by H Hiller
Jerry had good reasons to stop my insinuations. Both men had pulled their names out of the mud, and overcame improbable odds to build apparently successful legal businesses. Biggie, whatever else he may have been, had a reputation as the go-to guy on the Gulf Coast to jump-start your career in hip-hop music, and Jerry had obviously come a long way from selling puppies from a storefront in the poorest part of a poor community.
“I guess my only other question for now is why Biggie Charles would want a three year old dog instead of a younger one. Wouldn't a younger dog be easier to train or bond with?”
“Well it wasn’t really a guard dog,” Jerry confided. “I mean, we planned to train the dog in the basics of defending its master but it would not have been a dog I would have ever sold as a true protection animal. The truth is, it was part of a litter from two of our blue ribbon show dogs and I had been using it for show and stud. Charles’ fiancé saw the dog a few weeks ago and made me a very generous offer. We planned to train it to act like a big mean dog for Charles, because he didn't really want a dog that might actually attack someone by accident. The people he hangs with are always acting like idiots around him and a real protection animal would have been biting everyone in the damn room.”
The two of us shared a laugh at the truth of this observation. The idea of someone waving a gun near Biggie to tell a story or make a point only to lose the use of their arm to a confused pit bull was within the reasonable expectations of a well-trained attack dog's behavior.
“So, the fiancé’s cousin trained the dog?” The idea that these two had conspired to use the dog to kill Biggie was too obvious to ignore, and so obvious it was unlikely.
“Right. His name’s Cisco,” Jerry said, thought for a second, and then started adding details he probably thought would discourage my making his employee a suspect. “He is one of my best trainers. Cisco’s been with me from the start, so he knows what he's doing. He's about through with the morning class. I’ll have him speak with you before you leave.”
We had walked only as far as the fountain in the middle of the wide courtyard in the course of the interview. Jerry had begun glancing at his wristwatch in the past few minutes. He had made no offer of a tour of the facilities. This may have been because I had used up what time he was prepared to take from a busy day to answer my questions. It may have been a lot of things, but the one I held onto was that Jerry Washington did not want to give me any reason to stick around and come up with any fresh questions.
“Thanks for your time.” We shook hands in parting and his handshake remained dry and firm. “You really seem to have made something for yourself here.”
“I'll be honest. When I heard the page, I figured you were some guy bringing a lawsuit from Cisco’s cousin. It will be just like her to sue me for the dog attack.”
“You're kidding.”
“You haven't met Tyshika, have you? Let's just say she knows how to find a buck if there's one to be found.”
“Duly noted.” Jerry left me with that thought and went to speak with his trainer.
Cisco was about a head shorter than me, but he made up for it with a narrow brimmed hat that reminded me of the style favored by the late coach Bear Bryant. He wore oversized eyeglasses. Their lack of magnification left me wondering if they were just for show. He had a good handshake, though his was much moister than Jerry’s. I considered this for a moment and understood that the owner had only sold a dog, while this young man had been responsible for training it not to kill its owner. A task he failed spectacularly.
“Cisco Barnes,” he introduced himself. “I guess you have some questions about Roux. Oh, I mean Taz.”
“Just one, really. What went wrong?”
“Honestly, I have no idea. The two of them seemed to bond as well as any dog and their owner in my experience. I have been at this for years and this attack is absolutely unprecedented in our history. I only wish you didn’t have to shoot Taz and that maybe I could have done some sort of evaluation.”
“Do you really think it would help if you were able to work with the dog again?” This elicited a very reflexive blink from Cisco.
“Why do you ask that? Didn’t they shoot the dog?”
“No. It’s now part of an active murder investigation.”
“Murder?”
“Of course,” I noticed his sudden anxiety. “You, and your boss, just confirmed this is unusual. I think you even said it was unprecedented. So I have to figure out why the dog attacked, and if someone perhaps trained it do so.”
“I’m open to helping any way I can. Just give me a call.”
I smiled and nodded at the offer, but there was no way I was going to let this man anywhere near the dog ever again.
“Whose idea was it to dye the dog blue for the day?”
“Beats me. There was a note in my message box that said to do so and to have him gift wrapped and ready to go at four yesterday. I figure Tyshika or maybe Bumper thought it would be funny.”
“Okay, thanks.” Nobody seemed to know who ordered the dog’s dye job, but someone had thought up the idea and the dog was most certainly blue when I first met it.
It was going to be nearly six o’clock by the time I made it back across the lake, in time for a dinner followed by the kick-off of the televised LSU football game against Vanderbilt. The contest was likely to be about as evenly matched as the one between Biggie and Taz. I was going to enjoy it all the same and any meeting with Lynley’s supposedly grieving fiancée, or the bruiser of a bodyguard, was just going to have to wait for the first of the following week. I noticed a dark colored Lincoln Navigator as it pulled out of the parking lot across from Alpha Dog and into position three cars behind me.
