No Second Chances

by Don Bruns

  ‘Please, Quentin.’

  ‘You saw someone chasing him or heading toward him?’

  ‘There was no one chasing him. No one in front of him. So, I assume he was either high or drunk. However, I did observe—’

  ‘So you did see this accident?’

  ‘Well, of course I didn’t see it in real time. I would have been four years old. But I can tell you there was a brilliant reflection on the truck’s windshield, just before the truck went off the road.’

  ‘Something blinded the driver?’

  ‘I thought the same thing,’ she said. ‘There was a glare on the windshield. I don’t know if that added to the confusion.’

  ‘It was in the evening,’ Archer said.

  ‘Dark night, but I had the impression there was some light,’ she said. ‘Either the moon, or maybe a city nearby, the lights casting a halo. Regardless, a light bounced off the windshield and Nick Martin turned into the trees and the truck slid down the hill.’

  Archer mulled over the information. He wasn’t at all sure how it fit into Leroy’s murder. If anything, it seemed to muddy the already murky waters. The only thing that worked was that Leroy had arrived on the scene first. He was the one who would have radioed the information back to the precinct. Leroy would have had first access to the cab, the body, the empty trailer.

  And with the record-keeping back then, it could take days to find if there were still files regarding the incident.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  There was an act on Jackson Square that defied any other act he’d seen. Joseph knew from an early age that he loved sleight of hand. He loved tricks that baffled his mind. From the steps of the Square he watched a magician sawing a woman in two. He saw illusionists levitating people right in front of him. Then there was the floating crystal ball. Oh, he knew they were tricks. But his curiosity demanded that it be satisfied. Magic was a hoax but he wanted to find the solution and with much research he figured out almost all of the illusions. It was never his intention to perform the acts. Brion never pictured himself as the illusionist. He just wanted to know that he was as smart as the performer.

  He knew that two people were used in the sawing trick. One was the head, the other the feet, and he figured out how they stuffed half their bodies into either side of the magician’s contraption. The levitating woman had to be done with a metal device that was hidden by the conjurer. As he stood there, running his hoop over the floating girl’s body, he simply followed the hidden contours of the S shaped bend in the metal. With a little bit of concentration, he could figure out almost anything.

  There was one deception that confused him, baffled him, made him doubt his own sanity. The magician walked in front of the concrete steps pulling a red wagon. He was dressed in ordinary street clothes, jeans and a T-shirt and he topped off the outfit with a tuxedo jacket. Equipped with a microphone and a loud speaker attached to his belt, he began a conversation with his audience. Joseph and Pop were immediately taken in with his smooth talk and gentle persuasion.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it takes most people years to build their dreams. To build their castles in the sky. In many cases, wasted time, trying to achieve the impossible.’

  He stood there, the statue of Andrew Jackson in the background, looking out at the sparse crowd sitting on the cement rows.

  ‘Whatever you want, you can have it now. Now, not in twenty years. Not when you are old and retired. Tell me something you want. A vacation, a dream home, a pony?’

  Reaching into his wagon he pulled out a package of canvas and aluminum poles. In a matter of seconds, he had created a sizable tent with a red velvet curtain hanging in front. The audience applauded, the rapid creation of the tent being a pretty surprising feat in itself. The magician bowed, and peaked behind the curtain. He nodded and pulled the material aside. A small white pony with a bushy brown mane came strolling out. Joseph’s jaw dropped.

  The magician petted the miniature animal, held out his hand with sugar cubes for the horse to eat, then slapped the pony on its flank and the horse walked back into the tent.

  ‘Do you need a couple of thousand dollars to pay the rent? You should have invested in my magic tent.’

  With a flourish, the magician once again looked behind the red curtain, then pulled it aside. Out pranced the pony, this time harnessed and pulling a small wagon. Bundles of bills were inside, stacked high. The man reached for one package and tore the paper binding. Walking to the edge of the seats, he suddenly tossed the money into the crowd, and people scrambled to pick up what appeared to be loose one dollar bills.

