City of Secrets

by O'Neil De Noux

  The shot-gunner comes close, freezes as he spots Beau who aims the Glock over the edge of the loading dock. The bottle of Jack splatters on the dock as the shotgun comes around and Beau fires a quick burst of two rounds, then another two rounds, all catching the man square in the chest and man staggers, falls straight back. Beau leaps up on the dock, glances at the girl who cowers away, and races for the door, scooping up the shotgun along the way. Its rusted, looks old, probably blow up in his hand.

  He can’t stay in the light so he empties the shotgun, throws it into the warehouse, drawing fire from the AK-47, hears the rounds striking where he threw the shogun.

  Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack!

  Beau slips into the warehouse, slides along the wall away from the door and the light into nearly complete darkness. He bumps into a wooden box, realizes it’s a huge crate, goes behind it, stops and listens. The air reeks of gunpowder. Something scrapes and then creaks, as if a rusty door is opened.

  Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! The shooter sprays the warehouse, rounds strike the top of the crate and splinters rain down on Beau. When the shooter stops, Beau peeks out from far end of the crate, sees a shadow move out a side door. He lowers himself and rushes back out to the warehouse loading dock and jumps off, moving to the side of the building.

  The van’s engine cranks up. Beau reaches the end of the building, goes down on his belly and crawls out and sees the van jump forward, stop. The fool’s left the interior light on and Beau fires six rounds through the windshield and the van rolls backward and he fires the remaining eight rounds into the van’s grill. Ain’t going nowhere with that many holes in its radiator.

  He jumps up and reloads on his way back up the loading dock and into the warehouse, racking the Glock. Seventeen rounds now. Beau rushes to the side door where the man had gone, peeks out and sees the van has backed all the way to the next warehouse. The windshield is shattered and bright red blood streaks the front seat. He pulls away from the door into the warehouse darkness and listens.

  He has to go upstairs. See if there are any more. He finds stairs on the right and there’s ambient light coming from above. He takes the stairs slowly, one at a time, carefully putting his weight down to see if each stair creeks. He reaches the top and sees the stairs only go up half way to the next floor, the wood rotted away.

  The mildew along the second floor is pungent and Beau sees there are rooms here. There’s a cot in the first with clothes lying about. A lantern is lit in the second room with a mattress on the floor and pizza cartons in the corner. He opens the ice chest, beer and cokes and small chunks of ice floating in cold water. There are three other rooms, each with a cot, each with an ice chest and more pizza boxes, empty white Chinese food cartons and roaches scrambling everywhere.

  How the fuck do you sleep in here?

  It occurs to him there aren’t enough clothes, not enough anything. This can’t be their main hideout. There are much better places to crash than this. Break into any of the houses around here. He goes back down the stairs slowly, carefully, looks out at the van. Steam and smoke billow from the front of it.

  He goes down and checks the driver who collapsed beneath the steering wheel, a bullet hole in his forehead, exit wound a mat of blood, bone and brain tissue. Beau reaches in, turns off the engine, grabs the AK-47, takes the keys with him, goes back to the loading dock and looks for the girl. He stays in the darkness, away from the lanterns, waits, listens. Nothing but the breeze through the bushes and trees.

  “All right, miss. I’m a police officer. I won’t hurt you.”

  Maybe I read her wrong. Maybe she’s as much a Brown Raven as the rest of them.

  Beau unloads the AK-47, takes a half minute to disassemble it, remove the bolt. He goes back, past the van which has not caught on fire, thankfully. He tosses the AK-47 under the van and continues to the front of the warehouse and St. Ferdinand Street. Moonlight bathes the street in charcoal gray. There are only two cars parked in this block, both ratty, one with two missing tires. The street is littered with paper, window screens, broken ice chests.

  He turns to head back to the levee, figures he’ll wait to see who comes back when he spots a flash of yellow as the girl races across St. Ferdinand Street, turns away from Beau and runs around the far corner. He’s after her immediately and rounds the corner in time to see her hugging the far side of the street. He gains on her just as she reaches the corner and turns right. Lights catch his eyes before he reaches the corner and he ducks behind a front porch of a shotgun house. It’s a pickup that slows, then guns it in the direction where the girl fled.

