Good Junk

by Ed Kovacs

  “Really? Maybe there’s a little common sense in D.C., after all.” I watched her pouring the liquor. “Say, Harding, you got a first name?”

  “Jill,” she said, as she mixed the drinks. “What about you; what do like to be called?”

  ‘“Handsome’ works.” I stood and joined her in the kitchen area. If I stayed on the couch for any length of time, I’d become part of it.

  As she shook the concoction in a stainless-steel shaker, she flashed me a wry smile. “Yeah, you look really suave at the moment. The scabbing on your head is right out of GQ magazine.”

  “I try. Gee, if I’d known you make martinis the right way, I would have come a lot sooner.”

  “I’d prefer if you didn’t come too soon,” she said.

  “Timing is everything.”

  She leaned over and gave me a gentle kiss. “I don’t know where to touch you. Is there any part of your body that isn’t shot or cut or broken?”

  “Well, there’s one place.”

  “Then maybe Nurse Jill better take a look.”

  Suddenly I didn’t feel quite so tired.

  The sex was—careful. I confirmed my earlier theory that Harding liked a man who could take a few licks. My wounds fascinated her, and, well, considering my condition, I pretty much had to let her do all the work. As we reclined in bed nursing our martinis, I brought the conversation around to business and brought her up to speed on the bullet points of the case. I’d always pegged Harding for an ambitious go-getter. Making the arms-smuggling case would have been a sweet resume builder.

  She pursed her lips together like she was thinking about something unpleasant.

  “If the public only knew the kinds of things that really go on behind the scenes,” she said, looking over to me and lacing her fingers through mine. “When I graduated from Quantico, I was naïve, gung-ho, stupidly believing we were going to right wrongs and fix the world, to make America a safer place. But any agent who’s posted in D.C. for any length of time quickly sees the ugly truth. The dirty politics, the backstabbing, desperate career jockeying, the huge sewer of a broken, thoroughly corrupt system that we have to protect at all costs because it’s all about denial.

  “I made some enemies and got transferred to a backwater called New Orleans. And until I can make a career change, I need my job. So I have to be semi-careful. But I no longer worry about promotions or scoring points or pissing off people in Washington.”

  My estimation of Harding just increased tenfold. She wasn’t trying to build a resume, she just wanted to send some crooks up the river.

  “Anything come back on Global Solutions?” I asked.

  “They’re a front for a front for a front. I can’t dig too deep or it will raise red flags.”

  I nodded. “I have to ask—how did you know I was at Pravda when you had the dossiers delivered?”

  “Scent.”

  I deadpanned a “come clean” look.

  “I triangulated your cell-phone signal.”

  “But there’s no tracking software on my phone, I wipe it regularly.”

  “There are other ways. If you’re a really bad cop, I’ll teach you.”

  “In that case, assume the position.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Stopping by Harding’s hadn’t been intended as a pleasure junket. I needed the local FBI office’s assistance for a dust-up I hoped to orchestrate tomorrow. In furtherance of that, I had scheduled a late confab with my pirate krewe to take place after I’d met with Harding. We met at Pampy’s on North Broad, a Creole-soul-food restaurant and bar owned by a former city hall insider who was currently in a lot of trouble with the federal prosecutor. Something to do with graft, a shocking allegation in New Orleans politics. Shocking in that it was being investigated. Graft or not, I was addicted to the No. 9 Special and had secured us a private room.

  Ever adept at multi-tasking, Kendall worked his laptop with hand and foot casts never seeming to get in the way, while almost simultaneously texting four different girlfriends. Decon lounged casually nursing a beer and a cigarette. Senior homicide detectives Mackie and Kruger were there, officially as part of the investigation into my attempted murder. Unofficially I wanted to get them pregnant with the bigger picture and hopefully elicit their help. And of course, Honey sat steaming because I was late.

  There was no denying the fact that as I entered it was a perp walk, as far as Honey was concerned anyway, since I had brought the jezebel FBI agent with me. Maybe there was something to the “scent” thing I’d joked about. Honey said nothing, but her face flushed red and her flashing eyes charged, judged, and sentenced me. Yes, women always seemed to know. I was a man, and that made me guilty, right there. What more evidence was needed?

