Enforcer

by Sydney J. Bounds

  Diamond now . . . there was a name nagging at the back of his mind. He lit a cigar and stood by the window, looking out across Lake Pontchartrain on the northern edge of New Orleans. Beyond the trees and benches, people sunbathed on the beach. He saw the causeway crossing the lake and the boats; he liked watching the boats. Maybe he’d buy one when he got settled; his mind worked subconsciously . . . boats . . . water . . . swamp . . . Cajun country. And the name came to him. Haggar.

  His memory flashed back to a time soon after he’d moved south, before he hired Kenny, when he was looking for a bodyguard. ‘Beau’ Haggar had been mentioned. He’d met the man, a hard-line Southerner and member of the KKK, a genuine fire-breathing black-hater. He’d sooner kill a black man than spit on him.

  At that time, Greco had ducked out; he didn’t want a crazy man, a hater. A man like that wasn’t safe, couldn’t be trusted to stay cool.

  But Diamond was a negro; for a one-off, it was the perfect set-up. Greco smiled as he phoned Kenny to bring the car round. He didn’t wait for Barbara to finish her shower, just called a goodbye and took the elevator down.

  He got in the back of the Ford and gave Kenny directions. Away from the city, on Route 90, Kenny moved into top gear, muttering away as he lived his latest sex fantasy.

  Beyond the suburbs, it didn’t take long to reach Cajun country; the low flat delta was a land of cypress swamp and marsh, evergreen and magnolia, a tangle of vegetation that harboured alligators.

  Haggar had a place off the highway and when Kenny turned off, the Ford bumped slowly along a dirt track. There was no sign of habitation and nobody about. It was like driving through a jungle.

  After half-an-hour, Greco said, ‘Here,’ and Kenny stopped outside a pine cabin; most of the paint had long since peeled away till the place looked derelict. Haggar made his money as a hunter and lived alone; he didn’t mind roughing it.

  Greco got out of the car into a sticky heat, the air smelling vile from the muddy delta water alongside the cabin, and walked towards the sagging porch.

  Beauregard Haggar sat in an old cane chair, taking his ease on the veranda and sipping from a dirty glass. A .22 rifle, oiled and spotless, leaned against the wooden wall beside him. The weapon was cleaner than Haggar or his cabin; it was the only possession he took any trouble over. He was unshaven, his whiskers sprouting in uneven bristles, and he smelt almost as bad as the marsh.

  His voice was a nasal Southern whine. ‘I ain’t taking no one a-hunting today, so you can just turn around and go home, Mister City Slicker.’

  Greco moved up onto the veranda out of the sun, taking care where he placed his expensive highly polished shoes; there was dogshit everywhere and the boards didn’t seem any too safe. An evil-looking hound padded up, baring yellow teeth.

  ‘If’n I tell Pooch to take a bite of yuh, you-all’ll run fast enough,’ Beau Haggar drawled and took another sip from his glass.

  ‘I want you to hunt down a black for me,’ Greco said quietly. ‘I want you to kill him. I’ll pay you five thousand dollars when he’s dead.’

  Haggar’s eyes gleamed and he sat up straight in his chair and reached for his rifle. ‘Ain’t no black worth that much, but you’ve surely got me interested.’

  ‘Take care,’ Greco warned. ‘I’ve a man in the car.’

  Haggar spat and set down his empty glass. ‘Show you what Ah’ll do to that black of your’n,’ he grunted and raised the rifle butt to his shoulder. ‘You hear that bird? Mockingbird.’

  Greco turned to where the rifle pointed and saw, about two hundred yards away, a bird perched on the branch of a tree, half-screened by leaves.

  Haggar took aim, almost caressing his rifle as he took first pressure.

  ‘Never give a black an even break,’ he cackled as he squeezed off a shot.

  The mockingbird fell out of the tree into the undergrowth.

  ‘His name’s Diamond,’ Greco said, impressed. ‘And I can tell you where to find him.’

  Haggar smiled and lowered the rifle. ‘Won’t take but a moment to turn him into a good black — a dead one.’

