“We just passed the Jewish Community Center.”
“We’re coming.”
He waves for Juanita and Jordan to follow him and they rush past the chief. On the way down to the SUVs he tells them what’s up.
“Hope this ain’t a joke,” goes Jordan. “I wouldn’t mind jacking up a couple shitheads.”
STEFI IS STILL on the phone with Beau as the streetcar pulls up at the Oak Street stop, along Carrollton Avenue. The three get on the streetcar, paying with their CIU issued credit cards, Juanita and Jordan moving straight to the rear of the car to sit separately, Beau sitting up front across from Stefi in her school digs – white blouse, dark blue pleated skirt, black oxfords with white socks.
Stefi texts Beau – “Man in suit three seats down. Man in same suit in back.”
Beau forwads the message to Juanita and Jordan.
The closest of the two men in the matching dark gray suits – they didn’t even get different color suits – pretends to look at the passing houses. He sits on the aisle, three seats down. The other man is in back and looking up toward Stefi.
Maybe these are The Men in Gray looking for extra-terrestrials.
After the next stop, Juanita and Jordan rise and move up behind the man in back, Juanita steps by turning back to the man and telling him something. The man hesitates and Jordan yanks him out of his seat shoves him forward, grabbing his right arm and clapping a handcuff on the wrist. They cuff the man behind his back, Jordan patting him down.
Loud voices turn the other man around and Beau moves quickly to the man who starts to stand.
“Police!”
The man turns – he’s a couple inches shorter than Beau who grabs him by the throat and lifts.
“OK. OK. I give up.”
Beau gives the man’s larynx another squeeze as Jordan arrives to handcuff the man behind the back and pats him down. The streetcar stops and Beau looks over his shoulder at the driver.
“Police! We’ll take these two off here.”
The streetcar doors open and they hustle the two men in gray outside. Beau pulls out his radio as Stefi jumps off at the streetcar.
“CIU 1 – Headquarters. We have two apprehensions. Neutral ground, Carrollton and Willow. We need transport.”
Stefi comes bouncing up and Beau pulls her behind him.
Jordan searches the two men more carefully, looks at Beau. “No weapons. No wallets.”
The men aren’t twins but stand the same height, both clean-shaven with dark brown hair parted on the left side. The suits look identical. Cars slow down both ways along Carrollton, rubberneckers looking. Jordan waves, smiles. People point cell phones at the tableau. Stefi waves as well.
Jesus B. Christ.
When the two marked police cars arrive, the arrested are hustled in the units and driven off. They wait for a couple more units to take the CIUs back to their SUVs.
Beau tells Juanita to have the prisoners taken to the Detective Bureau.
“I’m dropping our victim at her sister’s office.”
“I can’t go with you to the jail?”
FINISHED HER WORK for the day, Jessie checks the accounts of the Cataldo, Incanto, Cavalcare and Racconto families. New deposits only. Cataldo – 20K, Cavalcare – 18K, Racconto 15K and Lucy Incanto’s personal account rose 32K. Her intercom buzzes.
“Miss Carini. Jefferson here. Mr. Beau’s heading up with your little sister.”
“Thanks.”
Oh, Lord. What now?
Stefi rushes in, Beau trailing with a pained expression and carrying her dark blue book bag. Jessie’s bodyguard James Leopold comes in behind him, stands by the door.
“We caught them!” Stefi sits up on Jessie’s deck.
Beau gives Jessie a quick rundown and says he has to leave to question the bastards.
“First someone follows you and now Stefi.” He kicks the carpet.
“These guys probably won’t tell you anything either,” says Jessie.
“Can you torture them?” – Stefi.
“Don’t even know if I can arrest them. Following someone isn’t against the law.”
“Stalking,” goes Leopold.
Beau nods. It’s a stretch but what the hell.
Beau kisses Jessie and leaves and Stefi gives her sister a big smile.
“I’m pretty sharp, aren’t I? Spotting them. I wasn’t a bit afraid.”
“You should be.”
“They shove you in a car and we’d never see you again.”
Stefi stops smiling.
“What? Make me a sex slave?”
Jessie shakes her head. “We don’t know.”