  Introductions were made, drinks served, and my wounds were fawned over by everyone but Honey, who clearly sensed that Harding had already done that. I hadn’t wanted to rub Honey’s nose in anything by bringing Harding to the meeting, but the local FBI had a key role to play in tomorrow’s festivities, and that was that. We would live or die by the result of tomorrow’s efforts. All told, we had thirty-six hours to wrap the case in ribbons for Chief Pointer.

  “Detective Baybee, I haven’t seen you since you were shot at the Hotel Monteleone at Mardi Gras. I’m glad you’re doing well. And congratulations for taking this case a lot further than I was able to.” Harding was trying to extend an olive branch of sorts.

  “I’m not too happy with the FBI these days, Agent Harding,” said Honey coolly.

  “I’m not happy with those D.C. boys, either.”

  “Honey, we need local bureau assets tomorrow,” I said. “NOPD doesn’t have an air unit and we’ll need air support.”

  “All right, calling in an air strike! I haven’t done that in years,” crowed Decon, getting everyone’s attention.

  “I’m not so sure about making Decon the centerpiece of your sting,” said Harding, quietly. “In fact, you have to be kidding.”

  “There’s no choice, really.”

  “Then we better get to work.”

  Harding had been ordered off the arms-smuggling case, but she wasn’t prohibited from committing resources in a counter-espionage operation. So for the next several hours over hot food and cold drinks we either worked as one large group or broke into smaller groups with constantly shifting configurations as people moved from group to group, planning a series of operations that largely bordered on wishful thinking. If a third of what I wanted to do worked, I’d be shocked.

  And as I’d hoped, Mackie and Kruger got caught up in the sheer audacity of it all and provided trenchant counsel and advice.

  Decon had kept pretty much to himself, and I crossed to a corner and joined him.

  “You’re being quiet tonight.”

  “The hard work is done, if you understand my thinking. Plus, there are too many cops here, so I’m inhibited. Anyway, tonight is chill. Tomorrow’s the fun part.”

  “Tomorrow is the dangerous part.”

  Decon just shrugged. “I’m okay. It’s you I’d be worried about.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, look at you, man. You’re the walking frigging wounded, and you’re our key guy. A mama gerbil could kick your ass right now, if you comprehend me, no offense intended.”

  “None taken. You want to bail, you can bail.”

  “No, colonel, you have inspired your troops. I had to take on a Russian myself once. In Prague. We rolled up a four-man wet team. The last guy, I had to go hand-to-hand with in a hotel bathroom. Big old bear of a vodka-swilling Bolshevik.”

  “Decon, that sounds a bit far-fetched. You’re a hundred and forty pounds dripping wet.”

  “Speaking of dripping, you did the FBI babe, didn’t you? And in your condition.” He clucked his tongue at me in mock scorn.

  I gave Decon my best shut-the-hell-up-or-I’ll-kill-you look.

  “Your secret is safe with me. All of your secrets.”

  “All of what secrets?�
�

  He just waved me off and shook his head. I let it go; I was too tired to even think. In short order the meeting broke up and people wandered off till it was just Honey and me.

  “The Customs guy won’t be calling you anymore,” said Honey.

  “Because—?”

  “Didn’t show up for work today. Slit his wrists in a tub of water at home.”

  I shook my head. “Damn.”

  “Nightshift detective on the case is a good one. I told her it might be staged. She’s on top of it.”

  “Guess I should feel a little guilty about that, but I’m already on overload.”

  “He made his own bed.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Speaking of bed, there’s a hole in my roof that hasn’t been fixed, courtesy of those Russians. Can I crash at your place? I’m all in.”

  “Why didn’t you ask Harding?”

  Ouch. I guess in Honey’s mind I deserved that. I tolerated her jealousy because I loved her.

  “Never mind, I’ll get a hotel room. See you tomorrow.”

