by Jim Riley
There are two sets of clientele for the local bars. Many bars catered to the throngs of tourists that flooded the city, particularly during Mardi Gras or when New Orleans hosted a Super Bowl.
The other catered to the locals. The prices were cheaper, and the drinks less watered down. These were the ones Drexel figured he could find out more about the girl who attempted to kill his friends.
He started, however, with a fine meal at one of the better-known restaurants. Despite the flood of tourists, it was a favorite of the local crowds. With a Cajun twist on some outstanding Italian food, an empty table was rare.
Drexel took a seat at the bar. He had been served off the menu there many times before. The management preferred he occupied a single bar stool rather than an entire table.
A plate of bow tie pasta with blackened shrimp and crawfish almost took his mind off his objective. But after a bowl of bread pudding, he motioned to the bartender.
The senior private investigator put a hundred dollar bill on the bar. The bartender nodded and quickly stuffed it into his pocket.
"If I wanted to hire someone to take care of a delicate situation, where would I go?" He asked.
The bartender just stared at him with a blank look until Drexel slid another C–note across the marble surface. The cops would not be that free with the taxpayers’ money and the man behind the bar relaxed.
"Chucky's off of Lafayette. But you’re way too early," he said.
"Who do I talk to when I get there?" Drexel asked.
"Don't worry. You show up, order a Purple Dynamite, and someone will want to talk to you."
"A Purple Dynamite?" Drexel had never heard of the drink and he had been to almost every bar in New Orleans.
"Yeah. You get a beer, but don't worry about it. You ain't there for the beer."
The bartender left him there on the stool to reflect on this news.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
New Orleans
Drexel spent the next two hours strolling up and down Bourbon Street. He acted like a typical outsider, laughing at the cons the youngsters used on unsuspecting tourists, catching a few of the jazz numbers, and gawking at the naked ladies hanging over the balconies.
If anyone was watching him, Drexel looked just like all the other outsiders. He thought he spotted a young black fellow watching him a little too closely. But when he turned, the lad faded into the crowd.
He eventually meandered to Chucky's, a hole in the wall with no neon signs blinding the passersby or any hawkers shouting out the specials. Drexel's eyes had to adjust to the darkness once inside.
He chose a single table in the corner at the back of the room. After he sat, he saw the young black boy peek inside, glance at him, and then disappear again.
The waiter was not the usual for the tourist traps where one would find a scantily dressed girl no older than many high schoolers. Here, Drexel found a three hundred pound heap of a man with a hairy chest who smelled like three–day–old beer and hot dogs.
"A Purple Dynamite," Drexel said with purpose.
The man showed no surprise. He went behind the bar and fetched a local beer. When he put it down in front of Drexel, he remained by the table.
"That’ll be a hundred," he grunted.
"No problem," Drexel answered, sliding a bill out of his wallet.
Drexel watched the burly man returned to the bar, and resume waiting on his usual customers. The investigator nursed the beer while keeping an eye on all the customers in the small place. After thirty minutes, he began to doubt his plan. Another hour passed with no contact.
Drexel was about to leave when the young black boy emerged from the back room. He walked directly to the table, giving no attention to any of the other patrons.
"Get back to your room," he said and started to leave.
"Wait a minute. Don't you want to know where I'm staying?" Drexel asked.
"I already know," the youngster disappeared.
Drexel stumbled out of the bar and caught a cab back to the hotel. Even though it was only a few blocks away, those blocks were filled with peril this time of the morning.
He was baffled. How did the youngster know where he was staying? How did he know what room he was in? How did he know his name?
Drexel used an alias when booking the room. It was one he often took advantage of and he had the necessary supporting documentation. But, he wondered if these people were this good at uncovering information, how much more could they find?
He double checked the nine millimeter Star pistol he kept in a holster in the small of the back. To be safe, he chambered a round and placed the weapon in the crack between the side of the chair in the seat. He put the twenty-five caliber derringer in a small sheath at the base of the neck.
Only thirty minutes after sitting down, Drexel heard a soft rap on his door.
"Yes?" He said from across the room.
"Pierre? I have a message for Pierre?" The boy said.
"That's me," Drexel answered and moved to the side of the door.
He remained standing to one side while he removed the chain and unlocked the door. He took the derringer in his hand and took a step away from the door.
"Come on in, but I want to see some empty hands or you won't get very far," he said.
The door slowly opened. A petite young lady glided into the room. She walked over to the sofa and plopped without glancing at Drexel.
"You can put that pea-shooter back in your sock. I could've killed you four times already if I wanted." She said this without a smile.
Drexel noticed she was wearing clear latex gloves.
"How did you know I have one?" He asked.
"Because I'm good at what I do. I also know about the Glock look–alike. Where did you stash it? In your chair?"
Drexel had newfound respect. The little girl knew what she was doing.
"I need a job done," he started.
"Is it your wife, Marie, or your girlfriend, Stacy? I can get to your wife easier at your house in Copper Mill in Zachary." She stated with no emotion.