  Joseph remembered the magician kept this up for twenty minutes.

  ‘Do you want a car?’ Out came a miniature clown car, a midget clown driving and waving to the assembled.

  For his final presentation, the magician pulled aside the curtain and reached inside, his hand returning with two huge, overblown tickets to the Cole Brothers Circus that was coming to town the next week. The pieces of cardboard were as big as Joseph was.

  He turned to Pop and hugged him, but the tickets weren’t for them. The performer walked up the steps and stopped one row from the father and son. He grabbed a little girl and her mother and presented them with tickets to the event. At a young, tender age, Joseph knew the whole show had been a sham, staged, to advertise the circus. Even the fake dollar bills were nothing but a printed advertisement for the circus. But how that man made things appear still baffled him. For months he played various scenarios in his mind, eventually discounting every one of them. There was no way that the magic tent could produce what it did.

  He and Pop didn’t ever go to the circus because of ‘business’ obligations. Joseph remembered thinking that Pop didn’t really want to take him to the circus. It would be a self-defeating act. Pop had built the circus up as a once in a lifetime event, with the elephants, the big cats and the high-wire acts. It would be an experience that could never be replicated, and everything that he and Pop did after that would pale in comparison. So he deduced that his father made an excuse. And the small times they had together had more impact, more importance. The circus remained just that un attainable dream, and Pop would create his own series of circus acts, like the bands, the acrobats, the musicians and magicians at Jackson Square. And as a young boy who loved his father, that was OK. It was still him and Pop.

  But Joseph never forgot the man who made things appear out of thin air. The magician, who made a pony and a car appear from nowhere.

  It was years later that he discovered how his father played magician in his line of work. Making things appear out of thin air. Pop was able to perform his magic on an even grander scale.

  Joseph ran his own small-time businesses, ran his cadre of minions, bagmen and drug runners who did his dirty work, but he never measured up to the size of his pop’s short-time business venture. Pop had perfected the system. Pop and his cohorts were the Jackson Square magician, on steroids. For a brief time. Until the truck driver broke his neck. He’d listened to the conversations, late at night, as Pop and Joseph Washington drank their whiskey and tongues loosened up. He heard stories he didn’t understand.

  Joseph Brion became more and more sceptical about his father’s moral compass. And as an impressionable youth, he wondered if there was really a need for that compass. A man had to do what a man had to do. To support himself, his family, to make his mark in the world. He heard contrition in his father’s conversations. He detected a note of sorrow, but for the brief time that Pop was bringing in the bucks, making a life for his young family, Joseph knew that André Brion was proud. Proud that he’d found a way to live the good life. For the brief time that he was financially sound, his father had stood with his head held high. After the fall, there was a lot of head shaking and tears. The Lower Ninth was the lowest anyone could go.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  He felt certain the man with the tattooed necklace was down here. Parading around Algiers. By now that man knew he was being hunted because of his neckl
ace. Archer felt confident that the young officer shot to death had identified Joseph Brion, and Brion had shot him to stop an arrest. If that was true, the killer could have gone to ground or tried to hide the necklace.

  To go to ground meant he was in a safe house or hovering in a restaurant or bar, hiding in a corner. He may have friends in Algiers, but Archer had a strong feeling the man was still wandering. He was waiting for something, and cowering in a public place didn’t seem to fit his profile. He needed to be out and about, free at a moment’s notice. The detective just wished he knew what Brion was waiting for. He needed to find this guy, and stop the bloodshed.

  So, in the oppressive heat of a New Orleans September, Archer watched for young men who wore excessive clothing. Anyone who wore a jacket – there were none – or a scarf – there were none; anyone with any sign of covering up the neck, he wanted to confront them. But the heat and humidity prohibited the outdoor population from wearing any extra layers.

