orleans sound to you?”

  CHAPTER 15

  The Kotto Distribution Center

  Ibadan, Nigeria

  (56 miles northeast of Lagos)

  MOST

  aspects of the sprawling complex were recognized as legitimate. Hundreds of Nigerian-born workers came to the center each day to unload massive shipments of cacao, palm oil, peanuts, and rubber that had been brought in from Hannibal Kotto’s various businesses. Because of these ventures and the numerous employment opportunities that he offered, Kotto’s name was known and respected throughout Africa.

  And it was this respect that allowed him to take advantage of the system.

  As he sat behind his mahogany desk, Kotto waited for his assistant to give him the go-ahead to start the conference call. When the woman nodded, Kotto knew that everybody was ready.

  “Gentlemen,” he said into the speakerphone, “I realize that English is not the strongest language for all of you, but since I’m dealing with several clients at once, I feel it is the most appropriate selection.” Kotto took a sip of Oyo wine, a local beverage made from the sap of palm trees, then continued. “In order to give everybody a sense of who they’ll be bidding against, I’d like each of you to name the country that you’re representing. Each of you has been assigned an auction number. When your number is called, please tell the group where you are from.”

  As Kotto’s assistant read the numbers, heavily accented voices emerged from the speakerphone, each announcing his country of origin. Algeria, Angola, Cameroon, Ethiopia, Kenya, Libya, Namibia, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo were all represented.

  “If you were listening,” Kotto stated, “I am sure each of you realizes that Africa is the only continent that Mr. Drake and I are dealing with. We’ve had several offers from Asia and South America as well, but we’re not ready to deal with their politics. At least, not yet.”

  “When do you expect to broaden the operation?” asked the Ethiopian delegate.

  “That’s a decision we haven’t made. If all continues to go well, there’s the possibility of expansion within the next few months.” Kotto took another sip of wine while waiting for further questions. When none came, he changed the course of the discussion. “I realize that some of you were disappointed with the last shipment. Mr. Drake and I discussed the issue, and I apologize for any problems it might’ve caused. I would like to assure you that you will have no such problems with the next delivery. It is the best quality we’ve ever prepared.”

  The Kenyan spoke next. “What will that do to the price? I imagine we will have to pay more for the increase in caliber, will we not?”

  Kotto grinned. “I would imagine, like in any business, that an increase in quality will cause an increase in price, but to what extent the price will rise, we’ll find out shortly.”

  JONES

  settled into the soft leather seats of the Payne Industries jet and closed his eyes for a moment of retrospection. During his military career, he’d been on hundreds of life-threatening missions, but this was the first time he’d ever felt hopeless before a flight. For one reason or another, he knew he was completely unprepared for what he was about to do.

  And it was a feeling that he didn’t like.

  When he was a member of the MANIACs, they were always given advanced reconnaissance before they were dropped into enemy territory. Maps, guides, safe houses, and specific objectives were always provided before they were put into danger. But not today. No, on this mission Jones was willing to ignore every protocol he had ever been taught because his best friend needed his help. He was flying to a city he’d never visited to look for a girl who probably wasn’t there, and the only thing they had to go on was a tattoo of the letter

  P

  .
<
br />   “This is crazy,” he said to himself.

  As he opened his eyes, he saw Payne hang up the phone at the front of the cabin and return to his seat, which was across the aisle from Jones.

  “Go on. Get it off your chest,” Payne said, knowing his friend wasn’t happy.

  “Are you sure this trip is wise? I mean, don’t you think it’s a little bit impulsive?”

  “Not really. As I told you before, Levon talked to some of his boys in the city, and they assured him that Holotats are used by several of the local gangs.”

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t guarantee that Ariane is going to be down there. For all we know, the gang could have members in cities across America like the Bloods or the Crips. It could be a local thug from the Hill District that we’re looking for. Heck, the

  P

  could stand for

  Pittsburgh

  .”

  “True, but that doesn’t explain the Louisiana license plate, now does it?”

  Jones shook his head. He wasn’t really sure how to explain that. “But don’t you think that this is jumping the gun? We have no idea what we’re getting ourselves into.”

