Assassin Hunter

by August Palumbo

“I’m on my lunch hour from my day job.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a receptionist for an insurance company downtown. My little girl is sick and I just spent my last sixty dollars for her antibiotics that I bought from the pharmacy, and when I got out of the car at the babysitter’s house, the bottle fell and broke. I’ve got no insurance and no money to replace it.”

  Her words came out so fast that they all ran together. I noticed drops of a thick, pink liquid that had splashed on her black heeled shoes. She sobbed again, “I came to borrow some money from Cliff, but I already owe him a few hundred for repairs to this old wreck.”

  “Do you get help from your husband? Or should I say ex?”

  “That bastard. He left with the horses headed for Chicago when I was six months pregnant, and I haven’t seen him since. My daughter is a year old now. The court can’t even find him to serve papers.”

  I got into the passenger side of Cheri’s car, leaned over, and dried her tears and running mascara with my handkerchief. I unfolded a hundred-dollar bill and placed it in her palm, then curled her fingers around it.

  “Go get your baby her medicine, and get back to work before you get fired.” I would have helped her in any event, but I also had the feeling that somehow I was helping a child, someone else’s child, which in a strange way compensated for my own failings as a father by being away from my son.

  “But, Tony, you don’t really know me. I can’t take this money.”

  “You just did. Now beat it.”

  “I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

  “No you won’t. It’s a gift. Now get going and take care of your daughter.”

  The idea of her in debt to a character like Cliff Dubroc didn’t sit well with me. If he hadn’t been in the club, I’m sure she would have tapped Ritmo, an equally disturbing thought.

  A pleasant, almost-smile lit up her face as I slid across the seat and out of her car. She waved, hurriedly threw her car into gear, and made her way out of the parking lot with the old Toyota rumbling from a bad muffler and belching black smoke from the tailpipe. I drove away, amused at how the bureaucrats would categorize that hundred dollars on my expense report, and at the same time I wondered how I would really account for the expenditure.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 10

  The Camaro made its way to the valet parking lane of Evangeline Downs as if it knew the way from the Plantation Inn by itself. I gave the attendant my customary five-dollar tip and decided to watch the races from the clubhouse, since I knew T-Red wouldn’t be in the grandstand. I rode the escalator to the second floor, a well-appointed area that was a contrast to the grandstand below that I had frequented on prior race nights. White linen tablecloths covered rows of private tables. Each table had a small television set which displayed the odds from the infield tote board and the closed-circuit viewing of the races. Rich red carpet covered the floor and there were no losing bet tickets strewn around, as was customary in the grandstand. Walnut paneling adorned the walls. A tuxedoed maitre ’d lead me to a private table attended by a waiter who wore a tuxedo shirt and pants with a black bow tie. The clerks manning the betting windows were clad the same way.

  Along with the steaks and chops, the menu included Cajun delicacies such as crawfish etouffee and fried alligator tail, quite different from the fare of hot dogs and boudin sausage vended from the concession stands below. The clubhouse took up the entire second floor of the large building and a wall of glass allowed for a panoramic view of the racetrack. Most of the men were dressed in suits or sport coats and the ladies in dresses. Some wore expensive jewelry. Couples and small parties talked in hushed tones at their respective tables, giving emphasis to the muted sound of the track announcer over the p.a. system. The clubhouse was ornate and had an overall elegant and relaxed atmosphere.

  I ordered dinner and quietly watched the first few races from my table, handicapped the horses, and made a few small bets. As the announcer gave one of the usual “Five minutes to post” notices, I walked to the line in front of one of the betting windows. As the line inched forward, I looked up in time to recognize the familiar face of the man leaving the window. It was Luke Trombatore from New Orleans - a member of the Marcello mob, the oldest mafia family in the United States. As a uniformed patrol officer I had assisted the NOPD Vice Squad in a raid on the Rampart Street club named the Glass Slipper, which was run by Trombatore. He operated illegal dice games and a sports book from the club, as well as prostitution in the lower part of the French quarter, and was well known to law enforcement. He was a short, heavyset man of forty-five with a full head of wavy black hair; cold, dark eyes; and olive skin darkened even more by the stubble of a heavy beard. His upper arms and neck resembled those of a weightlifter and his powerful build had served him well in earning a reputation as an enforcer within the New Orleans mafia.

