by Erik Carter
The truth was, Jesse was anxious. About what Dylan was going to do with him.
The door opened. Halfway. Paused. Then it swung open entirely, and out walked Dylan Mercer. He was long. Six foot three with loping arms and thin legs. He wasn’t from the South, but he nonetheless reminded Jesse of boys he’d grown up with in Mississippi. His face had that same lean, wild look, and his beard said I don’t give a shit, growing unrestrained down his neck, spattered with gray hairs. He wore a faded black T-shirt with white paint stains and a tear across the side. Jeans. Boots.
Dylan looked at Jesse. Waited a moment. Then descended the stairs, lighting a cigarette as he approached. He maintained eye contact with Jesse as he walked up to him. He stopped a couple feet from him, looked him up and down. Laughed. “You worthless fool.” His words oozed contempt in that Northern accent of his. He’d laughed, but Dylan was far from joking. There was that darkness in his eyes. “So … Jesse just had to kill himself another Negro.”
“I didn’t think anyone would see,” Jesse said. He knew Dylan hated excuses, but it was all Jesse could think to say.
“You didn’t think a soul was in those buildings surrounding you?” Dylan blew smoke out the corner of his mouth. The smell of tobacco filled Jesse’s nose.
“It … Nothing happened the other times.” Jesse avoided Dylan’s eyes. He looked to the ground and back up. Found him staring at him still.
Dylan took a long drag off his cigarette and leaned his head back as he assessed Jesse. “It’s your fault we’re in this predicament. Calling yourself Jesse James. Couldn’t leave it at that, could you? You ignorant pile of shit.”
That accent. Northern. Jesse despised it. Especially when Dylan was lecturing him, talking down to him like this. It was a Midwestern accent. Neutral. Like people on TV. Like a teacher, like the professors from Jesse’s days at LSU. Dylan used it with such contempt. As much as Dylan fit in down here in the South, as accepted as he was—his leadership of this organization being the ultimate proof of such acceptance—he always had a foot in the North. This gave Jesse a degree of distrust. Even though he was following him into this holy war. Even though they were kin by marriage.
Jesse hated apologizing to people. He hated lowering himself like that. But he reminded himself again of his need to remain humble if he was going to be a productive part of the team. “I’m sorry.”
Dylan scoffed. “Our investors have a fortune invested in this. We got all these other guys involved. And you’re out there taking chances with it all.”
“I just … get so damn angry.”
“No. You’re being foolish. And if you put this in jeopardy one more time, I’ll deal with you personally. I think you know what that means.” Dylan stared into him for a moment. “Have you found the symbol?”
He flicked his cigarette into Jesse’s chest. Jesse felt the heat of its tip for a split second before it dropped to the ground. Dylan turned toward to the trailer before giving Jesse a chance to answer his question.
Jesse stayed where he was. Dylan didn’t want him to follow, just to answer. “It’s supposed to be one in one of the Saint Louis Cemeteries. Some sort of moon shape on a tomb. I looked all afternoon. There are so many moons. And three different cemeteries. Hundreds of tombs. I need more details.”
Dylan stopped on the trailer’s small front porch. He put his hands on the metal railing and looked back at Jesse. “Excuses.”
“I can find this symbol, Dylan. I promise you.”
“You sure as hell better hope you do.” He stepped into the trailer. The door snapped shut behind him.
Chapter 5
Dale and Percy looked at the alley. The sky was gray and gloomy, and they were in an equally gloomy area of New Orleans. The alley was strewn with debris, but there was a clear path down the center, which was exactly what Dale needed. It was angled down a steep slope. And there was a straight shot to the dumpster..
Dale grasped the handle of a battered shopping cart. It was filled with four cinderblocks that Dale had found nearby.
Percy looked at him skeptically, slowly chewing his gum. “What the hell are you up to now, Dale?”
“Some very delicate police work.”
Dale let loose of the cart. It rolled quickly down the hill into the alley.
“Come on!” Dale said.
He darted off to the front of the brick building to which the alley belonged. Percy followed. As they reached the front of the building, Dale came to an abrupt stop, then assumed a casual stroll as they rounded the corner.
