Good Junk

by Ed Kovacs

  The crates looked to be constructed of some kind of material like graphite or boron or some composite matrix. Bar codes were stenciled onto the cases, but there were no other identifiers. Each locked case had an electric cipher lock with a row of lights above it, all glowing red.

  “Decon said the combo was eight-one-eight-nine.”

  “How would he know?” asked Honey.

  “How would he know there were crates inside? The guy is a freak of nature.”

  Honey reached over and entered Decon’s combination. A whirring sound was followed by the lights sequentially blinking to green as hidden pins retracted with a loud click. I slid open latches and lifted the case lid.

  I heard Honey inhale sharply.

  A shoulder-fired weapon lay perfectly nestled in custom-fitted foam padding. It looked like a futuristic take on the South African-made, hand-held 40mm grenade launcher with a rotating chamber. But any 40mm grenade I’ve ever seen came in a brass shell. These grenades, if that’s what they were, were caseless—there was no metal cartridge holding the primer, propellant, and explosive projectile together. Instead, a solid block of propellant seemed to encase the primer and the explosive round. And although the diameter looked to be about 40mm, each round had to be close to 100mm in length.

  Twenty rounds sat nicely tucked into cut-out foam, and I picked one up.

  “Be careful.”

  “Caseless ammo. Very light. I figure this is some kind of high-explosive round.”

  “What kind of damage you think it could do?”

  “Probably bring down your house without too much trouble.”

  “Our military field anything like this?”

  “Not to my knowledge.” I looked at Honey. “Someone is up to some serious no good.”

  “It would seem so. Unless this is all legit.”

  “Legit? Futuristic weapons sitting in a scrap yard?”

  “Maybe these are props for the movies. Maybe they’re de-milled. Maybe Scrap Brothers has a Federal Firearms License. Maybe they’re working with some three-letter agency. Arms dealing is nothing new. You remember that captain who retired and moved to San Diego? He became an arms trafficker. Sells everything from boots to bullets. To every Third World slime hole you never heard of.”

  “Well this might shed some light on the subject.” I retrieved a DVD in a clear plastic case that had been tucked between the foam padding and the side of the crate. The disk was labeled: GL, SF-X-02. There was no other writing or information of any kind. “We’ll have to copy this.”

  I put the weapon and ammo back the way I found it, then took some cell-phone snaps. “You might be right that this is all legit. But you haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Leroy and Jimmy. So for now, I’m assuming the worst.”

  “That son of a bitch!”

  It looked worse the closer we got to the Bronco. The driver’s door was open and there was no sign of Decon. The door panel had been completely disassembled from the inside. The exterior door handle sat neatly on my front seat, along with my handcuffs and a cold Browning .380 I kept in a hidden compartment in the door.

  “Looks like Decon deconstructed your door,” said Honey, gingerly holding up the chromed door handle by its ends. “I’ll have the lab check it for prints.”

  “That little prick.”

  “He’s some kind of something.”

  “Yeah, and he disappeared before giving us the rest of the names on his list.” I glanced at my watch. “You should go, but I’m heading back inside.”

  She rubbed her eyes wearily. “I’m coming, so let’s get it over with.”

  Honey copied the DVD from the weapons crate using my Bronco’s in-dash computer while I grabbed gear out of locked compartments in the back. We reentered the yard. I returned the DVD and we planted GPS tracking units in a couple of the weapons crates inside the cargo container and on the roof of the green cargo container itself.

  In the scrap-yard office, Honey copied the brothers’ computer hard drive onto an external drive while I tapped the phone lines. I planted a sophisticated listening device on top of a tall steel cabinet covered with years of dust. The battery-powered ghost transmitter would record all sound in the office—a week’s worth—and store it on a flash drive. The unit had a SIM card, so I could simply dial a number and the digitally encrypted data would be sent via burst transmission to a receiver in my Bronco as long as I was within a quarter-mile radius. Whatever the brothers were up to, I was going to find out.

