by Susan Fleet
But he wasn't waiting for friends or passengers. Any minute now Natalie Brixton, the woman who'd shot him once and escaped from him twice, would come through the exit door, visible through the clear plastic barrier ahead of him.
British Airways Flight 123 had landed on time at 11:35. On his way to Customs he'd stopped for a Dunkin Donuts coffee. No rush. Natalie and her companions would have to collect their bags and pass through Customs. But that was an hour ago and he was getting antsy, eager to see the woman he'd been hunting for months.
He scanned the faces of people coming through the exit door. No Natalie, but then John Conti walked through the door. Towing a large suitcase with a laptop strapped to it, holding a leather briefcase in his other hand, he looked around, scanning the crowd. Frank waved his Yankee baseball cap, their agreed-upon signal.
Conti saw him but his expression didn't change. Six-feet-tall in his well-tailored suit, he looked as handsome in person as he did in the photo Frank had found on the Internet: Italian movie-star handsome. thick dark hair, sexy dark eyes. Women probably fell all over him.
The Europol agent circled the crowd, greeted him with a confident smile, set down his briefcase and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you at last, Frank. They should be out soon.”
He shook Conti's hand. “Likewise. Natalie's with them?”
“Yes. She is traveling on a U.S. passport under the name of Ling Lam. These days she calls herself Laura.”
Shocked, he thought, How the hell did Natalie get a new passport?
“After they clear Customs,” Conti said, “they will probably go outside and take a taxi to their hotel. We shall follow them.”
Frank parsed his words, delivered in English with a slight accent.
“Good luck with that. There'll be a line for the cabs. New Yorkers despise people who crash lines.”
Conti took out his Europol badge. “This will take care of it.”
But he was no longer looking at Conti. Natalie walked through the Customs exit door. She looked the same as he remembered, tall and slender, long black hair. But she didn't look happy.
He studied her companions, memorizing faces and attaching names to them. Two men in suits and an attractive woman with long blond hair. He assumed the child clutching her hand was Bianca Ruffino, but she looked like a boy, close-cropped dark hair, dressed in jeans and a boy's shirt. A disguise, he assumed, to thwart anyone who was searching for her. They didn't know Agent Conti was onto them, or that he had facilitated their passage through Customs.
“We must follow them,” Conti said, “but not too close. I don't want them to see me.”
Conti didn't seem to care if Natalie spotted him. And she would if they got too close. Clearly, this operation was all about Conti, not him.
They watched the group leave the Customs area, expecting them to head for the airport exit doors that led to the street. They didn't. They turned and set off down the concourse toward Departures.
“Jesus!” Conti muttered. “Where are they going?”
“Not to the taxi stand, that's for sure. We better hang back so they don't spot us.”
Dodging harried travelers and hiding behind others, they followed the 'Netti brothers. Five minutes later they saw Orazio herd the group into a crowded departure gate. The blond woman seemed upset, talking and gesticulating. Frank studied the board behind the desk, stunned.
JetBlue Airline Flight 2014, bound for New Orleans, boarding in forty minutes.
“Damn!” Conti muttered. “We'll lose them!”
“Like hell we will. Follow me.” He turned and trotted back down the concourse to the NYPD cop he'd seen, flashed his badge and said, “Frank Renzi, NOPD. This is Europol Agent John Conti. We're tracking some people who arrived from Italy, figured they'd stay in New York. Turns out they've got tickets to New Orleans.”
The ruddy-faced cop grinned at him. “Threw ya a curveball, huh?”
“Yes and we need to get on that plane. Any way you can convince the gate agent to hold the plane while we get tickets?”
Eyeing his Yankee cap, the cop said, “A Yankee fan, huh? No problem. I love throwing my weight around. I'll call my pal at the ticket counter and tell him you're coming. But don't be long.”
“We won't,” he said, and took off running. Towing his suitcase, Conti struggled to keep up.
When they raced into the ticket area, another NYPD cop waved them to a counter where a female clerk was waiting. Frank thanked him and said to Conti, “Get us two seats in First Class. That way we can board after they do so they won't see us.”
Conti grimaced and took out his wallet. “My boss will crucify me.”
