by Erik Carter
The Lowdown
Erik Carter
Copyright © 2018 by Erik Carter
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Thank You
Get More Carter
Dale Conley Action Thrillers
The Barnaby Wilcox Series
Also by Erik Carter
About the Author
Acknowledgments
New Orleans, Louisiana
The 1970s
Chapter 1
He saw the black man sitting at the end of the alley, and he knew that he was going to kill him.
A bum. Late forties, maybe fifties. Hunched over. Butt on the ground, back against the wall, head drooped over. It was night, but there was just a tinge of light reaching the man from a lamp on the side of a building farther down the alley. A liquor bottle in a brown paper bag was in the man’s left hand. His head moved about, side to side, as though he was in the midst of an animated conversation. But there was no one else in the alley. He was talking to himself.
Just a lousy wino. This would be easy.
Focus. He needed to prepare. He took his attention away from the bum and looked in the rearview mirror. His expression was neutral. He brought the corners of his mouth up. It wasn’t quite a smile but rather a look that—once he made his eyes a bit wider, a bit brighter—conveyed openness, naïveté. He was good at this—the minute changes in appearance that convinced another person, without saying a word, of one’s demeanor, one’s character. He was a man full of character and ideals, and he was able to manipulate that sincerity to his will. People responded to it. That’s how he’d been able to do what he’d done. No one believed it could be him. No one seemed to remember the simple phrase, It’s always the person you least suspect.
On the passenger seat beside him was a bag of marijuana, a hand-rolled cigarette, rolling papers, and a small tube of white powder. The marijuana in the bag was laced with cocaine, and the powder was a bit of magic trickery compliments of Dylan Mercer. The key to it all. He put some marijuana onto a paper. Then he opened the bottle of Dylan’s powder. He raised it over the pot and tapped it with his finger a few times. Way more than was necessary. Dylan had told him to use only a tiny sprinkling. But he had covered the mound of pot in the dust, smiling while he did it. It looked like a small range of snowcapped mountains.
He rolled the joint and put it in his left pocket. He put the cigarette—filled with nothing but pure tobacco—in his right pocket. One more look in the rearview mirror. Minor adjustments to his visage. Pure. Simple. Trustworthy. He stepped out of the car and walked toward the alley.
New Orleans. What a dirty place. Dirty in every sense. Debauchery. Physical filth. It smelled. You could smell the river. And when you were in the French Quarter—the closer you got to Bourbon Street and the strippers and the gays and the alcohol—it smelled like piss. Like human urine. Lingering in the air. A constant assault of the senses.
But this was a different part of the city. Still downtown but far from the French Quarter. There were areas of New Orleans that could get quiet at two in the morning. Quiet and dangerous. But he was willing to accept the danger for what he needed to do. For nights like tonight. This was the fourth or fifth time he’d done this. It was ancillary to the main plan. Hell, it was more than ancillary—it was something different entirely. And if Dylan found out he was doing it again, there’d be hell to pay.
That’s why he had to be extra careful.
He checked the stoops as he walked, looking for the mounded form of another bum lying under piles of newspaper or a ratty blanket. But there were none. Perfect. He needed the isolation.
As he drew closer, the bum pulled his head up and looked his way. “You’re a long way from home.” The bum laughed. A deep laugh. A damned laugh. The laugh of someone clutching a bottle in an alley at two in the morning.
He stepped up beside the bum, a couple feet away. He fought the feelings of revulsion coursing through him. “Yeah, I’m a little bit lost,” he said, affecting a voice that matched the trustworthy look on his face. “I’m hoping you can point me toward the French Quarter.”
“A tourist.” The bum laughed again. He took a drink from his bottle.
“Yep,” he said and looked at the ground with a bashful smile. Aw shucks. Golly, gee whiz.
“I can help you out,” the bum said. “But what’s in it for me?”
“I don’t have any cash,” he said, patting the wallet in his back pocket. “But I have this.” He took the joint from his left pocket and held it out.
The bum nodded and took the joint. “My man.”
He pulled the clean cigarette from his other pocket, put it in his mouth, and lit it before handing his lighter to the bum.
The bum put the joint in his lips but hesitated before lighting it. “You ain’t Jesse James, are you?” He laughed again. An ugly laugh. And loud.
“The outlaw?”
“Nah,” the bum said. “Some white guy’s been going around lately passing around some real mean stuff. Getcha hooked. People are dying. Bad dude.”
“I wrote a check that bounced one time.”