  Honey noticed that one of the brothers used a desktop ink blotter like a day planner, with the notes being in some kind of shorthand code, so we photographed every large page of the blotter, one huge page for every month of the year. Then, as she was photographing every card in the old Rolodex, Honey abruptly stopped.

  “Here we go.”

  I went over and looked at the card listing the name Breaux Enterprises along with several phone numbers.

  “Nice piece of hard evidence linking our victim here.”

  It’s called a second wind, and we both suddenly caught one. A bit more alert, we took a final look around. I noticed a bottle of brandy standing next to an out-of-date phone book. But what caught my eye was the edge of a piece of paper sticking out from the middle of the phone book. I retrieved the single sheet of typing paper, shocked to see that it listed all of the Jefferson brothers’ user names and passwords for e-mail and bank accounts, plus every kind of Web site imaginable. I also saw what had to be a combination that I figured went to the government-issue file-cabinet safe.

  I’d found the Keys to the Kingdom. We’d already been there two hours, as I photographed the password sheet.

  “We’re pushing our luck, let’s get out of here,” said Honey.

  As if to emphasize her point, we heard the Doberman stirring outside, sounding like a monster clearing his throat.

  “If this is the combination, it’ll just take a second to open the safe and take a peek.”

  “What about the dog outside?”

  “Maybe he’s got a hangover.”

  I spun the dial to the right several times causing the digital display to light up. I went around one more time and stopped at sixty-seven. Two spins to the left, to thirty-three, then one spin right to seventeen. I waited a few seconds, saw the OPEN code, then turned the heavy lever and opened the top file drawer.

  “The scrap business must be pretty good.”

  “Kind of reminds me of Del Breaux’s carry-on luggage,” I said.

  Bundles of hundred-dollar bills were stacked deep in the first two drawers. A money-counting machine and a couple of pistols sat in the third drawer. “Wish I needed a money-counting machine. It’s always the dirtbags that need them. You notice that? This looks like about half a mil to me.”

  “Just hurry up,” said Honey.

  As I reached for the bottom drawer, the Doberman made some otherworldly guttural sounds. Maybe he was licking his chops. Maybe he knew dinner was standing inside the office.

  Inside the bottom drawer was a cigar box full of identical sleek black ball-point pens with gold pocket clips and trim.

  “Designer pens?”

  I picked one up and examined it closely. “No markings, just a serial number.” As I went to unscrew the cap—

  “Saint James—let’s go.”

  I looked up at her; the dark circles under her eyes were the worst I’d ever seen on her. I nodded, replaced the pen, and re-locked the safe. We locked up the office and as we skirted the dopey dog, I showed him my incisors, for his consideration.

  The hands on my watch pushed at 4 A.M. Honey wanted me to crash at her place, only minutes away, but I refused to park my truck on the street without being able to lock it. So she followed me into the Warehouse District. I was able to park both of my trucks inside my building on the ground floor. She parked her unit in a small space I had in the back.

  I’d just made us a couple of Grey Goose Sevens when she came into the kitchen wearing only a red bra and panties, her tr
amp-stamp tattoo of crossed lightning bolts visible just above her buttocks. She took her drink from my hand and took a sip.

  “I can’t give this info to the department since I was never there.”

  “I know.”

  “But I can pay the Scrap Brothers a visit to pick up the bronze plaque,” said Honey. “Get a look at the Rolodex. Legally establish Del Breaux’s number being in there.”

  “Take some uniforms with you. Maybe find a bunch of code violations. Sweat them.”

  Honey nodded, then, “So it looks like they’re developing weapons systems at Michoud.”

  “They’re doing something secret. Maybe Breaux and Klenis work for DARPA.”

  “I can’t keep track of all the federal agencies.”

  “Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. Black-projects scientists and engineers. They come up with all kinds of gadgets and gizmos.”

  “That might make sense. The shuttle program is history. Michoud is a big facility. Looking for a mission.”

  “You think it’s a safe bet Breaux was selling stuff out the back door at Michoud?”

