No Second Chances

by Don Bruns

  ‘I’m not sure, Q. But at the time, there were maybe seven truck hijackings in the area. Almost every other week. Possibly a mob thing. No other drivers were killed, but they were forced off the highway and when they stopped, a band of robbers unloaded their trailers. Almost an epidemic. Liquor and tobacco seemed to be the preferred cargo.’

  ‘Easy to unload, easy to sell. But I’m still confused Sergeant. What does all this have to do with Johnny Leroy?’

  ‘By the time a hiker saw the wrecked truck and called it in, the man’s, this Nicky Martin’s load of cigarettes, had been stolen. The trailer was empty. Stripped bare. Because we,’ he paused, ‘well, they assumed it was probably the work of the hijackers, our department sent a team of officers to the scene. The first responder was Officer Johnny Leroy.’

  Archer shook his head. ‘We’ve got over one thousand law enforcement agents in the department,’ he said. ‘One thousand plus, but one officer’s name keeps surfacing.’

  ‘John Leroy.’

  ‘Coincidence?’

  ‘Keep digging, Archer. We’re going to get to the bottom of this. And do you have any more reports about the guy with the tattooed necklace?’

  ‘We’ve got everyone in Algiers on alert.’

  ‘We’ll do whatever it takes from this end.’

  ‘Keep looking at the Nick Martin case. If anything else pops up, let me know. Sooner or later we’re going to put the pieces together.’

  ‘Make it sooner, Detective Archer. Please, make it sooner.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  He sipped a cola, seated at a table in the shade of a faded, ragged yellow awning hanging out four feet from a storefront that was in desperate need of a new paint job. The peeling facade gave proof to the blistering sun and relentless heat that smothered New Orleans. The restaurant had survived neighborhood attacks from the mob last night.

  It was two blocks from Fox Glass. Two blocks from his evening destination. His focus was solid. As much as he wanted to drift, his mind wouldn’t allow it to happen.

  ‘Would you like to order, hon?’

  The pudgy waitress surprised him with her deep, husky voice. Standing there with a stained white apron and a bored look on her face, her pencil was poised to write the information on the pad she held.

  ‘No, the Coke is fine,’ he said. He was just killing time.

  The black girl shook her head, obviously not pleased that her tip might be hinged on a two-dollar soft drink.

  Looking out on the street, he watched two Crescent City cop cars that had pulled up next to each other. The uniformed officers had stepped out and now stood beside their vehicles, deep in conversation, their sunglasses sporting body cams, mounted to the frames. Brion realized he actually owned one of those cameras. He hadn’t decided to destroy it just yet. Probably should have. If he survived tonight, he didn’t want any evidence of his past crimes.

  The young man considered his possibilities. Once he was finished with his business, he could try to blend in and just walk away. If he was caught, he could use his Smith and Wesson 9mm pistol and try to fight his way out. With a clip of sixteen rounds, he could attempt an escape. The cops used Glock 22s with only fifteen rounds, but he’d be down by at least one once he was finished with his task. And possibly he’d be down by seven rounds. And the police had riot weapons that he had no access to. No question he was going to be outgunned. Brion realized there was no correct answer. He had to play it by ear.

  And his other option, the toughest one of all. He’d proved to himself he could kill another human being. Could he kill himself? Could he put the gun to his heart and pull the trigger? To decide that you had given all you had and there was no more purpose, that was a tough call. Or were most suicides just a cowardly way out of a bad situation? He realized he might have to face that dilemma.

  A siren wailed down the street getting closer and he heard the loud blast of a semi truck’s horn, echoing off the buildings. The siren got louder, the shrill whine piercing the neighborhood peace. As the rescue vehicle passed with lights flashing, he put his fingers in his ears, slightly muffling the penetrating noise. He noticed the two cops barely looked up. They were conditioned to tense situations. And maybe he was starting to be conditioned as well.

  He’d killed someone. Shot them point blank in the face. Brion had expected to be a little shocked, but it never happened. He didn’t feel as bad as he thought he would. Maybe if he’d killed someone who didn’t deserve to die, someone who just happened to show up at the wrong time, like … he hated to think about it … like Nick Martin, the truck driver, maybe then he’d feel bad.

