Assassin Hunter

by August Palumbo

  We were joined by Phil McKinney and one of his assistants, an agent with extensive undercover experience. The undone neckties, rolled-up sleeves, and facial stubble on these men removed some of my self-consciousness about being unable to shave or change clothes. This was a group accustomed to working long hours under pressure, and they looked the part. McKinney was a blue-eyed, blonde son of the South who had worked undercover so deep and so long infiltrating the Ku Klux Klan that his children were born in his undercover name. He had to have their names legally changed back to McKinney when he was pulled out from under. He was a dedicated agent who rose through the ranks to head Covert Operations and would eventually become a deputy director of the agency. His office monitored all the major cases and ran the undercover pool. He wasted no time.

  “Tony, I’ll give you the situation straight. One of our informants has advised us through the New Orleans office that a contract murder is about to go down in the Cajun country of southwest Louisiana. A suspect is approaching local thugs, trying to hire a mafia hit man from New Orleans. The guy is serious. He’s been flashing wads of money to show he’s not playing around. We need you to take that contract before some real killers do.”

  “What is ATF’s jurisdiction here?” I asked. “Murder isn’t a federal crime.”

  “That’s why we called Jim into this. He thinks we’re on firm legal ground not referring this to the local police.”

  Jim Fenton took a long puff from his ever-present pipe, and exhaled a large billow as he laid the pipe down into a large opaque ashtray. “The suspect is offering to supply the murder weapon, some type of firearm including a silencer, which is clearly ATF jurisdiction. In addition, even if we aren’t successful in intercepting the murder contract, and he does reach a mob guy, chances are the assassin will be a convicted felon and we can bust him for possessing a firearm. And of course, we can add conspiracy charges to both of them and anybody else you find involved.”

  “There’s more,” McKinney added. “We have a problem with corruption in the Louisiana parish where the suspect lives. If we turn this case over to the locals they won’t do shit, so that’s not an option. If they get word it could be more dangerous for you. We also don’t know the identity of the intended victim or victims, or their location, and we don’t know whether or not somebody in the Marcello mob has already been hired. Your job is to get the murder contract and connect the dots before a body turns up. Everybody involved in this, including the informant, is involved with racehorses. You’ve got a racetrack background.”

  “As a general rule mob guys don’t kill for money,” I pointed out. “Murder is used as an enforcement tool within their world but it’s rarely commercialized. In fact, taking murder contracts outside of family business is forbidden.”

  McKinney shot back, “We know all this. But we can’t afford to blow this thing off. There’s too many cowboys out there, fringe mob associates who would love to make a nice money score and share it with the bosses. Depending on how this thing pans out, Carlos Marcello or one of his lieutenants might be brought into it.” We sat quiet for a minute, mulling over each other’s comments. McKinney broke the silence. “We don’t know where this thing is going, but we have to move now. There’s at least one life on the line and we don’t know whose. As always, you have the right to refuse this assignment with no repercussions and no questions asked.”

  I looked back and forth at Fenton and McKinney. I knew I had been selected from the undercover pool that uses the time-honored method of matching the agent to an assignment by analyzing his or her background, education, and life experience. A pale-faced Irishman would stick out in the scores of Little Italy’s around the country, as well as in this case. A young agent right out of college wouldn’t fit in working the gritty docks of the port cities. It wasn’t necessary for McKinney to go into his reasons for plucking me from the undercover pool, a data base of dozens of agents specially trained and suited for this type operation. All my grandparents were born in Sicily. I was born and raised in New Orleans, had been a police officer there and knew many of the street characters and how they operated. I knew enough about organized crime that ATF had me teach new agents about it. Perhaps most important, I had undercover experience and a good success rate. Being from Louisiana, I was familiar with the Cajuns from the bayous and swamplands in the part of the state near Lafayette. They couldn’t order me into this, but I knew how much had gone into their selection process.

  “Who is my contact agent?”

  McKinney now sat up straight and his eyes widened. My question confirmed that I would take the assignment, and he knew his selection phase was complete. “Your contact agent is Lyle Melancon. His background and knowledge of the Acadian culture will help. He’s fluent in Cajun French. Get in touch with him first thing in the morning and plan to be in New Orleans as soon as possible. We’ll monitor the case through the Special Agent in Charge of the New Orleans office. The SAC there is Jim King, a good man. We worked together in the old major violator program. We’ll provide any support you need. Any questions?”

  “How long do I have at home before reporting?”

  “The weekend. That’s it. Be in New Orleans Monday morning. Good hunting.”

  McKinney and his assistant retreated back to his office. Fenton and I remained talking for several minutes. He told me a few anecdotes about the happenings at Headquarters, which made me laugh. As we shook hands to part, I mockingly chastised him, “Never trust the Supreme Court of the United States.” He used that admonishment to his students each time he lectured on cases in which the court reversed its own previous ruling.

  I opted to take the redeye flight home instead of spending the night in Washington, in order to maximize my time at home before Monday. I taxied back to the airport, and the cab’s radio was full of the same Super Bowl coverage I had heard on the way over. I booked the first flight to Miami, then phoned home. Gina answered in a sleepy voice. I hadn’t realized it was almost midnight.

