Sisters of the Mist

by Eric Wilder

  When his headlights finally went out, he saw dim figures moving in the distance. It was the murder scene crew, their appearance altered by fog swirling as it was blown by a slight breeze. He called out to them before entering the clearing.

  “Tommy, it’s me, Tony.”

  “Over here,” Tommy said, his voice muffled by the atmosphere. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to make it. Did Lil make you eat breakfast before letting you leave the house?”

  “You know Lil too well,” Tony said. “What you got here?”

  “Double homicide,” Tommy said.

  The gasoline motor of a portable light plant droned in the background, working hard to penetrate the misty haze, though doing little more than casting an eerie glow on the surroundings. Technicians, on their knees by the bank of a lagoon, were searching for evidence. A tow truck was pulling something from the water.

  “Who reported the homicide?” Tony asked.

  “Two teenage couples were parking near here. One of the couples apparently wanted some privacy. The kids in the back seat decided to take a walk and got lost. They tripped over one of the bodies.”

  “Hope it wasn’t their first date,” Tony said.

  “Probably their last, I’m betting,” Tommy said. “They called 9-1-1 on their cell phone, and we used their signal to track them here.”

  “You don’t think they might have done the killing?”

  Tommy shook his head. “No chance in hell. The only murder those two kids know about is what they seen on TV. They didn’t kill nobody.”

  “You said it’s a double homicide.”

  “That’s right,” Tommy said. “One of the victims was shot in the back of the head. The other man apparently made a run for it and got as far as the lagoon before the killer put a slug in him.”

  As they watched, the front end of a large trailer made for transporting horses popped out of the water. The sign on its side said Murky Bayou Stables. When a policeman opened the back of the trailer, he jumped aside as water, and the body of a dead horse came pouring out.

  “Jesus!” Tommy said. “Two murder victims and a dead damned horse. What next?”

  “Hopefully not another body in there with it,” Tony said. “Who owns the trailer?”

  “Murky Bayou is Frankie Castellano’s horse farm.”

  “Who are the victims and how are they connected to Castellano?”

  “A trainer and jockey that worked for him. The jockey was still dressed in his colors. He was holding a trophy he’d won in a quarter horse race on one of Castellano’s horses. The trophy had a couple of bullet holes in it and was filled with horse shit.”

  “So why did you call me out here in the middle of the night if you already have all the answers? You got a gangland hit on your hands. You know that. Frankie has so many enemies, the killer could have been anyone.”

  “You been off the force a while now,” Tommy said.

  “So?”

  “Things have changed.”

  “Like what?”

  “That’s what I’m getting at. There was another murder tonight outside a local restaurant.”

  “And?”

  “The victim was Diego Contrado. Gunned down as he walked out the door. The killer was gone before his bodyguards got to him.”

  “He had bodyguards?”

  “And his mistress was with him, not his wife. You know who he is, don’t you?”

  “Just that it’s rumored he’s somehow associated with the Mexican cartel,” Tony said.

  “Fact, not a rumor. He was Chuy Delgado’s nephew and ran the cartel’s racehorse business for him.”

  “Another gangland hit,” Tony said. “So what?”

  “Our evidence points to one person.”

  “Who?”

  “Frankie Castellano. The way the murders went down, it looks like Frankie had Contrado popped, and then Delgado’s people retaliated by killing Frankie’s jockey and trainer.”

  “Frankie ain’t stupid. If he’d put a hit out on someone, and I don’t say he hasn’t, he would have made sure there was no way to connect the dots to him.”

  “Me and you both know that. Don’t matter none. The killing has got the attention of our fair city’s holier-than-thou mayor, and he’s been after Frankie for awhile now.”

  “Don’t Frankie grease his palm enough?”

  “Not as much as he’s used to having them greased now. The Mexican drug cartel has arrived in town. They’re paying top under-the-table dollar for our crooked local politician's goodwill.”

  “I thought things had gotten better,” Tony said.