  Payne smiled. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve assumed that his friend was afraid of flying. “What’s troubling you, D.J.? We’ve been to thousands of places that are more dangerous than New Orleans, and I’ve never seen you act like this.”

  “Well, I’ve never felt like this,” Jones admitted. “I don’t know how to explain it, but I can tell we’re about to walk into a hornet’s nest. And the fact that we weren’t allowed to bring any weapons into the airport makes me feel unprotected.”

  “I figured you’d feel that way. That’s why I just gave Levon another call. Since he has a number of contacts on the street, I assumed that he’d have some gun connections.”

  “Does he?”

  “He said he’d see what he could do, but I think that’s his way of saying he’ll get it done.”

  A few hours later, the jet landed on an auxiliary runway at Louis Armstrong International Airport in Kenner, Louisiana, which spared Payne and Jones from dealing with the hassle of the main terminal. After grabbing their bags from the plane, they walked to the nearest rent-a-car agency, where they picked up the fastest rental available, a Ford Mustang GT convertible.

  The airport was only fifteen miles west of the Crescent City, so the drive to New Orleans was a short one. Following Interstate 10 all the way into Orleans Parish, Payne followed the directions Greene had given him. Before long they were navigating the streets of the central business district.

  As Payne and Jones expected, the contrast between the tourist areas and the outlying neighborhoods was disheartening. Hurricane Katrina had ravaged the entire city in August 2005, and since that time most of the governmental funds had been funneled into the city’s businesses and infrastructure, not the residential sections or suburbs. In many ways, the reasoning was sound. Tourists were the lifeblood of the region, and the only way to get them to return was to restore the areas that they wanted to visit.

  One of those places was the Spanish Plaza, the spot where they would meet Greene.

  Donated by Spain in 1976 as a bicentennial gift, the plaza was one of four foreign squares that paid tribute to the roles that France, Italy, England, and Spain played in the history and culture of New Orleans. The focal point of the site was a man-made geyser, encircled by an elaborate cut-stone deck and illuminated by a rainbow of lights that lined the scenic monument.

  As Payne and Jones strolled down the plaza’s steps, they saw Greene, wearing a pair of white Dockers and an ice blue Tommy Hilfiger shirt, looking even larger than he did during his NFL playing days.

  “Levon,” Payne called as he neared his friend. “Thanks for meeting me.”

  Greene, 6’3” and 275 pounds of muscle, stood from the bench where he’d been resting his knee. “No problem, my man.” He grabbed Payne’s hand and pulled him close, bumping his shoulder while patting him on the back with his free hand. It was a greeting that was quite common in the sports world. “You’re looking good. You still playin’ ball?”

  “Not as much as I used to. But I manage to work out whenever I can. Of course, I still have a long way to go before I’m a badass like you.”

  Greene smiled and turned his attention to Jones. “By the way, my name’s Levon Greene. And you are?”

  Jones grabbed Greene’s hand and replicated the greeting Greene had given Payne-except Jones did it with much more vigor. He was thrilled to meet one of his biggest sports heroes. “I’m David Jones, a friend of Jon’s and a big fan of yours.”

  “That’s always nice to hear, especially since I’m a huge fan of yours as well. I can hardly believe that I’m actually talking to the lead singer of the Monkees!”

  Payne couldn’t help but laugh. He occasionally teased Jones about his name’s similarity to Davy Jones, and it was something that D.J. couldn’t stand. However, Payne had a feeling that the remark would produce a much different reaction coming from Greene.

  “Oh, I get it!” Jones said as he playfully punched Greene on his arm. “The Monkees! That’s pretty damn funny. I bet I used to look a lot whiter on TV, huh?”

  Greene laughed, then returned his attention to Payne. “Have you guys eaten yet? There are a number of places in this city where we can get traditional Louisiana food, like jambalaya or gumbo. Or, if you prefer, we can just head over to the French Quarter for a beer and some naked breasts. Trust me, whatever you want, I can deliver. Just name it, and it’s yours.”