  Beau runs up to the corner and watches the pickup’s brake lights brighten, go away, then brighten as the pickup turns up Press Street. Beau’s a block from the Escalade and runs to it, getting back to the corner of Chartres and Press but sees no truck, no lights, no girl. He drives up to the next intersection, decides to circle the blocks in an ever-widening search. He almost runs over a white dog, jams the brakes and the dog races away. With the windows down, he listens, his high beams on bright in case he goes rounds a corner and comes face to face with the pickup.

  At Louisa Street, he looks to his right and sees the girl climbing the wrought iron gate into St. Vincent de Paul Cemetery. He jams the brakes, slides past the intersection and starts to back up when he hears – Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack!

  He kills the lights, jams the Escalade into reverse and zooms back through the intersection, spotting the green pickup now as it bounces up the high sidewalk and stops against the iron gate. He stops the Escalade, jumps out, locking it as he runs up to the corner to peek around the cemetery’s concrete wall. A man with an AK-47 climbs down from the gate into the cemetery. Both pickup doors are open, dome light showing its empty, headlights still on.

  He runs to it and just as he reaches it as an AK barks in the cemetery – Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack!

  They took the keys.

  How many? At least two.

  Beau moves cautiously to the wrought iron gate that’s only six feet tall.

  Calm down. He peeks into the cemetery, taking the respite to control his breathing. The ten foot concrete walls of St. Vincent de Paul cemetery are twelve feet thick, rows of oven tombs side by side. Either side of the brick lanes through this part of the cemetery are lined with concrete crypts, marble sepulchres, a few brick mausoleums, a typical above-ground New Orleans cemetery. No movement. He scales the gate as quickly and quietly as possible, but it rattles and he jumps behind the first crypt.

  Dammit. Did they get her?

  He moves to the edge of the second crypt and lies on his belly, covering the aisle to his left and the gate. No way he can stumble on them in the dark cemetery, even with faint moonlight, but the lights of the pickup give him a clean view of the gate. They gotta come back for the truck. He looks down the aisle to his left, then ahead at the gate. Waits. His breathing is low and controlled now. He wipes the sweat from his brow.

  The minutes crawl by. He keeps himself ready. If they go outside and come around to get the truck, he should be able to reach the gate and shoot up the pickup. He feels the holster of the baby Glock against his belly. It’s reassuring. A dozen more hydro-shock hollow point nine millimeter rounds without loading up.

  He reaches for the battle calm, that relaxed state bordering on tranquility so when battle is joined a warrior maintains a cool hand and strikes true, while his enemies, particularly the white-eyes, let their blood rise to levels that make their aim unreliable. The patient warrior waits, alert, ever ready.

  She moves so fast he almost misses her, running flat out, leaping, hitting the top of the gate and flipping over.

  All right. Got out.

  Scarping sounds echo in the cemetery, along with heavy foot falls. He blinks away more sweat as a figure rushes straight for him from beyond the crypts across the aisle. A loud bang turns Beau to his left as another figure with an AK-47 bounces off a small fence around a sepulchre. He’s only twenty feet away, coming up the aisle right
at Beau who rolls, aims and squeezes three quick rounds, then three more and AK flies into the air and the man crashes head-long into a cement crypt.

  Before he can turn to the man running for the gate, the AK-47 opens up slamming into the crypt next to Beau, peppering him with divots of brick as he rolls behind the crypt. The AK continues firing, hitting the wall as well, splaying ricocheted bullets. Beau, still on his belly, covers his head.

  Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack!

  Beau’s ears ring and it takes a few seconds to recognize the quiet. He braces himself in case the man rushes him. Waits. His left eye is blurry from sweat. He closes it, aims the Glock. Waits.

  The pickup starts up and Beau hesitates.

  What if there are three?

  He starts to rise but can’t get his muscles to move. He takes in a breath, steels himself again and gets up, runs flat-out for the gate, arriving as the pick up backs away. He fires through the gate.

  Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow!

  The driver has the AK out the window and fires back and Beau has to dive away as sparks fly from bullets striking the iron gate. Fire stings his arms. The AK stops firing and when Beau looks out, the pickup is gone. He starts to jump the fence. No. He goes back to the man he shot, flips on his mini-flashlight. It’s a skinny white man, maybe forty with a shaggy beard and a number of holes in his check, neck, one between his eyes.