  “Worse. On the outside, the mayor’s doing all sorts of social reform. You musta heard he’s got the city divided because of his crazy politics.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard all right. You can’t read the papers or watch TV around here without hearing about it.”

  “Well, taking down statues isn’t his only agenda. One of his other goals is getting rid of Frankie Castellano. Now, he has all the ammo he needs.”

  “More powerful men then the mayor have tried taking down Frankie,” Tony said. “Last time I checked, he was still big business in this town.”

  “Not for long if Mayor Portie has his way,” Tommy said.

  “Why did I have to come all the way out here for you to tell me this? Couldn’t we have talked about it over breakfast at Culotta’s?”

  “Like I said, things are changing. The department’s different now than it was when you was there. Way different.”

  “Maybe you better spell it out for me,” Tony said.

  “It started with the Mexican cartel spreading big influence bucks to anyone that would take it. Those that didn’t were drummed out of the force, or worse. Our greedy politicians didn’t take much convincing.”

  “You ain’t gone over to the dark side, have you, Tommy?”

  “It’s gotten so bad, you got to be careful who you tell what. Almost everyone has dirty hands.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Tony said. “Are you taking money under the table?”

  “I don’t like it. Don’t matter what I like cause I got no choice in the matter.”

  “Dammit, Tommy, you don’t have a dishonest bone in your body. What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Staying alive until I can change things. It’s either that or quit and leave town.”

  “It can’t be that bad.”

  “Worse. One of the officers you don’t know was killed because he threatened to talk to the Feds. You don’t hate me now, do you, Tony?”

  Tony put his hand on the big man’s shoulder.

  “I broke you out on the force and worked with you for ten years. I could never hate you. I just don’t want to see you go down on a corruption charge.”

  “Better than a bullet through the back of the head like that poor slob on the ground over there. That’s why I called you tonight, and that’s why I need your help.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Tony asked.

  “You know Castellano. You’ve worked for him. Tell him what’s going down.”

  “Why do you give a shit about Castellano? He’s one of the bad guys. You know that.”

  “Because his family always did as much to stop neighborhood crime as the police did.”

  “That’s a fact,” Tony said. “Frankie’s probably done more good for New Orleans than we’ll ever know. He’s still a bad guy.”

  “You told me yourself that sometimes your worst enemy can be your best friend. When it comes to getting these bastards out of power, he wants the same thing you and I want. You think you can swing his help?”

  “Maybe. When it comes to organized crime, Frankie’s hands are as dirty as they come. Still, he’s never lied to me. And like you say, we’re working the same side of the fence on this little problem.”

  “Will you ask him?”

  “He wouldn’t piss on us if we was on fire. Unless that is, he needed us to help him. Frankie’s a smart ma
n, and we got something he needs.”

  “And I’m betting he’s smarter than that pack of jackals down at City Hall,” Tommy said.

  “The problem is with you and me. We gotta stay one step ahead of Frankie, or we’ll wind up like those two stiffs your boys are slipping into body bags.”

  “You up to it?”

  “Maybe. Siding with Frankie is kinda like keeping a rattlesnake for a pet,” Tony said.

  “Then don’t get bit,” Tommy said.

  A big fish broke the dark surface of the lagoon, the sound echoing through the fog. Patch was sitting at Tommy and Tony’s feet. His low whine ceased when Tony scratched his ears.

  “Since I’m poison to your career,” Tony said. “How are we gonna keep in touch?”

  A smile lit Tommy’s expression for the first time.

  “Hell, Tony, N’awlins is the murder capital of the country. I could call you out to join me most any night.”

  Tony slapped Tommy’s broad shoulders before turning back to his car.

  “Then try not to make it so late next time,” he said as he turned to walk away. He stopped before he and Patch had gone ten feet. “Lil misses you. Sneak by for a bowl of her gumbo sometime. And Tommy, don’t get yourself shot. I’ve sorta grown fond of your homely chops.”

