by Mark Treble
Luke smiled. “Much better. Now, how did you come into money?”
“My rich aunt died.” Why not?
“OK, why haven't you come out before?” Luke's eyes were holding mine in a stare. Surely he didn't believe I was actually gay and coming out? No, he knew me too well.
“I was married and afraid to come out. The inheritance let me pay off my wife, get a divorce, and then start living my fantasy.” I hoped this wasn't too incredible.
“Straight guy leaves his wife and shortly thereafter realizes he's gay or bi, or at least wants to experiment? Hell, yes. That's credible.” Luke paused. “A little too credible for me.” I could not read the emotion in Luke's face, but it wasn't happiness. Not sure what that thought brought up. After we find Alex I need to ask my friend if he wants to talk.
“So, where do I go?” I looked expectantly at Luke once more. Before he could answer the bartender shouted something about buying drinks or getting the fuck out. Luke ordered a beer for himself and looked at me.
“Some expensive vodka thing,” I whispered.
“You have Grey Goose?” The bartender laughed.
“How about Ketel One?” That evoked another laugh.
“Smirnoff?” Luke looked hopeful.
“Not bottom shelf enough. We carry Wodka.” The bartender was grinning slightly. Well, none too soon for the gay community to conclude I was rich and careless.
“And a double shot of Wodka for my friend here.” Luke was sounding magnanimous. I was hoping I wouldn't actually have to drink it.
“Get up with your drink and walk around. Pretend to drink it. Go into the bathroom in the corner and dispose of it. Replace it with water. He won't be able to tell.” This sounded like Luke was speaking from experience, but I decided not to ask.
I came back to the table with my glass of water. I chugged half of it and coughed a little for effect. I chugged the second half and coughed for real – went down the wrong hole. I again asked Luke, “Where should I go?”
Luke's answer was too quick to come from an internet search. “Start with the saunas and health clubs. The biggest one is Club Wonderland in Marigny. Remember, you need I.D. to get in. If you're bashful wear a towel. Street clothes under no conditions. I looked at Luke, who finished half of his beer and then clapped me on the shoulder.
“Let's get going, honey, that bed ain't gonna warm up by itself.” Luke kissed me on the mouth and tweaked one of my nipples through my shirt. Thank God I was facing away from the bartender. I knew it was all part of the play-acting, but I'm not an actor.
We walked out hand-in-hand and got in a Chrysler 300. I looked at him with puzzlement; this wasn't his car.
“Belongs to a friend. I'll drive yours to a city lot, park and take a taxi home. You're being secretive and shouldn't drive your own car.” At least one of us had a clear head.
Luke drove me back to the Royal Palace (or whatever it was called, these places all had the unlikeliest of names). I thanked him, promised him I'd get the thousand back to him, and asked him to call Cheryl to let her know I was OK.
“Buddy, you're not OK. You're wound up, sleep-deprived, desperately in need of a half dozen Valium, and worried sick. Other than that, yeah, you're OK.” Luke gave me a thumbs-up and started to drive away in my Malibu.
He stopped and rolled down the window. “Start at the Club Wonderland or the other gay saunas or health clubs. After that, the Tucson/Hawk. Probably your best bet.” He waved and went on his way.
I made a call from near the motel. “Danny, it's Ethan. Just checking in, nothing new. I'll call you in an hour.” I went to hang up and was interrupted.
“Ethan, please stop. Drugs will kill you. Not the drugs, the people associated with them. At a minimum please stop and let our drug squad brief you.” Danny was being reasonable, he just didn't know what (or whom) I knew.
“Got a better option. Bye, Danny. One hour.” I started toward Angola. Drugs were far more likely than gay porn, and Gamblin was my key to the drug world.
Chapter Eight
On the way to Angola I tried to remember everything I knew about Jerry Gamblin. He had been a drug kingpin in New Orleans for years, but the police could never get enough to take him to trial. His rivals, the Capelletis, took care of that for them.
