Street Justice

by Vito Zuppardo

  Mario looked at his watch, he had thirty minutes to get to the mayor’s press conference. He thanked Zack for hearing them out and walked away with a plan. Risky, but if it worked, it would be enough to seal an indictment against the mayor.

  Howard pulled Mario’s arm. “Cover for me? Two days at most. Zack gave me an idea.”

  When questioned where he was going, Howard gave a smile. When Mario pushed and mentioned New Jersey, his smile broadened.

  Chapter 27

  The conference room at city hall was packed with TV cameras and reporters sitting up front. Glenn sat four rows back, giving him a view of the cameras and everyone in the room. Present, supporting the mayor, were some church people, including Pastor Ignatius Green, the man some say got the mayor elected, and his inner circle of political advisers. Then there was the chief of police, district attorney, and heads of other departments who opposed him—but never openly.

  Mario took a seat in the back, just as Kory Barnes walked to the microphone. The room went silent anticipating the start. He went over the rules of the press conference to keep questions to the subject of the mayor’s announcement. It was the same crap he said each time, but the meeting always got out of hand.

  The mayor was introduced by Kory “the weasel,” a nickname Mario gave him just that morning.

  Applause sounded. Some clapped wholeheartedly; others made little effort. The opening statement was predictable: how in shambles the city was before he took office. It got him another round of applause by half the room. It took fifteen minutes for him to get to an announcement everyone knew was coming. His official declaration of re-election and promise to clean up the city of its deplorable streets, neighborhoods, and the influx of crime.

  Mario overheard one reporter say, “Didn’t he promise the same three years ago when he was elected?”

  When questions bombarded the mayor, he handled each one with a cool head and a smile. For years, the political machine had allowed the city to decline, and one person couldn’t fix it in one term. He rambled about all the things he would do before the year was out and how much more he could do by being re-elected.

  The speech made Mario think of Truman, his recently departed friend. Truman hated Mayor Wallace Jackson; they had gone to the same high school. He declared Wallace a shyster from early on, and the mayor did nothing to improve his image for Truman till the day he died.

  The mayor answered eight or nine questions and handled them well, or maybe he was just a good liar, which Mario favored.

  It was showtime when Glenn raised his hand, and Mario could only hope this would go as planned.

  “Glenn,” the mayor said, pointing at him.

  He stood. “Thank you, sir. If elected, will you be looking outside of Louisiana for a new police chief?”

  Glenn had picked on something close to the mayor’s heart. He wanted a replacement since the day he took office. The present chief of police made it easy for the mayor, when he’d announced two months earlier he’d retire at the end of the mayor’s term.

  “Good question,” the mayor said, with a broad grin. “I have my eye on two people, both with years of experience. One from Los Angeles and the other from Baltimore.”

  Glenn’s follow-up question was how would the city come up with the money to attract such high-profile candidates? The mayor’s answer redirected the issue to the city council members. The ball was in their court to step up with the salary demanded by quality law enforcement candidates, or the city would continue to decline and the criminals would take control.

  The questions were put together correctly, and Mario sat waiting for the punch to the gut that hopefully would get the reaction he wanted.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Wallace said, with a big wave.

  Glenn shouted above the clapping, “Mr. Mayor! Please, one last question.”

  Wallace’s frown showed he was annoyed. “Make it quick.”

  “Can you comment on the two men found dead in Lafayette Square?”

  “I haven’t been briefed, so I can’t comment.” His body went stiff as a board, eyes glassy with anger—a nerve was hit.

  Then Glenn came with the final blow and shouted, “Sir! They were homeless men. One was Leon Mason, an Army veteran and your brother.”

  If the mayor was like anyone else in the room, he couldn’t think over the uproar of follow-up questions. Wallace left the room in front of an entourage of staff.

  Glenn held a newspaper over his head, displaying the headline of the Big Easy Voice: “Mayor Wallace Jackson’s Half-Brother Murdered” with a subtitle below, “Why Are Army Veterans Living On The Streets?”