What game are these ass-holes playing?
Jessie snatches up her iPhone and calls Stan-the-Man Smith. She thinks it’s going to voice mail after four rings, but Stan answers.
“Hello, Jessie Baby.”
“We’re gonna need more bodyguards.”
“I put Beau on hold to answer your call. We’re working on it.”
She hangs up and Stefi goes, “I’m getting my own bodyguard?”
Leopold sits in one of the two sofas against the far wall.
Stefi slides her butt off the desk. “I’m hungry.”
Jessie nods at the door. “Kitchen just outside to your right. Fridge is full. So’s the cupboard.” She nods for Leopold to follow and realizes something. Jessie turns to her computer and goes back to the bank accounts. There must be debit cards and credit cards attached to the accounts. The hair on her the back of her neck stands.
Didn’t Beau say the two had no wallets? Probably left in their hotel room or in a rent-a-car, unless they drove in from out of town straight to Stefi’s school.
JUANITA COMES OUT of one of the tiny interview rooms as Beau steps into the Detective Bureau. She nods him over, flipping through her notebook as he arrives.
“Anthony Troina and Franco Osteria.”
“ID’d them already?”
“They got fingerprints, don’t they?”
“Yeah, but that’s a quick ID on prints.”
“New computer. Apple operating system.”
Jordan comes out of another interview room and yawns as he approaches.
Juanita’s not finished. “Troina is wanted in Independence, Missouri, for attempt murder and armed robbery.” She yawns, adds, “They are both Racconto thugs.”
“Not talking, right?” Beau reaches back and pulls out his obsidian knife.
“You gonna cut ‘em a little?” – from Jordan.
Beau gives him a long look, shakes his head, puts the knife away.
“Torture doesn’t work. You torture me I’ll say anything to get you to stop.”
“What do we charge them with?”
“Stalking. 40.2 and Disturbing the Peace. 103.6 Interruption of any lawful assembly of people.”
Juanita goes, “Gotta have repeated following or harassing for a stalking charge.”
She looks up, sees Beau’s eyes. “OK.”
Beau pats the ATF man on the shoulder. “You don’t think we’re looking for a conviction, do you?”
Juanita says she’ll write the report.
Beau goes into the interview room where Anthony Troina sits handcuffed to a small wooden table. He pulls out his knife.
“Obsidian,” he says. “Volcanic rock, sharp as a razor. Used to skin buffalo.” Beau slides the knife back into its sheath. “I have a message for your handlers. Next one of you Wop bastards I catch following my family, I’ll gut him and I’ll get away with it. I always do.”
No reaction. He goes into the other room and repeats his performance.
ANOTHER LATE SUPPER at Jessie’s dining room table, Beau picking up po-boys from Tootie’s – Beau with his usual pane’d meat po-boy – a still-sizzling breaded veal cutlet dressed with lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, mayonnaise and mustard. Jessie and Stefi start in on their shrimp po-boys, while Juanita and Jordan drip gravy from their roast-beef po-boys on the white freezer paper that came wrapped aroun
d the po-boys. Stella moves around the table, putting paws up on legs to mooch morsels. James Leopold’s outside in his SUV chomping his shrimp po-boy.
“Never seen you like this before,” Jordan tells Jessie.
“Like what?”
“Hair out of place, lipstick pale, you look weary.”
“I am weary. Thanks for reminding me.”
“You’re welcome.”
Juanita asks Stefi, “Why are you smiling?”
Stefi bounces in her seat. “I spotted them and didn’t panic like a little girl, did I?” She reaches over to pat Beau but can’t reach him. “I listened to everything Johnny said. I’m proud of myself. Told y’all I should be a detective when I grow up.” She smiles at Beau and adds, “Did you really autograph the panties of a girl named Galloway?”
Everyone stops chewing, except Beau. He feels Stella’s claws on his leg, pulls a small chuck of pane’d meat from the po-boy, feeds his little girl.
I need all the help I can get with this one.
“Well,” goes Juanita.
“Yeah. Well.” goes Jordan. “I gotta hear this one.”
