Angels of Maradona

by Glen Carter

  Things were beginning to register now. The gunman was maybe in his thirties with the physique of a marathon runner, sinewy muscles and wasted skin stretched taut over bony protuberances at every angle of his body. Heroin-thin in worn stovepipe blue jeans and a white T-shirt. He had thinning greasy black hair and hooded eyes as flat as anti-fouling paint.

  He was apparently taking the measure of the day and couldn’t care less about the commotion or the cops and TV crews. “Guess I fucked them up pretty bad, eh, Doyle?”

  Doyle’s blood ran cold. Jesus. This was the shooter. Jack fought to control his emotions. “Yeah. Real bad,” he said. The guy was out of his mind, or stoned. Most likely both.

  “No way I’m goin’ back to prison.”

  “OK, I understand,” Doyle said as evenly as he could. “What’s your name?”

  “Salvador.”

  “OK, Salvador,” Jack said.

  “Salvador – da man,” he hooted. “You got any rock? Just woke up.” The shooter pointed towards a park at the other end of the street. “Head feels real bad, all fuzzy and shit, man.”

  Drugged up mass murderer wants to get high again. “I’m sorry, Salvador,” Jack told him. “No rock.”

  “No rock? Maybe one of your friends. All this fancy equipment. Somebody’s got money – got rock.”

  Suicide by cop, Jack thought. That was the way Salvador was going to start his day – his last. The gun had to weigh some but Salvador held it at arm’s length, unwavering. Real drug-induced stamina.

  “Big television star like you got no rock. Fuck is that, man?”

  Jack saw the high in Salvador’s eyes. Black, dead eyes that seemed to flash intermittently with the remnants of whatever Sal had smoked or snorted or squirted into his arm. “Sorry, Salvador. No one here has any drugs.”

  Salvador smiled thinly. “Then the party’s over.”

  Frank Simmons couldn’t believe his luck. This was a ratings grabber, a double-digit numbers booster. The overnights were going to be unbelievable, and now the daughter of a senator was murdered. Good timing. Right in the middle of contract negotiations too. The bastards were playing hardball, had actually threatened to break off the talks, but they were going to stop the bullshit now, thanks to that man with the gun. Outstanding, Simmons thought as the floor director signaled his mic was hot.

  “You’re looking at live pictures from New Orleans tonight where senior correspondent Jack Doyle is facing down a gunman outside the scene of last night’s horrible cheerleader massacre.” Frank rested on his elbows, eyes glued to the live video monitor embedded in the anchor desk. “The man appeared only moments ago as Jack was preparing to wrap up his live report from Miami.”

  “New Orleans, Frank,” the executive producer corrected. “Fuck,” he spat, covering the goose-neck microphone that kept him in contact with the on-air talent. “Thirty years in the business and he doesn’t know New Orleans from Miami.”

  Frank Simmons, who’d once confused Abbie Hoffman with Andy Kaufman, brought his eyes level with camera one as script flickered onto the teleprompter. “Just read the prompter,” the executive producer droned in his ear.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, at this time we can’t tell you very much. We don’t know yet who the gunman is or why he’s threatening our crew. But we can tell you this has just become a very tense standoff. We’re now being told police have quietly begun to surround the man…and officers are taking up positions.”

  The control room expelled a collective gasp. Jamie Malone pounded the console. “Frank,” he hissed, “please keep the strategic information off the air.” Malone grabbed two cell phones. “George,” he shouted, “make sure audio’s cut to that monitor at Jack’s feet.” The EP snapped shut that phone, brought his glistening face to the other. “Kaitlin, the guy gets nowhere near your crew in the truck. Got it? Get the hell out of there before he makes any moves.”

  “Take it easy, Jamie,” Kaitlin replied. “Jack’s the one you should be worrying about. And we’ve already cut audio to the set.”

  “Great,” Malone replied curtly. Then to his crew in the control room, “Folks, we need to regroup. Go to commercial. Open Jack’s IFB. Stand by audio,” Jamie shouted. “When we hit the commercial I want Jack to hear me.”

  A moment later, as America watched a commercial for the newest digestive remedy, Jamie Malone rubbed his own stomach and gravely informed Jack that Frank Simmons wanted to speak to the man with the gun.

  Salvador lowered the gun, but only slightly. “When I’m gonna be on television, Doyle?”

  Jack saw the red light on George’s Betacam. “You’re on television right now, Salvador.” Jack spied several cops hunkered down behind their squad cars, lips moving against hand-held radios. It should have made him feel better. It didn’t.

  Salvador was mugging for the camera, getting a real charge out of things. “Hey, Enrique, I fucked them up real good,” he said, raising his fist. “DB fucked us, man. But I took care of business – just like I said I would.” Salvador’s eyes hardened as he turned to Jack again. “Not goin’ back to prison. Fuckers.”