One of their enforcers followed Gamblin to a liquor store and entered when Gamblin was getting out his wallet. He hit Jerry on the back of his head with a handgun, then used the same weapon to kill the clerk. The enforcer wiped down the weapon, put it in Gamblin's hands, and then took off his surgical gloves. Gamblin's fingerprints were now on the gun. The guy walked out of the place, went a block and called 911.
“Burglary at the Kwe-Sok liquor store on Broadway. I heard gunshots.” He hung up, drove to the Lake and threw the gloves into a trash bin. Rufus Yardley then drove home.
I had all of this from a single source, and couldn't act without confirmation. My only sources who could even spell Capelleti were too low-level. The Capelletis were going to be hard to crack. Maybe I could get some help.
An hour into the drive I pulled into a rest stop, took a leak, bought toiletries stuff from a vending machine and called in. Neither of us had anything. Not knowing whether Alex was dead or alive was hell. Less than a day into the situation, not having discovered his body was only a small piece of good news. I shaved and brushed my teeth in record time.
I pulled into traffic (Could I afford a car like this? What could I get for a trade-in? Shit, why not hope for Angelina to leave Brad and take me on as her gigolo? Back to sanity or some semblance thereof). During the second leg I went through everything I could think of. Gamblin had gotten away with drug trafficking, murder and extortion for years. One of his life sentences was without possibility of parole, and that was for the one he didn't do, the Kwe-Sok Liquor Store murder. I balanced the plus and minus side of the ledger for the next hour, then made a decision. One more call to Danny (nothing and nothing) and I drove the final few miles to Angola.
The visitor parking lot was already pretty full when I pulled in. Few people understand just how massive this prison really is. Its 18,000 acres make it the same size as the island of Manhattan. Sometimes called The Farm, the prison grows all vegetables served on the premises – and at ten other prisons in Louisiana.
The five thousand inmates rarely escape. Two who did so in 2013 were captured in hours. A convicted murderer who escaped in 2009 actually managed four days of freedom before being recaptured. One reason for the lack of successful escapes is the Mississippi River: it borders the prison on three sides. The fourth side is bordered by the Tunica Hills.
Escapees first find themselves in the middle of nowhere. No, that implies some sort of centrality. It's actually just off to the side of the middle of nowhere. The state border with Mississippi is nearby. Making it over the state line is not a milestone toward freedom.
I'd been here before, of course. Gamblin was newsworthy, and he trusted me. We somehow just clicked. There are sleepless nights where this worries me more than I care to admit.
I got to the security ogres at 8:03 a.m. The drill was always the same. “You're not on the list.” Of course I wasn't, Gamblin's attorney called this in last night.
“You're not an attorney of record for the inmate.” Gosh, I'm not an attorney at all. Come to think of it, if Myra Hartag can masquerade as one, maybe I could to.
“Mr. Lockhart is the attorney of record but your name isn't on his list.” Called in last night.
“We'll have to check with the warden, and he's a busy man. Come back tomorrow.” I'm a reporter and my presence in Mr. Gamblin's meeting with his attorney is necessary for legal purposes. For the newspaper story, is that one or two “t's” in your last name?
“Yes, that's everything out of my pockets except the cake with the saw baked in. That was supposed to be a joke, you should get a sense of humor. And, yes, those are condoms. Do you want me to demonstrate their use? Look, I've carried my Turtle Membership Card since ju
nior high, so what? You want me to take off my what?
“That tickles hehe. That doesn't tickle, asshole, get your fucking hands out of there. Give me back my pencil and three sheets of paper, they're necessary for this visit. No, I will not pick them up on my way out. Why can't I have my shoelaces back? The last time I was here … no, I wasn't an inmate, smartass … thanks. I think.” That about did it.
Herb Lockhart showed up at 8:25 and was done before me. I suppose wearing a suit that cost more than I make in a month helps. Who am I kidding? It's actually having the money to buy the suit that helps. That, and the access to power that the money affords. For the rest of my time at Angola I just pointed at Lockhart and said, “I'm with him.”
