The Auction House

by Vito Zuppardo

  “Julie Wong’s plane lands at the airport in thirty minutes,” Howard said. A slight smile broke when he saw Mario’s face go blank.

  “I’m in,” Mario said. “Let’s see how this connects to Roland.” His blood pumped rapidly, turning his face red and his eyes roamed restlessly.

  Howard had experienced the look many times. It was as if Mario was preparing for a battle.

  Mario drove, and Howard held on as if they were in hot pursuit of criminals. The black Ford sedan with the heavily tinted windows went speedily out of the police parking garage up Tulane Avenue until it turned into Airline Highway. Cops have an advantage when it comes to cutting through traffic. Flip the red flashing light on the dashboard, and cars move to the side.

  The detectives made it to the charter terminal just as a sleek jetliner landed on the runway. Parked on the tarmac were two stretch limousines with the drivers dressed in black suits standing outside of the vehicles. Howard gave a nod to the drivers.

  “Two cars?” Howard asked, giving Mario a slight side look. “I wasn’t expecting that many people.”

  The detectives stayed inside their car and watched. First down the step, Julie was met halfway by a well-instructed limo driver who held her hand as she stepped to solid ground. She stood and greeted each person getting off as if she just met them for the first time. A stream of well-dressed men shook her hand and took a seat in the first limousine.

  “How many people can this plane hold?” Mario asked as what seemed like an endless amount of people streamed down the steps.

  “Fourteen passengers,” Howard said. “What worries me is—it’s all men.” Then he pointed out two of them to Mario. “Those two are bodyguards.”

  “You think?” Mario asked, shaking his head as he tried to understand how Howard picked them out when they all wore dark color suits.

  “Each man’s coat moved as they took the next step down,” Howard pointed out. “A shoulder holster’s protrusion was noticeable. Something I picked up over the years in my other life.” Howard left his cop instincts at the police station—this was bigger than local police. Julie Wong didn’t fly into a city unless highly paid.

  “I don’t get the number of people,” Howard said. “I counted nine men plus Julie. She doesn’t normally make such a grand entrance.”

  “Maybe it’s a legit business meeting.” Mario raised an eyebrow.

  Howard was quick to answer. “Julie? She seldom walks the right side of the law.”

  The limousines pulled away with Julie and one man in the second car.

  Mario cranked the engine and waited for them to get out of the gates before following. The detectives didn’t go unnoticed, and Howard’s cell phone rang.

  “Good morning, Howard,” Julie said.

  “Shit!” he said, putting the phone on mute.

  Julie was a straight talker and never evaded what she had to say. Getting to the point quickly, she gave Howard a warning. “Stop following us. As a friend, I can only protect you so much—back off.” The phone went dead.

  Hard-nose Howard was a man who protected heads of states in many countries and had the talent to kill with a gun or, more quietly, with a knife, Karate, or Aikido, whichever gave the best results. It was times like this that brought the old habits of an assassin to fight fire with fire. That’s how he always approached Julie—he trusted her at a distance. Her loyalty was with the person that paid her the most money.

  Howard dropped the cell phone on the dashboard. “She’s involved—big time,” he said.

  Mario gave a side-glance and chewed on his lip, then stomped on the accelerator. The blacked-out sedan stayed a distance from the limousines, although Julie had already admitted she knew they were following. The cars jumped on the interstate at high speed and surprisingly exited in an area housing a hospital, doctor’s offices, and other medical buildings. The limousines turned at a corner, and Mario slowed down to give them a slight lead.

  Out of nowhere, a dump truck ran the traffic light and T-boned the police car at the intersection. Mario got a glimpse of the truck, running at an excessive speed—it never even slowed down. Mario’s car made two spins, hit the curb, and crashed into a light pole, coming to a dead stop on the driver’s side, smoke billowing from the hood.

  Chapter 9

  It didn’t take long for a crowd of people to gather around the mangled car. Most identified the vehicle as a cop car. It was common to see a heavily tinted black sedan roaming the streets of this neighborhood.

