by Don Bruns
‘Yes!’
It was a start.
EIGHT
On the last day of his life, Old Joe Washington was cleaning out the cash register from a convenience store in Algiers in the East end of New Orleans. He wasn’t that old, really, just forty-five, but they called him ‘Old Joe’ because of his gravelly voice, his gray hair and his stooped posture. God knows he felt old. A life of petty thefts, grand-theft robbery and hijackings left him feeling ancient. But it was the only life he knew.
The cringing Korean owner huddled down in a corner behind the counter, begging for his life. This crying man was truly old. Probably in his seventies. The oiled wood floor of the small store spoke to the age of the establishment. It must be a mom-and-pop operation, and the take was going to be a lousy three or four hundred bucks. Still, a man had to live. And this was the way Old Joe made his living. And not much of a living at that.
His right hand was in the pocket of his hoody and with his left hand he pulled bills from the register, shoving them into his other pocket. Damn. He needed to hit some high-end targets, but with cameras, security alarms and a stepped-up presence of police and private security forces it was getting harder and harder to make a hit.
‘Shut up, old man, or I swear I will shoot you right now.’ He turned to the man and moved his hand inside his pocket. He mimicked the accent of Jimmy Cagney from old-school cinema. He liked to pretend he was an old-school criminal.
The man whimpered, but stopped his begging.
Old Joe reached under the tray and pulled out an extra hundred and two fifties. Enough to get by for several days.
‘Ah, a little extra here,’ he said. ‘You didn’t tell me about this, little man. I swear if you are holding out on me, I will bring down a wrath of vengeance on you.’ Channeling Samuel Jackson from Pulp Fiction.
He shoved his left hand into his pocket, feeling the money, and quickly walked to the door, eyeing the supply of wine displayed on shelving down the right side of the store. He could use a bottle or two right about now. Or a bottle of Four Roses. That would be perfect, but the Korean didn’t carry the hard stuff. The next time he’ll pick a place that carried the hard stuff.
‘Don’t you get up, you kink; don’t you go to the phone or push any alarm for ten minutes. Do you understand me? Your life isn’t worth the paltry sum of money I’m taking. For your own health, stay there until I’m long gone. Do you understand me?’
‘I understand,’ the man mumbled.
Pushing open the squeaking door, Joe stepped into the glaring sun.
Glancing left he started walking. He’d go one block then jog down the alley that he’d scouted out before. Right behind the pawnshop and dollar store. There was no sign of any security camera. Stupid shop owners. A couple of blocks and he’d be home free.
‘Stop. Police.’
He’d heard that before. Kept walking, a steady stream of traffic muffling the order.
‘Hands out of your pockets. Now.’
He kept walking. Guy wasn’t going to shoot him in the back. Not that stupid. A Harley roared by, monopolizing the sound on the street, but the voice was still behind him. He glanced to his right, wondering if he could cut through the cars and make it safely to the other side. It wasn’t possible. Too much traffic and it would be a sad ending to a career to be mowed down by somebody’s Kia or Prius.
‘Sir, I’m warning you.’ A high-pitched voice, some young buck. ‘Pay attention. Hands out of your pockets. Stop now. Do you hear me?’
Joe heard the steps behind him, upping the pace. The officer was running, shoes slapping the sidewalk, and Old Joe started running too, breathing hard and heavy. Too many cigarettes, too many boilermakers. He was definitely old before his time.
‘Sir, stop. I’m armed,’ the cop was shouting, his voice high and hoarse. ‘Take your hands from your pockets. I’m not going to warn you again.’
Panting, Joe stopped abruptly. He wasn’t going to outrun this cop. He simply wondered how this guy knew the store had been robbed. This should have been one of the easiest heists he’d ever made, and it just pissed him off how little he’d actually scored. Had someone ratted him out? Who? He’d only mentioned it to two people. He spun around, confronting his accuser.
‘What the hell do you …’
‘I’m asking you again. Hands out of your pockets. And they’d better both be empty. No weapon, sir. Do you understand?’