  My initial reaction to seeing him was to glance down at my program so he wouldn’t notice me. The surprise at seeing him gave me the feeling one gets when spotting someone without wanting to be noticed. As he walked to his seat at the bar, I realized that although I knew Trombatore, it was an extreme long shot that he would recognize me as one of a dozen uniformed cops in on a raid some years ago. To be certain, I had to take one of the many calculated risks always present in any undercover work. I went to the bar and took a seat next to him. As I studied the Daily Racing Form, Trombatore leaned over and looked on with a cigarette dangling from his lip.

  “Who’s the class of the race?” he asked in a voice that sounded like gravel being poured out of a tin can.

  “Six horse,” I replied as I looked him straight in the eye so he could get a good look at me. I wanted to make sure he didn’t recognize me.

  “Yeah, figures. He’s even money.”

  Without expression, he then sauntered slowly back to the betting window. His lack of reaction told me that he had no clue who I was. I couldn’t be sure but all I could do was make the calculated play and move on. I returned to my table and spent the rest of the races there, occasionally trading brief comments about the horses with Trombatore as we passed each other to or from the windows. I observed him the rest of the night to find out who he might be in company with, but he was alone.

  After the races I stood among the crowd waiting for their cars to be brought up by the parking valets. I watched Trombatore squeeze his barrel chest between the steering wheel and seat of a new Cadillac Eldorado. As he drove away I memorized the number on his license plate. Before I could get into my car I felt a tap on my shoulder from behind. I turned around to see T-Red clad in his usual jeans and western shirt.

  “I’ll pick you up at five o’clock at the hotel. Frank will be at the bush track in the morning. This could be your chance to hook up. I know you’re a fucking fashion plate, but wear the grubbiest clothes you can muster.”

  T-Red then put his eyes down and shifted his weight back and forth while stuffing his hands in both pockets, his telltale nervous habit. He let out a short grunt.

  “OK my pain in the ass, how much do you need?” I knew he was going to ask me for money.

  “I need a grand, but a c-note will do.”

  “Things are tough all over. I had a rough night at the track myself. Here’s fifty. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  I went back to the hotel intending to skip my nightly visit to The Gallop. Then something came to me. I went to The Gallop and slowly drove through the parking lot, which was filled with cars. Parked among the other cars was the maroon Cadillac Eldorado with the same license plate I had memorized as Trombatore left the track. I was more than curious about him, but realized that a guy like Trombatore would be more likely to hang out at The Gallop than not. I later put the name LUKE TROMBATORE in caps in my daily notes for Lyle to pick up the next day. I requested any current intelligence information ATF or other agencies might have on him or his activities in the area.

  Sharply at five in the morning T-Red arrived at the hotel in his pickup tr
uck. I yawned from getting only a few hours sleep and welcomed the cup of coffee with chicory T-Red handed me - the strong, black, murky mixture that was a staple to the Cajuns.

  “Frank Duplessis is going to be at the bush track this morning. Yesterday, I told him I had somebody who might do the job he wants. I gave him no name or any other information, didn’t want to screw it up.”

  “Listen closely, Red. Don’t say a word to Duplessis unless he approaches us first. You got that?”

  “What’s the difference? I want to get you hooked up as soon as possible so I can cut myself out of this whole thing.”

  “Just do what I say.”