  A whisper spread among the folks gathering. “I think their cops,” an elderly lady said, holding tightly to a walker.

  The sound of car tires squealed to avoid the accident, and then most drove off. One man stopped and identified himself as a doctor, shouting to the crowd to let him through. He made it to the car and pulled on the passenger door handle—to no avail. It was jammed shut.

  The detectives were unconscious, but the pounding of the man’s fist on the window awakened them.

  “Are you okay?” he shouted. “I’m a doctor—do not move.”

  The detectives waved him off, and slowly both got out, opening the passenger’s door from the inside. Mario was the first to ask if anyone saw the freight train that hit them. He got a lot of head shaking.

  One man stepped forward. “An old dump truck,” he said. “Too much mud to describe the vehicle or even catch any part of the license plate.”

  Another man spoke up as they often do when someone starts the dialog at the scene. “Just looked like any old dump truck,” he said. “The driver never slowed down, rammed your side door and rolled over the trunk with its big wheels, then accelerated off.”

  Sirens could be heard coming from different directions—help was on the way. A call to dispatch was described by Mario only as a hit and run and to look for a muddy dump truck.

  When the paramedics arrived, they did a quick check of the detectives. It was recommended the two of them go to the hospital. They both said they were okay and hitched a ride with an officer to the Eighth District.

  Howard didn’t waste time and made a phone call from the backseat. Mario sat next to him and frowned, shifting his eyes to Howard in warning. The last thing Mario wanted was some street cop to overhear and have the conversation channeled back to the Chief before Mario could come up with a believable tale. Howard made the call anyway.

  When the man on duty at dispatch answered the call, Howard only had to say hello before he went into detail about a call received from the limo driver. The driver was forced out of the limo by gunpoint by a man that appeared to be the enforcer of the group. All the driver could explain was he was left on the third floor of a parking garage. Dispatch had already started tracking the limo through the GPS system and sent another car to pick the driver up.

  The detectives arrived at the Eighth District to a call on Howard’s cell. His eyes locked on Mario. It was his connection at the private terminal. Julie had called ahead and wanted the jet fueled and ready to go—she was on her way back. The pilots were doing the final check through, expecting her any minute.

  Even with sirens and dashboard lights flashing, they were fifteen to eighteen minutes away. The interstate had three lanes and was the quickest way for Howard to maneuver. He slipped in between cars and accelerated to an excessive speed. The speed he was driving was one thing, but neither detective could give the Chief an explanation if they became accountable for their actions. They were in hot pursuit of a group of men who did nothing wrong—to the detectives’ knowledge. As always, these two detectives were working on instinct—and usually were correct.

  Howard exited the interstate and took the access road to the terminal. His cell phone rang just as he passed one of the limousines going in the opposite direction. He didn’t bother to answer since the tarmac was in sight. The last person had just cleared the stairs and walked onto the aircraft.

  Howard slammed the breaks on and stopped, then turned to Mario. “There’s only one way to handle this.” The
ir eyes said it all, and both pulled weapons and took them off safety.

  Mario guarded the foot of the steps as Howard climbed on board. He waved his gun, walking through the cabin. He counted heads—there was one less man on board, and Julie was missing, too.

  The talent of an assassin is memory. Howard pictured the men walking off the jet earlier. In a single file, envisioning each face, that’s what an assassin does. He recognized the Americans and a man he labeled as The Brit when they were getting off earlier. The guy looked to be from somewhere in the UK. Howard had been off the market for many years but he never forgot the technique. Then he imagined the missing link—an Asian man with jet black shoulder-length hair.

  “What are you doing in town?” Howard demanded, pulling on one person’s coat lapels.

  “We’re businessmen,” he replied.

  “Where is the other guy?”

  “Don’t know this other guy,” he said in broken English.