  Jesus. Good shooting.

  The Brown Raven tattoo is below the man’s left ear. Beau picks up the AK-47 and heads back to the gate.

  Fuck. He realizes, as he lopes across the street back for the Escalade that he’d left the goddamn national guard radio in the charger aboard Sad Lisa. His arms feel weak as he reloads the Glock, slips it into its holster and climbs into the SUV. No choice. He has to go all the way to the airport for help.

  This is law and order AK. Yeah. Right.

  •

  Oscar Stevens is feeling pretty damn good, settled into his auntie’s house, chowing down on a sloppy roast beef po-boy before Jimmy’s cousin Dillard arrives in a Hummer with two other white boys, Raven recruits, both country-asses, one actually named Bubba, the other Billy. All three are buffed-out dudes, looking regular army, although all were out of the service now.

  Better yet, they brought some prime shit. Ten pounds of coke that needed to be cut. Oscar knows how to do that well, but Carlos claims to be the expert. They also brought a three boxes of crack already in little baggies, ready to sell on the street.

  “We brought cash too,” says Dillard, “25K. It goes on Amos’s account.”

  “Amos is dead.”

  Dillard smiles, “Then who’s in charge now?”

  Carlos belches, tells him he’s the man and Dillard hands over the money. “It’s yours, bro. Where’s my cousin?”

  “He be back soon. Grab a po-boy.”

  “Huh?”

  Oscar takes them over to the sandwiches, foot long French bread full of hot roast beef and extra mayonnaise. Carlos and Terez already ate the shrimp po-boys.

  “Man, can’t believe it,” Dillard says as he sits at the yellow kitchen table. “Air-conditioning.”

  Oscar explains about the generator and that’s why they the only house on the block with lights on.

  “All y’all got to wear is army gear?” Terez asks as she pulls a Coke from the refrigerator. It’s already cold.

  “Naw. We just wanted to travel with it, in case we got stopped.”

  “No one’ll stop you in that Hummer. No drug runner would be caught dead in a canary fuckin’ yellow Hummer,” Ace says, grinning at Dillard.

  The squeal of tires outside, turns them to the door. Ace grabs his AK-47 and Carlos pull out his Tec-9. Ace peeks outside, sees Axel hurrying up to the porch.

  “It’s Axel.”

  Carlos opens the door as Axel stumbles in, his left hand wrapped in a bloody towel.

  “Fuckin’ cop!”

  Axel pushes past Carlos, heads through the shotgun house toward the kitchen in back. Ace looks outside, doesn’t see Jimmy. He’s the last one in the kitchen as Axel leans against the counter trying to drink a bottle of cold water. He left the refrigerator door open, blood on the handle.

  Carlos has enough, moves close. “What the fuck happened!”

  Axel takes in a couple deep breaths. “We saw … Donna running down the street.” He takes in another breath. “She climbed into a fuckin’ cemetery and we went in after her.” He looks at Carlos, then Ace, his eyes red now. “I don’t know how the fuck he did it! But the mother-fucking cop in black was there.” Axel leans forward, almost bumps into Carlos. “I seen him. Fuckin’ rogue cop. Face all blacked out and he shot up my truck. I don’t know how I got away. Fucker hits everything he shoots at!” Axel takes another hit of water, a lot of it running down the side of his mouth. “I think he shot Jimmy.”

  “What?!” Dillard gets up so fast, he knocks over his chair.

  Axel looks at him. “We got in a big fuckin’ shootout and Jimmy didn’t come out.”

  “So you left him?”

  “Left him?” Axel grabs Carlos’s shirt with his bloody hand. “I barely fuckin’ escaped!”

  Carlos pulls his shirt off, tosses it on the floor. “All right, let’s go. Everybody!”

  Axel finishes the bottled water, reaches for another. Carlos turns back from the doorway.

  “You too, ass-hole. Jimmy could be wounded.”

  It’ll take Carlos a minute to get a new shirt on.

  Ace waits for Axel to look at him. Axel’s shaking his head. “The fucker could be waitin’.”

