“Your police department is combing the inside of the hospital looking at surveillance footage and learning every move Willard made in the hospital. Frankly, who gives a crap? We know this much: he assisted Kate’s attacker in a guard's uniform, and we have a picture of him. I’m going to the Last Call Bar and will find this burger place and show employees Willard’s depiction. Someone might recognize and know his whereabouts,” Howard said, closing the doors of the limousine. “But first, I’m going to get this car interior detailed. It still stinks.”
“Remember this is a police matter,” Zack said with some question in his voice.
Howard turned to him. “You saw how the police handled the crisis with you and the gang—Jack almost killed you.”
“You can’t argue with that,” Dave said, getting an angry look from his friends.
“You can help me with something, Zack,” Howard said.
“Sure, what do you need?” Zack answered.
“You have any police friends that you can trust downtown? Nothing illegal, I just need to get to the right person.”
“Sure, Howard, I’m still friends with Ronnie Moore and Johnny Guidry, longtime police veterans. What are you thinking?”
“There is a guy that is being transported to Calabar Prison tomorrow. I need a few hundred bucks put into his account. On arrival, I need a large basket of personal items delivered to his cell. You know, stuff prisoners can have. What items do they allow a prisoner to have in this country?” Howard asked.
“You’re trying to make this guy look like he is getting special treatment,” Zack said with a slight smile. “You could get him hurt pretty bad with a move like that. What is his name?” “Cosmo Walker,” Howard said with concern, wondering if Zack still had the stomach for hardball police work.
“Cigarettes, candy, cookies, believe it or not, soap and shampoo,” Zack said. “I’ll handle it. What is your interest in this Cosmo guy?”
Howard didn’t answer. “Thanks, I need it there for tomorrow when he arrives,” he said as he got into the limo. “This is going to be fun.”
Zack rushed to the driver’s window. “What is your interest in this guy?”
“Are you going to help?” Howard said as he zipped the window up.
“Yes, of course.” Zack knew there was no refusing Howard. He was going to get what he wanted with or without him. Howard gave Zack a wink as he pulled the limousine out of the driveway.
“What the hell does that mean?” Zack said, flopping his arms to his side, confused.
CHAPTER 6
The limousine still had a pungent smell but much better since the trash was taken out of the trunk. Howard drove down Carrollton Avenue with the windows half down, trying to circulate the air. He stopped at his favorite Italian bakery and got his usual four large cannoli in the traditional small white box. Continuing his drive to the corner of Washington Avenue, he pulled into the customer lane marked car wash. It was just another business and property Ben Stein owned in New Orleans.
“Welcome to Benny’s Car Wash,” the perky young lady said with her clipboard in her hand. “What can I do for you today?”
“Maria? Mr. Howard works for Ben Stein,” Little Gabe said, walking fast towards the car the best he could. He stood six foot four and a comfortable three hundred and fifty pounds.
“Howard, happy to see you. She’s new,” he said, giving Howard a handshake and a hug.
He was called Little Gabe after his father, who was an even larger man at six foot seven and well over three hundred pounds. His father’s name was Gabriel Chmura in Poland, and he took on the name Gabriel “Big Gabe” Chmura after him. He and Ben Stein journeyed to the United States in the early 1950s. When they first arrived, they heard a lot of bad jokes. A Jew and a Polack walk in a bar. They were the burden of many jokes when they first came to this country, but by the late 1950s, Ben took over some failed businesses and turned them around, and Big Gabe was always by his side earning his way. He oversaw the car wash, dry cleaners, and he was a licensed bail bondsman with Ben’s money backing him. Together they did very well as a team and never forgot where they came from and the opportunities the United States not only gave them but how they were welcomed into the country.
“Just a quick wash and freshen up the interior and trunk,” Howard said to the small-framed girl holding the clipboard.
Little Gabe opened the rear door of the limousine. “Wow, you had some stinky people back here.”
“Yeah, wait until you get to the trunk.” Howard laughed as he walked inside with his box of cannolis. He passed the cashier through the hallway and out the back door to what was called in New Orleans a small shotgun house in the rear of the property.
Howard knew where to find Big Gabe at this time of day. It was three p.m., and that meant it was afternoon coffee time in the kitchen. As he walked down the alleyway, to the back of the house, he could smell the coffee. Gabe only drank strong coffee, and only Café’ du Monde Coffee and Chicory. To make it stronger, he used an old drip pot with a cloth filter. It took longer to drip, but when it came out it was jet-black and so flavorful, you could still taste the beans.
“You always manage to come around coffee time,” Big Gabe said as Howard walked up the back steps of the house.
“Why not? You have the best coffee in town,” Howard said, putting the box on the table.
Big Gabe’s eyes widened. “Cannolis? I can always count on you to kick the crap out of my diet. My doctor said I overeat sugar products. But I don’t see any doctors around. Open the box.” He laughed, and they shook hands.
They covered all the usual topics: friends, Ben Stein, and Big Gabe’s sons, one of which was a prison administrator in Oakdale, a Louisiana Federal Correctional Institution. Howard didn’t think of this until they started talking. Even though Calabar State Prison was a long way from Oakdale Federal Prison, they were still both in Louisiana, and information got transferred back and forth from guards that traveled between the prisons.
