The Auction House

by Vito Zuppardo

  “To bid on a lamp,” Jennifer said quickly without hesitation, shooting them both a look. “I saw the lamp on display during the viewing. It’s flawed, so I passed. What is it to you?”

  There was a quick change in her attitude. Some people cow down at questioning if they have nothing to hide. Others go the condescending route if they do. Mario had worked enough cases to know he had to handle her carefully, or she’d demand an attorney.

  “So why bid on a chair for seventy-five thousand then drop out.”

  “I hit my limit to what the chair was worth,” she said and held her ground.

  “Who were you bidding for on the chair?” Howard took his shot in the hope of a truthful answer.

  “Am I under arrest?” she asked, pulling her cell phone from her purse. “If so, I need to make a phone call.” Mario did his best to turn his charm on, but Jennifer saw straight through his charade. She stood. “No need to show me out, gentlemen. If you have any further questions, call me. I’ll refer you to my attorney.”

  Jennifer walked out of the room, took the stairs to the ground floor, bypassing police officers in the hallway coming on duty. She exited the same door the detectives brought her in and never looked back.

  From the second floor window, Mario watched Jennifer cross the street and head to the antique shop. He flopped in his chair. “What is a sweet little thing like her doing with an attorney on speed dial?”

  While planning their next move, a break came as Mario got a call on his cell. He had put the word out the day Julie arrived in New Orleans to her favorite restaurants and bars. There was no need to describe her to the bartender or host. Julie was soft on the eyes and hard to forget—and an excellent tipper.

  Mario grabbed his coat. “Let’s go. Julie just walked into the Carousel Bar,” he said as they rushed out. The detectives hit the pavement, dodging tourists for the one-block walk.

  The famous revolving Carousel Bar and Lounge in the Hotel Monteleone was a long-time favorite New Orleans hot spot. Julie always made a stop there when in town. What she didn’t know was she was about to have a guest.

  The Carousel was just off the front entrance of the hotel lobby. On one side, windows lined Royal Street, and the circular bar rotated at the rate of one revolution every fifteen minutes.

  Mario didn’t have to look far for Julie. Her favorite table was overlooking Royal Street in the heart of the French Quarter. It was the part of the bar that stood motionless.

  A nod between the bartender and Mario got him to bring two Club Sodas to the side of the bar. He placed one drink in front of Mario and the other to Howard. Then Mario slipped the barkeeper a twenty-dollar bill for the heads-up phone call.

  Like any cop, Howard scanned the room. Two men sat at the Carousel bar and were possibly there to protect Julie. The thugs wore jackets loosely at the chest—a perfect way to conceal a weapon. Howard placed them at the top of his list to interfere with their approach to Julie. The rest of the patrons were conventioneers with name tags plastered on their coats. For now, he’d keep an eye on the two thugs and let Mario do the talking.

  Julie sipped on a Sazerac cocktail—her favorite and one of the bar’s signature drinks.

  “Cut to the chase,” Mario said, flopping in a chair across from her. “What is going on with the auction?”

  Julie never got excited or showed emotions. Her eyes remained focused out the window. “It sure is a beautiful day.”

  “Cut the bullshit, Julie,” Howard said, pulling a chair from another table and placing the back to the window. His eyes focused on the two men.

  She put the glass on the table and stirred the remainder of the drink with her finger. Then licked the liquid off, running her finger across her lips. A wicked grin came over her.

  Howard observed Julie’s hands. For the detectives to be safe, her hands had to remain on top of the table. If not, there was a good chance she’d try and dip one hand into her purse while distracting them with the other, a trick Howard mastered years earlier. He always beat his mark to the draw of a weapon, then got the information needed and sometimes left them dead.

  Mario fired questions, which Julie answered with a smirk and a few meaningless words. She reached for a paper napkin from the tabletop closest to the window with her right hand. Crossing her body, her left hand slipped off the table.

  Howard was ready to step in—with force, if necessary. Friendship could only go so far when on the headstrong side of the law. She continued, and her hand slipped out of sight.