  Greco extracted ten twenties from his wallet. ‘For expenses.’

  A hand like a claw reached for the money and tucked it into the pocket of a faded shirt. Beau Haggar poured himself another drink.

  ‘Reckon you got yourself a deal, Mister. My pleasure — that black of your’n’s good as spitted.’

  *

  Diamond walked back to the office from his bank with a feeling of satisfaction. He’d just paid in the cheque Leland had sent him. If business held up, he might make a go of the investigation business.

  The latest issue of Yellow Pages had arrived and he turned immediately to the entry for Detective Agencies:

  WASHINGTON T. DIAMOND

  All investigations including:

  Tracing Missing Persons

  Bodyguarding

  Confidential Investigations

  Security

  He put his feet on the desk, grinning broadly, and watched the tourists pass by on the other side of the street. He thought of the coming Sunday morning when he had a date with Chelsea at a black church. It was not often they could arrange to attend together and join in the gospel singing; that was something they both enjoyed.

  He ought to make time to get to a gym for a workout; he couldn’t afford to let himself get out of condition . . .

  The telephone rang. ‘Diamond.’

  ‘Ah need help.’ The voice at the other end of the line held a Southern whine.

  ‘What kind of help?’

  ‘I ain’t saying nothing on an open line. You-all ready to meet me?’

  ‘Just say when and where.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting on Front Street. There’s this parking lot with a pay booth opposite a barber’s shop. Nine o’clock tonight.’

  ‘How will I know you?’

  ‘Don’t worry yourself — sure reckon Ah’ll know you.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll be there,’ Diamond said, and the line went dead.

  He looked at his watch. He had time to jog around the three-mile circuit at Audubon Park.

  *

  Beauregard Haggar smiled unpleasantly in the shadow of an upstairs room on Front Street. He cradled his .22 in his arms as he waited, with the loving care a mother gives her first-born. Lights from a distant warehouse cast a yellow glow over the riverfront and he had an unobstructed view of the car park and the telephone booth. There were few people about.

  He took a quick swallow from the bottle of whisky standing on the bare boards beside him. The room was empty and dusty and hadn’t been in use for a long time.

  Diamond was a big man, a target he couldn’t miss. He’d stationed himself opposite the Coin-Op place on Orleans when Diamond went in by the side door, so he’d have no difficulty recognizing him.

  Haggar wondered idly why Greco wanted him dead, but wasn’t really interested. A black was a black and one less made the world a better place in his opinion; it was just unfortunate that the law wasn’t as easy-going as it once had been. He could remember when the Klan would stage a lynching and the law looked the other way . . .

  Like the time they dressed up in white sheets and hoods, all armed with shotguns and carrying a fiery cross. They’d surrounded this shack out in the boondocks, drunk as lords and passing the bottle from hand to hand. Buckshot kept the blacks inside and the cross set the place alight. He remembered the stink of burning bodies as the shack blazed like a tarpaper torch, the screams . . .

  But times were changing. He recalled Greco now and was vaguely aware he’d made his way to the top of the heap; likely he’d have a high-priced lawyer in tow in case anything went wrong.

  Haggar lifted his rifle and sighted on the target area. No problem, one clean shot — he couldn’t miss at this range — and out the back way. This was going to be the easiest money he’d ever made.

  Diamond must really be getting under Greco’s skin for him to pay two thousand bucks to get rid of him. Hagga
r hadn’t said so, but he’d have made the kill for free. God, how he hated those uppity black slaves swaggering about as if they owned the country, raping white women; it was enough to give a man blood pressure.

  He waited, watching the evening shadows grow. The time was close on nine.

  He took another swig from the bottle — good stuff, paid for with Greco’s expense money. Not the cheap booze he often had to put up with. Swamp hunting wasn’t all that great these days.

  The minutes dragged by and he became impatient as he looked from the open window.

  ‘Come on, you black bastard, come and get it.’

  *

  Daylight was fading from the sky as Diamond drove down Poydras Street and turned right onto Front. The lights of the revolving bar on top of the Trade Mart were behind him and across the river, black and mysterious, Algiers showed as a regular grid of yellow oblongs. He glimpsed the shadowy outlines of grain barges.