Howard pulled a copy of Willard’s picture out and gave it to Big Gabe. “Can you get this to your son? See if anyone knows anything about him?”
“Sure, but that is a stretch. Anything my son would know the police should have,” Gab said, walking to an old Xerox copier sitting in a room used as his office. “It still makes excellent copies,” he said, handing Howard the original. “I’ll get it to him.”
“I’ll see you, big guy,” Howard said, giving Big Gabe a tap on the back as he walked out.
“Thanks for the cannolis,” Big Gabe said to Howard before he got out the door.
Howard smiled back. “No problem.”
Big Gabe looked at the two cannolis left in the box. Should I have one more or shouldn’t I? I vote yes, he thought to himself.
The limousine was ready, and it smelled a little too lemony for Howard but better than the trash odor, and that was all that mattered. While he was in the area, Howard made one more stop at a large old brick building on Orleans Avenue. It served as a can factory for about fifty years but now was an upscale elderly apartment complex. It was Wednesday, so he had to stop and see Gloria for his weekly visit. The limo was parked on the side of the building so as not to take up too much space in the parking lot.
“Good afternoon,” Howard said to the doorman as he opened the door to the main entrance of the lobby. Passing the receptionist, he tapped on the marble countertop as the lady lifted her head from a magazine and they exchanged smiles.
“Oh, Mr. Howard, they are in the dining room,” the receptionist said.
“Thanks,” he said, and walked down the hallway that doubled for a sitting area filled with clusters of nicely upholstered chairs for gathering before dinner. The dining room had a few couples eating late lunch, and there was Gloria at her corner table with her caretaker, Alma. As Howard approached the table, Alma stood up. “Mr. Howard,” she said with a smile.
“Look who is here, Mrs. Gloria. Howard is here to see you,” Alma said, patting Gloria�
�s hand to get her attention from eating her soup.
As tough as a guy that Howard was, it was hard to see Gloria Stein in such a condition. He had known her for many years. She was beautiful when she was younger, and Ben would escort her around town like a proud peacock. She and Ben were in love as much as any couple could be, and it showed. But now she looked much older than her seventy years. Dementia took over her mind, and the illness left her small-framed body frail. Howard had had every holiday and Sunday meal at her home. She treated him like family.
Gloria looked up from her soup bowl and gazed at Howard. She smiled and reached for him. “Benny, is that you? So happy you came to see me. My sweet Benny always comes to see his mama.”
“Mrs. Gloria, that’s not—” Alma started to say before Howard motioned with his finger to his lips.
“Shush.
“Yeah, Mama,” Howard said, “I’m here.” He took her hand and gave her a hug.
Gloria’s mind was reliving the days her son Benny rushed in from playing outside. It was hard for everyone that knew her as a beautiful, young, vibrant woman. But time had taken its toll. Howard bent down and embraced Gloria just long enough to put a smile on her face.
“I have to go now, Mama,” Howard said, then gave her a kiss on the cheek.
Gloria had not been the same woman since her son Benny died twenty years ago. His death was too much for her to handle, as would be expected for any parent who loses a child. With the help of Ben Stein’s long-time friend Zack Nelson with the New Orleans Detective
Division, he was able to keep the truth out of the newspapers. There was no reason for her or
anyone else to know the death of her son was a drug deal gone wrong. Zack knew better, but the next day the headlines read in the Times-Picayune Newspaper “Ben “Benny” Stein, Jr. Killed During a Carjacking.”
CHAPTER 7
It was getting close to five in the afternoon, and Howard headed over to happy hour at Last Call Bar and Grill at the end of Tulane Avenue right before the street changed to Airline Highway. It had been there forever and became popular in the early fifties because it was the last stop for food, drinks, and gas before heading out Airline Highway going to Baton Rouge. That had long changed since Interstate 10 was built and ran through the heart of New Orleans.
The limousine pulled up at the Last Call Bar and parked, taking up two spaces. For that time of day, the lot had several cars out front. With one-dollar cocktails until six p.m., office workers would go out of their way for a one-dollar drink even if it were Well Brands, the cheapest grade of liquor a bar offered. Howard took a seat at the bar and observed the place. A few men and women were standing at a high-top table, undoubtedly all office buddies.
“What can I get you?” the raspy-voiced bartender lady asked. Right off the bat, Howard knew she had two packs of cigarette a day. The voice and a wave of smoke smell came over him as soon as she walked up.
“A cold beer,” Howard said.
“Cold is the only way I serve it, and I only have Dixie Beer,” she said, to the point.
He snickered at her boldness. “Then Dixie Beer it is.”
Howard continued looking around the bar. He spotted his mark, a lady tucked in the corner sitting on the last barstool next to a man. Both were sitting alone working on their third beer and an ashtray of cigarette butts in front of them. The not so cheerful bartender exchanged small talk with both of them when she was at their end of the bar. They appeared to be regulars, and that sparked Howard’s interest.