More laughter from the bum. He smacked his knee in appreciation. “You’re alright.” He lit his joint and took a big draw. He sat for a moment, savoring it. “You’d better be careful out here, dressed like you are. All preppy-like. Now to get to the French Quarter, head down to … down to …”
The bum’s eyes grew bigger. Panic set in. A cough. Then a pause. And another cough, louder, harsher. The bum doubled over.
He watched the bum struggle for a moment then flicked his cigarette away down the alley. He took the stupid look off his face.
The bum coughed violently.
He bent down and grabbed the bum by the jacket, pulled him to his feet. He got in the bum’s face, gritting his teeth.
Gurgling noises came from the bum’s throat. Popping. It was a satisfying sou
nd. Bloody froth came from the corner of the bum’s mouth, erupting, spilling down his neck.
“I am Jesse James,” he said, getting even closer to the bum’s disgusting, convulsing face. “Sleep tight, asshole.”
He threw the bum aside. The man flopped on the concrete. The bloody foam flowed from his mouth. The movements slowed. Then the bum was still.
He spat on the body and turned toward his car.
Chapter 2
Special Agent Dale Conley’s back burst into pain as he was thrown against the wall. Two big hands held him by his shirt, lifting him up a couple inches taller than his normal height, putting him eye-to-eye with his assailant.
A big man. No, a gigantic man. As much a beast as a human being. Big jowls covered by a dark, oily, unkempt beard. Long hair full of grease. Small, dull eyes, brown in color. He wore a black leather vest over a stained white tank top. His arms were massive but untoned, echoing the broad chest that was complimented by a massive gut hanging over his heavily soiled blue jeans. Dale liked the look of wear and patina on a pair of 501s, but this man’s jeans were nigh destroyed. That in itself was a crime.
The man’s name was Bryce.
Dale was in a biker bar on the outskirts of New Orleans. It was called Cast Iron, the type of place that could turn any day into a dank day. Although it was bright and beautiful outside, the sunlight and blazing blue skies hardly permeated the filthy, grime-covered windows. It was dark. Neon lights tossed different colors into the gloom: red, blue, yellow, a splash of purple. There were six pool tables in three rows of two. A bathroom in the back. A few tables in the front on either side of the door. And a bar to the side, behind which the bartender—a man who called himself Sledge and looked like an older version of Bryce—watched the festivities with interest and a wary eye to the underside of the bar, where there was likely a baseball bat or a 12-gauge.
There was a handful of other Bryce-type men scattered around the tables, all of them looking at Dale. Leather pants. Long gray hair. Long white hair. Mustaches. Beards. Body odor. Fat, powerful arms.
And, by himself, on the far wall, was Dale’s partner for this assignment, Percy Gordon. Black, mid forties. As always, he was chewing gum. He chewed slowly, a pace that mirrored the cautious, wary look in his eyes that scanned and assessed the tense situation. He sported a mustache and wore an outfit comparable to the other men in the bar.
Dale, too, was wearing a disguise. The 501 jeans and motorcycle boots were his, but he also wore a T-shirt bearing the insignia of Pabst’s Blue Ribbon beer and a bulky jean jacket with oil stains and a patch that read, Ain’t We All Got a Mother?
Dale also had a mustache. A big mustache. Thick and droopy. But unlike Percy’s mustache, Dale’s was not real. And while Percy’s mustache fell straight across his upper lip, Dale had the distinct feeling that his did not. He couldn’t see it, of course, but he could sense the adhesive on the left side letting loose of his skin. It felt askew. When the ogre threw him against the wall, it had lost its grip.
Bryce kept his hands on Dale’s jacket and drew himself within inches of his face. “You know, usually ringers at pool halls are better at pool than they claim to be. But your smart ass strolls in here claiming to have won tournaments, and you haven’t sank one goddamn shot.”
“Just an off day,” Dale said. “I’ve had a bit of a cold.” Dale put his fist to his mouth and let out a little cough. He smiled.
Bryce scoffed, grunted. “Uh-huh. You come to a biker joint in a car like that.” He pointed at the murky, dirt-smeared window on the front door, through which was just visible a bright orange sports car. Dale’s car. His love. A De Tomaso Pantera. Her name was Arancia. “Some sort of Italian sports car parked right by a bunch of Harleys.” He pronounced Italian as Eye-talian. “You start asking around about Jesse James. And you thought it was a good idea to bring a black guy with you. Into a place like this.”