  “I think I’m too tired to think anymore. And I have to be in court in a few hours on another case.”

  But my mind was in overdrive and hadn’t downshifted yet. “Honey, it might be a good idea to call Eighth District, ask for some uniforms to work the Quarter, see if they can turn up Joey Bales, Danforth’s ex-boyfriend.”

  “You considering a jealousy angle? Knowing what we know now?”

  “Not doing that bit me in the ass on another murder investigation, didn’t it?”

  “You’re right about that.”

  We tossed back our drinks. She took my hand and led me to bed. We’d slept together many times but never had sex, so this was nothing new to me. It didn’t matter; I was tired, pissed at Decon Danny Hawthorne Doakes, and more aware than ever that murky water was rising fast all around me. The only good things were that I had the sexiest cuddle-buddy in town and thoughts of Bobby Perdue had been sidelined.

  “So how was it seeing Blond Ambition again?” Honey asked me, climbing into bed.

  “Who?”

  “Harding.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed and took off my shoes. “She’s a brunette now, and Harding and I have a pretty testy relationship.”

  “Unrequited lust,” said Honey with more than a tinge of jealousy. Basically Honey was jealous of any woman in my life, except Mom. And even then, I wasn’t completely sure.

  “The only unrequited lust I have is for you.”

  I’d said it matter-of-factly and she looked at me as if I’d just shot her dog. She didn’t like me relating to her as a sexual object, yet she interjected more and more sexuality into our relationship as time went by. It was she who had to control the sexual content in our relationship, to an extent, reducing me to the object.

  But I wasn’t looking for a fight. “Honey, you know I love being with you, just the way you are. Just the way we are. No strings attached, no preconditions.”

  Her look softened. “You sure about that?”

  “Have I ever pressured you otherwise?”

  She looked down, and then put her hand on mine.

  “We don’t ever have to become lovers,” I said, then paused. “You think it would screw up our relationship if we did?”

  After a long pause, “Maybe.”

  I nodded. “I mean, you don’t want to do that, right?”

  “Screw up our friendship?”

  “No, I’m talking about—” But I let it trail off. We were waltzing around the topic of becoming lovers. I’d figured our fatigue might make it easier to talk about this, so I’d thrown out the bait, but once again, Honey didn’t take it.

  “You mean a lot to me. More than you know.” I took her hand, kissed it, and got up from bed. “I have to get the lights, set the alarms, text Kendall to meet me here first thing in the morning.”

  I was back in three minutes and Honey lay fast asleep. I stripped to T-shirt and boxers and climbed in next to her. There was a lot to do tomorrow, including examine all the evidence from Scrap Brothers. Then I’d have to track down Decon and get the other names on his list. And this time, I might just snap his spine. After a moment I exiled those thoughts and gently spooned with Honey.

  Perhaps she was right to keep sex between us out of the picture. Maybe what we both needed more than anything was a true friend practicing unconditional love. Life was hard enough; why complicate it more?

  Even though Perdue and I had agreed to pace it light in round one, just to see how it went, then pick it up later if we needed to, he came at me hard as the ring timer rang in the first round. I didn’t quite know what to make of the fact that we’d just spoken about beginning in a controlled way, yet here he was throwing a hyper aggressive attack strategy at me. There’s a reason there are weight classes; he had a good fifty pounds on me, three-inch height advantage, and fifteen years less time walking the planet.

  Was it because his girlfriend was watching or his buddy was videotaping? Big Bob, an ex-felon and old friend of mine who had a gym out in Fat City, acted as the ref, and I could see in his eyes he was surprised the kid was coming at me so hard.

  The kid hammered me with his long jabs, then followed up with a wild series of body and head hooks. Then he’d clench, applying his weight advantage to try to wear me out.

  At the end of the first round, I realized I was in a fight, not the sparring session we had agreed on. I could have just ended it, I could have climbed down from the cage. I could have spoken to him, told him he needed to dial it way down. But I didn’t do any of that. I just went to my corner and considered what his weaknesses might be. I strategized how I was going to win this fight.