  Another idea crossed his mind. He’d been intrigued by the truck accident involving Nick Martin. In the initial investigation, there had been a mention of seven or eight other truck hijackings and the fact that maybe the mob was behind the robberies. Archer had read stories about the Mafia godfather Carlos Marcello. The chieftan was rumored to have been involved in President John Kennedy’s assassination thirty years before the hijackings, but Marcello ran New Orleans and the French Quarter with an iron fist when the trucks were robbed. The truck thefts sounded like a mob operation. He hadn’t yet heard how the trucks were robbed, but Solange’s version of Martin’s accident was intriguing. Precisely what she saw, or how she saw it, eluded him but he somehow believed her. She’d had a glimpse of Martin’s last ride. While the young man could have been under the influence of substance abuse, the wild, chaotic ride sounded more like he was evading another vehicle. Yet the voodoo lady had said that she saw no other vehicle.

  Since Sergeant Beeman was insisting on being at his disposal, he may as well take him up on the offer. He dialed Beeman’s cell.

  ‘Archer, tell me you’ve got Joseph Brion.’

  ‘I wish, but it’s not a one-hour TV show, Sarge. What I have is another question.’

  ‘Give it to me.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about Nick Martin’s death. There was talk about several other hijackings during that same time period. I never heard how those trucks were stopped and then robbed. I mean, what reports did the truck drivers volunteer? Supposedly there were seven or eight robberies, so there has to be some information, right?’

  ‘I’ll get right on it, Q. Again, we’re dealing with reports done on typewriters and stuffed into files, twenty-five, twenty-six years ago. Documents from then weren’t catalogued properly, and some have been damaged or destroyed. With everything we are experiencing, it could take a while. Give me some time, OK?’

  ‘Time is one thing we don’t have, Sergeant. I also need to know what kind of time Washington and Brion served for the attempted gold heist. We’ve got to speed things up, Sarge. If this guy kills someone else, we are all in for some serious hell.’

  ‘Not that we aren’t there now, Detective.’

  The late afternoon sun cast shadows on the street outside her shop. The funeral had passed by an hour ago. Now the traffic was pedestrian tourists who wanted to buy a souvenir voodoo doll, a gris-gris bag with no concern what it would do. Thank God for the tourists, but they dumbed down the faith.

  She had no idea what they did with the knick-knacks they purchased, and she often told the purchasers that without the prayers, without the knowledge of the gods, the items they bought were useless. Still, she sold thousands of items a year. People wanted to participate in the voodoo culture. If voodoo worked for someone, it could work for them.

  Solange went to the sink and splashed water on her face. She’d been through a self-induced out-of-body experience. She’d said prayers to all the spirits she could conjure up. Then she played voodoo queen to the tourists. And she’d tried to convey her concerns to the detective. She was exhausted. As she did every hour of every day, she wished that Ma would come back. She wished that Ma would give her infinite wisdom, the confidence she sometimes lacked.

  But it always struck her that Ma was probably as insecure as she was. She put on a strong front, telling her little girl ‘don’t be afraid’, when the older lady was probably the one who was afraid. There was some comfort in thinking that. No one had all the answers. The successful were the ones who forged ahead anyway, assuming the answers would come. True strength was the ability to continue on. Have faith that there was a light at the end of the tunnel. You had to lead people through that tunnel, full of bluff and bravado. And when you finally emerged into the blinding sunshine, when you saw that proverbial light, you would turn to the faithful and say, ‘See? I told you so.’

  Small groups of men and a few women stood on street corners, smoking tobacco, smoking weed. Shuffling their feet, kicking aluminum cans, candy wrappers and empty cigarette packs to the gutter, they milled in growing numbers. Much too early for full-scale riot mode, they watched squad cars, cops on every corner, glowering at the officers with a sinister look in their eyes. Later tonight, under the influence of drugs, alcohol or peer pressure, these people would be a lot more confident. A lot more boisterous. A lot more dangerous. Later tonight there would be outright rebellion. Algiers would again be burning.