The waitress placed a long-necked Dixie Beer in front of Howard. Her long, greasy, multi-colored hair moved when she put the beer down, exposing her name tag. He picked the beer up and took a sip—she was right, it was icy. He had to give her that as he got her attention and raised the bottle up to her. She walked back over to him.
“You were right, Angie, it’s cold.”
She passed a dirty rag over the counter as if that would clean the area. “I haven’t seen you here before.”
“Yeah, I was just finishing a job and stopped for a cold one.”
“What do you do?” she asked. “You look like you work for a funeral home.”
“Well, I could see that with my black suit and tie. I’m a limo driver.”
“You’re like me. You cater to people. You just get to drive around in a fancy car,” she said, almost cracking a smile.
“You serve food here?” Howard asked.
Without saying a word, she placed a small sandwich menu in front of him. “You can eat at the bar or take out. I’ll take your order when you’re ready.”
Howard was feeling comfortable with her and made his move. He reached into his coat pocket. “Have you ever seen this person in here?”
“Surely you’re not a cop?” She got defensive real quick as her slight smile went back to the angry bartender she was.
“No, I’m not a cop,” he said, pushing the picture in front of her. “I’m looking for my brother. Have you seen him in here?”
“No,” she said and walked off.
Howard folded the picture and put it back in his coat and took a big gulp of his beer. He walked over to the man sitting at the end of the bar. He started to pull the picture out of his coat again, hopeful the half drunk patron might recognize Willard.
Angie spotted him and shouted, “Hey! Leave my people alone” as she went into the small open space under the bar, ducked her head, and came out the other side next to Howard. “The sign out front said no soliciting,” she said as she took Howard by the arm and walked him to the front door. There were only about five steps to the door, but she managed to whisper to him. “Meet me in the parking lot at nine p.m. Bring some cash. My information is not free,” she said, pushing him out the door. “And don’t come back.”
“Way to go, Angie!” the man sitting at the bar said.
“I’m not putting up with him bothering my customers,” she said, making sure everyone heard her.
“What did he want?” the man asked.
“Some bullshit story about how he was looking for his brother,” she shot back at him. “Then he’s going to bother everyone in the place with the same bullshit. Hell, if I haven’t seen the guy in the picture, I’m sure no one else in here has.”
Howard stood outside the Last Call Bar. He would have never let someone handle him like that, man or woman. But he had to smile knowing he just got the first break of the case. He wasn’t a detective or even supposed to be working on the case, and yet he felt he was far more advanced than the New Orleans Police Department. That was if Angie could provide some useful information.
Howard had about two and a half hours to kill, and there was no better place to do it than Riverside. He pulled his limousine out of the gravel parking lot and accelerated slowly so as not to throw rocks into the grill or windshields of the vehicles—mostly pickup trucks—that were in the lot.
CHAPTER 8
Andrew, acting as a doorman between six and seven in the evening to assist visitors at the front of the entrance, greeted him. They had exchanged the usual handshake, and small talk before Andrew directed Howard to the dining room where he could find Zack and his friends. Howard looked back to the street at a car stopped still half in the street in front of the Do Not Park sign as well as the big red fire hydrant. It could only be Mario in his unmarked police car.
Mario got out the car with a smirk on his face. “What? Reserved parking,” he said, looking at Howard and Andrew. All they could do was laugh. Mario wasn’t always an uptight police detective; he had a humorous side, too.
“Good evening, Detective Mario,” Andrew said as he opened the door for him.
Howard and Mario strolled into the dining room, acknowledging the nurses and other workers as they passed them in the hallway. They found Zack, Dave, Emma Lou, and Pearl Ann still in the dining room, as usual, the first in and the last out.
“Little late for you all to still be in here?” Mario said.
“It’s late-night desse
rt. Our second round,” Zack said.
“Late? It’s six thirty p.m.,” Howard said, realizing Zack was just joking as he always tried to do, and most of the time Howard fell for his playful ways.
Dave, with a mouth full of cake, said, “What? Are you two dating now?”
Mario smiled. “Yeah, we kissed and made up. Howard was never a suspect. You know how it is, Zack.” They made eye contact. “Three people shot dead, and Howard gets in his car and drives away. We talked, and I cleared him.”
“Did you see me with a weapon? Did you find the gun?” Howard said, grinning.
“No,” Mario said. “Doesn’t mean you didn’t kill them.”
“True, but whoever killed them did the city a favor,” Howard said. “Let it go.”
Zack buried his face in his dessert, not wanting to make eye contact with any of them. Could Mario still be fishing, or did he close the case? The detective in him had a hard time understanding Mario’s questioning.
A dining room worker pulled two chairs out and poured Howard and Mario coffee.
“Well, I’m happy to say Kate is recovering. We met with the plastic surgeon. He feels another operation, and the scars on her neck will not be too noticeable.”
Emma Lou smiled and reached over and gave Mario a little pat on his hand. “That is great news.”
“On a different note, the chief took me off the case,” Mario said.
Zack pointed out, “The case you were never on. Mario, they did the same thing to me with my wife’s carjacking. You know the policy, you have to trust the system.”
“You know what we need?” Pearl Ann butted in.
Crescent City Detective Page 4