Beau looks at Jessie whose face softens for the first time that evening. She goes, “This oughta be good.”
“I didn’t autograph that girl’s panties. The Great Beau did.” He points his sandwich at Stefi, “And it’s your fault. All that stuff online.”
Stefi bounces again in her chair. “No. No. I didn’t put that pen in your hand.”
Beau looks at Jordan. “She lifted her dress, asked The Great Beau to autograph her panties and I thought – what good is life if you can’t autograph a pretty girl’s panties?”
“Fuckin’ A.” Jordan lifts his po-boy, take a big bite.
Jessie finally speaks. “She’s pretty?”
“Yeah.”
“At least she’s pretty.”
Stefi’s not finished, “Well, it’s on your facebook page and your website – three pictures of this blond bimbo girl standing in a bookstore, lifting the front of her sundress who show her panties, and a close up of your autograph.”
Beau to Juanita now – “Are you listening to this? From Stefi. Miss Everybody-look-at-my-panties.”
Stefi slaps the table. “Which is the point of all this. You can’t autograph panties and fuss at me for showing mine.”
“Fuckin’ A,” from Jordan who smiles, shows the food between his teeth. “I’m all for seeing girls in their panties. Juanita’s are pale yellow today.”
Juanita makes the mistake of asking when did he see her panties.
“When you climb in and out of the SUV.” He points his fingers at his eyes and points at her. “I’m watching, Babe.”
She looks at Beau and he tells her, “You wore pink yesterday.”
She throws a steak fry at him, gives Jessie an exasperated sigh.
From Jessie – “Men check out our body parts. Face, hair, boobs, legs, ass. Anticipating they might get a glimpse of a nipple, panty, or bush if we’re pantyless.”
“I’m wearing white today,” says Stefi. “Sheer but white. I wore red panties once and Sister Stephens sent a note home, saying red panties are Satanic. I told my parents, ‘Why was the damn nun looking up my skirt?’
“Mother said that wasn’t the point and I asked if she ever wore red panties. Or crotchless panties and Dad started choking. We were at supper.”
Jessie turns to Juanita. “Our poor father. Three wild daughters and a damn good-looking wife. All Sicilian. All strong willed.
She looks at Beau again, says, “Spent the afternoon trying to track down credit and debit card purchases connected to the accounts on the Louisiana banks own by these Mafia families. Only purchase was from Lucy Incanto’s personal account at The Monteleone Hotel the day before and after the Bontonomo’s incident.
She eats the last of her po-boy, adds, “Didn’t think of it until I’m on the way home. I’ll have to locate and trace credit and debit cards from their bank accounts in Kansas City and Miami.”
“Wish we knew what the hell’s going on.” This from Jordan.
Beau lifts his glass of iced tea.
“No shit, Sherlock.”
AT 3:10 A.M., Beau sits in black shorts on the back deck with his .357 magnum at his side.
Quiet in the breezeless night. He’d put a Cocoa Puffs and dried cat food mix in Melbourne’s bowl but the coon is a no-show. Stella stands just inside the French doors of the kitchen and watches him.
How does the old saying go? It’s quiet. Too quiet. Not even traffic moving along Saint Charles Avenue in front of the house. He closes his left eye as he scans the yard and what he can see of the top of the walled fence surrounding the yard, the view not blocked by tree trunks and bushes. After a few minutes, he opens his left eye and looks again, can see a little better. Nothing amiss. Yet, there’s something ominous out there. He picks up the magnum, rises and moves across the cool, grass to the 6-foot rock wall running surrounded the property. He eases through the line of thick camellia bushes to the wall. This is the darkest place in the yard. He moves along the wall past a line of azaleas to the magnolia tree and over to the oak at the far end of the yard. He moves back along the wall to the house and over to the deck again. A streetcar rattles along the neutral ground in front of their house, otherwise the night remains eerily silent. He sits again.
In Homicide, figuring out why, figuring out the motive isn’t as important as learning how the murder occurred, when, where (in the case of a dumped body), what occurred (a simple shooting or multiple injuries). Why is nice to know but you follow the facts and don’t speculate why the person is dead. A dead wife isn’t always the victim of a murderous husband. He’s a suspect. Hell, everyone’s a suspect, but motive comes later. Deductive reasoning, arriving at a specific conclusion from a general assumption can lead a detective astray. Conclusions from observations of facts to arrive at a solution involves relying on facts and only facts until only one conclusion is possible.
