Good Junk

by Ed Kovacs

  Brandt had kept a standing booking of a private dining room every Saturday night since the restaurant reopened after the hurricane. Tonight was no exception.

  About a half dozen FBI CI-3 agents assisted by Brandt’s personal security force covered all entrances to the chic boîte. Agents Gibbs and Minniear stood guard inside at the closed mahogany doors to the private dining room.

  We hit them hard and all at once. Fifteen SWAT officers in full tactical gear, a dozen uniforms, and a dozen detectives. Since this raid was primarily concerned with the attempted murder of a police officer—yours truly—Detectives Mackie and Kruger made sure we brought overwhelming force. Harding and her local FBI team stood by at the offices of Brandt Holdings where other detectives would be using a search warrant to seize company computers.

  The agents and security goons posted outside Restaurant August were easily moved aside. I limped as fast I could behind the wedge provided by Honey, Mackie, Kruger, and other homicide detectives.

  Seeing our approach, Agents Gibbs and Minniear stood shoulder to shoulder—guardians at the gates of hell.

  “Arrest warrant for Clayton Brandt for conspiracy to commit murder,” said Honey, matter-of-fact. I hadn’t apologized to Honey, but in our pre-raid meeting she acted like nothing had happened.

  “Gentlemen, step aside or I’ll arrest you for impeding,” said Mackie to the FBI men, and he meant it.

  Minniear looked ready to rumble, but Gibbs restrained him. “These rubes just don’t learn. It’s all rigged, they’re all on the take, and I guess they think there’s more juice in the orange so they’re going to keep squeezing.”

  “You got it bass-ackwards, agent,” I said. “The real crooks, the thieves of a higher order, are your masters back in D.C. whose dirty water you carry on a daily basis. The corruption in our little city is chicken feed compared to the sewer you swim in.”

  Mackie and the other detectives muscled Gibbs and Minniear aside, and we entered the darkened dining room. Clayton Brandt stood behind a small podium at the front of the room, holding a tiny remote in his hand as he cycled through a presentation projected onto a white wall by a mini-digital projector. An air force captain stood at ease next to a display table containing brochures and pamphlets. Diners sat at tables fat with premium wines and rich fare. Fine white linen, silverware, and crystal augmented the elegant meal of pumpkin soup with blue lump crab, seafood amuse boche served in an eggshell, and salt cod ravioli.

  Tan Chu and Nassir Haddad were conspicuously absent, as represented by the sole empty table.

  “So as you can see, gentlemen, tonight we are offering up an unusual batch of—Brandt stopped mid-sentence as he noticed our entrance.

  Detective Kruger switched on the lights. The sight of our phalanx of hard-looking invaders, including SWAT officers, sent murmurs rippling through the room. Clayton Brandt turned bright red and instinctively looked to the door for his FBI boys but saw nothing but more NOPD officers pile into the room.

  “General,” I bellowed, grabbing everyone’s attention as I tried not to limp too noticeably, moving into the center of the room. “Detective Saint James, New Orleans Police Department here. I am very happy to interrupt this assembly of death merchants you have so assiduously assembled, and I take great pleasure in announcing that you are under arrest.”

  Mackie and Kruger moved forward and did the honors. Brandt put up no struggle as they read him his rights and charges and gave him the silver-bracelet treatment. Aside from maintaining his crimson complexion, he said nothing, but if looks could kill, my parents would never have conceived me.

  I faced the assembled buyers. “Gentlemen, thank you all for coming, but the dinner is over, the auction is canceled, and you are all invited to get the hell out of New Orleans. You will be photographed and fingerprinted by police detectives as you make your way back to your hotel, where you are urged to pack your bags and leave. Now get out!”

  Mackie and Kruger stood next to me like onyx bookends to the sad volume of Clayton Brandt. “You want to take him for the perp walk? TV news crews are waiting outside,” said Mackie.

  “Would you guys mind doing it?” I asked. “I don’t want my ugly mug to break the cameras. And guys, great work.”

  As the room quickly emptied, Honey and I approached the now-befuddled air force officer, Captain Hasse, who looked like a deserter caught in the searchlight of a war wagon.

