Deep Threat

by Scott Pratt

  “Are you all right, Jarvis?” Dante said.

  “No worse than I was. Been here, done that.”

  “Do you know of any way out of here?” Billy said.

  “I was chained to the wall, so I didn’t get to look around much.”

  “Good to hear you still have your sense of humor.”

  Billy turned toward Tommy in the darkness.“All right,” he said, “let’s hear it. How do we get out?”

  “I’m not sure. I never spent much time in here.”

  “By the way, Romano’s kid obviously thinks highly of you. He just threw you away like the piece of trash you are.”

  Tommy sighed.

  “He’s a lot like his father,” he said, “but without the loyalty. He’s crazier, more unpredictable. I’ve never trusted him, and I guess it works both ways.”

  Tommy paused. “He’ll regret this.”

  Just outside the room, Paul had decided to take care of the situation himself. He walked back to one of the space heaters near the old loading dock and rolled it in front of the metal door where the men were trapped. He unscrewed the fuel cap and pushed the heater on its side. The kerosene spilled onto the floor and ignited immediately.

  It wouldn’t take long for the building – the whole complex – to be engulfed in flames. Investigators would need time to sort through the ashes, identify the remains and piece together the puzzle. By then, the Romanos would again be well out of reach.

  Paul quickly made his way to the exit, stopping only briefly to glance back. He slipped out the door with an approving grin.

  The smoke was beginning to thicken, and it was apparent to the men inside what was happening. They were going to be burned alive.

  “It’s now or never,” Billy said. “Let’s try to break the door, all at once.”

  “Wait,” Tommy said. He walked over to the lock and pulled another key from his pocket. “Let’s try this first.”

  After a few seconds, the door sprang open and the men spilled out of the room and into the growing inferno. Flames were already beginning to leap from the floor to the walls and furnishings nearby. The men covered their faces and ran toward the exit. Billy waved Jarvis and Dante to the side. He scooped up a couple of the guns on the way and yelled for Birchfield to get the phones.

  In the mad dash outside, they saw the taillights of Paul’s car in the distance, darting across the parking lot toward the entrance. He had waited just long enough to make sure the fire had spread. Now he was likely headed into town to tell his father of the heroic deed.

  Tommy didn’t hesitate in trying to make his own escape. He jumped into one of the SUVs, threw it into gear and sped straight toward the gate where Paul was standing, fumbling with his keys. For a brief moment, it looked like there were two figures in the shadows.

  From behind, Dante opened fire as he ran across the parking lot. Tommy’s vehicle swerved wildly at the entrance, the headlights offering one last glimpse of Paul, frozen with his arms outstretched. The SUV plowed over him before careening off the guard shack and rolling. The grinding sound of metal on pavement filled the night air.

  Tommy had been ejected and was bleeding heavily when the men reached him.

  “I told you he’d regret this,” he said, cackling to himself.

  Billy knelt down beside him as the orange glow in the distance grew brighter. “You have to tell us, Tommy. Where’s Romano?”

  Chapter sixty-nine

  The crime boss spent most of his time moving back and forth between the waterfront and several bars in the bowels of town that were under his control. He had learned the lifestyle from his father, how to lay low and still have a major presence on the streets.

  The Polo Lounge was tucked away deep in the French Quarter, a dimly lit establishment at the far end of Perdido Street, and Billy could feel the foreboding the moment he walked in. He pulled his black jacket tight around his neck and approached the long bar, which was shrouded in cigarette smoke. A smattering of customers leaned over their drinks and stared into space, seemingly lost in thought. This wasn’t a place for deep conversation.

  The muscular bartender threw down a cocktail napkin in front of Billy, looked into his eyes and waited for a response.

  “Jack Daniel’s. Neat.”

  Billy stood at the bar and casually took inventory. He didn’t immediately see anyone matching Frank Romano’s description. Tommy had said that he was a large man with a goatee, the kind of man you wouldn’t be inclined to just walk up to, and he’d have at least one of his guards close by.

  The club was a two-story building that had the feel of a maze, with narrow hallways running off in all directions, so Romano could be anywhere. Billy figured he had a private space upstairs, and it seemed even more likely as he watched a server walk out of the small kitchen and head up with a tray of food.

  The bartender set the glass of whiskey in front of Billy and began wiping his work area with a towel. His muscles bulged the way a bouncer’s should.

  “Hey man, I wonder if you might be able to help me,” Billy said. The bartender kept wiping without as much as a glance. “I’m looking for someone who may be here. Frank Romano.”

  The man abruptly stopped what he was doing and glared at Billy with a healthy dose of suspicion, trying to judge exactly who he was dealing with.

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Are you sure? I think he might want to talk to me.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Billy Beckett. He’ll know.”

  The bartender flipped the towel across his shoulder and walked down the corridor to where a man was standing at the bottom of a stairway. They whispered for a minute, and then he nodded to Billy to follow. Billy emptied his glass and slapped a ten on the bar.

  “Save my change,” he said. “I’ll be back for more.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” the bartender said.