The fresh-faced kid couldn’t be more than twenty-five years old. He had both hands wrapped around his Glock 22. He was squinting into the sun, and Joe could sense the young man was scared. Not the look of a seasoned pro. This might be the first time the youngster had ever confronted someone with his pistol. Old Joe thought about the money in his pocket, he thought about the number of times he’d skated on thefts much bigger than this. The time a truck driver had died, just so Joe could take a big payday. He’d even skated on that job. No problem. It just didn’t seem fair.
‘Slowly.’ The cop was shaking, the gun in his hand slightly moving up and down. ‘Take your hands out where I can see them. Slowly … slowly, and no weapon, sir.’
Joe watched his eyes. That’s where you saw what this white kid’s intentions were. The officer was still squinting, but there was dread in those eyes. He didn’t know if Joe was packing or not. Probably had a wife or girlfriend at home and scared he might not see her again. And Joe briefly considered his own girlfriend, his three illegitimate kids from two other women, and realized he really wasn’t that great a provider. No one was going to miss him that much if this guy pulled the trigger. It was a little sad to think he probably didn’t have much of a support base in his life.
‘I don’t see those hands,’ the cop shouted. The boy was terrified. It was obvious.
Old Joe slowly pulled out his left hand with the bills and let them fall to the sidewalk, a light breeze blowing them into the street.
The white cop’s eyes briefly strayed, watching the money.
‘Sir, now the right hand.’
Old Joe smiled and quickly pulled his hand from his right pocket and that’s when the young cop pulled the trigger, an explosion that ricocheted off the surrounding buildings. The bullet hit the robber in the stomach and exited out his back. He grabbed his abdomen, surprised at the pain and realizing he couldn’t stand up. It felt like his spine had been cut in half. Looking down he saw his hands and shirt covered in rich, red blood as he dropped to the ground, closing his eyes. He felt that same blood filling his mouth and as he choked and gagged, the last thought he had was that the kid was going to be surprised when he found out that there was no gun. Joe never carried a gun, never owned a gun. There was just a hand in his pocket. That was all. Just his hand.
NINE
‘Shit. Shit. Shit. We all know where this is headed.’ Sergeant Chip Beeman pounded his fist on Archer’s desk. ‘We’ve got an alligator by the tale, Q. Shit is going to hit the street.’
Archer pushed aside the pile of papers he’d been addressing and looked up at Beeman.
‘I agree, Sergeant.’
‘Internal affairs is already on the scene, and we’ve moved Officer Montgomery to a safe house. There’s a team of investigators talking to him. Of course, there will be an immediate in-depth investigation, but I’m afraid we may be looking at a murder charge.’
‘And that involves me?’ Archer realized he had no idea how this played out. If this was a homicide case then …
‘No, of course not. At least not at this time. I’m not sure how this plays out. All I know is, the vic was unarmed. We’ve got the officer’s body cam. Montgomery yells for the vic to pull his hand from his pocket, numerous times, and when he does, Jethro Montgomery fires his weapon at close range. As I said, they’re interviewing him right now and you and I both know it’s not going to be pleasant. The kid is going to go through hell, Archer. An unarmed black man. We’ll be front page news this time tomorrow.’
Archer pushed back his chair, looking up at Beeman. ‘The s
tore owner says that this Joseph Washington had a gun when he robbed the convenience store, right?’
‘That’s what he said, but responding officers found no weapon. They’ve had this guy, this Korean shop owner, in interrogation for a couple of hours. He’s apparently still shaken. Thought he was going to meet his maker.’
‘He could have ditched the weapon.’
‘He could have pretended he had a weapon. The owner seemed a little confused.’
‘But you said that Montgomery was positive the perp had a weapon.’ Archer shook his head.
‘When officers arrived on the scene, the first thing Officer Montgomery said was, “When I got the call, they said the perp was armed.” I imagine Montgomery is still shaken too.’
‘So, the dispatcher called, said there was an armed robbery in progress and Montgomery responded. How did we know he had a weapon?’