“What’s bothering the fuck out of me,” Beau whispers. “I’m not smart enough to figure out what these ass-holes are doing.”
As he starts to rise, a breath of air brushes the leaves and he sits and waits to listen to Blue Swan in the trees. He closed his eyes and strains to hear – maybe a breathless voice – maybe a faint chant. Is she whispering to me? A sound comes and rises in his mind and he hears the strains of a violin – a fiddle – and an accordion and a sad, lonesome voice echoing. Someone singing the old Cajun dirge Jolie Blon. And he sees himself, 8-years old, lying across the steps of an unpainted dance hall and peeking under the swinging door at the people dancing at the Fais Do Do. The music changes as the upbeat Colinda rises and people dance the Cajun two-step, the music rising and falling through the cypress swamp around them.
His heart begins to ache and he can almost feel his mother’s arms around his neck, her long black hair surrounding his face, the familiar scent of her skin, can almost feel the brush of his Papa’s unshaven face against his before he kissed his boy on the forehead.
John Raven Beau wonders if everyone feels the sadness of their lost youth. How many times does he remind himself – those were the finest days and nights of his life – a boy living on the edge of the swamp? It is the only place he belonged. Even here, in intoxicating New Orleans, even here with the love of his life lying in their bed upstairs, he will always be out of place, always that little half-Cajun boy haunted by the voices of his Sioux ancestors drumming in his soul.
Melbourne comes out from under the house straight for the food, camps out next to the bowl and scoops out the food with his little paws. Beau picks up his magnum, stands and stretches and looks at the water bowl. He refills it and goes in to Stella who rubs her snout against his legs and moves between his feet as he goes back through the kitchen.
JESSIE STARTS IN on the computer at 8 a.m. By lunchtime she has a list of forty-seven banks used by known associates and close relatives of the Cavalcare and Racconto families, including every
capo, the consiglieres and the two bosses – Luigi Giacomo Cavalcare and Luca Joseph Racconto.
The intercom buzzes.
“Your Greek pizzas are here, Miss Carini.” It’s Jefferson.
“They’re identical. Bring one up here the other two are for you and Mr. Smith.”
“Well, thank you.”
The law firm of Plum, Smith, Leopold & Loeb has one experienced lawyer, 90-year-old Frederick Plum. Stan-the-Man Smith, James Leopold and Ferdie Loeb spent nearly a dozen years at Loyola night school to obtain their law degrees and promptly retired from NOPD. Better bodyguards than lawyers, they carry their retired NOPD commissions and semi-automatic pistols along with their police brutality expertise.
That morning, Stan Smith, in an off-white suit, arrived in time to escort Jessie to work, while Stefi gets her own bodyguard – Ferdie Loeb. The blond-haired blue-eyed goofball Stan had a placard in the rear window of his white SUV reading:
Beware – Bodyguard
On their walk from the parking garage to her office, Jessie had to ask about the sign.
“I want everyone to know exactly what the fuck I’m doing following you around. You know, ‘Hey, get the fuck outta my way. I got a body to guard’. And not just any body, look at this sleek, chic Italian girl with the Playboy body and model’s face.”
A big smile from the big lug.
“They all want you – you know. Every man who sees you wants to touch you, kiss you, ravish you. Even a 40-something year old bastard like me.”
As they’d step into the office building, Stan introduces himself to Mr. Jefferson and said, “Tell me the truth. You think about doing her every time she slinks in here, don’t you?”
First time Jessie saw Mr. Jefferson speechless.
Didn’t help she wore a flesh-colored minidress with tan boots.
AS THE LUNCH crowd thins, Beau steps into Café Degas to find Nick Cataldo at the same rear corner table with the wall behind him. Nick has an espresso cup in front of him and Beau orders the same from a prim waiter, sits.
“Thanks for coming.”
Nick nods.
12 Bullets Page 13