  “Don’t get funny with me.” Howard planted the tip of his gun at the man’s forehead. “Who hired the dump truck that T-boned my partner and me?”

  With his eyes looking up at the barrel pressed against his head, the man answered, “I don’t know anything about a T-bone.” Then laughed in Howard’s face.

  “Drop your gun,” a man behind Howard said as he felt a weapon press into his back.

  A rule Howard learned years ago in training—never drop your weapon. “You’ll have to take it from me, and if you’re stupid enough to try—well, you’ll have to live with the consequence.”

  The man behind Howard pulled him to the exit door and pointed him toward the steps. “You can walk down or go head first—it’s your choice.” Then he reached for Howard's gun.

  With one swift move, Howard latched onto the man’s wrist. Pulling him forward, he made two jabs with his elbow into the man’s throat. Watching him gasp for breath, Howard gave one good jolt to the back of the man’s knees and they buckled. Off-balance, a good push allowed the man to miss the first two top steps but hit every one after until he landed on the tarmac.

  Howard waved his gun to the men on board. “Let Julie know I’ll find her and the dump truck driver, too.” He walked off the aircraft and stopped at the man on the ground. Reading his name tag, Howard grinned. “Sorry, captain. You might be a good pilot, but you lack combat skills.” Then he pressed his foot into the pilot’s chest and walked over him.

  Chapter 10

  Antoine’s restaurant on St. Louis Street in the heart of the French Quarter was a place Mario knew well. He worked private parties there after his foot patrol duties—most cops worked extra details to supplement their income. It was also his and Kate’s favorite eatery—he just failed to mention that to Margaret.

  Mario arrived with Margaret at the restaurant. His car, a shiny new sedan, had replaced the one that was totaled. The valet asked for the keys so he could park the vehicle.

  Mario’s reply was short and to the point. “The car is fine where I parked.” Then he pulled his coat back and showed his badge. The young man’s eyes widened and he reminded Mario of all the odd jobs he had after school, just trying to make a few bucks. He reached into his pocket and slipped the young man a five-dollar bill.

  “I’ll keep an eye on your car, sir,” the kid said. “I mean, officer.”

  Giving the guy a warm smile, he took Margaret’s hand and walked through the double doors held by the Maître d’ who escorted them to a table.

  As usual, Howard was late. He had arranged a farewell dinner for his friend Monique who had a flight back to Trinidad the next day. Her international business kept her coming back to New Orleans. Howard was the kind of guy that loved to see his latest girlfriend come to town, and after a few days, equally happy to see her go back home.

  Howard wasn’t the marrying kind of guy—always claiming he came with too much baggage.

  Monique was from a town called Belle Garden in Port of Spain, Trinidad, an area Howard knew too well. When Monique pumped Howard with questions of how he knew so much about her hometown, he refused to discuss it and would change the subject.

  The secret life of Howard Blitz dated back many years. He liked to call it his early life or another lifetime ago. Trained by a foreign army to kill, he was an assassin by title. Ben Stein, the man who recruited him to the United States, described Howard as the best. He took orders and followed through but never killed anyone his superior didn’t order dead.

  Ben used Howard for personal use. A wealthy Jewish man with a deep connection to the underworld overseas and within the states, he had many friends and just as many adversaries. Howard acted as a bodyguard and protected Ben and his wife for years. One by one, he eliminated people worldwide, at Ben’s command. His boss’s justification, “They had it coming.”

  Belle Garden sparked Howard’s mind when Monique brought it up. An unpleasant flashback popped into his mind—he quickly disregarded the interruption. Contracted to kill the mayor of the town, he doubted she’d remember the details since she was in her mid-teens at the time. It was nothing personal—Howard never met the man. He just followed orders and was in and out of the city before anyone discovered the body. The tragedy of the mayor’s death would have to remain his secret.