Drexel breathed a sigh of relief. The cover story he had taken years building was paying off once again. He hoped his relief was not too evident.
"I–I–I've never done anything like this before."
"That's why you're talking to me. I don't do accidents. This'll have to look like a burglary gone bad."
Drexel nodded. "That will work."
"How long are you staying in New Orleans?" She asked.
"I was planning on checking out in the morning."
"Not happening. From your reaction, the target's your wife. Call her and tell her you won't be home until Sunday. What does she do on Saturday nights?"
He hesitated.
"When I'm not there, she usually goes down to the country club and visits with some of the other ladies. They like to gossip about their husbands when we aren't around."
"What time will she get home?"
"Hard to say," Drexel said, not wanting to be too specific. Knowledge of a tight schedule might give away the charade. "I can usually get her on the computer before midnight."
"Do you have the money?"
"Nobody told me how much," he said.
"Fifty thousand cash," she said without raising her voice.
"I don't have that much with me. I didn't think it would cost that much." The investigator knew if he immediately pulled out all the money, the game would be over.
"How much did you bring?"
"Twenty thousand. I was guessing it wouldn't cost me more."
"I'll take that as a down payment. After tomorrow night, leave the rest on that little fake rock where you have the spare key."
Drexel gasped.
"Don't worry. It's amazing how much detail you can get from the Internet. The stone is a dead giveaway. It's not close to real."
Drexel thought how much disinformation could be loaded onto the World Wide Web. Now, it was paying off for him.
"But I won't be home befor
e Sunday."
"Leave it there Tuesday. I have another appointment in the area then," Paula replied.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Saturday morning
New Orleans
Drexel sensed there was at least one pair of eyes on him at all times. It was a beautiful Saturday morning when the sun beamed over the eastern horizon. He walked the short distance down to the Mississippi River, and his favorite place in the entire city of New Orleans.
He saw the two different boys paying attention to him as he strode down Canal Street. None of the stores were open at this early hour, and Drexel spent several minutes window shopping at the various shops. Each time he stopped, Robinson used the reflection from the window to detect any surveillance. Sure enough, the same two boys were always on the other side of the street, across four lanes of automobile traffic and the trolley tracks. Every time Drexel paused, the boys mimicked his actions, trying hard not to look in his direction.
The senior investigator cut down Lafayette Street and ambled through Jackson Square. He took his time studying the statue of Andrew Stonewall Jackson, the heroic defender of the Crescent city.
The two youngsters shuffled to the steps of the St. Louis Cathedral, only one facing him at any particular time. Drexel smiled and decided to play a little game with them.
He turned south along the river road like he was headed back to Canal Street. Then Drexel waited until he was sure the two young men were following him. He crossed the street and reversed directions. He openly grinned when they got into an argument and the older of the two pulled a cell phone out of his pocket.
Drexel walked back up the river road toward Jackson Square. When he got even with the historical landmark, he stepped into his favorite place, Café Du Monde.
Drexel remembered his first trip to this unusual establishment on the banks of the Mississippi. He had come to the city with some of his college buddies to experience firsthand the exotic allure of the French Quarter.
They did. They were supposed to return to classes at LSU in Baton Rouge Monday morning. When he woke up Tuesday morning, he knew something had gone wrong. When he could not wake his two companions, he went back to Jackson Square and saw it through sober, if somewhat blurry, eyes.
He saw people streaming in and out of Café du Monde, some of them holding cups of steaming coffee. With his eyes still refusing to focus, the coffee sounded like the ideal answer.
When the waiter asked for his order, Drexel pointed to the funny looking doughnuts the family at the table next to him were eating. He also ordered a cup of hot black coffee.
When the order of beignets was delivered, Drexel bit into the heavenly pastry with mounds of powdered sugar on top. He had never tasted any breakfast fare that titillated his taste buds quite like a beignet from Café du Monde.
Then he took a big swig of the dark brew. He almost spit it out. He had heard of the chicory coffee, but it had not registered that he had ordered some. The addition of the chicory root to the strong black coffee had the effect of spiking the fruit punch with a fifth of vodka.
He coughed and couldn't quit. People at the other tables looked at him and smiled, remembering their first time tasting the acidic brew.
After the initial attempt, Drexel learned to gulp the beignets and sip the coffee. With this combination, he consumed two more orders.
Now, he stopped to eat at Café du Monde at every opportunity. This Saturday morning, he took a seat next to the river bank but had his back to the mighty Mississippi.
It wasn't long before he spotted the two young boys talking to a third. The third youngster was a white boy, a teenager on the verge of becoming an adult. After a brief conversation, the older boy split from the other two.
Drexel watched the youth enter the restaurant and glance around. The gaze stopped momentarily on the investigator and then continued to search the rest of the room. Then the boy took a seat on the other side of the establishment.
Drexel finished the double order of powdered doughnuts and ordered another. All the time, the young man across the room nursed a cup of chicory coffee, wincing with every taste.