Gamblin was in restraints in a cell-like room, chained to a table that was bolted to the floor. His first question was why we had to meet during his scheduled time in the yard.
“Because my son is missing, Jerry, and I can't wait.” I didn't pause for the attorney to speak. We were here because of me.
“Ethan, Jerry, we can get to everything in plenty of time.” Lockhart was taking over the meeting, and that probably wasn't a bad thing. “What information do you have, Ethan, to support the change of venue?”
Here goes. “Actually, it's to support overturning the conviction in the liquor store murder.” Both men were stunned.
“I know it was done by the Capelleti family specifically to frame Jerry.” This evidently was merely support to what they had already surmised, and they told me so.
“I'm also pretty sure I know who did it and how it went down.” That was something new.
“Who was it?” Lockhart had on his cross-examination hat and his demeanor clearly indicated he expected an answer.
“Doesn't work that way. I can't run with the information without corroboration. The instant the editor has approved using the information I'll call you. You've got your rules, and I've got mine.” Lockhart was a much better lawyer than Hartag can ever aspire to be. He didn't insist I identify my sources.
“What can we do to help you get corroboration?” Best possible question.
“Mr. Lockhart … OK, Herb … I need something the police have, and that's a diagram of the Capelleti's New Orleans operation. I mean, I've filled in probably 70%, but the other 30% makes me feel kind of iffy. Can you get that for me?” I was hopeful, but had sound reason to be.
“Done. You'll have it tomorrow at your home address. Anything else?” I thought about enough money to buy a car like the one I drove up here, but didn't want to push my luck.
“No, sir. And, sir, thank you. Even though I have ruled out the first lead for Capelleti involvement in my son's disappearance, it doesn't mean that those cocksuckers aren't involved somewhere. I want them taken down, too. Probably not as much as the police, and certainly not as much as Jerry, but their demise will be a day of joy.” If I ever get to write this story, I'm going to have to work on my sentence structure and vocabulary. That really sucked.
I described Alex's disappearance. I told Herb that the police were not making public the chain of disappearances, and asked him and Jerry to keep it to themselves. Turned out that Herb was already aware – the detectives had a better working relationship with defense attorneys than television would lead you to believe. Without violating privilege they occasionally worked together.
He wanted to know about my investigation so far. I gave him what Danny had, minus any names. Of course, other than Creechur Danny didn't have any names either. I told him I was planning on looking into the gay porn industry, but wanted to tackle drugs first.
“Is Alex gay?” That was from Jerry. I'd talked to him about Alex, about the joys and heartbreaks of single parenthood, showed him pictures, and actually cried when I talked to him about Dana's death.
“My next door neighbor is Luke Dupree.” That was all I got out.
“The artist?” That was from Herb, and I nodded. “He's well-known, very open about his sexual orientation but not flamboyant. What does he have to do with Alex's disappearance? And, by the way, you look like you slept in your clothes.”
I came clean. “Alex disappeared from Luke's yard after he finished mowing. His clothes were found at the curb. Do I suspect Luke of anything? Fuck, no. Alex called him “Uncle Luke” while he was growing up. He and Dana were like siblings. Alex and I talked about homosexuality. He said it was fine for others, just not for him. Healthy attitude in my opinion.
“I talked with Luke about Alex's sexuality. Luke assured me as a relative expert that Alex, in his words, ‘is so straight it hurts.’ Luke's roommate, Marcus, is also gay. He agrees. But, date rape drugs, force, blackmail, even overwhelming arousal could lead a guy to do things he wouldn't otherwise do.” I hoped we had finished with this topic.
“Prison's the same way,” said Jerry. “Nobody fucks with me because they know I can have them hurt really bad. But guys I've known for years are in here butt-fucking and cock-sucking every night. Me, I'm right-handed.”
I decided to skip asking him any questions about his statements. I didn't really want to know anyway.
“Jerry, where do I start to try and find Alex if he's somehow mixed up in the drug business?” There is was. I could only hope that he would point me to a starting place.