  “What’s this all about?” the captain asked.

  “Murder,” said Honey. “You part of it?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Let me see your credentials,” I said.

  Captain Hasse hesitated, then handed me his plastic ID cards. This was Honey’s cue to spin him around and begin a pat-down. With the captain’s back to me, I scanned his IDs using a scanner app on my smartphone. I immediately transmitted the scans to Kendall, who sat in my brown surveillance van a block away. As soon as I pocketed my phone, Honey spun the captain around to face me.

  “These seem authentic.” I handed back his IDs. “Detective Baybee, would you mind taking the captain downtown? But don’t place him under arrest unless you hear from me.”

  “Arrest? Hey, you can’t—” said Hasse.

  “This is a murder investigation, Captain. Do I have to handcuff you, or will you just cooperate?”

  The captain quickly went limp, and Honey gave me a quick look as she led him away, following in Clayton Brandt’s footsteps toward a waiting police unit. She didn’t know exactly what I was up to, but soon she would be able to guess.

  Less than a minute passed when Detective Fred Gaudet from burglary, who had been instrumental in rolling up the CI-3-asset tail vehicles, hurried inside, tossed me a camcorder and gave me a thumbs-up. I silently turned and made my way to the kitchen, snagged and scarfed down a tiny slice of goat-cheese cheesecake in full view of kitchen staff, then entered the alley. I threaded through a group of coppers and found a just-stolen Harley-Davidson Softail parked beside the brown surveillance van. Yes, I’d stolen the bike earlier, and I was a cop, but devious habits die hard. After tonight’s operation it would be anonymously returned to its owner with a cash bonus.

  “Without a hitch?” Kendall asked, after sliding open the side door of the van.

  “I prefer caramel cheesecake, but so far so good.” I responded.

  Kendall handed me a very official looking fake Michoud ID. He’d cooked it up in minutes on the van’s computer based on the template from the scan I sent him.

  “Sweet,” I said, checking out Kendall’s handiwork. “Erase any evidence that you did this, and see you at the rendezvous point.”

  I eased on a wrap-around black motorcycle helmet that nicely scrunched up my few visible features, then gingerly got onto the bike, favoring my leg wounds.

  “You okay to ride?” asked Kendall.

  “Ride? Don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re fixing a flat under the Crescent City Connection, remember?” I turned the throttle and shot the big loud bike off into the night.

  I coasted the sputtering hog to a stop at the NASA Michoud Facility Gate 5 guard shack, where a female rent-a-cop briefly perused my brand-new fake ID, making me almost feel like a scamming teenager again. A gigantic Saturn V Stage 1 rocket booster, lit up in the dark night and permanently mounted on towering display adjacent to the gate, stood as a mocking reminder of what the United States used to do, of visions it used to hold dear, of might it once wielded wisely. It irked me that almost literally in the shadow of such technological accomplishment, weasels like Brandt and Breaux and others did their best to sell out our accomplishments to agents of governments that were clearly our enemies.

  I motored through the base like I owned the place and parked the Harley right in the J-19 loading dock. A couple of airmen gave me a look, and I motioned them over to me. I flashed another very nice-looking fake ID, this one from a template courtesy of Harding when she wasn’t paying attention.

  “FBI CI-3. We have a situation with Gene
ral Brandt and Captain Hasse. Who’s in charge here?” I said with all the arrogance I could muster, keeping the helmet on.

  An E-7 stepped forward. “I’m Hansen, sir.”

  “First Sergeant Hansen, the general and captain have just been arrested by New Orleans police detectives for conspiracy to commit murder.”

  Off the two men’s shocked looks, I handed the camcorder to Hansen and pushed the play button. The two airmen watched wide-eyed as the video taken by Fred Gaudet showed Brandt and Hasse being led out of Restaurant August and put into squad cars.

  “This went down about thirty minutes ago and it’s all over the media. I don’t want you and your crew getting arrested, too. How many people you have here, Sergeant?”