Drexel took his time savoring every bite of the funny looking pastries with the mounds of powdered sugar that somehow became attracted to his clothes. The white powder was everywhere.
When he stepped out of the restaurant, Drexel walked to the adjacent farmers market, a fixture in the city seemingly forever. The investigator meandered from table to table, stopping mostly at the ones selling tourist trinkets. He bought nothing, but emerged halfway through and hailed a cab.
He told the driver where he wanted to go and glanced out the rear window. He saw the third young man frantically waving his hands trying to catch the attention of the next cab.
Drexel's taxi had to slow down when a horse-drawn carriage pulled out in front of it. The taxi driver waited patiently as the carriage plodded along with four tourists on board. Drexel was not upset. He had long understood the importance of tourism to the local economy, and interrupting the industry was frowned on by most locals.
By the time the carriage pulled over to the side street, there was another taxi right behind Drexel's. The investigator leaned back in the taxi and took it to the World War II Museum.
He had been there before, and had truly enjoyed the historical displays. There was something addictive about the victory over the German Nazis and the Japanese Empire that Drexel did not fully understand. He only knew that while viewing the array of displays, he felt a lot more patriotic than before.
The investigator walked around and waited for the third boy to enter the museum. Once the kid was inside, Drexel made a show of discovering his clothes were still covered with the white powdered sugar. He made a couple of feeble attempts at brushing it off and walked toward the bathroom muttering to himself.
Once in the bathroom, he took out a throwaway phone and dialed Niki's number. He was explaining the situation when he heard the door open. He did not bother to peek through the stall door. He already knew the identity of the other occupant.
Drexel whispered, "hold on" into the cell. Then he muttered loudly about the stubborn white powder he could not remove no matter how hard he tried. He continued muttering until the boy left the restroom.
"I couldn't call you from the room," Drexel said to Niki. "I'm not sure who might be listening to everything I say."
"Where are you?" Niki asked.
"I'm in stall number three," Drexel answered without additional explanation.
"What you need from us?"
Drexel told her about the twenty thousand dollars payoff, expecting some protest from Niki since it was her money. He got no protest.
He finished the set up as quickly as possible and gave her as much detail as possible. Then he hung up and exited the restroom still brushing fiercely at the front of his shirt.
Drexel stayed at the museum for more than an hour. It was not just a ruse. He thoroughly enjoyed the details he had overlooked on his previous trips.
The investigator spent the rest of the day between the New Orleans Aquarium and the massive zoo. Now that his part of the mission was complete, he relaxed and enjoyed the animals of the sea and of the land. The third boy was replaced with a fourth, and the fourth was replaced with a fifth.
Drexel stepped the game up a notch. He went to the only five-star restaurant in New Orleans. He had eaten at Commander's Palace before and wondered at that time how any other place in the world could be better.
He tipped the maître d' a hundred dollars and was promptly ushered to a small table in the corner. After an appetizer of oysters Rockefeller, he opted for the pecan trout for the entrée. This was the only restaurant he had ever seen with pecan trout on the menu.
Halfway through his meal, he noticed a young woman enter by herself. She also slipped some money to the host and was escorted to a seat. Her eyes flitted about the room until she spotted Drexel. Then she raised the menu until her face was hidden.
It was
too late. Drexel recognized Paula despite the blonde wig, the excessive makeup, and the formal dress. He glanced at his watch. There was still plenty of time for Paula to make the drive to Baton Rouge and complete their deal.
Thirty minutes later, he finished the Crème Brûlée dessert and left the restaurant. He hopped in a cab and returned to the Hyatt Regency. When he got out of the taxi, he saw the two young boys back at the hotel. He whistled all the way to his room.
Chapter Forty
Saturday night
Copper Mill Country Club
Zachary's
Paula still wore the blonde wig when she pulled into the driveway. This house looked exactly the same as it had on the download. Even the fake rock was in the same place.
She checked the Glock. The firing pin had been replaced, and the weapon held the maximum number of rounds. When she opened the car door, no inside light came on.
Paula did not go directly to the front door. Instead, she edged to the panel on the side of the house. In less than thirty seconds, she successfully snipped the wires, disabling the expensive alarm system. Then she went to the fake rock.
Removing the key, she replaced the top of the ceramic piece. The key slid easily into the door, which opened with no noise. She knew the layout of the house, and was in no hurry. She dug the silencer out of her bag and screwed it onto the barrel.
Again, her adrenaline spiked. No drug could come anywhere close to bringing her to the edge of ecstasy. She closed her eyes, savoring the moment. Pure chocolate would not have been as satisfying.
Paula crept down the hall. When she reached the end, the bedroom door was slightly ajar. She eased it open a bit further and slipped inside the huge bedroom.
Marie Randolph slept on one side of the giant king-size bed. Paula could hear the soft snoring emanating from the woman. The tremendous emotions flooded her body, sending a shiver the entire length.