  Archer watched, considering where Joseph Brion might be. Any of these corners would be a perfect hiding place, mixing with the masses. There were plenty of young men with caps, with wool hats pulled low on their foreheads, some wearing green army fatigues, some with khaki cargo shorts. He could be anywhere, and it was probably a useless search. Still, nothing else seemed to be working.

  His phone rang and he grabbed it, hopeful for any information at all.

  ‘Archer, it’s Beeman.’

  ‘What have you got, Sarge?’

  ‘It’s what I don’t have. For whatever reason, it appears that Washington and Brion didn’t do time after being arrested at Fox Glass.’

  ‘No one could prove that it was grand theft? Attempted grand theft?’

  ‘No. I say it appears, because the reports are sketchy. You’ll have to read them for yourself. It appears that Matt Fox refused to press charges.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what the report says. The case was dropped when Matthew Fox refused to press charges. At that time.’

  ‘What does that mean? Somebody got to him.’

  ‘Could be. But the report says that he refused to press charges at that time.’

  ‘He was hedging? Maybe he’d press charges later?’

  ‘It’s cryptic. I mean, I’ve seen charges pressed close to the date of the statute of limitations. Charges pressed just before some criminal thinks he or she is going to get away with their crime. But this one I don’t understand.’

  ‘What are the limitations on grand theft?’

  ‘The DA has four years to charge someone.’

  ‘So Fox refuses to press charges, and that gives him four years to decide if he wants to nail these two guys.’

  ‘It appears that’s the case,’ Beeman said. ‘The reason it’s sketchy is that we don’t know for sure if he did press charges. Two or three years later possibly he tried to reopen the case. We haven’t found any record of that happening yet, but he left himself open. Maybe they leaned on him, got him to back off, but why didn’t he just fold? Instead, he says he won’t press charges “at this time”.’

  ‘You haven’t helped at all, you realize that, right?’

  ‘If you figure out why Fox backed off,’ Beeman paused, ‘you might be closer to your solution.’

  ‘It was twenty-six years ago, so it might mean nothing at all. I just find it strange that when I interviewed Fox, he had no recollection of the incident. I can’t believe that the department didn’t give him a hard time about that. We responded, these two guys were wrapped in tape, they were put in jail and th
e next morning they were arraigned. It sounds like it should have been a slam dunk. They attempted a robbery, and we need convictions, it’s what we live for. Our entire job is built on how many arrests and convictions we have. Yet, there was no prosecution. Without a charge …’

  ‘No question about it. Fox should have been all over this case.’

  Archer pictured the situation. Private security officer Johnny Leroy, in some remote location inside Fox Glass, with two suspects wrapped in packing tape. The police show up and he announces the reason that he’s bound these suspects. Washington and Brion are arrested, taken to headquarters and put in jail, and charged the next morning. Obviously, they plead not guilty.

  All of a sudden, the business owner, Matt Fox, decides not to press charges. But he reserves the right to press charges within the next four years. It made no sense. Unless one of the suspects had threatened Fox. Yet if that had happened, Fox would have backed off. He wouldn’t have kept open the threat of pressing charges sometime in the next four years. If his life and the safety of his family had been threatened, the business owner would have walked away entirely. But no, he kept his options open. Why?

  ‘So after four years, the DA can’t prosecute, right?’

  ‘As I read it,’ Beeman said.

  ‘And if the criminals had walked off with the gold and no charges had been brought, the gold would be theirs free and clear.’

  ‘Louisiana law, Detective.’

  For some criminals, it paid to take their chances.

  ‘We’re still pouring over records, Q. I’ll get back to you.’

  A roar went up in the next block. Archer could see smoke and watched as a straw scarecrow in a police uniform went up in flame. Nothing worth an arrest at this point, but the troublemakers were starting a little early. He checked his watch. Not that it meant anything, but there were six hours until the newly imposed curfew. Today could be explosive.

  ‘Call me, Sarge. I’ve got a feeling I’m going to be here for a while.’