  He still wasn’t sure who was responsible for Nick Martin’s death. He had a strong suspicion, and it wasn’t Joseph, Jack, or his father. His father had hinted at it, but young Joseph didn’t want to know back then. What boy wants to go through life knowing his dad was a criminal? Possibly a killer? No, his father was in commerce. The acquisition of goods and the selling of these goods. That’s what he knew, what he wanted to believe.

  But stories crept out. And one night he’d heard Joseph and Pop, on the back stoop of the big house. They’d been drinking Four Roses single-barrel bourbon, quite a bit of it, and the voices got a little loud. He could still remember the brief conversation.

  ‘It was the circumstances, Joe. Nobody saw it coming, nobody planned it. The circumstances.’

  ‘We made it happen, Andy. No one else to blame.’

  ‘Oh, I beg to differ.’ His father had sounded somewhat indignant. He then continued. ‘We may have instigated it, but you know damned well that it wasn’t our idea.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t our idea to get the driver killed. But this guy, Nick Martin, he panicked. And that was our fault, Andy.’

  ‘I blame the guy who hired us and set the whole thing up. That’s who I blame,’ his father said.

  Joseph was quiet for a moment.

  ‘Andy,’ he mused, ‘think about it, my friend, we could have been sitting in jail if it wasn’t for him.’

  ‘And the driver would still be alive.’

  ‘Yeah. I think that sometimes.’

  ‘So do I, Joe. I’m trying to pass the guilt and the pain, OK. I try every day. And sometimes I’m successful and sometimes I’m not. And sometimes I think about just telling them the whole story. Just putting it out there and letting the chips fall where they may. Don’t you feel that way too?’

  ‘No. Jesus, no. Don’t you ever say that out loud. Jesus Christ, Andy, don’t let Jack or anybody else hear you say that.’

  And that was the moment his mother grabbed him by the collar and pulled him from his crouch by the door.

  ‘Don’t you eavesdrop on your pop and Uncle Joe. What kind of manners did I teach you?’

  She lightly slapped him upside his head.

  ‘You march upstairs and get ready for bed and I never want to see you spy on anyone again. Do you understand me, boy?’

  He mumbled a ‘yes, ma’am’, and ran up the stairs. Admonished, embarrassed, chastised, but he’d heard a conversation he played over and over in his head. He twisted and turned the words and phrases and still couldn’t figure out exactly what had happened and who was at fault.

  Two weeks later, when the two men drank their Four Roses beneath the dark of a New Orleans sky, Joseph’s mother was at a prayer meeting, one she hadn’t dragged him to. This was a holy meeting of the women of the church, where he understood they talked about the rigors of child-rearing, and the strange behavior of their spouses. And he huddled by the door, sure that this time his mother wouldn’t interfere. And again, after several drinks, the conversation drifted back to who was to blame.

  It was that night that he heard a name, a situation, and even though he still didn’t understand the complexity of the situation, he had more to work with. A very confused young boy went to bed that evening, determined to work it out. It took a long time, but in the last several weeks, he finally thought he had.

  It was all supposition. Still, he
was pretty damned sure. Just shy of positive, and he was basing tonight on definitely positive. He just wanted a little more assurance. Then he could, in the business world verbiage, pull the trigger. The phrase seemed perfect.

  Sipping his beverage through the straw, he was totally unaware that the sweet drink had lost all of its carbonation. It was flat as a pancake. He wanted a moment of freedom, of bliss, where his mind wasn’t cluttered with all the crap that was going on. So Brion stared blankly into the afternoon sky, trying to become one with the drifting clouds.

  Archer’s phone was busier than he could remember. He stopped the buzz with the push of a button. The caller initiated the conversation.

  ‘Detective Archer?’

  ‘I’m here.’ Somewhat irritated.

  ‘Officer Ron Ricard calling. I have some information on the man with a tattooed necklace, sir.’

  Archer figured him to be former military. No one called him sir. Asshole, idiot, lamebrain, but never sir.