  As he approached the guard, Billy was spun face-first to the wall and patted down with authority. “Easy now,” he said. The guard showed no emotion and extended his arm toward the stairway.

  “You first,” he said.

  They walked to the top of the steps, took a right turn and went down to a set of double doors. The man knocked, and there came a muffled response. He stuck his head in the room.

  “Boss, there’s a guy here asking about you. Says his name is Billy Beckett.”

  There was a pause and Billy was escorted in. Frank Romano was sitting in a large chair in the corner of the room, a tray of food in front of him. He looked at his visitor with a curious smile and lit a cigarette.

  “Billy Beckett,” he said. “Sit down. Please. It’s okay, Mario, just wait outside.”

  Billy took a seat on the couch facing the crime boss.

  “So we finally meet,” Romano said. “I’ve heard a lot about you, and now here you are. I thought you might come to look for your friend, but not here. Do you know what you’ve gotten yourself into?”

  “I think I do now,” Billy said. “I must admit, Frank, it was a long time before I understood this game you’ve been playing with me.”

  “Game?”

  “Jarvis Thompson. My brother. My girlfriend. I just couldn’t figure why a big mafia boss like you, way down here in New Orleans, would be messing with a little sports agent from Tennessee.”

  The men studied each other carefully, and Romano took a long drag off his cigarette.

  “You’re not just a sports agent, though, are you?” he said. “You’re an attorney.”

  “I used to be.”

  “That’s right. And you were a good one, weren’t you?”

  “That’s what they told me.”

  “Apparently you were smart enough to figure out a little scam that one of the shipping companies was running down here,” Romano said. “You sent Anthony Matranga to prison. My
father. Remember?”

  “I remember,” Billy said. “Two-bit crook that got in way over his head. I’ll give him credit though; that scheme worked for a while. Made him lots of money.”

  “Two-bit crook?”

  Romano’s face hardened and his mood began to darken.

  “My father ran the show in New Orleans,” he said. “He was a great man, and you took away the last years of his life. There were others, of course. You probably heard about the prosecutor. He had a terrible accident not too long ago.”

  “I hadn’t heard, actually.”

  “No matter. You’re the one we’re talking about here. There hasn’t been a day go by since then that I haven’t thought about you.”

  “So now you run the show in New Orleans? I have to tell you, Frank, I’m a little disappointed in the way you’re conducting business. I shouldn’t be standing here right now. Why am I not dead?”

  “You’re going to suffer until I decide it’s time to put you out of your misery. You’ll be begging me to kill you.”

  Billy smiled and shifted in his chair.

  “Big man, that time is over,” he said. “I just wanted to come here and tell you personally. You no longer control Jarvis Thompson, and you no longer control me. We went out to the warehouse tonight and freed him from your men. They didn’t fare very well either.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Go ahead and call Tommy; that’s his name, isn’t it? Little guy with a funny laugh? See if he answers.”

  Romano picked up the phone on the table and fumbled to make the call. Suddenly a muffled ring came from Billy’s waistband.

  “Oh, this must be it,” he said, pulling out Tommy’s cell. “And by the way, I think Tommy ran over your son. Paul is dead. They all are.”

  Romano flew into a rage. He reached under the seat cushion and drew a pistol.

  “Mario!” he yelled toward the door. There was no answer.

  “Put that down, Frank,” Billy said. “Mario isn’t going to help you. The cops are probably here by now. Don’t make things any worse for yourself.”

  Billy had become numb to fear, or maybe he was just out of his mind. But he stood slowly and faced Romano with an outstretched hand.

  Suddenly the doors were kicked open.

  “Police!”

  Romano turned for an instant and Billy launched at him with everything he had, pinning the gun against Romano’s chest. The men struggled, locked together, face to face. A shot rang out and they parted.

  The cops who had flooded the room with their weapons drawn all froze. The crime boss fell limp to the floor, gasping for air. Blood gushed from a wound on the side of his neck.

  “I should have killed you a long time ago,” he said to Billy. His voice was fading, the breaths growing short. “I let you get too close.”

  “Yes, you did,” Billy said.

  Paramedics were on their way up, but an ambulance wouldn’t be necessary. Frank Romano, the scourge of New Orleans, would be dead in a matter of minutes.

  Billy rocked back onto the couch, rubbed his face and took a deep breath. He could feel the emotions of the last month all pouring out at once.

  “Where are my friends?” he asked the officer in charge.

  “They’re both downstairs in a private dining area.”

  “Both?”

  “Yeah, the football player seems to be okay, considering what he’s been through. The reporter has just been sitting at a table with his laptop, typing away. We’ve all got a lot to talk about here.”

  Billy nodded solemnly. “Then it’s time to go home.”

  Chapter seventy

  The digging was over. Police had found what they were looking for.

  Detective Allary and several men in uniform were gathered around the site in the sugarcane field where Charles Ratliff had been buried, waiting for instructions from the forensic pathologist. The work lights cast an eerie glow on the scene at the crack of dawn.