  He glanced at his watch; he was early and slowed, wondering what sort of job it was this time. It had been a local voice, not a tourist. Did the man realize he was black and would that make any difference? Some of the old-time Southerners still lived in the past.

  He didn’t have far to go. He saw the parking lot ahead and turned in. The phone booth was empty. There was a vacant row of shops opposite, looking as if they were waiting to be torn down for rebuilding. The whole area seemed not only deserted, but derelict.

  A faint light shone from a warehouse further along the waterfront. The evening was still and quiet with only distant traffic sounds as he got out of the Mustang and closed the door.

  He stood looking about him. There was no sign of his client and he walked towards the telephone booth; perhaps the client was going to ring to make another rendezvous.

  Diamond felt alone in the world, and scarily conspicuous. For no obvious reason the hairs on the back of his neck bristled. An old instinct was warning him, as it had more than once in his army days, and he quickened his pace across the deserted lot. He remembered Earl Vogel being gunned down and headed for the nearest patch of shadow.

  He almost made it.

  He heard the crack of a rifle and staggered as something hit and spun him around. He fell, feeling a trickle of blood under his shirt, rolled into deep shadow and lay still.

  Chapter Thirteen – Quick Burner

  The Kingfisher Conference Centre lay between Highway Ten and the Mississippi, midway between New Orleans and Baton Rouge, capital of Louisiana. When Madden discovered it, the place had obviously seen better times. He assumed it had paid its way before the Hilton and other big hotels took the convention business to New Orleans.

  Madden liked it as soon as he set eyes on the low rambling buildings set in their own grounds. There was a small conference room set apart from the main centre, with residential apartments close by. All nicely tucked away from curious eyes.

  When he’d enquired the hiring fee, the manager had shown a moment’s embarrassment despite his obvious eagerness.

  ‘Business has been slow, sir, which means we’ve had to let some of our staff go. Of course, I can get new people —’

  Smiling, Madden shook his head. ‘That’s not necessary. Ours will be a small business meeting, a handful of executives only. I represent Apex Industrials — from the west coast — and we’re about to market a new product. This is one of a few areas designated to test the product. So, we don’t need a lot of extra people running around. Confidential is the word.’

  The manager looked shocked. ‘I assure you, sir — all our conferences are strictly private.’

  ‘And that’s the way we want it. Mustn’t let our competitors get a smell of this before it’s too late for them to catch up.’ Madden winked. ‘My sales force can rough it for a week or so, long enough to get our marketing organised . . .’

  Now Madden smiled at the recollection as he stood at one side of a flat table covered by a large scale map. It showed the objective, a grid of roads, the main highway and University building, the river and steamboat jetty.

  ‘Everything clear? Any questions?’

  Across the table, five men sat on folding chairs studying the layout. They were completely absorbed, their faces serious.

  ‘Nobody carries a gun on this job,’ Madden repeated. ‘The operation will go smoothly providing no one loses his cool.’

  Blackie Hendriks, uncomfortable in a business suit, screwed up his face in thought. ‘Only the one guard?’

  ‘Only one. And he’s middle-aged, sensible — not the sort to play at being a hero. We’ll have complete surprise. All attention will be on Fisher when he makes his announcement — you just take his gun away from him.’

  ‘How much?’ Woody asked. He was tall and thick as a tree with rust-coloured hair now tinged with grey.

  ‘The last weekend of the month they have to carry a lot of cash to cover salaries. My best estimate is between four hundred thousand and a half a million.’

  ‘Cars?’

  Madden looked at Skip, the number two driver. ‘You and Ted find your own. Nothing hot.’

  ‘Violets’, squat and powerful, brooded and said nothing.

  Madden’s cool grey eyes surveyed his team with satisfaction. Greco had done a good job of recruitment. These calm men were all professionals, calm and watchful.

  Casually, he asked: ‘Is that it?’

  There was silence in the conference room except for some heavy breathing.

  ‘Right then,’ Madden said, rolling up the map. ‘It’s on.’