  Mario scanned the chaos of reporters converging on Glenn, wanting more of the story. He gave them the perfect reply. “The Big Easy Voice is on sale at newsstands.”

  Head nods between Glenn and Mario were exchanged. Another exclusive for Glenn and an outlet for Mario to get information out without involvement, it was a win-win for both.

  At the Eighth District station, Mario checked in with his number-two man, Drexel Lawson. He wasn’t officially named yet but was the most qualified and next to become a lieutenant. Few could replace Truman in Mario’s mind, but he had to decide on his number-two man soon, or the chief would choose for him.

  Checking his messages, he found one from Ralph Givens and returned the call. Mario had lunch planned with the chief in an hour, so he met Ralph at the steps of One Shell Square.

  Getting out the police cruiser, parked in a freight zone, Mario spotted Ralph coming down the steps of the building to the street level. Ralph owed Mario his new life as an investment banker. He could have spent years in jail, but with Mario’s help, he slipped past criminal charges Now he was making serious money in what he did best, investing. He swore this would be the last time he’d do anything unlawful. Mario laughed, as it was the third time Ralph had made such a statement. Mario knew Ralph could never turn down a request. The criminal element intrigued him—he couldn’t resist.

  “What do you have?” Mario asked.

  “That woman, Julie Wong, came through for us.” He looked around and slipped Mario a piece of paper as if someone was watching.

  Ralph had tried for days to hack Wallace Jackson’s email account. His city hall account was a piece of cake, but there were no conversations between him and Roberto, as expected. Wallace’s personal email was an issue, so he tried a back-door approach, helped by Julie.

  Julie provided all the information needed to take a shot at Roberto’s computer. If they could get a few emails, along with the pictures of Wallace and Roberto meeting in a hotel room, that should be enough for a DA investigation—enough info to get started.

  “I did all I could,” Ralph said. “Broke every cyberlaw there is and still came up short.”

  “Can it be done?” Mario waited for an honest reply.

  “Technology is manmade. Any computer can be hacked. Just need to find the right person.”

  Mario’s watch alarm sounded; it was time to meet the chief. Ralph would keep trying to get through Roberto’s firewall, and Mario would attempt to get some help. Olivia knew a few people with computer skills, but she wasn’t sure they could be trusted or would be willing to risk their careers to take down a politician.

  The chief sat at a table for two at a deli on Conti Street. Mario wanted to meet but not at her office. If seen in the deli by fellow officers, it would look like a casual lunch and not official business. A hostess walked Mario to the table; he sat.

  “It has to be important,” she said, “for you to buy lunch.”

  “Maybe I want a huge favor?”

  “Then we better head over to Antoine’s Restaurant,” she said with a smile.

  They ordered red beans and rice, Creole style, the special of the day. Mario talked about a case while waiting for lunch. When the food arrived, he changed subjects. The chief was the only person he could trust. He opened with saying that the mayor was dirty. She laughed, it was common knowledge; it just c
ouldn’t be proven. Mario added—until now.

  The pictures of Wallace and Roberto were carefully shown. Her first reaction was much like Mario’s, Wallace had a gay lover. Maybe twenty years ago, being gay would have gotten a mayor to resign, but not today. Mario pointed at Roberto and refreshed her memory of the well-dressed man from the East Coast. Her first reaction was much like everyone who saw the pictures. Why was the mayor of New Orleans meeting secretly in a hotel with a mafia boss?

  Mario got to the point, asking for her support if he came up with proof that Wallace was involved with the death of Leon and was pushing the gambling agenda so his newfound business partner could come into the city and take over the food, liquor, and beer distributions.

  The chief pulled off the heel of the French bread that came with the lunch and gracefully dropped it on her plate.

  “It’s the only way to finish off a dish this good,” she said. Then she pushed the bread around the plate, picking up the juice of the red beans remaining.

  Mario agreed and did the same. “It’s the way I was raised.”

  Chief Parks took her time replying, dabbed her lips with the cloth napkin, then pulled out a compact and touched up her lipstick. “You’re asking for me to make a career decision?”