  “Good. We’ll kill him.” Ace gets a fresh towel and re-wraps Axel’s hand. There’s a deep gash on it.

  “Cut it on the cemetery gate.”

  Ace says, “Cop probably on his way to the airport for re-enforcements.”

  Carlos roars from the living room. He’s outside by the green pickup by the time they get on the porch. He has two Tec-9s. Terez has two also.”

  “Ace, take Bubba. Go see how the Joses let the bitch get away.” He waves to Axel. “Come on. Show us this cemetery.”

  •

  Beau stands just inside the hanger after re-filling his Escalade. Lt. Avery is there, so is Aligood and two cops from Phoenix, a Chicago cop, a US Marshal and here comes Linda Pickett in khakis. She moves through the group and Beau says, “No one. Not one of you can come?”

  “I’ll go,” says the Chicago cop.

  “Can you process a crime scene?”

  “No. Burglary Detective.”

  Beau looks at Avery. “You’re in body recovery mode. I have three bodies to recover.”

  Avery backs away, “I’ll check.”

  Linda asks, “What’s happening?”

  Beau lowers his voice, “I need someone to come with me now. I just shot three men to death and there has to be an investigation. There are two crime scenes. Don’t y’all have some crime scene people here?”

  “We can call the state police, get their crew down here from Baton Rouge.”

  At least fifty police cars from jurisdictions as far away as Illinois and Pennsylvania litter the parking lot. The warehouse brims with cops sent down to help. Beau knows they go into the city during the day, but no one goes in at night. Apparently.

  “Any FBI agents in there?” Beau points into the hanger. “They love to investigate police officers who shoot people.”

  “No. The FBI moved I don’t know where. They don’t like to mingle with lower levels.” Linda looks exasperated.

  “Right.” Beau struggled to keep calm. “They’ll come back in six months and investigate me with a goddamn task force.”

  Aligood hands Beau a can of Pepsi. It’s ice-cold, bracing Beau’s throat and so sweet he shimmies, but its damn good. He nods a thanks to the guardsman.

  “Your face is running.” Linda reaches up runs a finger along Beau’s cheek, pulls it back to show his make-up is liquidy. “You need a shower. ATF can go with
you when the sun comes up.”

  Beau realizes he’s drawn a crowd now. Sees Avery push through with Lt. Col. Bradford, who announces, “We’ll have six Humvees ready to go in with you at dawn. Body recovery mode.”

  Beau can’t help but laugh, shakes his head.

  “If they’re dead, they ain’t going nowhere,” Aligood adds cheerfully, drawing a stern look from Bradford.

  “Yeah?” Beau snaps, “the one y’all shot on Robert E. Lee Boulevard went somewhere. Like fuckin’ gone.”

  Avery drops his gaze and Bradford turns to him, “You said he may have been wounded.”

  Beau turns to Linda. “Where’s that a shower?”

  Wounded? I’m a fuckin’ homicide detective. I know when someone’s fuckin’ dead.

  He’s not about to get Avery into more trouble, so Beau shuts up and follows Linda to the showers. The sign hanging outside says – MEN. He sees the WOMEN sign on the table.

  “We use the same showers.”

  The Cajun in Beau can’t stop his mind forming a snapshot of him showering with this woman. Yeah. Right. As if. He pulls off the stifling flak vest, removes his gunbelt and Linda takes it, puts it on a table outside the shower room.

  “There’s plenty shampoo, fresh soap, all in packs in there. Clean towels as well.”

  She waits for him to remove his shirt, boots and socks, watching him, but steps away when he starts to unfasten his trousers.

  Aligood stands next to the table with Beau’s gunbelt when he comes out.

  “Some firemen from Beau Bridge, Louisiana invited us to eat next door with them. They got a feast.”

  “Breaux Bridge.” Beau runs the towel through his hair again and leaves his hair fly-away. He forgot to bring a hair brush.

  Linda Pickett comes up.

  Did she freshen her makeup? Lipstick’s darker.

  She tells him a state police crime scene van will be down before dawn.

  “You hungry?” he asks.

  She tilts her head to the side. “I could eat.”

  “If fireman from Breaux Bridge cooked a feast, you won’t wanna miss it.”