  *

  Diamond lay motionless, letting his breath out in one long easy sigh and listening intently. He had a moment of déja vu when he could smell dank undergrowth, almost see the Viet Cong sniper high among vivid green foliage. He desperately wanted a Browning Automatic Rifle and a couple of grenades. He listened for a tell-tale rustle of leaves.

  Then the jungle vision faded and he was lying on tarmac, in shadow, on a parking lot on Front Street in New Orleans. He saw a crumpled plastic bag, smelt stale beer from an empty can and tobacco from a discarded cigarette pack.

  Hell, he’d gone through a war without getting shot . . .

  The shock and numbness faded and the pain started, high up in his left side; his arm felt useless and blood glued the shirt to his skin. Only a flesh wound, he told himself; he’d been lucky.

  He waited. The tarmac felt gritty under his hands. No further shot came and there was no movement across the empty lot. He had the sniper’s position pinpointed now; an open window on the second floor of an empty barber’s shop. A faded sign read:

  ERNIE’S

  Shave and Trim

  Someone had set him up and it wasn’t Ernie. He was safe in dark shadow as long as he didn’t move; any movement might attract another bullet.

  He began to shiver and knew he was losing blood; he had to get his wound attended to as soon as possible. And that meant he had to move, knowing that a revolver was no match against a rifle.

  Fear made his flesh crawl. Had the would-be killer gone? Or was he still up there, waiting for his target to move into the light?

  He looked towards his Mustang; there was only one other car in the lot, a wreck that had been dumped. Diamond eased himself off the ground, crouching and drawing his revolver with his right hand. He watched the window opposite; it remained dark and blank as if it were laughing at him. Must be getting light-headed, he thought — windows don’t laugh.

  Move it, soldier!

  He ran a fast zigzagging course across the tarmac, ending up close to the door of the barber’s shop, breathing hard. He waited, listening, getting his breath back. There was no sound from inside and he tried the door; it opened with a squeal of hinges.

  He kicked it wide, went inside fast and slammed his back against a wall, revolver held at chest level.

  Nobody took a shot at him. He listened again; still there was no sound. Then his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw bare boards and dust, a grimy plate window and a pile of rubbish in the
far corner.

  Faint scuffmarks indicated where someone had gone upstairs. He crossed to the bottom of the staircase and peered out into darkness. Silence lingered. He took the stairs at a rush and arrived at a landing with a short passage. One room at the front and one at the back. At the end of the passage, a fire door was swinging half-open.

  Diamond was almost sure the rifleman had gone, but he stayed wary. He kicked open the front room door and smelt cordite. There was a brass shell on the floorboards, otherwise the room was empty.

  He pocketed the shell and checked the back room. No one.

  He walked along the passage to the fire door and looked down a flight of rusting iron steps. There was no sign of the would-be assassin; he had got clean away.

  Diamond returned to his car and drove slowly, one-handed, to the nearest hospital and walked into Emergency. The duty intern removed his coat, cut away his shirt and washed off the blood. He took a careful look.

  ‘You realize we have to notify the police in the event of a gunshot wound?’

  Diamond felt drained of energy. ‘I imagine so,’ he said wearily. ‘See if you can get hold of Detective Cave — he knows me.’

  ‘Will do. You’re a lucky man. The bullet went straight through, missing the bone, so you’re just missing a chunk of flesh. It’ll be sore as hell for a few days, but you’ll live.’

  The intern swabbed the wound with antiseptic and bandaged his arm.

  ‘Now I want you to take it easy, just stay sitting a while. Shock can do funny things to the nervous system.’

  As he walked off to deal with the next patient, a nurse brought Diamond a mug of hot sweet tea.

  ‘Drink this, and we’ll see how you feel later on.’

  Diamond sipped the tea uneasily, acutely aware of the blanketing smell of antiseptic and the way it made his stomach heave. He put his feet up and his head back, trying to ignore the pain in his arm as he drowsily wondered who the rifleman had been.

  He was dropping off to sleep when Cave arrived. The Detective’s wrinkled face was beaming and he lit a Marlboro with a flourish.