  “With solid proof, it’s a career builder to the next level.” Mario waited for a reply.

  It took a few more seconds for a response. “Get me the proof, and I’ll walk it to the attorney general myself. Has to be rock solid.”

  “Absolutely, madam chief.”

  Chapter 28

  A Gulfstream jet descended and landed at the Atlantic City airport. It wasn’t uncommon to see private jets shuttling casino high rollers in and out of the city every day. This jet had a well-paid ground crew and one person in the tower who adjusted paperwork for Julie Wong’s plane as nothing more than a fuel stop. The worker topped off the fuel and got back in his truck only to find a passenger, Howard Blitz, sitting next to him. He was paid well to look the other way, not ask questions, and drop him inside the building away from cameras.

  Julie flew to New York for shopping. If she didn’t hear from Howard in three hours, she’d fly back to New Orleans, and assume Howard was dead.

  A town car waited at the curb, motor running and air-conditioning on high. Howard took to the back seat, the dark-tinted glass kept him out of view.

  Julie wanted no part of Howard’s undertaking but provided surveillance of Bobby G. She was right on target. It was Wednesday afternoon and Bobby G. was at his most frequented hotel and casino between noon and four, holed up in a suite with his girlfriend.

  A hundred-dollar bill to Tony, the bell captain, got him a keycard for entry to any room. Howard was only interested in one suite, 2710, overlooking the ocean.

  It had been Bobby’s Wednesday comp room for months. He wasn’t the smartest; he’d never changed his driving route to the casino, the suite, or the woman and her pick-up point. He could have easily been picked off, if he was the target. Bobby was an egotistical asshole and followed the mafia tradition perfectly. On date night, he’d parade his wife through the casino a few times before entering the restaurant. Dressed in an outfit from Fifth Avenue that cost more than most of the blackjack dealers made in a week. His wife on the weekends, and a midweek walkthrough with a flashy bimbo. Why? To show he was rich, a ladies’ man, and could do whatever he wanted. He was the right-hand man to the most powerful mob boss, Roberto Ferrari. He didn’t need a bodyguard. Any man who attempted to harm Bobby could expect an army of Roberto’s people hunting him down. His death would not be quick or painless, and he’d beg for a bullet to the head.

  What Bobby was about to learn was that Howard Blitz was not any man, and he always got what he went after. To an assassin, a person’s status didn’t matter who they were or how rich. Nothing mattered. If someone was on Howard’s radar, he would accomplish his objective.

  The room keycard slipped into the electric door reader. One click, and Howard was in the living room. The usual gaudy decorating for a casino suite didn’t disappoint; it matched anything in Las Vegas, except for a view of a beautiful ocean and not piles of sand dunes. In that respect, Atlantic City was one step ahead of Las Vegas.

  Howard pulled his gun, the silencer attached, ready to take out Bobby if need be and the woman would have to go too. He heard talking but couldn’t tell if it came from the bedroom or the bathroom. Water splashed, then the sound of a motor pushing air bubbles at high speed confirmed they were isolated in the bathroom.

  Howard rounded the corner of the bedroom, picked up Bobby’s gun from the nightstand, tucked it in his belt, then slipped along the wall until he saw their reflections in the mirror. Bobby, preoccupied, had his head buried in his bimbo’s breasts. He put his champagne glass to the side to engage with two hands. He surfaced from her well-rounded chest to the barrel of a gun between his eyes.

  “Get out,” Howard motioned to the woman. She jumped at the opportunity, gathered her clothes, and left, barely dressed.

  Bobby reached for a towel and walked at gunpoint to a chair in the bedroom. “You’re making a big mistake.” He got a good look at Howard. “You’re the guy who met with Roberto last week.”

  “Good memory—now shut up and listen.”

  He said that Roberto had hired Howard to kill Bobby. He tried to convince Bobby, but he wasn’t buying. Then he pushed more lies that he hoped were believable.

  “Roberto is certain you killed his nephew, Michael,” Howard said, and waited for his denial.

  “You’re crazy. Why would I do that?”