  I sank into a chair and closed my eyes. What a day. Today had to rank as one of the most intense of my life, starting with the early morning session in Chief Pointer’s office and my recommissioning, then the killings in my loft, the hospital surgery, Pelkov getting his head blown off in front of me, the Haddad interrogation, a fling with Harding, and now Honey blowing me off. I couldn’t even say I was running on fumes; I was out of those, too.

  As my mind flooded with a thousand details, one big one muscled aside all of the others: I had killed again today. And in my own house. But the odd thing was, it didn’t bother me. There was no second-guessing, no slow-motion replays or recrimination, no pissed-off Why did this have to happen to me? inner dialogue. I simply felt numb. Or maybe I was getting used to the bloodletting.

  Round Three. Time to turn the tables. A couple of techniques I know have the potential to bring down a bigger, stronger guy. A low line kick to the common peroneal is awesome with boots on, but Bobby Perdue and I were fighting barefoot. That left my turning back kick, aka “donkey kick” and I elected to go for it. Now, how to bait it?

  Based on the way he moved, I figured I could use my right leg kick and straight right hands to get him moving to my left. It started working, and after I unloaded with a solid leg kick, he got annoyed and moved to my left.

  In a split second I saw the opening. I let the right hand fly and he took the bait; he blocked it as I hoped he would, then slid to my left, thinking he had me. He loaded up, ready to throw his own killer right, but I was a step ahead. I planted my left foot, began my spin to the right, picked up my target with peripheral vision as I simultaneously unloaded with my right leg. With my back now to my opponent I was essentially kicking behind me. My head craned so I could watch as my heel slammed into his solar plexus area with a satisfying crunch.

  I opened my eyes to see Honey staring at me.

  I had no idea what I might have been saying as I dozed off in the chair in Pampy’s. I didn’t care. I just started talking it out, staring straight through Honey as though she weren’t even there.

  “He just laid there, in the fetal position. Couldn’t speak. I thought I’d knocked the wind out of him. Big Bob counted him out, and the kid’s corner man, I mean his buddy, came into the cage, and so did his girlfriend. I turned away. I wasn’t trying to gloat or anything. I had knocked his ass down and won the fight; it felt good. I figured he might take a lesson from it.

  “It wasn’t an alley fight, you know? We wore protective gear: shin and instep guards, sixteen-ounce gloves, headgear, mouthpiece, cup. The guy came at me a hundred percent, but neither of us fought dirty. Anyway, after a few minutes he started making some strange sounds. Sounds I never heard from a guy who got the wind knocked out of him. I asked if the kid was okay. He didn’t look okay. Big Bob took a look at him, then looked at me, and I knew it was time to call EMS.

  “Paramedics got there quick—six, seven minutes. Nobody had turned off the video camera, so all this was captured on tape. He was unconscious but alive when they loaded him into the wagon. See, if he hadn’t stepped forward after he loaded up, if he hadn’t been so damn aggressive, he wouldn’t have taken the brunt of the kick. It wasn’t designed to hit him full force. To knock him down, yes, but not to damage him. If he hadn’t charged me in that half-second when I wasn’t looking, when I was doing my spin, he’d be alive and healthy today.

  “He died at the hospital. I’d ruptured his xiphoid process. You know, thoracic trauma. A sharp chunk of bone perforated his internal structures and caused massive bleeding inside his body. I called PD and reported it after EMS took him, and a detective came and took a report. He replayed the video, took it for evidence, interviewed Big Bob. There was no charge or arrest, he just took a report.

  “When the kid’s girlfriend came the next day looking for the camcorder, she screamed at me and said I’d killed her boyfriend. I wanted to go see the parents, apologize, explain how it was an accident, not my fault. Everybody told me not to go, but I went anyway. I was outside their front door on the porch, and the mother clipped me with a left and cut my chin with her wedding ring. The husband knocked me to the ground. I didn’t bother to defend myself. They didn’t really hurt me much. They probably would have killed me if they could have, but they were too torn up emotionally. They said they’d sue in civil court for wrongful death, get my dojo from me, get my house and all my money. But the sleaziest ambulance-chasing lawyer wouldn’t take the case on consignment because there was no case. The kid had signed a release—everybody who fights in my dojo has to—and the whole thing was on tape. Everything was a slam dunk in my favor. The parents just needed to vent and lash out at somebody and I was obviously the guy.