  “Julie!” Howard shouted. “Stop. Show your hands.”

  Few could hear him over the piano player and the number of patrons in the bar. Her hand continued in a downward motion. A click sounded, and Howard opened his coat, exposing his weapon, a Glock with a finger on the trigger.

  “We’ve been through a lot, Julie. That doesn’t mean I won’t take you out right here.”

  Julie moved her hand slowly back on the table and exposed a black cloth napkin. “Just catching my napkin before it hit the floor,” she said, opening a broad smile.

  The bar had made a half rotation, and the two thugs were now facing a mirrored wall along with the piano player on the other side of the room. Howard gave Mario a side-glance. “I guess I was wrong about them.”

  “You two sure are jumpy,” Julie said. “You need something stiffer than Club Soda to hear my story.” She raised her glass to the bartender for another. Howard’s piercing eyes the bartender’s way caused him to ignore Julie’s request.

  Aside from being a stone-cold assassin, Julie could sell a story better than anyone. Like a con artist selling waterfront property when there was no water in sight, she was a real charmer, and the whole time she would be figuring out the best way to kill her target.

  She looked at Mario, then Howard. “We’ve known each other for a long time. Been through hell and high waters. We walked a fine line of the law—but always came out on top.” She paused. “This time, I’m too deep—I don’t see any way out.”

  Howard studied her. He’d been up against the best, pleading for their lives, insisting they were telling the truth, but he still took them down—and was always correct in his actions. He was a master at breaking people down, reading their emotions, and understanding psychological warfare, the training only an assassin would ever use. Although what Mario learned from Howard was priceless and often brought it up to the police academy—they had yet to consider such training.

  “Julie, let’s get out of here,” Howard said. He dropped some money on the table to cover the cocktails, but the bartender handed him the bill in one of those fancy leather folders. He peaked at it and dropped a few more dollars on the table. “You must have to make a loan to get drunk in this place.”

  Julie worked up a smile. “That’s the price to drink at the Carrousel. Can’t hang with the big dogs if you’re not willing to pay the price.”

  Howard gave a fake grin to humor her and kept his eyes focused. Her face revealed fear, something she’d never allow—not Julie. A professional never showed emotions. She’d taken on men twice her size, stared them down, then landed a full leg punch to the chin, grinding her spiked heel into their chest as she stepped over them.

  Mario gave a side-glance. He sensed Julie wasn’t on her game. With a nod of agreeance, Howard placed his arm around her waist and lead them out of the bar.

  There was but one place to have a serious sit-down with Julie in order to get to the bottom of the issue. The police station was clearly out of the question. The DEA had her on their hit list of suspects to watch for and it was a wonder none had followed her to the Carousel Bar.

  Julie went peacefully and sat in the backseat of the car with Howard as Mario drove to the limousine barn. He kept a keen eye on the rearview mirror but no one followed.

  Howard called ahead, and at his command, his security team combed up one side of Magazine Street to the other. They set up a roadblock with limo buses, allowing Mario to reach the barn without being intercepte
d by the Fed’s should they have followed.

  Julie said a few words during the drive that amounted to nothing about the issue at hand. They arrived at the barn, and the overhead doors closed—they were safe inside. Howard directed Mario around the back of the building. The overhead lights came on automatically in the old warehouse as the vehicle passed censors.

  This time they went through a different entrance of the bunker Ben Stein built. Most would have thought the door led into a tool room. It even caught Howard by surprise the first time Ben showed him. A hammer, plyers, and screwdrivers of all types hung neatly on the side walls. Four feet into the room, the rear wall had a typical gray electrical box found in any home or business. The switches were color-coded and number ten read overhead doors. When flipped, the wall opened, allowing excess to a stairway down to a second soundproof bunker. The other switches controlled the sprinkler system that saturated the room and deterred anyone from going any further. On the cover in big yellow letters was STOP HIGH VOLTAGE. It must have worked because during the thirty-something years, no one discovered the bunker.