  Chapter 8

  Tony was sleeping late the next morning when his cell phone began ringing. Thinking he was dreaming, he rolled over without awakening. Lil shook his shoulder until he opened his eyes. When he did, she handed him the phone.

  “That you, Tony?” the coarse voice on the other end said.

  “It’s me. Who is this?”

  “Your voice sounds a little weak. Did I wake you up?”

  “Had a late night. Who is this?”

  “Frankie Castellano. We need to talk.”

  “I’m awake now. Go ahead.”

  “I don’t mean over the phone. In private.”

  Tony was rubbing his eyes when Lil handed him a cup of steaming coffee. He took a sip, wishing the caffeine would take effect before he had to respond, though knowing it wouldn’t.

  “Sure, Frankie. At your house on the lake?”

  “I have a place a little further away from New Orleans in mind.”

  “You tell me,” Tony said. “I’ll be there.”

  “My horse farm, about a half-hour north of Covington. Can you come right now?”

  Tony set his cup on the nightstand and glanced at his watch.

  “It’s already two. I probably can’t get there before five.”

  “I’ll text you directions. Come as soon as you can. And Tony, bring that dog of yours I like.”

  Frankie hung up the phone without saying goodbye. Lil was standing at the foot of the bed, her arms folded.

  “Want to explain what was so important that you had to meet Tommy at three in the morning?”

  “I ain’t gotta girlfriend if that’s what you mean,” Tony said.

  “Sure about that?” Lil asked.

  Tony popped out of bed, kissing her square on the mouth before proceeding to the bathroom. Lil was still standing at the door, waiting for him when he exited.

  “Like I said, I got no girlfriend. I learned my lesson on that one. I promise you’re the only woman in my life,” he said.

  “And Patch?”

  “He pinched her chin. “I like you every bit as much as I do Patchy.”

  She was smiling when she shook her fist at him. “Who was that on the phone?”

  “Frankie Castellano.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He didn’t tell me. Wants me to meet him at his horse farm north of Covington.”

  “He didn’t tell you for what?”

  “Not over the phone,” Tony said. “I have an idea, though. Two of his men got popped last night. The murder case I was helping Tommy on.”

  “You think it means he has another job for you?” she asked.

  “Wouldn’t that be nice? Last job I did for him paid for our trip to Italy.”

  Hearing about the prospect of a new, high-paying detective job for her husband changed Lil’s demeanor immediately.

  “Why does he want you to meet him that far away from New Orleans?” she asked.

  “Frankie’s as secretive and paranoid as they come. In his line of work, he has to be. If I was in his shoes, I’d be the same way.”

  “You won’t be involved in any of that, will you?” She asked.

  “Hell no,” he said. “In my whole life, I never even had a traffic ticket.”

  “Sometimes, you’re a little too honest,” she said.

  “Can’t be too honest.”

  “I got a pot of gumbo simmering on the stove. You need to eat something before you go.”

  Tony kissed her again. “Lil, you’re the most wonderful woman on the face of the earth.”

  “Tell it to one of your girlfriends.”

  ****

  As Tony entered the Causeway spanning Lake Pontchartrain, he wondered if Lil would ever really forgive him for the affair he’d had with a younger woman. When Patch barked at a passing vehicle, his attention returned to the road.

  The late October day had turned dull, gray clouds hanging overhead like damp cotton balls. Except for the pickup he’d passed after entering the bridge, the road in front of him was empty. Almost thirty miles long, the Causeway was one of the longest bridges in the world to cross a body of water. Reaching across the console, he rubbed Patch’s head, feeling glad he wasn’t alone.

  Frankie’s horse farm lay in the rolling countryside north of Covington. Tony knew before reaching it that any place owned by the mob boss Frankie Castellano would be quite spectacular. As he entered the majestic front gate and followed the narrow brick-lined road cutting through acres of manicured grass, regal barns and stalls, he wasn’t disappointed.