‘Cold call. Somebody phoned 911 and said a robbery was in progress and the perpetrator had a gun,’ Beeman said. ‘Apparently, the caller was adamant that there was a gun. As you know, we have to follow up as if there is a weapon. We sent out the message. Montgomery was under the impression. Puts a lot of pressure on a man, doesn’t it?’
‘No trace on the call?’
‘Not at this time. It was probably a burner or someone found a pay phone. That said,’ he smiled, ‘I’d be surprised if there is somewhere you can find a pay phone.’
‘Could it have been a setup?’
‘Hell, anything’s possible, Q. You know that. Obviously it’s much too early to know, but I can’t wait to hear the recording.’
‘Somebody insisting a gun is in play, then there’s no gun? And how about Officer Johnny Leroy? We got a call saying there was a knife fight in Bayou St John. Leroy shows up and there’s no fight. At least no one saw any evidence of a fight. We’re pretty sure that was a setup as well. I hope they pursue that line in the case of Officer Montgomery,’ Archer said. ‘Sounds like a strong possibility to me.’
‘I’ll tell you, Archer, look over your shoulder. There’s going to be a riot in the streets and none of us is safe.’
Archer gave him a grim smile. He’d been looking over his shoulder for over a year. There were Detroit cops who wanted him dead. His brothers, one in jail, one on the loose, wanted him dead. Officer Bobby Mercer, head of the notorious DPD drug ring and now on the run, probably wanted him dead. Archer had turned on his own department, trying to stop this drug ring and they’d killed his wife and run him out of town. Look over his shoulder? Hell, nothing new. He couldn’t imagine a life where he wasn’t looking over his shoulder.
Joseph Brion got the call on his cell phone from one of his drug runners. The second movement had been performed flawlessly. He couldn’t have planned it any better. Old Joe was toast. There’d been a backup plan if the responding cop hadn’t killed him. Joe was going down anyway, but this was perfect. A white cop shooting an unarmed petty burglar. One more step toward retribution. One more step to judgment. Old Joe Washington. His nemesis. Joe finally got his comeuppance. Brion had called 911, warned them of the armed robbery, and so far the plan had been flawless. Tonight would be his party. Tomorrow night, his grand finale. Justice would be served. Hellfire and damnation, it had been a long time coming, but this would be a celebration his father would have enjoyed. All but the end. But still, this was going to be one of the greatest circuses ever to hit New Orleans. There was a surprise ending even he wasn’t sure of.
He knocked on his mother’s bedroom door.
‘Mom, there’s food in the fridge. Cat’s been fed. I told Marjorie, if she doesn’t hear from me, she needs to look in on you. Do you hear me?’ He’d talk to her always but she never responded.
As he turned, the door opened. He heard it and spun around.
‘Are you coming back?’ The shriveled black woman in a wheelchair stared up at him.
‘I live here,’ he smiled and reached down, taking her hand.
‘Are you coming back?’
‘Mom …’
‘Your father never came back. You’re not coming back either, are you? Tell me.’
‘Yes, Mom. I’m coming back. You’ll be fine.’
‘You’ve got a backpack, a sleeping bag. You’re leaving and not telling me where you’re going.’
‘I’ll be gone for a couple of nights. Don’t worry. Pop needs some help and I’m simply going to step in, OK? You’ll be fine.’
‘Pop is dead. What help can you give him?’
The old lady lightly squeezed his hand, gazing into his eyes, connecting for the first time in weeks.
‘Mom, again, you’ll be fine.’
‘I’ll be fine, Joseph. But will you?’
He squeezed her hand back and walked out the door. He couldn’t answer that question, but he needed to be a part of the final round. He owed it to his father. And if something happened to him, so be it. The church was a tight-knit community into itself and they would rally ’round Mom. Her quality of life was almost non-existent as it was. They’d give her shelter and food and make sure she was comfortable. And maybe he’d come out of this just fine. Go back home to Mom and care for her like he always did. Like Pop would have wanted him to. Maybe he would watch the circus from a bleacher-seat in the big top, finally feeling like his father had been vindicated. Worst-case scenario, or best, he might see his father again. In another world. And maybe there would be a square with a bright, shining cathedral and steps with endless entertainment. Maybe a banjo player who was a one-man band. He blinked back tears. Slim chance, but he could dream.