  ‘What do you have, Officer. Believe me, I could use some good information right about now.’

  ‘We have a tattoo artist. Guy has been out sick for two weeks and just got back to work. He didn’t get the bulletin, but when he showed up today, he read it. He remembers giving a man the necklace tattoo about eighteen months ago. He’s got some records.’

  ‘Where is the parlor?’

  ‘It’s N.O. Tattoo on Frenchman Street. His name is Enrico.’

  ‘Officer Ricard, are you on premise?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Can you stay there with Enrico? I’ll be there in,’ he looked at his watch, ‘twenty-five minutes, tops.’

  ‘I’ll be here, sir. Enrico can give you all the information.’

  ‘Detective, I have maybe the information you need.’ The man spoke with a thick Spanish accent.

  ‘Officer Ricard says you may know the man with the thorn-of-crowns tattoo around his neck.’

  ‘No, I don’t know him personally, but I obviously spent some time with him. A couple of hours at least to do the art. A beautiful piece. Listen, Mr Archer, we run a clean shop here. We keep our needles clean, we keep our records clean.’ The little man, smiled, displaying stained yellow teeth. ‘I hope this is the man you are looking for and that I can help you catch such a dastardly criminal, Detective.’

  ‘So you have records on your clients?’

  ‘We want to know if they have any problems, with the work, with any problems in healing, so we stay in touch. Yes. The slightest complaint, and we respond. We are a very responsible business.’ He smiled again, selling himself to the law. Archer wondered if he’d been in trouble before.

  ‘And, to be honest with you, Detective Archer, it helps us to resell.’

  ‘Resell?’

  ‘I want their contact so I can resell.’ He stared at Archer. ‘You understand? Resell?’

  Archer shook his head.

  ‘OK, let’s say you want a skull and crossbones on your arm or thigh. We give you a skull and crossbones. Very reasonable price, by the way. Six months later, we email you and suggest a small pirate ship or maybe a tattoo of Captain Jack Sparrow to go with your skull. If we give you a heart, we contact you in six months suggesting a bouquet of flowers. You ask for a hula girl, we email you suggesting a palm tree. Resell.’

  ‘Keeping records is good for business.’

  ‘You bet. We resell 15 percent of our clients. A nice, tidy income and all it takes is an email.’

  ‘Tell me about the man with the necklace.’

  ‘A year and a half ago he came to see me. I’m positive it is him. I had done a bracelet for a friend of his, a series of skulls around his wrist. He described the necklace he wanted. Here, I printed out the information.’ He handed Archer the papers. ‘There is no physical address, but his email and name are right here. And here is the photograph of the necklace. Pretty good work for a custom job if I do say so myself.’

  ‘Did you ever contact or resell this man?’

  ‘Yes. You can see right here we’ve sent two emails to him. The second email, we sent a graphic of our suggested follow up. It’s just good business.’

  Archer studied the paper.

  ‘OK, what did you suggest he do? What comes after a crown-of-thorn necklace?’

  ‘Oh, Detective Archer, it was spectacular. When we contacted him again, our suggestion, which he never responded to, was a cross with the body of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior hanging from it. We suggested it would be a perfect match, and that we put it right on the center of his chest. Trust me, it would have been a masterpiece.’

  Archer glanced at the name and took a deep breath.

  Joseph Brion. The name on the paper was Joseph Brion. To his knowledge, Johnny Leroy had only killed one man. An armed robber named André Brion. Probably the same man Leroy had detained at Fox Glass. Now the name Brion popped up again. Joseph. Possibly related to André? Almost assuredly related. So whoever this Joseph was, if he was related, the why was answered.

  Revenge.

  If André Brion had done time because he was captured by the security guard Johnny Leroy, if André Brion had been killed by Officer Leroy, then whoever this Joseph Brion was, he killed Officer Johnny Leroy out of vengeance. But now, this tattoo-necklaced suspect was spotted in Algiers. Was he just a participant in the riots, or was there even a more sinister motive?

  He did not want to visit Algiers again. Especially not in the evening. There would be fewer rioters but the radical element would still be out. It usually took them two or three nights to finally cease activities. Unless something else set off another spark. He stared at the papers in his hand, lost in his thoughts. Archer’s head was seriously about to explode.