  The pickup rumbled about thirty miles south of Lafayette, past hundreds of acres of rice fields dotted with small tin-roofed cottages. A narrow dirt road took us to a large open field surrounded by a makeshift racetrack. The morning was cold and damp, and there was a misty fog not uncommon in this part of bayou country. There were about two dozen horse trailers scattered about and as many horses in different stages of warming up on the track. Some of the horses were mounted by veteran riders but most were ridden by boys, young Cajuns who were more comfortable on a horse’s back than on a baseball field. These were the sons, nephews, cousins, and neighbors of the horse trainers who brought their horses here for training and betting outside of the licensed racetrack. Bush tracks like this are where the nation’s top riders like Kent Desormeaux, Eddie Delahoussaye, Shane Sellers, Robby Albarado, and so many more got started in race riding.

  “What goes here, Red?”

  “These Coon-asses come here to buy and sell, and match race their horses, which they can’t do on the licensed tracks.”

  We walked to the rail and stood among a group of men all speaking Cajun French. In the crowd was old Comeaux, the trainer of Bob’s Dream who I had met my first night at the racetrack.

  “How’s the old campaigner?” I asked.

  “You mean old Bob? Well, son, he’s enjoying his daily stand in an ice tub up to his shoulders right now. Sore son-of-a-bitch.”

  “Just think, Comeaux, if you could put his heart into a sound set of legs.”

  “Hell, we’d win the Kentucky Derby.”

  We shared a laugh as a large chestnut galloped past us with something I had never seen in my experience around the tracks. A small boy no more than five years old was atop the horse, clinging to the reins, and his legs were tied to the saddle and iron stirrups so he wouldn’t fall off. He was the youngest rider there, but not by much. After a few minutes the track was cleared and two teenagers appeared, both saddled onto bay horses. I looked closely and noticed that one of the two horses was a quarter horse. They positioned themselves at the top of the stretch and stood quietly for a few seconds.

  “Which one do you like?” T-Red asked me.

  “How far are they going?”

  “About four hundred yards, a little less than a quarter-mile.”

  “Fifty says the thoroughbred wins.”

  T-Red then shouted in French into the small crowd of men standing on the rail. There was some loud discussion and then one of them held some bills high in the air. T-Red grabbed the bills and held them along with the fifty dollars I had given him. He was holding the even-money bet that is illegal on every sanctioned racetrack in America, a match race between a thoroughbred and a quarter horse.

  The two riders, who wore baseball caps, turned the caps backwards and inched their knees up into the stirrups. They took up the slack in their reins and coiled their bodies like springs waiting to be unleashed. There was no starting gate and the horses stood flat-footed. An old man standing inside the rail alongside the horses removed his worn straw sun hat and held it up in his hands above his head. When he did, the quarter horse, who was nearest the rail, went into a crouch with his hind quarters. The old man shouted loudly and slammed down the raggedy hat in a quick motion. Both horses took off with the riders screaming and whistling into the horses’ ears while thrashing away with their whips. As expected, the quarter horse got out to an early lead and kept a neck in front for the first three hundred yards. As the horses passed the halfway mark where we stood, the pop of leather whips against the horses’ hides sounded like firecrackers going off. With about fifty yards to go, the horses drew even and at the finish the thoroughbred had passed his rival by a head. The boy astride the winner whooped and hollered a Doppler effect as he galloped out his horse.

  Before T-Red could say a word I slowly took the cash from his hands and folded it into my pocket. At the same time, the Cajuns who were gathered at the rail exchanged cash. As two more horses made their way to the top of the stretch for another heat, T-Red nudged me in the ribs. He cast his eyes toward a man unloading a gray colt from a two-horse trailer. “That’s Frank. He’s got a two-year-old he wants to test here before working him out at Evangeline Downs.”

  Frank Duplessis seemed to blend in with the other horsemen. His jeans and shirt were somewhat neater than the others, and he wore expensive Tony Lama boots and carried a Stetson hat. He was rather tall for a Cajun and had a lean, lanky frame. His sad eyes and sun-leathered face, together with a receding hairline, made him appear older than his forty-six years. His arms were long and gangly and swung slowly at his side when he walked. After his horse finished the workout, he joined the others in conversation among the French-speaking men. T-Red and I stood on the edge of the small crowd for some time and watched the match races and workouts. The only conversation Duplessis had with T-Red was the usual bantering and teasing about the horses. T-Red reluctantly heeded my warning not to initiate conversation about me. T-Red helped Duplessis load the gray colt into the trailer and they were gone.