Joseph walked to the bus stop, past the overgrown, rat-infested yards, past the smoky piles of burned trash, past the putrid smell of rotting garbage and discarded tires. He wouldn’t miss his neighborhood. Absolutely not.
‘Solange, as I’m sure you know, things have changed in the last several hours.’
‘I’ve been following the story, Detective. As I would guess everyone in New Orleans has.’
‘Listen, I want to solve this murder of Officer Leroy. But it may not be a safe time for you to be on the street by yourself. I’ll either give you a ride and stay with you while you …’ he hesitated, not sure exactly what she was going to do, ‘while you examine the body, or we can set this meeting for another time.’ Another time would be much better.
‘Quentin, this problem …’
‘You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve got like … a number of problems going on at the same time.’
‘I understand. Two of the incidents you are referencing, they are related. I know this.’
‘I’m worried that you might get caught up in some protests. I don’t want that to happen. I’m not sure where they may spring up. We’re going to be warning people to stay off the streets.’
‘If there are protests—’
‘Actually, a protest would be mild.’
‘If there are protests regarding the killing of the black man in Algiers,’ she said, ‘they could relate to the killing of Officer Leroy. The two shootings are connected. I feel certain of that.’
‘You think Montgomery and Leroy are linked?’
‘I do.’
Archer took a deep breath. ‘I appreciate your input, seriously. You’ve been right before. However, I don’t think we should meet today. It’s going to be a tough afternoon.’
‘Detective Archer,’ there was no more familiarity, ‘if you want to solve this murder, I need to see Officer Leroy’s body. I’ll deal with the protests. Please, let me visit at four p.m.’
Joseph Brion took the bus to the foot of Canal Street, then caught the Canal Street ferry on a short ride to Algiers. The ride was only two bucks, probably less than a buck when he was a kid. He and his father had taken the ferry, several times, just for the fun of crossing the river. The first time, he’d clutched the man’s hand, tight. He’d never been on the water before and he wasn’t about to let go. Pop was his rock, and he held onto that rock. The second time, he remembered, he’d felt like a gr
own-up. When his father had grabbed his small hand, he’d pulled away. He could handle it this time. And they watched the Quarter and the city slip away across the river as they traveled, what seemed to Joseph, a million miles. New Orleans getting a little smaller. Ten minutes later they were in Algiers.
The plaque at boarding announced that the ferry had operated continuously since 1827. Parts of Algiers were involved in the Battle of New Orleans, 1814, where the British tried to separate Louisiana from the United States. Andrew Jackson, whose statue stood proudly in Jackson Square, faced the British with forty-five hundred troops to England’s seventy-five hundred soldiers. Two thousand of the British died. Eight of Jackson’s troops were killed. Only eight. Brion remembered the pride that his father had shown when he told him the story about the Kentucky and Tennessee sharpshooters who put away the well-mustered uniformed troops from across the ocean. And he was reminded of the funny song Pop had sung about fighting the British with a cannonball, gunpowder and using a gator as the cannon. Pop could be a funny guy.
He hadn’t been to Algiers in years. It wasn’t a tourist spot and if he remembered, there wasn’t much to do. Grab some gumbo, watch New Orleans and the Quarter from this side of the river, and go home. Except tonight. Tonight should be very active. There would be a lot going on, no question. The slight breeze over the Mississippi was a welcome respite from the oppressive New Orleans heat.
There was going to be some more heat tonight. In the streets. Almost 90 percent of Algiers was African American. They were not happy that an unarmed black man was gunned down by a white cop. Tonight, Brion was fairly certain, there would be hell to pay. Time for a little payback to the NOPD. And after that, if he still was functioning, his final act. His final tribute to Pop. He closed his eyes and held his breath. He was not, as a rule, a vengeful person. But this was for Pop. He had to buck up and get the job done.