Bryce motioned with his head toward Percy. Dale looked. He and Percy locked eyes. Just for a moment. But they communicated in that moment. We got this. Their rapport was near telepathic. This wasn’t their first time working together. It was a rarity for Dale to have a second assignment with any of his temporary liaison partners, and this was his third with Percy. Which was a blessing. Because Dale liked Percy a lot. They were buddies.
Dale turned back to Bryce.
The big man tightened his grip on Dale’s jean jacket. “The only people who come around asking for Jesse James are strung-out addicts and cops. I smell a pig.”
Dale held up a finger. “That would be the delicious hot ham and cheese sandwich Sledge prepared for me” He pointed back at the pool table where they had been playing. There was a small table a few feet away where Dale’s half-eaten sandwich sat on a paper plate next to a nearly full bottle of beer. Dale hated beer and had mostly feigned drinking it. He looked toward the bar. “Merci, Monsieur Sledge! Magnifique!”
The menu at Cast Iron was limited—and it wasn’t available in a physical format. Sledge had told Dale and Percy what he could “throw together” for them when they first approached the bar. Given the other options were a hamburger or fried chicken, Dale found the idea of a hot ham and cheese relatively healthy.
Bryce lowered Dale, took one hand off him. “Here’s the biggest reason why I know you’re full of shit.” He tore the mustache off Dale’s lip. “Around these parts, guys usually wear real mustaches.”
Dale put a hand up in a mediating manner. “Listen, I sense a little tension here. I think we started off on the wrong foot. Let’s break the ice. I’ll start. You can call me Fist.” He put out his hand for a handshake.
Bryce gave him a confused look. “Fist?”
“That’s right.” Dale’s extended hand clenched, and he slugged Bryce across the jaw. “Nice to meet you.”
Bryce stumbled back several steps before his face snapped back around to Dale. His teeth were bared.
Dale yelled out to his partner. “Let’s get the hell out of here, Percy!”
The room erupted into violence. A pool cue came swinging at Dale’s head. He dropped down. The cue broke against the wall, a chunk of it falling on his shoulder. Dale popped back up with an uppercut to the man who swung the cue, his fist thunking in the man’s big belly.
Dale looked across the room.
Percy was surrounded by multiple men, but he was doing a damn good job standing his ground. He kicked one guy in the chest, avoided a roundhouse, then slugged another man across the cheek.
Two more bikers approached. Dale took a swing at one of them, but the man avoided his punch and angled himself around Dale, getting him into a full nelson. The other one pulled back and punched Dale in the stomach, doubling him over. Dale drove his weight down into his heels, propelling himself back up. At the same time he flung his head backwards into the face of the man behind him and then quickly forward into that of the other man. They dropped off him.
Then another man stepped forward.
Bryce.
Nostrils flaring. Ready to explode. Ready to charge. A bull. A raging bull.
Dale considered going for his gun—in the holster clipped to the inside of his jeans against his back—but knew that he didn’t have the time. The attack was coming. He positioned himself. Became the matador. Put up his arms.
Ready when you are, toro.
Bryce jumped into action. With perplexing speed given his dimensions, he catapulted himself toward Dale, closing the gap between the two of them in a split second. Dale reached back and grabbed a pool cue by the thin end, swung it like a baseball bat, giving it everything he had. Bryce put up a forearm and snapped the cue, its heavy end flying across the room.
Bryce grabbed Dale by the jacket again, lifted him into the air, and slammed him on his back onto a pool table. He pulled back a big, beefy fist, ready to smash a hole into Dale’s face.
People always commented on Dale’s ability to improvise.
He needed some of that quick thinking right now.
He
looked to his right. Across a field of green felt, there was a multicolored solar system of pool balls.
He grabbed two of the pool balls then quickly sat up and swung his hands together. The two balls cracked against Bryce’s skull on either side, against his temples
The man’s eyes went wide, then crossed, then they rolled back in his head. His entire mass crumpled and hit the floor with a tremor that shook the pool table beneath Dale.
Someone else ran up, and an arm with a beer bottle came swinging down toward Dale. He rolled to avoid it, rolling all the way off the opposite side of the table and onto his feet in a crouched position. He scanned his surroundings.
In front of him, there was a clear path to the door. To his right, Percy had also just freed himself for a moment. But a man was coming up behind him.
“Percy!”
Percy turned, saw the other man, and managed to avoid the punch, landing his own blow to the man’s jaw.
“Come on!” Dale said.
Dale ran toward the entrance, and Percy followed. Dale shouldered through the door, and it swung back and smacked loudly into the wall. He squinted and covered his eyes. The sunlight was blinding. He reached into the pocket of his jean jacket for his shades as he and Percy ran toward Arancia.