  “Hey, babe,” I growled in a low tone. “How are you guys?”

  “Fine, Tony. Are you okay? What time is it?”

  “Sure, I’m okay. Sorry to call so late, but I’ve got good news. I’ll be home in a few hours. I won’t wake you.”

  “That’s great! Nick will be so excited. I love you.”

  “Me too. Sleep well.”

  It was great to hear her voice, and I smiled at the thought of being with her. But the smile faded when I boarded the plane and thought about having to explain to her that my time at home would be all so brief.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 4

  I deplaned in Miami at four-thirty in the morning. The airport was jammed with people wearing funny hats and clothes of all descriptions. Their color combinations were the blue and silver of the Dallas Cowboys or the black and gold of the Pittsburgh Steelers. They had made the pilgrimage to Super Bowl X to cheer their respective teams and were huddled in groups, large and small, at the various restaurants and bars in the terminal building. I braced myself for the task of trying to get ground transportation in the middle of all the party-goers. I approached the cab stands where the line was a block long. Before frustration set in, I spotted Iggy Morales, a U.S. Customs agent I had worked with in the area, standing beside a baggage checkpoint.

  “Hi, Tony. You look like hell. Where are you coming from?”

  “You name it, I’m coming from there.”

  “You’ll never get a cab with all this craziness going on. I’m leaving this crappy airport detail in a few minutes if you’d like a lift.”

  “Are you kidding?” His words were quite welcome. We got into his government car and drove through a small throng of confused but happy fans as they tried to figure out how they were getting to their hotels. Iggy was short in stature, with dark hair and eyes, and spoke with a slight Hispanic accent. He was talkative during the ride. He told me he had only been back in town for a couple of weeks, having returned from the protection detail of Senator Hubert H
umphrey. “How do you like that guy?” he asked, although he didn’t wait for an answer. “He was already the Vice-President of the United States under Lyndon Johnson, loses out when Nixon gets the White House, gets himself elected to the U.S. Senate for the second time, and now he wants to be the fucking president! Some guys just never have enough.”

  “Iggy, I think you and I are the only two guys left in the country who aren’t running for president.” We laughed out loud. I told him I was returning from Mo Udall’s detail. “We should get up a betting pool on the order that each of the candidates drops out of the process.”

  “Well, at least now you’ll be home for a month.”

  “Yeah, I’m looking forward to it.” That was true, but confirming that I’d be home for a month was a lie. Lies to protect undercover roles had now become second nature to me. I could have explained to him that my visit home was a short one, and that I would be moving right on to another assignment, but it wasn’t worth the effort. The lie would do. Living and telling lies is the essence of undercover work and I had learned to be good at it and do it whenever it suited the purpose. We talked about the candidates and their sometimes hilarious efforts to get the high ground in the campaign. We cruised past countless palm trees and were soon at my front door. I thanked Iggy and he drove off in the G-car. My baggage was still back in New York, and the only thing I carried was my overcoat, hardly needed in the subtropic locale, even in January.

  I fumbled with my keys and didn’t easily remember which one fit the bolt lock that I had installed myself when Nick was born. I quietly walked to the bedroom and looked at Gina, who was sound asleep. I rested my eyes on her and enjoyed the calming effect. Nick was in his room sleeping on his stomach. I patted his back gently and enjoyed the touch of his warm little body and the fine hair on his head. I stuck a finger inside the waist of his diaper. It was wet so I changed him into a dry one without waking him. I thought about how many diaper changes he had without me in the past year. I wondered how many new words he had bleated out without my hearing them. I patted him once again, then made my way to our bedroom where I threw my clothes to the floor and crawled in bed with Gina, then wrapped my arms around her. Before I could deliver even one kiss, I fell asleep.

  The next morning I awoke to slapping and pounding to the side of my face and neck. I raised my arms to deflect the violent blows. In a flash I recalled my training on how to protect the body and vital organs by covering up until the senses were regained during an attack. As my head cleared, I heard the falsetto chuckles of a child, my child, then the “Dad-dy! Dad-dy!” chorus repeating. Nick had come into my room on his own and decided that I had enough sleep. I lay there and kept my eyes closed as he continued to strike me with his little arms. I pretended to be asleep, then suddenly peeled open one eye and stared at him with it. He stood beside the bed and our eyes were now only inches apart. He paused, then let out a shriek as I jumped up and grabbed him by surprise.

  Gina came running into the room and snatched him out of my arms. She couldn’t control the anger in her voice. “Damn you, Tony. You’re gone all the time and now that you’re home you frighten him.” She had said so much. I was gone all the time, and when I did return home I felt like a stranger in many ways. I had no knowledge of the everyday happenings in the household. I didn’t know who Nick played with and where, nor his new likes and dislikes since I last spent much time with him. It tugged on me to think about it.

  “I was just playing, babe. I’m sorry.”