A few feet ahead of them was an unassuming and unmarked door. There were windows covered by boards and painted black, as was the rest of the front of the building. By the door was a guard wearing a black suit with a black shirt and white tie. He was thick and wide, sported a beard, and he wore sunglasses even in the murky weather. His head was a small boulder, both in size and shape.
A metallic crashing noise came from the alley in the back. The shopping cart had found its mark. Dale suppressed a smile, feeling very impressed by his own cleverness.
The guard snapped to attention. He darted off and disappeared beyond the opposite corner of the building—a side alley leading to the wider alley in the back.
Dale nodded at Percy, and they hurried to the the door and went inside.
Every eye in the room fell upon them. Everyone stopped moving. And they stared. It wasn’t totally unlike when the two of them first crossed the threshold of Cast Iron.
Dale gave a cheesy grin to his new friends and took in his surroundings. It was a single room. Tables. People playing dice. Several poker games. A roulette table. Men with beers. Women in lingerie and tall boots. Aside from a harried man in the back with his sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened, Dale was the only white face.
And he and Percy were the only two who looked like they lived on the law-abiding side of the tracks.
The walls were painted black, which along with the low lighting coming from the few fixtures hanging from the ceiling, gave the place a very dark and somewhat ominous look. The metal support beams were painted white, and there were little touches of dark red here and there: along the edge of the bar in the back, the bathroom door frames. Dale was impressed that some thought had been given to the interior design of the place.
Dale shut the door as the two of them entered, sealing out what exterior light was coming in and making the place even darker. All those contentious eyes watched them. Another guard approached from the back. He wore the same outfit as the outside guard—a black suit and shirt with white tie. He too wore sunglasses, his resting over a set of massive sideburns. This man was even bigger than the first. And he was a leaner type of big. Pure muscle. Long arms, long face, jutting cheekbones.
As the man approached, Dale leaned over to Percy and said quietly, “Now, just play it cool. A little diplomacy will go a long way here.”
“I’m cool.”
The guard stepped up within a few feet of them. Towering, peering down. He wore a grin. An aggressive grin. “You lost, fellas?”
“We’d like a word with the Grizzly,” Dale said.
“Got an appointment?”
Percy took out his badge. “Indeed we do.”
Dale turned to him. “Very diplomatic.”
The guard barely acknowledged the badge. He laughed. “DEA. Wrong address. Your appointment’s somewhere else. On the other side of town. Dig?”
The front door burst open. The outside guard rushed in, panting. He approached them.
The bigger man with the sideburns gave the other an antagonistic look. “Hell of a job watching the door, Mickey.”
Mickey stood tall, straightened his tie, caught his breath. “Is there a problem here?”
Sideburns looked at Dale and Percy as he answered. “Just a couple lost little piggies.”
“As I was telling your associate,” Dale said to Mickey, “we’re here to see the Griz.”
Mickey didn’t crack a smile. “Don’t call him that. You
got a warrant?”
“Should we go get one?” Dale said. “I see plenty of illegal gambling.”
Sideburns cocked his head. “See, this here is private property. And you weren’t invited. That’s trespassing. And … what’s that? Did you just make an inappropriate pass at one of the girls?”
“Haven’t had a chance yet,” Dale said.
Mickey nodded, seeing where Sideburns was going. “You can’t touch her like that. Now we got every right to lay hands on you.”
It happened instantly. The guards pounced on Dale and Percy, one attacking each of them. Sideburns came at Dale, clipping him on the chin. Dale staggered backwards and ran into someone. He turned around, fists drawn, and found that it was Percy he’d bumped into. His fists were drawn too and ready to slug Dale. Both men turned back around.
Dale threw a punch into Sideburns’ face. Barely made a dent. The man smirked it off. Then he put two big hands on Dale and threw him to the side. Dale crashed into a table, its edge digging into his side. Cards went flying. People screamed, ran for the door. Dale slid off the edge of the table and onto the floor. Sideburns lumbered over to him, and Dale pulled back his right leg, wound it tight, ready to explode his boot into the man’s sternum. He saw exactly where he was going to kick him. Just below the neck. Like he was looking down a sight, a scope.