  Even after Ben’s death, his secrets were safe with Howard, and they would go to his grave. He was loyal to Ben, and it was his connection to the New Orleans Police Department that connected Howard with being a detective. NOLA’s finest True Blue Detective. As horrifying a job a city cop has, it’s a piece of cake from the hell Howard lived as an assassin.

  The waiter took Mario and Margaret’s drink order and returned with the cocktails shortly after. Mario stayed with his favorite Beefeaters Gin and Tonic with a wedge of lemon. He was prepared to tell the waiter lemon, not lime, as his order was usually incorrect. It was a common mistake since the drink tasted best when lime juice blended with the gin—or so bartenders claimed.

  “What a surprise,” Mario said when the glass arrived with a bright yellow lemon wedge hanging from the side.

  Margaret ordered an Old Fashion—she didn’t believe in those girly drinks. If she was going to drink, she wanted to taste the whiskey.

  They clicked their glasses together, and Mario made a toast. “To Howard, who’s always late.”

  A faint smell came Mario’s way when they made the toast. He would never tell Margaret, but as a non-smoker, he could smell the cigarette smoke on her. She didn’t smoke, either, but it meant she had come from the casino. Her hair reeked of smoke.

  “How was the poker game?” Mario asked to confirm his thoughts.

  “I didn’t have time to wash my hair.” She gave a flirty smile. “I smell like smoke?”

  Mario shook his head, saying, “No.” There was no reason to break the mood. She won him over with her smile.

  Margaret was more than a poker player passing the time—she could hang with the best, and the larger the stake, the better she liked the game.

  Mario had met her during an investigation into gamblers getting robbed after leaving the casino—most on the way home. In her case, two men saw her cash out a large amount of money at the casino cage. They followed her home and put a gun to her face then took over twenty thousand dollars. It surprised Mario to learn she was a hardcore gambler. It was a world he never ventured.

  He’d often walked the casino floor as an observer and speculated what kind of fool gambled hundreds if not thousands of dollars on one poker hand or roll of the dice. He worked too hard for his money to wager a bet. Many gamblers told him he didn’t understand the rush. Gambling was their drug of choice—the higher the steak, the better. It wasn’t the act of winning or losing—it was staying in action. A real gambler believed a day without gambling was like a day without sunshine—it was depressing. Mario gave up on understanding the mind of a risk-taker.

  Glancing at the front entrance, Mario spotted Howard and Monique stepping between tables, making their way through the restaurant.

>   “They make a beautiful couple,” Margaret said, taking a sip of her cocktail.

  Both of them were tall with jet-black hair and olive skin. Howard’s sport coat cut from the shoulder to a v-line accenting his body and muscles.

  “Monique looks stunning in her LBD,” Margaret said, but Mario didn’t understand. “All women have two or three LBD’s in their closet—better known as little black dress. It fits many occasions—weddings, funerals, parties, and romantic nights.”

  It got a smile from Mario, but he still didn’t understand.

  Margaret leaned to Mario’s ear and whispered, “Someone is getting lucky tonight.”

  “Me?” Mario asked with a broad smile.

  “No, I have a game at midnight. But I’m sure Howard will.” She locked eyes with Monique as she made a stunning approach. “Monique could turn on anyone—man or woman.”

  Mario was lost for words and simply grinned. Margaret often pinned his ears back with remarks not typically coming from a woman.

  “That dress fits her like a glove. Look at the neckline. Her girls are out and perfect.”

  Mario blushed and managed to say without laughing, “Yeah, I noticed her girls. Big, round, and perky.”

  Margaret shot him a frown. “Stop! When you say it, it’s creepy.”

  Margaret always talked about other women and criticized herself, which was a joke. She’d turned many of the men’s heads, getting a second look at her. Mario often thought she could wear a burlap sack and still look beautifully sexy. The weight control diet Margaret boasted about was the poker table. Playing cards for hours at a time and never stopping to eat kept her slim. She lived off the rush of winning a big pot of cash.

  “It’s about time,” Mario said when he pulled the chair out for Monique.