  Hansen’s eyes searched mine for clarification. “Six, sir. But, I—we don’t know anything about—”

  “Round up your team and get out now! Return to your quarters and wait for new orders. And don’t use your cell phones; they’re being monitored by NOPD. You got that, Hansen? Now move out!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Ninety seconds later the airmen had all cleared out in two vehicles. I did a quick walk through to satisfy myself the place was empty.

  Thanks to the Internet, I’d learned how to make a bomb. I’d fashioned it crudely from the butterfly landmine I had lifted from this very building a couple of nights ago. What I was about to do was radical, stupid, dangerous, and highly illegal. I was about to commit a federal offense that could land me in jail for a very long time. I hadn’t told Honey or anyone else about this part of my overall plan to take down the Buyer’s Club. I wasn’t even sure it was a good idea, but I was at war with the Buyer’s Club and the feds who abetted them, and I intended to win, whatever the personal cost to me.

  In short order I fired up the Harley and powered loudly away from J-19. I cleared security at the front gate and rumbled out onto Old Gentilly Road and into the black uncertain night of the muggy bayou, my sweaty hands nervously gripping the throttle. I held hope but little faith that I had rigged the device correctly, that it would actually blow.

  I slowed to a crawl, jinking to keep the heavy beast upright until suddenly the percussive sound waves of a distant explosion enveloped me like a congratulatory slap on the back. Or maybe it was an admonishing kick in the ass. Secondary explosions kicked in and I rocketed the bike forward, since there was no turning back now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The staging area for the sting was a vacant building in the Fat City area of Metairie, a seedy, past-its-prime, drug-infested, entertainment-district-cum-red-light-strip that was slowly becoming home to masses of illegal Mexican workers staffing the ongoing post-Storm reconstruction effort. Honey, Harding, and I had decided to stage the actual swap at the food court of the Clearview Mall. We could have the team in place there in minutes, and our operators could easily blend in with the crowds.

  I arrived in the staging area rear parking lot in my big black-and-gold Ford following Kendall in the surveillance van. Task-force undercover vehicles sat parked all around. Kendall and I entered through the back door. It was a typical hurry-up-and-wait kind of deal with a lot of law-enforcement officers in civvies standing around drinking coffee, waiting to make the move a few blocks away to the big mall.

  Honey led an inter-divisional team of detectives that included Fred Gaudet. Harding had a strictly local FBI tactical team on hand; one agent held the fake GIDEON sample we would use in the sting. FBI computer-forensic techs were right now going over Brandt Holdings’ treasure trove of digital files at FBI headquarters on Leon C Simon Drive, files that NOPD detectives had seized in the raid on Brandt Holdings and shared with Harding.

  I made a beeline to Honey and Harding, exaggerating my limp slightly in case I needed to play upon their sympathies because I could tell they weren’t happy with me.

  “No sign of Decon?” I asked.

  “No, and where have you been?”

  “My truck had a flat. Good thing Kendall was following me, because I’m not too good with a tire iron right now.” I’d put a flat tire in the truck bed, just in case they checked.

  Harding frowned. I wasn’t getting an animosity vibe between her and Honey; it seemed strictly directed at me. Never let two women in your life get together when you’re not around.

  “I’m getting reports of a massive explosion at Michoud,” said Harding. “At Building J-Nineteen to be exact.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Sounds like Brandt had a fail-safe mechanism in place. Destroy evidence to wipe out his tracks,” I said.

  “An FBI agent, or someone pretending to be an FBI agent, on a motorcycle ordered the air force personnel off the premises just before the place cooked off.” Harding was definitely ticked, but I could tell she wasn’t sure if I had a hand in the blast or not.

  I shrugged. “Sounds like your buddies in CI-3. They’re in cover-their-ass mode. I suggested to Chief Pointer right in front of them that we station PD checkpoints to jack up every truck leaving Michoud. Perhaps they took that threat seriously. If they thought they couldn’t safely and quickly move the goods out, maybe they decided to blow everything in place. Although I’m surprised any of those CI-3 boys know how to ride a motorcycle.”

  Honey held her tongue. She knew I was lying through my teeth.