Then there was a noise from the back of the room. A voice.
“What the hell is going on out here?”
It was a low voice, a grumbling voice. Like a storm ready to let loose of its lightning or the primordial growl of one of the alligators in the nearby bayous.
But when Dale looked to see where the voice had come from, it wasn’t a gator.
It was a Grizzly.
Chapter 6
Percy Gordon looked around the office and quickly realized one thing about the Grizzly: the man liked chess.
Everywhere were chess pieces: bishops on the bookshelves to the side, a couple knights by the window, a three-foot-tall rook ashtray beside the desk. On the floor was a shag rug of alternating black and white squares. Percy counted the squares—eight-by-eight, white in right. Chess sets of marble. Metal. Wood. Oversized chess sets. Palm-sized chess sets. The back wall was painted black with a line of large, white silhouettes of the six chess pieces: a pawn on the left side and finishing with a king on the right. The surface of the Grizzly’s desk, too, was a chessboard, and the four legs holding it aloft were rooks. Dwarfing everything, in each of the back corners of the room, were a gigantic, ceiling-height king and queen.
The Grizzly sat behind the desk, which was styled a bit like a throne with its red velvet cushions and polished brass metalwork. Unlike most thrones, however, it reclined, and the springs beneath the cushion squeaked under the Grizzly’s girth. This king liked comfort.
He was even bigger than his guards, but he didn’t have the same look of physical power that they had. It was a different sort of power he exuded. The power of influence. You took one look at the guy and knew he was the type of man who got things done. Even with his ridiculous outfit. A green suit. Dark, hunter green. The cuffs and the trim above the pockets were maroon velvet as was the band that went around his fedora hat, which matched the dark green of his suit. He wore sunglasses like his goons. There was no shirt under his jacket, and his bare chest was covered in thick hair reminiscent of his moniker.
Percy and Dale sat across from him in the two chairs facing the desk. He’d been generous enough to give them each an ice pack, which they were both applying to their fresh bumps and bruises.
Percy glanced beside him. Dale was stretching the fingers on his right hand. His knuckles were pinked. There was a scratch on his cheek. And he was grinning. Ear to ear. He enjoyed stuff like this. The fool actually enjoyed getting into fights, being whisked away to foreboding offices to meet criminal bosses. Some people were thrill-chasers. But not Dale. Thrills chased him.
There was something else there, though. Something in Dale’s eyes. Almost a bit of reluctance. Distrust, perhaps. Percy felt it too. It was strange, his being a DEA agent and willingly sitting in a drug lord’s office. It felt wrong. And it made him tense. He was smashing his chewing gum between his teeth. He took a deep breath, tried to relax.
The Grizzly looked across his desk at the two agents, a hand to his chin. Still smiling. He had been smiling when he first broke up the fight, and he hadn’t stopped. Percy felt like a guard at a lunatic asylum. Why was everyone but him smiling? This was not a smiling occasion.
“So, you two come into my establishment, mess with my guards, and tear the place up. And now you want information out of me?”
“That’s correct,” Percy said.
The Grizzly laughed, a deep, hearty laugh that matched his voice. “You two got balls. I’ll give you that. But I fail to see how talking to you is going to benefit me.”
Dale leaned forward. “The guy we’re after is killing off some of your best clients.”
“You’re looking for Jesse James.”
Dale nodded.
The Grizzly’s smile brightened. “I thought that might be what this is about. Still, I don’t see why I should help.” He pointed at Percy. “This guy’s DEA!”
The Grizzly was right that every inch of Percy wanted to haul the big man off to prison. When you’re trained to hunt down scumbags, it was hard to willingly let one go. But Percy had been in enough situations like this to know that getting the help of one scumbag could lead to taking down even bigger scumbags.
Percy shook his head. “I’m not saying I’m going to forget what I’ve seen or heard about you, but for right now, we’re on the same side. And it’s in your best interest to help us.”
The Grizzly put his fingers together and rested them under his nose. “Well, you’re right. Jesse James has been a fly in my ointment.” He paused. “His shit’s laced. With coke. That’s why all the junkies are getting hooked.”