  “Let’s go, Red. I’ll buy you breakfast.”

  “Goddamnit, Tony!”

  “Say nothing. We’ll talk about it later.”

  The sun had burned off most of the morning chill as we headed away from the bush track. We sat at a local diner and I tried to ease Red’s frustration about not making the introduction. He had been working hard to set it up and wanted to remove himself from the case. Putting me in direct contact with Duplessis would have gone far in accomplishing that. Although he had become quite relaxed around me, I knew T-Red had other petty action going for himself and I was in his way. He wanted a return to the normalcy of his life as a small-time hustler. I looked square in his eyes to instruct and console him at the same time.

  “Here’s how it goes. If you or I seem too anxious to meet Frank he could get jumpy. I want him to see me a few times around his own familiar places and people. If he doesn’t seem confident in approaching us he might back off. Another problem is what the courts call entrapment. We can’t entice him in any way. This has to be Frank’s idea, and initiated by Frank, or the whole case could go down the drain.”

  An enlightened look came over T-Red. The idea was beginning to sink in and he now seemed resigned to the fact that he would be involved for a while longer. However, despite my convincing argument, I realized that Duplessis had failed to seize the opportunity to approach us at the workouts. This opened questions about what direction the whole investigation would now take. Was Duplessis being coy? Was he concerned about his friends seeing him with me? Was he simply too busy taking care of horse business? Or, had our biggest fear been realized – had he already contracted murder with a real criminal? The latter possibility weighed heavy as I recalled my meeting with Luke Trombatore the night before.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 11

  “Is dis Tony?”

  The voice had the Cajun accent that was more music than language, but it was faint and hoarse by means of a bad connection. I didn’t recognize it as anyone who should have my phone number. “Who’s calling?” I asked.

  “My name is Paul Archambeau, you don’t know me. I’ve got a note here with the name Tony and this phone number written on it. I’m trying to reach anybody who’s a friend of Lyle.”

  “We’ve got a bad connection. Give me your number, I’ll call you right b
ack.” The connection wasn’t all that bad, but I wanted to buy a minute or two and figure out if the caller was somebody fishing for information about me, or if Lyle was in some sort of trouble. I dialed back and the same voice answered, although it was still hoarse. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at a pay phone in the lobby of the Lake Charles Holiday Inn. I was in the lounge here and met Lyle, we had a few drinks together. He left earlier, and I stayed until closing time a few minutes ago. I was on my way to my room here and noticed a dome light on in a car with the door open. I saw a police radio mounted under the dash and a guy passed out on the front seat with a gun in his shoulder holster. It’s Lyle. I found his Treasury Department identification in his coat pocket, but thought it best to call a friend before calling his agency. Your name and number is written on a note pad in his billfold.”

  “Very cool, Paul. Thanks. Tell me how to get there and I can meet you in an hour. Would you stay with him?”

  “Sure. He’s not going anywhere.”

  I hurried onto I-10 headed west and wanted to fly low, but couldn’t afford a traffic stop or any police harassment. Traffic was heavy for two-thirty in the morning and I did lots of weaving around eighteen wheelers, mostly tankers carrying fuel and chemicals from the plants located on the bays and bayous in the area. I wondered if the call was some kind of setup, or if it was possibly one of Lyle’s practical jokes. I shook off these notions and made good time on the interstate, arriving in forty-five minutes.

  Lyle’s car was parked in front of a first floor room. A man in his late thirties with a receding hairline, compensated by long hair combed over large ears, was standing sentry in front of the car. His slacks, wing tip shoes, and previously starched but now wrinkled white shirt identified him as a businessman or traveling salesman. “Paul?” I asked without identifying myself.

  “Yes, Paul Archambeau.”

  “Is he okay?”