I ignored it until it followed me onto the entry road for the Causeway, and then into one of the other cash lanes for the toll. This put only a few car lengths between the two of us as we drove the twenty minutes across the bridge. It matched my movements as I intentionally changed speeds and lanes to make sure they were genuinely following me, but it never came closer than four car lengths. I would not have imagined that following a red Cadillac XLR convertible across a bridge would be as much work as the driver behind me was making out of doing so. I slowed down at one point until I could make out what I thought were at least two occupants. Both were Black and both were male. Neither of them was part of the pair from the parking lot.
I allowed my mind to split concentration between driving and deciding who else might have any personal stake, beyond my comfortably short list of suspects, in my investigation into Biggie’s death. The hardest question was not why they were following me but rather how did they know where to find me this afternoon? I had not seen them until I left the kennel, and I doubted they had started as far back as Biggie’s grandmother’s house. I was really slipping if I had been leading a vehicle that conspicuous around all afternoon and not noticed it until now.
The driver of the Navigator stayed with me all the way to the parking garage where Tony and I keep our vehicles on Chartres. I took a moment to visually inspect my auto for any sort of electronic tracking devices, but came up empty. I debated mentioning the incident in my report to Chief Avery but chose not to.
NINE
Biggie's death made the front page of the New Orleans Levee, a satirical gazette whose publication dates seem to be based on accumulating enough sarcasm to fill an edition. The article featured a picture of a pit bull dressed as McGruff the Crime Dog, bragging about having ‘taken a bite out of crime’ by killing Biggie Charles.
Biggie also made the Times-Picayune again, this time on the Sunday obituary page. It was a long obituary, complete with a picture which made him seem far nobler than he had ever been. The obituary ran in a large box above the fold. I figured it was a paid obituary. The Times-Picayune was not going to miss writing about him so much that they would have created such a display for free. The lengthy obituary mentioned his having been born in the Calliope Projects and graduating from George Washington
Carver High School. The obituary omitted mentioning the time he spent with his grandparents in Bogue Chitto. It also brushed past his trial and the years in Angola. The obituary painted a picture of him as a successful music producer and promoter who worked tirelessly with young local musicians to give them a viable alternative to a life of crime. No mention was made of his locally famous quote about being smarter than a slave owner because he owned careers and not just people. His grandmother was listed as a surviving heir but not Tyshika. The omission of the fiancée indicated to me that she was definitely not the one to have posted Biggie's obituary, nor had she made the funeral arrangements at the newly renovated Rhodes Funeral Home on Washington Avenue. A brass band was scheduled to lead the second line to his final resting place in a cemetery near City Park. The funeral was set for Thursday afternoon so I had a few days to decide whether or not to attend the funeral. I didn’t need to stake it out to observe the grieving suspects but I did consider going just to hear the band.
I joined our bar full of regulars and tourists to watch the Saints beat up on the Detroit Lions on Sunday. The Saints would get the win, but they displayed an amazing degree of sloppy play, including three turnovers. They came away with a winning score that was roughly half of what they could have racked up.
I spent the rest of my evening preparing a report on the investigation for Avery and watching the surveillance tapes from the parking lot where Biggie had died. Nobody approached the vehicle between the time Bumper and Tyshika exited the vehicle and when Bumper returned to have a brief conversation with Biggie. The next time he checked on his boss it was time to call the police.
TEN
I waited until late Monday morning to drive the two dozen blocks to the studio of BC Productions. I used my Cadillac CTS-V station wagon in case my followers were looking for the coupe I drove on Saturday. BC Productions was at the corner of Iberville and Broad Street, barely half a dozen blocks from the parish courthouse and jail. The neighborhood surrounding the building was still struggling to get back on its feet from the post-Katrina flooding four years earlier. Many of these homes had been home to multiple generations, and the grandchildren of those who bought them had spent the money they should have invested in flood insurance on things like food and clothing.
The company logo was painted in garish colors graffiti-style across the front of the building. The former grocery building had a large loading dock and plenty of room for its offices, a digital recording studio, facilities for producing and shipping the CDs and DJ vinyl which supposedly paid for everything, plus a live sound stage which included a dance floor and multi-level VIP section. This area was what Avery said Biggie had been repeatedly cited for operating as an unlicensed nightclub. His attorneys repeatedly beat the charges because there was never a charge for admission and the liquor that flowed was free. Biggie was also smart enough to never be armed or on drugs when the place was raided.
The business offices occupied the front quarter of the cavernous space inside the building, taking advantage of the only windows. I saw nobody in the office area behind the two women at the reception desk. A large glass panel bearing the BC Productions logo separated the reception area from the actual offices and, while I had the impression that I had access to the area, heavy double wooden doors at either end of the desk barred actual entry. The glass turned out to be the same protective laminated glass used in banks. I had to appreciate the illusion of transparency. Anyone coming in to conduct business would feel that they could see what was going on in the office, but anyone coming in with mayhem in their heart could stand there all day but never get any further. The glass barricade did not run to the ceiling, and it offered no protection against the sound of Tyshika Franklin ranting.
“I said get him on the phone!” She was screaming at the switchboard operator from what had probably been Biggie's domain on the far side of the office space.