  The room several feet below the ground was well-lit. Julie sat on a sofa across from a desk. Behind the desk was a well-lit shelf displaying weapons. One would think of it as a collection of antique guns or knives. In fact, it was Howard’s preferred weapons of choice for easy access. The rest of his arsenal was behind the display case and consisted of hand grenades to a mobile rocket launcher and everything in-between. He never questioned how Ben acquired the weapons and was thankful he could take down a small army of bad guys single-handedly if necessary.

  Julie accepted a cup of coffee and sipped casually as her eyes scanned the room. “Is this what you American’s call the bat cave? What the hell is this place?”

  Howard brushed her comment off, although he and Mario often joked, We better get to the bat cave. It was one of the first TV shows Howard had watched when he came to the US.

  Julie appeared to be relaxed. Maybe it was the safety of being underground and two skillful men ready to help.

  Mario got to the point, wanting answers, quickly. “Julie, why don’t you start from the beginning.”

  She exhaled, then ran her tongue over her top lip. “The auction is half of the problem. Initially, I was to fly in some bidders that would pay an absorbent amount of money for chairs worth not much more than a hundred bucks. A plant in the audience would get the bid up then drop out, allowing the other person to walk away with the winning bid.”

  The detectives glanced at each other. Then Mario spoke. “Why was this guy bidding so high on a worthless chair?”

  Julie sipped her coffee, and again her eyes scanned the room. Howard picked it up as a nervous reaction. Something he’d never seen in Julie. She continued unfolding her dilemma.

  She was hesitant in speaking and often in choppy sentences. Then she hit them with something unexpected. “One leg of the chair came apart. Inside the shaft was a key. It opened the door to an apartment across town.”

  “Why go through the bidding process?” Howard mouthed off. “Why not simply hand the cash off and take the key?

  “That’s how Simon Kade gets paid,” she said, shaking her head from side to side. “It’s difficult to explain.”

  Doing her best to find words to explain the process of her job without giving away secrets that could cost her life, Julie said, “I received a phone call from Mr. Heinz, my boss, two days ago. Few people have met Mr. Heinz, but I’m his number one and have had a face-to-face meeting with him several times. My instructions were to take the jet to New Orleans and make sure Never Wong was the winning bidder.”

  “What’s the key for?” Howard asked, his frustration clear in his voice.

  Julie, the woman that Howard once said ate nails for breakfast and feared no man or woman had met her match in whatever she was going through. The frowns and worriment were obvious.

  “Julie, you’ll feel better if you get it off your chest,” Howard said, taking her hand.

  She let out an exhale and let it spew. “There are three chairs that will auction—the keys planted in the legs open different doors. Simon Kade is involved in trafficking women. How he’s getting them into the country, I don’t know.”

  Howard’s eyes shifted to Mario, then he spoke. “Maybe they’re not from another country.”

  “Hundreds of people go missing in the United States every day—most never found,” Mario said as his face turned a few shades of red—his usual process when fired up.

  Julie let out a scream. Her face crammed into her hands. “I don’t traffic people. You know that, Howard.”

  He gave a sympathetic nod. “Even assassins have their limits,” Howard said, turning to Mario.

  “It’s my fault for not having Mr. Heinz clearly explain the task,” Julie rambled.

  “Where was the problem?” Howard asked.

  “My job was to hire someone to make the bid, get the key out of the chair leg, and pick up and deliver the man or woman to the creep who won the bid.”

  “So you hired this clown Never Wong,” Mario said.

  She gave a nod. “Then I got a phone call from Mr. Heinz.” She paused. “He wants all witnesses dead.”

  “That I expected.” Howard made a face. “Normal protocol.”

  “Please, spare me the murder for hire details,” Mario said. His head was on a swivel between them, not saying a word but he locked eyes on each one as they spoke.

  “Wong was available,” she said and continued. “I’d used him in the past for a decoy, and he got paid well for his services. He’s a poker player and has been in some high steak games in New Orleans, so he jumped at the opportunity. I didn’t expect to have to eliminate him.”

  “Come on, Julie! You’ve been in the game long enough,” Howard said with a raised voice and a dead stare of his eyes. “You never leave a witness.”