“Hooked, yes,” Percy said. “But only some of them are dying.”
The Grizzly shrugged. “Maybe they’re ODing. I don’t know.”
“They’re not overdosing,” Dale said in a serious tone. “They’re being poisoned. Traces of a chemical has been found in their blood. Similar to arsenic. And not just here. In Biloxi, Mobile, and Pensacola too. That’s a two-hundred-mile stretch of death. The only lead we have is this Jesse James, seems to be the ringleader here in New Orleans. We need to know what he looks like.”
The Grizzly gave Dale a respectful nod, clearly impressed by his passion. As irreverent as Dale acted sometimes, his motivations were completely pure. He was one of the most genuine people Percy had ever met.
“Poisoned …” the Grizzly said, his smile disappearing as he weighed the gravity of what Dale had said. “He’s white. Blonde. That’s all I know. They say he comes and goes. Like a shadow. A ghost. An angel of death.”
“Why do it?” Percy said. “If he’s dealing, why put stuff out there that’s gonna kill his clients?”
“Tell ya the truth, I’m thinking this Jesse James business is about more than drugs. I’m thinking it’s some kind a quest. Like a mission or something.”
In his time as a DEA agent, Percy had heard a lot of excuses for dealing drugs, but he’d never heard of anyone being on a mission before.
Dale looked at Percy and then back at the Grizzly. “A mission? Why do you say that?”
“Rumor has it he’s out searching for symbols. And if he is, he’s come to the right place.” The Grizzly laughed. The smile returned. “New Orleans is full of them.” He strummed his fingers on the desk and looked at them for a long moment. Behind his smile, his mind was debating something. “Here. Take this.”
He opened a drawer and took out a plastic bag. It was clear, about the size of a sheet of paper, and there was a bit of pot settled at the bottom. He handed it to Dale.
“One of my guys was out dealing. Saw a competitor selling some shit. The guy he sold it to keels over, has a seizure or something. My guy chases the deale
r down. Couldn’t catch him. But he dropped that bag. Maybe you can get something out of the residue.”
Dale looked at the bag. “We very well might. The dealer your guy chased down—Jesse James?”
“No. This guy was white, but he wasn’t blonde. Everyone who claims to have seen Jesse James talks about his bright blonde hair.”
“Why haven’t you told any of this to the police?” Percy said.
“I am right now, aren’t I?”
The smile grew larger.
The Grizzly was starting to annoy Percy. He was playing mind games with him and Dale. A chess game. But Percy didn’t have time for games. He needed answers.
“We’re going to need more cooperation out of you,” Percy said.
“Haven’t I given enough?”
Percy kept his eyes locked on him. He wasn’t going to back down. “If you find out anything else, you just let us know. Hear?”
The Grizzly didn’t look away either. He kept smiling. Finally he said, “I’ll do that.”
There was a tapping on Percy’s shoulder. It was Dale, giving him a look that said, Let’s get out of here while we’re ahead. Dale stood up. Percy followed suit.
“Thanks for your time, Mr. Bear,” Dale said.
Chapter 7
As Dale walked with Percy down the street and away from the entrance to the Grizzly’s club, he fought the urge to run back, kick in the door, and start making arrests.
So many people there who needed arresting.
Though he appreciated the Grizzly’s cooperation, Dale hated being in the situation in which he’d currently found himself—asking a known criminal for assistance. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to do something like this during his time as an agent, and he despised turning a blind eye to crime for the sake of doing justice to some greater crime.
He didn’t like the idea of trivializing crime for any reason at all, and it bothered him that the public seemed so willing to do so—heist movies and the like, stories that glamorized criminals. In a movie or a novel, a bank heist could be a farcical romp. In reality, there would be collateral damage to the innocent. Every single time. At a minimum, innocent people would be frightened for their lives. The people in the bank—the tellers, the customers. There was not a damn thing that was cute about a bank heist. Even more disturbing was the fact that society had glamorized actual violent criminals—people like Prohibition-era mobsters and Bonnie and Clyde. The truth was, Bonnie and Clyde had ended people’s lives. Ruthlessly. Both police and civilians. Real people.