  Except for this incident, things were upbeat at home for the rest of the weekend. We spent all the time together except when I caught a few minutes of the Super Bowl on television. I decided not to tell Gina about the new assignment until the weekend was over, although she knew something was up since I was home in the middle of the thirty-day protection detail. We enjoyed the time tremendously, and Sunday night, after I rocked Nick to sleep in an old rocking chair, I told Gina I was leaving for New Orleans the next morning. She had taken each of these frequent partings a little harder than the previous one. Tears welled up in her eyes. “How long?” she whispered.

  “Don’t know.” The next words were the hardest to get out. “It’s an undercover assignment, could be a couple of weeks or a few months.”

  She came to life quickly. “Only a few Goddamned months? You just came off one of those six month assignments a couple weeks ago and went straight to a Secret Service detail. Now you’re going on another extended one? How many damn agents does ATF have? Why are you going again?”

  I told her as much as I thought I could, that it would be near New Orleans, although I’d actually be a couple hundred miles from the city. She took solace in the fact that I had friends in the New Orleans office, and figured they would somehow look after me a little better than if I was someplace else. I dried her tears and we made love, then fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 5

  The next morning a rookie agent picked me up at New Orleans International airport. He had no clue why I was there or any knowledge of the case, and transported me to the SAC office. Special Agent in Charge Jim King and Lyle Melancon, my contact agent, were waiting for me. King had coffee brought in and quickly established himself as an easygoing administrator. Hidden beneath his mild manner was years of experience in undercover work. Like Phil McKinney, King had worked undercover for such long periods of time that his children were born in his undercover surname. He was neatly dressed in a dark brown suit and his highly polished shoes drew attention to his overall neat appearance. He was in his late forties and had salt-and-pepper hair combed over a wide forehead. He wore half-sized reading glasses low on the end of his nose and often peered above them when he spoke.

  “Lyle is one of our best men, Tony. He’s suited for this case and I wouldn’t give you anybody less to work with. He knows the bayous and its people. He also knows your background and has met with the confidential informant.”

  Lyle was a bear of a man, not so much in height but in density and strength. His crystal blue eyes softened the lines in his face that indicated his veteran status. He had served with several federal agencies and was a journeyman in ATF. “The CI is scared shitless.” Lyle’s voice had a trace of the Cajun French accent I had heard many times before. “He played with this thing for a while, but when he realized he had knowledge of a serious murder plot that might involve the mafia, he got scared and dimed to us. He’s strictly a lightweight in the overall scheme of things as far as criminal activity down there. But, we need him to set you in to a nightclub where lots of shit goes down.”

  “Any chance this guy is playing two ends to the middle?” I wanted to know as much about this informant as possible, since my life might depend on him.

  “At this point, who knows? You’re gonna need eyes in the back of your head for this tricky thing.” His tone and attitude told me he had lots of experience dealing with confidential informants. He didn’t vouch for the guy because he wasn’t Lyle’s informant, but had been turned over to Lyle by another agent.

  “Has this CI been reliable in the past?”

  “He’s been in our files for a couple of years. We took him down on a gun charge some time back, and developed him as a snitch when he rolled over on his partners in a scheme to transport cheap firearms into Louisiana from Texas. He’s given us a couple of hard cases but we use him mostly to take the temperature in Acadiana, intelligence gathering.”

  Jim King stood up and said, “God knows we wouldn’t be in business without informants, especially the undercover business. But they’re all slimy bastards.” Then he looked me in the eye to let me know what was important from his end. “The guys in the ivory tower are monitoring this closely. Do what you need to do. But be damned sure to keep me apprised of anything that can blow up on us.” King’s intercom buzzed. “Okay guys, that must be some high potentate on the phone to make my life miserable. I’m sure Lyle has your logistics covered. If you gentlemen don’t need anything fu
rther of me I’ll take this call and get back to my paper shuffling. Good hunting.”

  After the meeting broke up Lyle took me to the firearms and evidence vault, a large room secured with heavy cage wire that was filled with weapons of all types. We walked past defused bombs, mortars and shells, bazookas, and rocket launchers seized from criminals and being held as evidence. We walked through the cage door where the machine guns, silencers, and clandestine weapons were kept. The vault was somber and silent, empty of people and a stark reminder of the large numbers of the tools of death intercepted by ATF. My standard issue firearm was a Smith & Wesson .357 magnum revolver, hardly suitable for undercover work, and particularly not in this case. I couldn’t easily conceal this bulky, heavy, shiny metal handgun, and it isn’t the type usually carried by street criminals on their person. And of course, the ATF badge stamped on the firearm was a dead giveaway.

  We looked through the large collection of guns and I selected a Smith & Wesson .38 special caliber snub-nosed, the type I usually used for easy concealment. Even though these guns were usually kept in pristine condition, I told Lyle I wanted to test fire it myself. We went to a small indoor range in the office that was used mostly for test firing confiscated weapons, but good enough for my immediate purpose. I loaded the revolver with five rounds from a new box of fifty, and put the remaining rounds in my attaché case. As Lyle watched I fired the five rounds in rapid succession at a target and emptied the chamber in a little more than a second. The black of the bull’s eye was gone.