  “Not this time. Heinz assured me no bodies left behind.” Julie’s voice shook. “It was a short mission—we’ll be in and out of the city in two days, he said.”

  “Heinz is the puppet master,” Howard said. “It’s how he gets you to agree to the mission—then he changes the rules.”

  Mario bent toward Howard and whispered, “Who’s this Heinz guy?”

  An evil grin covered Howard’s face. “I’d tell you—but I would have to kill you.”

  Mario gave off a slight smile. Then it faded quickly.

  “No joke, Mario, you’ll vanish—never to be seen. Erase that name from your mind.”

  Another ear-piercing scream from Julie bounced off the walls. “Jin is my brother!” she cried, her face buried deep into her hands once more.

  Howard, with a slight head tilt, asked, “Julie, who is Jin?”

  “My brother’s name is Jin Wong,” she said. “He picked up the nickname of Never Wong from poker games.” Tears ran down her face. It was the first time she ever allowed vulnerability to show.

  Chapter 17

  Keeping a good-looking woman like Julie hidden and out of sight wouldn’t be easy. Howard suggested the one person that could help—Gabriel “Big Gab” Chmura. Mario immediately disregarded that idea. The last thing he wanted was a criminal intervening in an investigation. Especially one they weren’t approved to work with.

  Howard got in Mario’s face defending Big Gab. The man was arrested several times but never served a night in jail or had been convicted of a crime. Mario disputed, indicating the only reason Big Gab stayed out of prison was his deep pockets and the best attorneys money could buy.

  Howard hit back, “What’s your point?” He laughed. “Gab’s still not a criminal.”

  Big Gab stood six foot, nine inches and never revealed his weight. He was the one man Howard said if he had to fight him, he’d need two guns. He wasn’t taking him on in hand-to-hand combat. Born in Alaska, he lived there until his early thirties and looked much like a Sumo Wrestler. Howard heard part of how he settled in New Orleans, knowing they had a mutual friend—Ben Stein. All h
e ever knew were Big Gab and Ben were business partners.

  Owner of AAA Bail Bonds and a few other businesses around town, Gab did well for himself investing in pre-construction condos. He was the first in and first to sell once the building sold. A quick flip doubled his investment. His latest purchase was a condo on the lakefront overlooking the boat harbor. He’d furnished the prestigious address that offered valet car service and private elevators but seldom stayed overnight.

  Howard won the battle and called Big Gab, asking if Julie could stay a few nights. The request was granted with no questions asked.

  Julie put up a fight but finally surrendered her cell phone to Howard. He took the battery out and pocketed both pieces. There was no chance of anyone tracking her while she was on Howard’s watch.

  Mario parked in the valet area and waved off the attendant when he approached the car. Howard walked Julie inside the plush lobby and met the concierge. Greeted with a smile, it was apparent Big Gab had called ahead. Handing Howard a key, the concierge escorted the two to the top floor. Howard opened the door and passed the concierge a twenty-dollar bill.

  Standing at attention, dressed in a uniform with a starched white shirt and a necktie, the man returned the money. “Big Gab would never allow me to accept a tip.”

  “Last time I checked, Big Gab wasn’t here,” Howard said, pushing the money back.

  “My name is Daniel,” he said, handing Howard a business card. “You need anything, just call me.” He gave a smile and again pressed the money back into Howard’s hand.

  They walked into the luxurious decorated living room. The floor-to-ceiling windows gave a panromantic view of the lake and boat harbor. Julie gave a nod and raised one eyebrow. “Not bad for a Bail Bondsmen.”

  “Don’t let Big Gab fool you.” Howard let out a chuckle. “Even his son Little Gab will have a problem spending all his money. He and Ben Stein did well for themselves.”

  Mario left the vehicle in the circular ramp leading to the entrance. He walked the front of the building, making sure no one followed, then went inside and stood guard. He sat in the lobby with a direct eye at the elevator, reading a newspaper, more interested in who pressed the up bottom on the elevator than reading—his eyes didn’t miss anything.