  “Well, according to Roberto, you were in New Orleans the day before Michael was killed.” This was the part of Julie’s information that had to be faultless. “Maybe you stayed an extra day? Did you?” There was no reply. Julie was correct again.

  With Michael out of the way, Bobby would be next in line for the boss. Howard took a seat on the bed across from him. The gun never left its fixed aim at Bobby’s head.

  “Roberto firmly believes with Michael out of the way, you’ll make a run at him.”

  Howard let the news sink in and saw Bobby was giving it some consideration.

  “Bullshit. Michael would never be boss. He was weak and hated by the entire crew.”

  “Family is family, doesn’t matter if the crew likes or dislikes him,” Howard said, stone-faced, never blinking. “Michael was next in line.”

  Bobby made a desperate move. “Whatever Roberto is paying, I’ll double.”

  Howard laughed; it didn’t work that way. A hit man never double-crossed his client. It’s not suitable for referrals.

  Bobby took another shot. “How much, fifty? I’ll pay a hundred grand.”

  Howard sat, giving a creepy grin, imagining putting a bullet in Bobby’s head. “Keep your money. I need Mario DeLuca alive and Roberto—let’s say—gone.”

  It opened dialog and Bobby jumped at the opportunity. Howard negotiating Bobby’s life for Roberto’s. He didn’t care how it was done, but Roberto had to disappear forever. Then Bobby would be the new boss. Howard saw his idea was being considered. Bobby was ready to agree to anything to get out of this jam. Howard reinforced that if Roberto wasn’t permanently out of the picture, he’d hunt Bobby down and it wouldn’t be a pleasant death.

  Bobby said that there was a meeting between Roberto and Bobby planned for the next day. The only other person with them would be Sal, the bodyguard. Bobby guaranteed that Roberto would disappear; he’d become the new boss and all contracts on Mario would be canceled. Howard wondered about Sal having a vital role in flipping against Roberto. Bobby unquestionably believed Sal was the right man for the job.

  Howard lowered his gun and placed it in his holster. Then reviewed what would happen if Bobby wavered. Just like Howard got the drop on Bobby in the hotel room, he’d hunt him down until he suffered a horrible death. First, he’d learn his daughter and her nanny died in a car accident on the way to school one day. Then, he’d come home to his murd
ered wife sitting at the kitchen table. Howard would then assure Bobby it could all have been avoided if he’d only have followed through with his promise of taking out Roberto.

  “Are you in?” Howard asked.

  “I promise,” Bobby said, to the point of pleading.

  “Two days.” He emptied the bullets from Bobby’s gun and threw them at his feet. Then dropping the weapon at the door, he walked out.

  From the Atlantic City airport, Howard hopped a helicopter to LaGuardia Airport and joined Julie for the flight back to New Orleans.

  “It’s good to see you alive,” Julie said, as the jet taxied to the runway.

  “No doubt on my part.” Howard smiled, as he was thrust deep into the seat when the jet lifted off the ground. “There were only two possible results of my meeting Bobby. Me dead today or Roberto dead within two days.”

  Chapter 29

  The Eighth District station had the worst parking, even for cops. The police commissioner wanted easy access for police in the heart of the French Quarter, so a station sat on narrow Royal Street with no consideration of parking. Olivia did what all cops did—parked half on the street with two wheels on the sidewalk. Something locals and tourists received a ticket for and a two-hundred-dollar fee for towing the vehicle.

  Olivia strolled into Mario’s office unannounced and closed the door behind her.

  “It’s never a good sign when you come to my side of town before noon.” He lifted his head from the mound of paperwork on his desk.

  She hit him with the lousy news before taking a seat. The saliva in Leon’s hair was inconclusive.

  It was something Mario was sure would tie Jay to the murder. He rocked back and forth in his desk chair. The toothpick was Jay’s signature look, he’d said it himself. Mario pictured Jay leaning over Leon and spitting after he shot him. It was the perfect solution. “Inconclusive?” Mario said, chewing on his lip, staring into space. “You can’t prove it one way or another.”