  TWENTY-NINE

  She opened the paper sack, sorting out the herbs, the plants, and carefully placing the shed snake skin on a table at the back of her shop. Powdering the thin skin would take some extra work.

  She saw the small bouquet of dandelions, and wondered why she’d never used the flower and root before. The plant, normally considered a weed, was also a cleansing herb, opening passages. She should have realized there were possibly psychic powers in the spongy yellow flower. The voodoo lady studied the wilting flower and decided to try something new.

  Lighting a purity candle, she waited for the flame to heat, then rinsed the roots in cold water, using a towel to dry them. Carefully, Solange held the flowers and rotated the roots over the flame. She turned them over and over like toasting a marshmallow. Like cooking a chicken on a rotisserie. A rich, dark-chocolaty aroma rose from the flame, with hints of spice and vanilla. Careful not to burn the stems, she waited until the roots were a deep dark brown.

  Carrying them to the sink, she pulled a cutting board from the drawer and with a sharp paring knife, she cut the roots into half-inch sections, inspecting them to make certain they were roasted all the way through. Satisfied that the roast was complete, she boiled water on the stove. Once the water was bubbling, Solange dropped the root pieces in the roiling liquid and waited for five minutes. As the sections steeped in the water, she considered the effects of what she wanted to accomplish.

  If she drank the tea and had no purpose, no goal, the experiment was useless. She was looking for some insight into the past, into the future. Matebo had said the properties of the plant would possibly give her some clairvoyance. She wanted to see into the past, to gaze through the haze of time and view the connection between Johnny Leroy and Joseph Washington.

  And that connection, a shared murder, would possibly be enough to offer Archer and give him a lead that would solve his crime. Or at least answer the question ‘why’.

  She also wanted to see into the future, and find out what the killer had planned next. If anything. The voodoo lady doubted that all her wishes, her desires would be granted, but if she had even a brief moment of insight, it could make a huge difference.

  Five minutes passed and she waited two more, savoring the smell. Not her normal herbal tea. She tur
ned off the gas, the jets hissing as the flames died, and Solange poured the water through a sieve, straining out the roots and letting the brown-colored water run into an antique pot. From the pot, she poured the tea into an old ceramic cup, the blue finish cracked due to heat and age.

  Quietly she prayed for insight. Into the past, into the future. This was uncharted territory, taking something that was much like a drug. An herb that possibly gave her powers. If the dandelion tea was successful, then the spirits knew what she wanted. To know if Quentin Archer would be successful in his search for the person who killed Johnny Leroy.

  They would also know she wanted to look into the future, to see if her mother would recover. She knew better, but there was still the ability to pray for a miracle. And she did so, every morning, noon and night.

  As with every potion, as with every spell she cast, with every gris-gris bag that she filled and every voodoo doll she designed, she closed her eyes and prayed that the creation would have its desired effect. She prayed that the dandelion tea would give her some vision. There was always some degree of skepticism, and she often wondered if ministers of competing faiths had the same feelings.

  When a Christian minister, a Catholic priest, a bishop or pastor, when a Hindu holy man or a Buddhist monk, when those holy figures prayed, asked for intercession … did they have doubts. Did those esteemed men and women ever question whether they were just charlatans? Did they ever wonder if there was any help on the other end? She couldn’t be the only practitioner of a faith that sometimes had doubts. Could she?

  Asking again for vision, she took a sip of the liquid. Bitter, a little chocolate, the beverage warmed her as it settled in her stomach. Solange moved to the rear of the building, sitting down on her small bed. She closed her eyes and felt the room start to move. Either the tea was tainted or she was about to have an epiphany.

  The day dragged on, the sun cooking the heart out of the afternoon. He’d stowed his sleeping bag and backpack behind an old shed at the rear of an empty parking lot. Except for his Smith and Wesson, Brion wanted to be unencumbered. His pistol was the same make and model his father had owned. The gun that André Brion was accused of drawing when Jack Leroy shot him. Seven times.