  “Does any of that have a bearing on us going ahead right now?” I asked Harding.

  “Without your boy Decon, who went AWOL earlier today, there’s no going anywhere,” she said.

  I’d tried calling Decon all day, but he hadn’t answered. Still, I pulled out my phone as I took a step toward the grimy front windows and peered outside. A small strip club across the street advertised GIRLS G RLS IRLS, according to the neon sign, anyway.

  “He knows we were forming up in the mini-mall at Eighteenth and Edenborn. Give me a minute; let me check across the street.”

  I hobbled out through the front door, limped across the street, and entered the strip joint. You couldn’t fault the owner for lying. The sign hadn’t advertised pretty girls, only girls, although referring to the females present as girls was a bit of a stretch. The working ladies were overweight, long in the tooth, and were walking advertisements for plastic surgeons who argued that makeup alone isn’t always enough.

  I spotted Decon at a small bar with a bountifully-chested, tat-covered black female sitting in his lap.

  “Yes, baby, I know it’s hot outside, but the thing about drinking brandy on ice—” He was smooth-talking her as he stroked her inner thigh. I interrupted by tossing a fifty-dollar bill on the bar and lifting him up by his shirt collar. As I did he grabbed a small backpack.

  “Try answering your phone, asshole,” I said, dragging him toward the door. I could feel as I dragged him along that he wore body armor under his shirt.

  “Whoa! You said be at the corner of Eighteenth and Edenborn, and I’m here. I even came early, if you know what I’m suggesting. Is it that time, already?”

  I hustled him outside and gave him a shove that sent him to one knee. Raging pain flared from my many wounds due to the physical exertion, but I swallowed it down, refusing to show to anyone how much I hurt. I knew Honey and Harding were watching me rough-up Decon, but I didn’t care.

  “What’s with the disappearing act? What kind of scam are you running? Did you already sell a fake laptop to Chu?”

  “If I’d pulled that off for a half mil, think I would have showed up here?”

  “Why did you show up?”

  “I thought I was working for you.”

  “Oh, kiss my ass.”

  “You said I was on your payroll.”

  “A good employee wouldn’t have disappeared from the comfort of the Holiday Inn and full access to the mini-bar. After being specifically told to stay put.”

  “I never represented myself as being a good employee, if you know—”

  “I don’t know what you mean. Why are you even here? What’s in it for you?”

  “You are the one who asked
me to help you, man.”

  “You piece of white trash, where have you been all day?” I was getting worked up and gave him a shove. “You lowlife scumbag. You double-crossing me? There’s an FBI tactical team waiting over there! And I’m having a real hard time trying to convince myself that I should ask them to back you up. You know what I mean, ‘Mister I’ve Taken out Russian Hit Teams in Hotel Bathrooms?’” I gave him another shove and he went sprawling on the concrete. “I trusted you!”

  “I’m sorry! I had to go out.”

  “To do what? I parked you in a luxury suite!

  “I have steel plates in my head, man! They put my skull back together. I’m a whole lot of laughs at the X-ray machine at an airport, if you know what—He stopped himself. He clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white. “Things are different. I can’t stay in a hotel room. I can’t stay cooped up in any room, okay? Not for too long. Okay? I can’t.”

  He lasered me with plaintive eyes that seemed to be brimming with pain from traumas I couldn’t even imagine. I guessed the traumas were real; I didn’t know about the words.

  “What you got to knock me down for? You want me to do this tonight, I’ll do it. I even got my hands on a bulletproof vest. As to what’s in it for me? I was hoping a couple hundred bucks. Is that too much to ask? And—it felt good to be part of a team again.”

  I exhaled, frowning. The continuing riddle of Decon was proving to be as much of a challenge as solving the case. He’d done pretty well with Tong at Café du Monde, so if he didn’t have some hidden agenda—like wanting to kill the Chinese—I figured we had half a chance to pull this off. Mostly though, I wanted to go forward because I wanted Chu and Tong, my number-one suspects, detained and exposed. The rats were scattering, and if we didn’t take them into custody tonight, they’d be off to the next city.