Frank shrugged. “Some days you win, some days you lose.”
And this was a big win for him. Now he didn't have to pay to fly Natalie to New Orleans. But his car was in the airport parking garage.
He took out his cellphone. He'd ask David Lee to meet the plane and follow their targets.
_____
Mired in a pit of despair, Natalie opened the bag of Goldfish crackers she'd bought on the way to their gate and gave it to Bianca. She was trapped in an airport, about to fly to New Orleans. No escape now. Orazio wouldn't let her out of his sight.
Catarina was furious, all set to conquer New York City, decked out in her finery, including a three-strand diamond necklace with matching earrings. She hadn't listed them on the declaration form and the Customs agent had given her a hard time. Waving her hands, Catarina said in fractured English, “They are mine. How can I go on vacation senza jewels? “ The agent frowned. Behind her, Natalie said, “Madame is very fashion conscious. She would not dream of visiting your fine city without her best jewelry.” Whereupon the agent had flapped his hands and waved Catarina through.
Was the jewelry stolen, she wondered. Not that she cared. The incident had put her in Catarina's good graces, which might be useful.
Orazio was distributing their boarding passes. When he gave one to Catarina, she said, “Why can't we stay in New York? I went on the Internet and chose the things I wanted to buy.”
Orazio looked at her, expressionless, but his eyes smoldered with anger. “Stop all this talk about shopping. We have business to conduct.”
“Exactly,” Tommy said. “Calm down, Catarina. Be glad we got through Customs.”
“No thanks to you,” Catarina snapped. “Laura was the one who helped me.”
“Be quiet,” Orazio hissed, glancing at the other passengers. “You draw attention to yourself.”
Catarina lowered her voice and said, “Are we staying at a hotel in the French Quarter?”
“No, a private home with three bedrooms. You and Tommy get one, Laura and Bianca sleep in another. The master bedroom is for me.” He paused. “Because I am the leader. Understand?”
Tommy nodded, but he didn't look happy about it.
Natalie glanced at Bianca, wondering if she was listening. They would be sleeping in the same room. How was she going to call Pak Lam?
As a child, she had lived in New Orleans with her mother until she was murdered. To appease the Vietnamese spirit gods, she had returned many years later to take her revenge. But this had set Frank Renzi, the relentless detective, on her trail. Where was he now? Still in New York with Conti? Conti knew nothing about New Orleans, but Renzi did, and he knew how to find people.
The back of her neck prickled. Was he watching her now? She turned and looked.
She didn't see him, but that meant nothing. It wouldn't take long for Renzi to find out she was back in New Orleans.
____
Bianca ate another Goldfish cracker. She was sick of eating crackers. Tired of being in airports. There were too many people, talking in languages she didn't understand. Laura seemed upset, her face pinched and anxious, like she didn't want to get on another airplane.
She didn't either. But if she made a fuss, Owl would get mad and yell at her.
Catwoman had said it would be fun to ride in an airplane. It wasn't. She hated it,
strapped into a seat with a harness, unable to run around. The only time she got to leave her seat was when she told Laura she had to pee. But then she had to walk past Owl and his scary eyes. She didn't think he would kill her on the airplane in front of all the people. But she knew he was thinking about it.
She ate a Goldfish cracker, then another and another. She was hungry. The food on airplanes was awful. A yukky sandwich with some kind of meat. She didn't eat any of it, just drank her milk. The lady in the uniform said if she didn't like the sandwich she'd get her something different. But when she asked for minestrone soup, the lady said they didn't have any. She didn't bother asking for ravioli.
Catwoman looked pretty in her fancy dress and her sparkly necklace, but she seemed angry. When she said something to Owl, he told her to be quiet. Tommy didn't say a word. If someone yelled at Mamma like that, Papà would have made him apologize.
She put the bag of crackers on the seat beside her. Thinking about Papà made her tummy hurt. She wanted to go home.
But home was far away, across a big ocean. How would Papà find her? Maybe she'd never go home.
Tears filled her eyes.
Mamma said that Santa would come and leave presents for her on Christmas Eve, and when she woke up the next morning there would be presents under the tree. What if she wasn't there?