“Well, first, my old gang isn't recruiting new members right now. That's at my orders. The last guy they recruited was a Capelleti plant and turned out to be very expensive to the business. If somebody in my gang has recruited Alex, then he's in for a long vacation. Maybe even a permanent one.” I found it fascinating that he could talk so calmly about having someone killed.
“I'll ask, and I'll tell them to let me know immediately if they hear anything. Do you want them to do this passively, or go out looking?” The offer was really tempting. But I turned it down.
“Jerry, both I and the police are at a point where we know nothing, nada, zilch, zero. We have no idea if the local bishop or the Girl Scouts could be involved. The police weren't happy with me looking by myself, and they damned sure wouldn't be happy about interference from a bunch of,” I chose my words carefully “social club members taking an active role. Passively, at least for now.”
“OK. Well, everybody's product actually comes from the same wholesaler. The business has gotten into the twenty-first century. There's specialization and supply chain optimization. Where the wholesaler gets his stuff is a mystery, and the retailers don't want to know. There's competition at the retail level, but there's so fucking much money, and so much muscle, at higher levels that they have stopped fighting and started franchising.” Sounded like one of my management professors in college.
“Jerry, can I share that information if I can get corroboration? I'll do everything conceivable to keep your name out of it. And, Herb, I'll show you the copy before I show my editor. Jerry's position is untenable, he might be able to get the key conviction overturned, and frankly I've never put a source in harm's way yet.” I hoped I was showing my genuinely sincere face. Yeah, I know, when you can actually fake sincerity you've got it made. But I didn't fake well.
“Ethan, that's fine. Jerry, what else?” Herb was all about business.
“The wholesaler has support functions performed by companies owned by somebody else. Don't try to find the owners; the Feds have been looking for twelve years with no success. But there's a weak link. They have a common auditor that has nothing to do with the business. Maybe you think that's strange, but the industry is moving toward emulating best practice all around. An independent auditor helps. And, the auditors only see what the businesses want them to see.
“Weecham, Weecham and Klotzbaumer is the audit firm. I have no idea how you're going to use that, but it's the weak link. No, you can't take that to the police. That is only a starting place. If you get two other sources who will go public, of course use it. But this is what they call ‘deep background.’ It's just to get you started.” Jerry reached for my hand, and I gave it to him.
“Ethan, I ain't got no
kids, but my sister does. I'd be going nuts if one of her kids was missing. And my gang wouldn't be doing nothin' passive about it. If you need anything, just ask.” Inside the drug-dealing murdering extortionist there was a heart. Maybe stone overlaid with a speck of gold.
Herb and I said our good-byes. I asked him to send his invoice to my house along with the diagram.
“No charge, Ethan. I'm Jerry's attorney, and he got a hell of a lot of value out of this meeting. If you need to see him again, call me.” We shook hands and parted.
On the way back south I called Danny.
“Where the fuck have you been? It's been three goddamned hours and I don't know if you've found Alex, or gotten killed, or what. You said every hour, asswipe.” I think he was a little peeved.
“I got nothing about Alex, but I do have a lead to start a new line of inquiry. Sorry about the delay, Danny, it was unavoidable. Next stop is about the same industry. And, I've got something that I need to work on before I can give it to you. It should help do major damage to an industry of concern to your employer.” I sounded smug. For a while.
“I got nothing about Alex, either.” Danny sounded almost as disappointed as I felt.
“Ethan, there is an “observe and report” out on your car. You can't expect us to throw you into the lion's den and look the other way. Nobody's going to try and I.D. your sources, we just want a head start if you push the panic button.
“Well, we finally got a report. It's in your fucking driveway. And nobody's home at your house. How the fuck did you do that, Houdini?” I think Danny was more curious than upset. I think.
“Danny, I've got to keep a couple of tricks up my sleeve. Just wait until you see me on top of Christ Church Cathedral waving your underwear in the air.” Levity, got to keep up the levity.
“I don't wear underwear,” the detective deadpanned.
“Danny, this phone is done for. Gotta go. Bye.”