  “I went back a second time, but I didn’t let them hit me. They screamed at me, threatened to have me arrested.”

  My eyes refocused, finding Honey’s gaze.

  “I’ve been thinking I might go back sometime when they’re more settled down. But what if Bobby’s parents read in the paper about what happened in my loft today? They’ll just think I’m a stone cold killer. Won’t they?”

  Honey’s eyes never left mine.

  I’d never spoken to Honey or anybody else about the events surrounding Bobby Perdue’s death. I’d given police the facts, but nothing else.

  Decon had been right; this talk felt like a good step.

  Honey silently took my hand and led me out of Pampy’s.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Looking like the sleazy scammer that he was, Decon sat in the patio of Café du Monde on Decatur Street enjoying a café au lait, as my favorite Chinese sparring partner, Ding Tong, sat across from him pointing a Niton gun, an X-ray fluorescence analyzer, at the materials sample stolen by Del Breaux from Project GIDEON. The Niton gun looked a little like a handheld hair dryer with an LED screen, but hair dryers don’t cost forty thousand dollars a pop. The state-of-the-art tool was used for metal-alloy testing and identification. Decon had the GIDEON sample stuffed in an olive drab army laundry bag.

  Honey and I, pretending to be a tourist couple, watched and listened from the covered rear section of a horse carriage parked across the street. We hadn’t bugged Decon or the table, but strategically placed super-sensitive uni-directional shotgun mikes in the patio and ran the sound input through an instantaneous filtering software so we heard everything Decon and Tong said. I used a camera’s zoom lens to monitor the action while pretending to take pictures of Honey. Harding, Kendall, and a local FBI team handled video surveillance and provided a security perimeter in case Tong tried to pull a fast one, but I didn’t expect him to.

  The meet today was for Tong to confirm that Decon had the real goods, and for Decon to agree to a price. A second meeting would then be arranged to do the deal, and that’s when the bust would come down.

  “Okay, is same piece,” muttered Tong to Decon through a mouth of swollen lips and missing teeth. I could see now that the SWAT commander
had gotten in a great punch.

  Tong powered off the Niton gun. It had been Tong, apparently, who had examined the sample when it had been in Del Breaux’s possession.

  “We do now,” Tong said. “I have money.”

  “You have a million bucks in that little bag?” asked Decon. “Because that’s the price, know what I mean?”

  “Five hundred thousand for this.”

  “Whoa whoa whoa,” said Decon. “I said one million.”

  “You not have formula, files. Only have this,” said Tong.

  “Take the money,” I urged, even though Decon couldn’t hear me. “Tong brought money with him! This wasn’t supposed to be the buy.”

  “We get the exchange on tape? We bust him, it’s a wrap,” said Honey.

  But Decon was having none of it.

  “So this formula that you want. Let’s see, there wasn’t no formula when I broke into that cop’s truck. No papers, no formula. But, could what you want be in a laptop?” he asked Tong.

  “What’s Decon, doing,” I asked Honey, as we sat in the carriage, listening. “He mentioned the laptop. How does he even know about it? Did you tell him?”

  “No,” said Honey.

  “What laptop?” Tong asked Decon.

  “I never seen one like this. In some kind of hard case, if you understand what I mean. On the bottom it said it was property of DOD. This guy Dod important?”

  Decon pronounced “Dod” like “God.” Nice touch, if a little overdone. I tried to focus the camera lens on Tong’s expression, but couldn’t get a clear look.

  “What the hell is he up to? He could blow everything,” said Honey.

  “You have laptop?” asked Tong.

  “I sold it,” said Decon. “But I can get it back. If that means you give me a million for the whole package, you know what I’m saying?”

  “I give you five hundred thousand now and take this metal. Give you five hundred thousand more when you get laptop.”