Tears ran down her cheeks into her mouth, warm and salty.
She didn't care about the presents. She wanted to be home with Mamma and Papà.
CHAPTER 16
FRIDAY 12:40 PM – Louis Armstrong Airport, New Orleans
Clint Hammer collected his suitcase and rode an escalator up to the main concourse. Raucous music greeted him, a trumpet blaring jazz to get tourists in the spirit so they'd spend lots of money. He hated jazz. It was loud and distracting, obnoxious music the jungle bunnies played when they weren't selling drugs.
He bought a Times-Picayune at Hudson News, then went to the information counter and picked up a free magazine that told what was happening around town. The gray-haired biddy behind the counter smiled and asked if she could help him with anything. He had a transportation problem, but he doubted she could solve it. That's why he needed the magazine.
All kinds of transportation downstairs near the baggage carousels: shuttles to rental car agencies, shuttle buses to various hotels, and a taxi kiosk manned by uniformed attendants with radio handsets. But that wouldn't solve his problem either.
Natalie Brixton, the serial-killer bitch, was due to arrive at 3:45 PM. But he didn't know where she was staying or how she'd get there. Ergo, he needed to follow her. And her mobster pals.
This morning he had called his boss to tell him he'd canceled his flight to Venice. He didn't tell him the real reason, of course. Follow the Brixton bitch and make her pay for killing Oliver. His boss was pissed about the last-minute cancellation fee, but when Clint said he had Intel that the two Mafia brothers who'd gone on the murderous rampage in Venice were flying to JFK, his boss said, “Even better. No extraditions to worry about. Keep me informed. We have agents monitoring the Mafia families in New York. These thugs are well-known to us.”
He hadn't mentioned the diversion to New Orleans. Plenty of time for that.
After he landed in New York yesterday, Jason had called with more Intel. A travel agency in Venice had issued the tickets for Natalie and her lowlife companions. A grease-ball named Luigi had paid cash for five tickets to JFK and five more to fly them to New Orleans. Jason had booked him a room at an airport hotel and a non-stop flight to New Orleans this morning.
During the flight, he had puzzled over the change in plans. Why come to New Orleans? There were plenty of Mafia hoods in New York. The only mafioso he knew about in New Orleans was Carlos Marcello, who may or may not have put out a contract on President John F. Kennedy. Carlos was dead now, but when one Mafia boss died, another took his place.
He'd dig up that dirt later, after he solved his immediate problem.
To escape the obnoxious music, he ducked into a dim-lit pub and took a seat at the far end of the bar. He never drank alcohol when he was on duty, so he ordered a Coke, thumbed through the magazine and found a half-page ad for Louisiana Livery with color photos of fancy cars. They operated 24-hours a day, every day of the year, Christmas included, and accepted the usual credit cards or, with proper ID and a 50% deposit, cash.
He got on his Smartphone and called the number.
A male voice said, “Louisiana Livery. How can we help you today?”
“I'm on important government business. I need a car and a driver this afternoon, might need him for twelve hours. I'll be paying cash and I have specific needs.”
“No problem, sir. Twelve hours will cost you two hundred dollars. Tell me what you need.”
“I want a dark car, preferably black. Nothing flashy, no loud colors. Well-maintained and fast, no clunkers.”
“I have a black SUV, a 2009 Lexus RX-350, comfortable, low mileage and plenty of power.”
“Okay. Now, about the driver. No darkies.” Fuck the PC bullshit. He talked plain. He couldn't use a black driver to tail Mafiosos. They hated blacks. The jungle bunnies had taken over their drug business. “I need a white guy, someone familiar with the area. I tell him to go to Metairie, he doesn't get lost.” Show the guy he knew the area.
“I see. Let me check my roster.” After a short pause, “Festus is available. He's worked for us five years, an unblemished driving record, no complaints at all.”
“How is he at tailing somebody without being obvious about it?”
“Festus could do that.” A longer pause. “You won't be carrying a weapon, will you?”
Yes, CIA Agent Clint Hammer would definitely be carrying a weapon, possibly more than one. But this asshole didn't need to know that.