  It wasn’t like the kid was some white belt who didn’t know his own power or how to control it. He was an experienced fighter and knew exactly what he was doing. And his goal was clearly to kick my ass. So naturally, I decided then and there that I would kick his instead, and teach him a little lesson.

  What a stupid decision on my part. What was it in me that needed to go into competition with the kid? To prove I still had it? To assuage my ego? Was it because the session was being videotaped, because the kid’s girl was watching—was that why I didn’t back down? Were the kid and I somehow motivated by exactly the same immature reasons? And why did I have to be the guy to teach him a lesson?

  I’d slept for about an hour before waking again and being flooded with thoughts of that day with Bobby Perdue. As I lay next to Honey, staring at the ceiling and listening to the quiet whir of the air-conditioning, she rolled over and draped her pale arm around me. I smelled vanilla and citrus and her caress helped me to focus on something good. Even though she slept deeply, she gave me strength, and I closed my eyes and drifted to a sweeter place.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Honey left at six-thirty just as Kendall Bullard arrived. Quite the babe magnet, Kendall functioned like a UN ambassador to women; his many girlfriends came in every size, shape, and color, sometimes in triplicate. So there was no way he would understand my relationship with Honey—not that I did either—and I let my old student assume whatever he cared to. But when you see a girl leaving a guy’s place early in the morning, there’s usually only one conclusion to arrive at.

  Kendall stood next to me in the kitchen as I fished a set of truck keys out of a utility drawer. His curly peroxide-blond hair was getting shaggy and his sweat-damp forearms glistened, making his cheap, mono-colored tattoos—the ones he got before he had money—look better than they should. He had blue fiberglass casts on his hand and foot which seemed to just disappear thanks to his ease of movement. The casts were a result of his last UFC fight; “The Killer Creole” had broken both his right hand and his right foot in the second round. Tough as nails, he’d kept fighting for two more rounds after the breaks and won the fight with a knockout using his left hand.

  “How’s the rehab going?” I asked.

  “Good. You be th
e one I worried ’bout.” Kendall and other local pro fighters knew I’d been having a rough time dealing with Perdue’s death. They had all graciously been teaching my classes at the dojo for the last month.

  “You know what?” I said, looking at him. “I’m actually feeling a little better.”

  Kendall nodded, satisfied, then listened to the special assignment I had planned for him. I gave him the keys and sent him to stakeout Scrap Brothers in one of my specially equipped surveillance vans. I wanted footage of whomever went into or came out of that green cargo container. The stakeout van looked like a junker, so it wouldn’t stand out in that neighborhood. But it bristled with all the latest bells and whistles and even had a small toilet and well-stocked kitchen. The tires could deflate and re-inflate at the touch of a button. Flat tires worked wonders in keeping the local thugs from trying to jack the ride, and Leroy and Jimmy, if they eyed it, would think it had been stolen and abandoned. I owned two such vans, in addition to my two personal vehicles, and rented the vans out to other PIs in town when I wasn’t using them. For this gig I’d be paying Kendall out of my savings—a small price to pay for the sanity I was regaining by working the case.

  I brewed a pot of my favorite Laotian coffee, cleared boxes from the dining table, and went to work examining the evidence collected from Scrap Brothers.

  Big surprise—they kept little money in the bank. I ignored the porn Web sites they subscribed to, but logged on to their cell-phone account and downloaded their phone records. Who needs a subpoena? A number of Web sites revealed they actively bid on and sometimes won numbered lots of surplus government goods, much of it junk, all purchased from local facilities such as Naval Air Station Joint Reserve Base New Orleans out in Belle Chasse, Naval Support Activity, the New Orleans U.S. Coast Guard Station, Jackson Barracks, and—NASA’s Michoud Facility. These were legal auctions, consolidated and run by a company called Government Liquidators. It made sense that scrap dealers would buy and bid on select lots at these types of auctions. That’s why the Scrap Brothers office was furnished in government-surplus chic.