  The dead man’s sons stood together silently in the distance, a few feet in front of Billy. Dante had an arm draped around Jarvis’s shoulders. They had been interviewed by investigators and spent the last couple of hours at the hospital while doctors checked out Jarvis. His arm was in a cast, but he was cleared to go.

  Neither had slept, and the strain of their ordeal was plainly evident on their faces.

  “I’m sorry,” Billy told the brothers.

  Dante continued to stare at the gravesite. “He was a pitiful excuse for a father, but he didn’t deserve to be executed like that.”

  “I’m sorry for John,” Jarvis said. “Everything that happened … our father bears some responsibility. He helped bring those men into our lives.”

  The detective approached the group with a grim smile. He was pretty bleary-eyed himself.

  “I hope there’s a little closure for you here, gentlemen. There’s a lot more to sort out at the warehouse site; our men are going to be there for quite a while. Is there anything more I can do here?”

  “No, detective. Thank you,” Billy said. “We’re going to try to get a couple hours of sleep and head back to Tennessee. Three of us, anyway.”

  “Where’s your reporter friend?”

  “He stayed at the hotel to file his first story for his newspaper’s website. That’ll definitely have Knoxville buzzing this morning.”

  “It’s going to be buzzing here, too,” Allary said. “Frank Romano was a plague on this city for too long. I don’t know how many times I thought we finally had him dead to rights. I wish you didn’t have to be the one to deal with him at the end.”

  “Me too, detective.”

  Allary walked away and Billy turned to Dante.

  “I didn’t get a chance to ask earlier,” he said, “but where were you when the police stormed the bar last night?”

  “Outside, on the balcony.”

  “You mean, you saw everything that went on in that room? Why didn’t you come in and help me?”

  “I got there kind of late, and it looked like you had it covered. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  Dante smiled. “Jarvis, you’ve got a hell of an agent. I always said that.”

  Chapter seventy-One

  Trey Birchfield’s spread took up the whole front page of the Knoxville Journal and was packaged with a full-length picture of Billy and Jarvis walking arm in arm. Together again.

  It was the lead story on the national news and would captivate the public for many days and weeks to come.

  Billy sat on the veranda of his house and studied his image on the page. Was that really me?

  “You said it’d be a hell of a story,” said Birchfield, gazing down at the river from the veranda of Billy’s house. “Some vacation, right?”

  “It was a little more than we bargained for,” Billy said. “I’m sure your bosses are jacked about the whole thing. They got the exclusive, and you’re a media star.”

  “Yeah, but my wife is really pissed. You don’t want to meet her right now.”

  They both chuckled.

  “So what now for Jarvis?” Birchfield said.

  “It’ll be a little while before he heals, but he’s young and strong. He’ll stay with me here and we’ll work to get him back in top shape for the combine. I don’t know how all this will affect his draft position, but he’s still a great player, one of the best. Right now both of us just feel fortunate to have the opportunity.”

  “Hopefully he won’t end up with the Saints, right?”

  “Yeah, I think he’s probably had enough of New Orleans to last him a while.”

  Birchfield smiled and stood. “What about his brother? Surely they’ll be a little closer after what happened.”

  “We’ll see,” Billy said. “Dante may have a few legal problems to resolve before he’s free and clear. And
he said he wants to finish rehab, clean up his life. I’m going to do whatever I can to help him. Clarise is still in the picture, of course, which means all bets are off for the Thompson family.”

  “Good thing Jarvis has you looking out for him.”

  “Hey, what are agents for?”

  Birchfield patted Billy on the shoulder and headed for the door.

  “Call me again sometime,” he said. “But no more road trips. Or shootouts.”

  Billy waved goodbye and turned instinctively toward the bar. The bottle of Jack Daniel’s sitting on the counter was enticing. He studied it thoughtfully, and then placed it in the cabinet. Not today.

  The news was spreading quickly, and reaction had been mostly encouraging. Most of the players, his guys, were still with him. That meant everything after so many personal losses.

  Nothing else mattered at this moment.

  Billy would try to immerse himself in the business again, refocus and take that next step. He knew they would all want to hear what he had to say.

  Epilogue

  Hope springs eternal on opening day, and nowhere was that more in evidence than Miami in early September.

  The Dolphins were hosting the Carolina Panthers on a sun-drenched Sunday afternoon at Sun Life Stadium. An uncharacteristic buzz had been going through the famously distracted crowd since warm-ups, and it picked up as the teams took the field for the kickoff.

  Wearing dark sunglasses and a solemn expression, Billy Beckett sat alone in a corner of owner Ernest Wolfe’s luxury suite. He leaned close to the glass, his face resting in the palm of his right hand, and was deep in thought as he watched number eleven’s every move.

  The Dolphins had shocked many of the football experts three months earlier when they traded up – giving away a first-round pick, plus two later picks, to the Tennessee Titans – for the chance to take Jarvis Thompson second in the draft. They hadn’t been scared away by all the negative publicity surrounding the wide receiver and made a bold move they hoped would reward the franchise and its fans for years to come.