  Many beautiful horses were grazing in the fields. Starting at the front gate, he also passed several brand new Tahoes with matching black paint jobs. Their occupants were keeping vigilant eyes on the comings and goings of the farm. It didn’t take Tony long to realize the place was on high alert.

  The main residence was a sprawling, single-storied house; a cross between a Texas ranch house and a Louisiana plantation home. A banistered veranda encircled the house, a man with a shotgun in his lap guarding the front door.

  “I’m Tony Nicosia. Frankie’s expecting me.”

  The rough-looking little man with a pock-marked face glanced at Tony’s driver’s license before signaling him to go into the house. Frankie met him inside the door, handing him an icy tumbler of scotch.

  “What took you?” he said.

  “Plane’s in the shop. Had to come in the car.”

  Frankie grinned. “Glad to see you. How’s that dog of yours?”

  “From the way he’s wagging his tail, I’d say he’s glad to see you.”

  Frankie had a dog treat hidden in his hand and Patch gobbled it up.

  “This is quite a place,” Tony said. “I didn’t know until yesterday that you raise horses.”

  “Some of the best Louisiana-bred thoroughbreds going,” Frankie said.

  Like the inside of a Garden District mansion, the floors were done in marble and polished hardwood and covered with Persian rugs. Paintings of champion horses decorated the walls. Slow-moving fans graced the ceilings.

  “Real nice,” Tony said.

  “My daughter Josie found it for me.”

  “How she doing?” Tony asked. “And your grandson Jojo?”

  “Thanks for remembering,” Frankie said. “Jojo’s outside in the pool with Adele. Josie met your buddy yesterday and they been inseparable ever since.”

  “Oh, who’s that?”

  “Eddie Toledo. We met him and Wyatt at the track yesterday. Eddie was on Josie like a hound on fresh meat.”

  “You don’t sound too happy about it.”

  “Because I told her to get her butt out here. Things are dangerous right now in the city. She’s about a hard-h
eaded one, her. Said she was too old for me to tell her what to do.”

  “Eddie has that effect on women,” Tony said. “I noticed your farm is like an armed camp. Something to do with last night’s murder?”

  “Hell, Tony, let’s go to my office. I’ll tell you all about it,” Frankie said.

  Tony followed Frankie down an elegant hallway to his office. The dapper mob boss bypassed the massive oak desk and sat on an expensive leather couch instead, motioning Tony to join him.

  “Nice,” Tony said.

  “My little home away from home; a country retreat when the pressures of the city become too great. Now tell me, what do you know about last night’s murders?”

  “Probably more than you do,” Tony said. “Just so happens I was at the murder scene.”

  Unsure of what Tony had just told him, Frankie could only stare at him for a moment.

  “What did you just say?”

  “I was at the murder scene. My old partner Tommy Blackburn wanted to talk. He woke me up. Asked if I would join him.”

  “Blackburn was your partner?”

  “Yes sir, he was,” Tony said.

  “I’ve heard good things about him.”

  “He wanted my opinion on something. He says things are getting dirty in the department, and down at City Hall.”

  “Tommy’s right. Damn Mexicans are ruining things for everybody,” Frankie said.

  “He also said the mayor is out to get you and won’t stop till he does.”

  Light jazz began emanating from hidden speakers when Frankie strolled over to the well-stocked wet bar and poured himself another drink. He returned to the couch with scotch, tongs and ice bucket in hand. After refreshing Tony’s drink, they tapped tumblers.

  “Cheers,” Frankie said.

  “I’d almost forgotten that you’re a jazz fan, not to mention one of the best trumpet players in New Orleans.”

  “Thanks for remembering. The mayor’s a certifiable headcase, even without the bottomless pit of Mexican drug money corrupting him. And you’re right. He will get me unless I get him first.”

  “I’m wondering how he ever got elected,” Tony said. “He’s managed to piss off practically every person in town.”