“No,” he said, punching buttons on his Smartphone. “I'm emailing my credentials. Tell Festus to meet me at two-thirty outside Departures. I'll be waiting at the top of the ramp, give him a hundred bucks cash up front.” Provided the car was okay and he liked the driver.
What the hell kind of name was Festus? He sounded like a hillbilly.
“Thank you, sir. And your name is … ah, yes, I just got your email. Everything seems to be in order, Agent Hammer. Thank you for choosing Louisiana Livery.”
He drank some Coke. Excellent. One problem solved. Now he could figure out why the gangsters were coming to New Orleans. He used his Smartphone to get on the Internet and found a Wikipedia article: Carlos Marcello, born 1910 in Sicily, died 1993 in New Orleans.
In 1911 Carlos had come here with his parents. His early life involved typical mob shit: petty crime, assault and robbery. He did time for five years, got out and got busted for dealing pot, a more serious crime. Sentenced to a long prison term, he got out in ten months.
Clint smiled. Somebody got paid off.
Carlos hooked up with the Genovese Family in New York and soon his muscle-men installed illegal slot machines in several New Orleans establishments. By 1947, Carlos controlled a state-wide illegal gambling operation, making big bucks. Ordered to appear before a U.S. Senate committee investigating organized crime in 1959, Carlos took the Fifth and refused to answer questions. Senator John Kennedy was on the committee. His brother Robert was Chief Counsel. In 1960, using Teamsters Union president Jimmy Hoffa as a conduit, Carlos sank a half-million bucks into the presidential campaign of Richard Nixon. But Nixon lost to JFK, who appointed his brother to be U.S. Attorney General.
He sucked up the last of his Coke and ordered another. Now he was getting to the good stuff. Everyone knew about the JFK assassination and Marcello's hatred of Bobby Kennedy. In 1961, Bobby had Carlos deported to Guatemala, the country he'd falsely listed as his birthplace. Dropped off in a rural area, Carlos was ambushed by thieves. Badly injured, he returned to New Orleans, Rumors surfaced about his threats against JFK, including the Sicilian curse: “Take the stone from my shoe.” A private investigator said Carlos had given him a more colorful version in 196
2. “If you cut off a dog's tail, he can still bite you. If you cut off the head, your troubles are over.” Carlos hinted that “he might set up some nut to take the fall, like they do in Sicily.”
When the bartender delivered his Coke, Clint ordered a plate of sausage with red beans and rice. From long experience, he knew that when an opportunity to eat arose, take it. No telling when his next meal would be after the serial-killer bitch landed.
He returned to the Wikipedia article. As everyone now knew, Lee Harvey Oswald, a former Marine who'd defected to the Soviet Union, was seen distributing communist fliers in the French Quarter in 1963. Jack Ruby, a known Marcello associate, ran a Dallas strip club. Shortly before the JFK assassination in November 1963, Ruby contacted Carlos Marcello, ostensibly about a union problem he had with his strippers.
Clint clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing aloud. Ruby was getting his orders from Carlos. Kill Oswald.
After the assassination, the FBI investigated Carlos Marcello but concluded he wasn't involved. Marcello wasn't an organized crime figure. He earned his living from real estate investments.
Clint groaned in disbelief. These FBI agents were clueless.
Dubbed “The Godfather” of the New Orleans Mafia, Carlos had held the position for thirty years until the day he died.
There were more conspiracy theories in the article, but the bartender delivered his meal. Clint set his Smartphone aside and devoured it, barely tasting the food. Five minutes later, his plate was clean. He paid the tab with cash and left. Time to meet Festus.
_____
3:45 PM
The instant the plane stopped at the gate, Frank got on his cellphone and called David. “We're at the gate. Where y'at?”
“Parked outside of Departures. No hassles with the State cop. He knows why I'm here.”
“Thanks, David. I owe you big time.” He glanced at the cabin attendant standing by the hatch to the gateway. “We should be off the plane in a minute or so. Our targets checked their bags at the gate in New York so they'll get them as soon as they exit the plane. We'll find someplace to hide and see what they do for transportation. Soon as I know, I'll call you.”