“I am trying,” the beleaguered Black girl tried to explain through the safety of the intercom system. “But his office says he ain’t in at the moment.”
“Just find the asshole.”
Tyshika came out of the office with the phone still in her hand. She was barely past thirty years of age, having been a minor when she first hooked up with Biggie, and the fullness of her angry voice was in direct contrast to her slight but attractive frame. She was wearing a tight white blouse and a blue skirt that would have made it indecent to sit down were it an inch shorter. I wondered if her idea of appropriate office attire had come from a rap music video. She jabbed the long nails on her free hand at me.
“You! I wanna talk to you!”
“More than I do her,” I whispered to the second receptionist. She grinned so only I could see and then buzzed me into the vacant office. “What can I do for you Miss Franklin?”
“Have you killed that dog yet?”
“No, it’s still considered to be a material witness.”
“You know that thing killed my Charlie. What more witness can it be? Why is my Biggie dead and that dog still be walking around?”
“Well, I need to determine if the dog was working alone or if it was part of a bigger conspiracy.” I wanted to see her reaction to this idea. She did not disappoint my taste for theater. Tyshika screamed and threw the phone at my head.
“Are you kidding me? How can a dog be part of some conspiracy? You think the dog was sitting at some damn table making plans with somebody to kill my man? Dog talks, does it?”
“In a way, yes.” I returned her flying phone. “I found out it wasn't really trained to kill at all. I found out it knew Biggie well enough to have attacked him long before now if it really hated him. So, now I need to find out who might have trained it to do the deed.”
“Good luck with that.” She laughed shrilly and turned to head back to Biggie’s office. I sensed I could forget getting her cooperation for the moment, but followed her to make the effort.
“The kennel owner says he's afraid you’re going to sue him.” I just tossed this out as a means of keeping the conversation flowing. It had no bearing on my investigation.
“Damn right I am. I’m gonna sue Alpha Dog Kennels for two million dollars. You want to talk about pain and suffering? That jury will give me whatever I want when I show them the pictures of what that bitch dog did to my Charlie.”
I paused for a moment before picking at her argument. “Well, two things to consider then. First, it's not a female so it is not a bitch. Second, I take it you didn't see Biggie’s obituary in yesterday’s paper.”
She had figured out that I was not making a social visit, and that I certainly was not going to offer much grief for her loss. She was burning through what little sympathy I had been able to muster for her as it was.
“What about Biggie’s obituary?”
“It's just curious that you weren't listed as a survivor, or mentioned at all for that matter. Did you write it and forget to mention yourself?”
“The funeral home said he had one written and they had it on file.” She could not consider the full implications of what I was saying and maintain her anger at the same time. Many of the things I found curious or amusing about the obituary were explained by Biggie’s having written it himself. He had made quite an effort to control how he would be remembered for the record.
“Am I interrupting?”
I looked over to see attorney Daniel Logan standing in the doorway. He stands just over six foot tall, is baby-faced, and bordering on obese. Logan is in his early fifties with slicked back hair he keeps dyed black and has a penchant for seer sucker suits and bow ties. The suits are not inexpensive, but are off the rack and he never pays for a proper fitting. His Brooklyn accent marks him as a modern-day carpet bagger in New Orleans. The real story of why he had shifted his practice from New York to New Orleans is a favorite topic of speculation among those who have regular dealings with him. Logan has made a very lucrative career out of representing any criminal with enough cash in hand to hire him. His two special skills
in a pre-trial hearing are making certain his clients have the assets to pay his hefty fees, and convincing the courts not to seize these funds so his clients don’t drain the meager coffers of the Public Defenders’ Office. His attorney fees usually clean these accounts just as thoroughly as a court order might have.
“I’ve been trying to reach you all day.” Tyshika rediscovered her store of anger and turned up the volume once again. “Are you trying to avoid me?”
“Obviously not, Tyshika.” Logan flashed his most reptilian smile. “Here I am.”
Logan greeted me by my nick-name and plopped into the chair next to mine, leaving the two of us facing the exceedingly angry woman. I could see Tyshika was now having a difficult time deciding which of us posed the greater threat and where she should focus her attention. It was likely that the attorney and I were going take turns making her angrier. I let him go first.
“Tyshika.” He used a very calm and patronizing voice. Perhaps he had found some success with this approach in the past. “What are you doing here?”
“Somebody's got to run this place, right? I figure Charlie would want me to.” The volume in her voice came down as she spoke. It softened in direct proportion to her increasing realization of the position in which her late fiancée had actually left her. The attorney and I were probably going to finish what the obituary omission had begun.
“Well, yes,” Logan agreed just a little slowly. “But it will not be you. Mr. Lynley designated Bumper as the one to step in for the time being, until the estate is settled.”
“You mean to tell me,” her voice started skywards immediately. “That the one person he trusted to keep him alive, and didn't, that’s who’s gonna to run his company?”
“It's an unfortunate way to describe the situation, but yes,” the attorney said with a faint shrug, and a smug grin. I was now utterly forgotten by both of them and just strapped myself in for the rest of the ride. “Per his instructions, his designated manager is to run things until his son can assume control.”