  Payne glanced at Jones, then back at Greene. He’d been less than forward with Greene on the phone and decided it was time to give him a few details about their mission. “Levon, I have to tell you something. This isn’t going to be a pleasure trip. We’re down here for one reason and one reason only: to find out about your local gangs.”

  Greene grimaced, confused. “Man, what is it about this damn tattoo that brought you guys down here? What could possibly be so important?”

  Jones noticed the anguish on Payne’s face, so he decided to answer for him. “Early this morning Jon’s girlfriend was kidnapped from her apartment building. On the surveillance video, we noticed the tattoo that Jon described on one of the criminals. There was a witness who saw his girlfriend thrown into the back of a van that had Louisiana plates. We’re down here to try and find her.”

  Greene grunted. “Damn, I had no idea. What did the police say?”

  “Not much,” Jones answered. “They’re doing everything they can in Pittsburgh, but until we receive a ransom demand or find some conclusive evidence about the gang, they aren’t willing to contact the FBI or any other law enforcement agency.”

  “So, you two are here to snoop around? What are you planning to do to get her back?”

  With determination in his eyes, Payne rejoined the conversation. “Whatever it takes.”

  CHAPTER 16

  BECAUSE

  of his size, Greene claimed the shotgun seat of the cramped Mustang, forcing Jones to sit in the back. Normally Jones would’ve bitched and moaned about losing his front-seat status, but since Greene would’ve needed the flexibility of a Russian gymnast to contort his 275-pound frame into the backseat, Jones didn’t mutter a single complaint.

  After getting into the car, Greene spoke first. “I was able to purchase the artillery that you guys wanted, but it cost me a pretty penny. If you want, we can pick it up now.”

  Payne agreed, and Greene directed him to the nearby parking garage where his black Cadillac Escalade was parked. The SUV was equipped with a gas-guzzling 400-plus-horsepower engine, limousine-tinted windows, and enough speakers and subwoofers to register a 3.5 on the Richter scale. “This here is my pride and joy,” Greene exclaimed. “It was the last extravagant gift I bought myself before my injury. Ain’t she sweet?”

  “She’s a nice ride, and it certainly looks like you take care of her.”

  Greene nodded as he opened his hatch. “My dadd
y always used to say, if you take care of your car, your car will take care of you.”

  Jones slid up next to the ex-linebacker and glanced inside the spacious cargo hold. “My God, your trunk’s bigger than the seat you’re making me ride around in.”

  Payne rolled his eyes at Jones’s remark. “What did you get for us, big man?”

  “You said you needed some reliable handguns, so I picked you up a couple of Glocks. I didn’t know which model you’d prefer, so I got a 19 and a 27. The 19 uses standard nine-millimeter ammo, which many people like. Personally, I prefer the 27. In fact, it’s the kind I carry for protection. It’s chambered in forty-caliber Smith amp; Wesson, which I think is ballistically better than the nine-millimeter.”

  Payne smiled his approval as he picked up the charcoal gray Glock 27 from Greene’s cargo hold. The ridged polymer handle fit snugly into his experienced hand, and as he held it up to the overhead lights, he stared at the gun with the wide-eyed fascination of a kid with a new toy. “You made a nice choice. No external safeties to worry about. It’s light, dependable. Perfect.”

  “I guess that means I’m stuck with the 19, huh?” Jones didn’t have a problem with the weapon, but after riding in the cramped backseat, he was in the mood to complain about something. “Did you get us anything else?”

  Greene leaned into the trunk and pulled out a large maroon suitcase. As he fiddled with the case’s combination lock, he spoke. “You told me that money wasn’t an object and that you needed a couple of weapons with some serious firepower, right? Well, I hope this is what you had in mind.” Greene opened the case, revealing a Heckler amp; Koch MP5 K submachine gun and a Steyr AUG assault rifle.

  Jones reacted quickly, grabbing the MP5 K before Payne could get his hands on it. “My, my, my! What do we have here? German-made, three-round burst capability, nine hundred rounds a minute. A nice piece of hardware.”

  “That’s not all,” Greene declared. “I picked up the optional silencer as well.”

  “Great!” Payne said. “That means he can kill a librarian without disturbing any readers.”