  Jack’s stomach felt like it had taken refuge somewhere in his chest. The sound of Frank Simmons’ voice in his ear brought a grimace to his face which was plain to see on televisions everywhere. Jack corrected it instantly.

  “Jack, this is Frank. We’re on the air right now. Can you tell us what’s going on?”

  Impeccable timing, Jack thought. But before he could open his mouth Simmons was in his ear again. “We’re broadcasting live from your camera. The man with the gun…can I speak with him?”

  Jack had to think fast. There was no telling how Sal would react to Simmons. Besides, there was no way Jack was going to give Sal a soap box. “Frank, as you can imagine the situation here is very tense.” While Jack spoke he watched Salvador and figured he’d have about two seconds to react, to get close enough to grab the gun before Sal got the drop on him. Jack wondered when the SWAT boys were going to get there.

  Frank was in his ear again. “We have information this may be the man responsible for last night’s massacre. Can you confirm that, Jack?”

  “It’s quite possible,” was all Jack would say. “But I don’t think this is the time for that.”

  Salvador was getting pissed being left out of the conversation. “Who’re you talking to, Doyle?” He maneuvered the weapon higher, closed both his hands around it.

  “The desk, Sal.”

  “What desk?”

  “The anchor desk. Frank Simmons,” Jack replied nervously.

  “The guy with the hair, right?” Salvador grinned, seemed to relax a little. Finger still on the trigger though, and Jack calculated a couple pounds of pressure would do it. “That guy. I know him. Tell him Salvador’s got a story for him. We got stiffed by that fuckin’ cockroach, DB.”

  This guy is seriously ill, Jack thought, watching Sal’s eyes.

  “Tell the guy with the wig no one disrespects Salvador and Enrique. Go ahead, Doyle. You got my permission to tell him. An exclusive. That’s it, right?”

  Kaitlin was in Jack’s ear now. “Jack. We’ve pulled George back. The shot is locked. There’s a cop here with me. The police officer says he needs you to move closer. They need to hear what your friend is saying. We need you to do this because we can’t boost your audio any higher. Nod if you understand.”

  Jack nodded imperceptibly.

  “That’s good,” Kaitlin continued. “Jesus, Jack. Be careful.”

  As careful as you can be with a drug-crazed mass murderer pointing a gun at your head. Jack moved slightly towards the gunman.

  “What the fuck you doing, Doyle? You wanna a piece of Salvador or somethin’?”

  “You’re the star, Salvador. You wanna talk about what happened last night?”

  “Shut the fuck up, Doyle,” Salvador slurred. “I’m the one doin’ the talking.” Sal turned to the camera. “Enrique, look at me, man. It’s Salvador.”

  In the CNS satelli
te truck, Special Ops Captain Stan Billings lowered thick shoulders to avoid overhead equipment. His face showed an intensity that seemed to be seared into his flesh. “Kowalski,” he spoke hurriedly into a hand-held radio.

  “In position,” a raspy voice replied. “I do have a shot. Repeat. I do have a shot.”

  “Stand by.” Billings looked at Kaitlin. “We’re going to shut this thing down. Your boy had better do something.”

  “What do you suggest?” Kaitlin said. As the remote producer she was the ranking staff member in the sat truck. The crew took orders from her. She was trying to keep it together but this cop and New York weren’t making it any easier. Not to mention this was Jack out there. “Jack’s doing the best he can under the circumstances.”

  Billings lowered his head towards her. “This guy is about to cave and when he does your man Doyle will be the first to take one.”

  Kaitlin tensed. Billings was right. Panic rooted somewhere in her gut.

  “One more thing,” Billings said, almost as an afterthought. “We need you to cut the feed. This isn’t going to be pretty.”

  “You’re joking,” Kaitlin said.

  “I never joke,” Billings replied.

  Kaitlin didn’t doubt it. “There’re a dozen trucks here. That means a dozen feeds that are live to air right now. Kill ours and the country switches the channel, that’s all.”

  Billings hovered closer, nearly a whisper. “The other trucks have already been taken care of.”

  So much for freedom of the press, Kaitlin wanted to say. Instead she bit her lower lip and leaned into the console mic. “Jack, we’re running out of time. The cops are saying this guy’s about to blow. They’re gonna cut the feed.”

  Easier said than done, Jack thought. New York would freak if Kaitlin cut the feed. There’d be hell to pay, and she’d take the fall. It wouldn’t matter that the special ops boys had pulled the switch.

  All of a sudden, Sal was quiet. Too quiet. Jack shifted his weight and looked sideways at the other sat trucks. Unmanned cameras were pointed at him. He was alone. Just him and Sal. Jack made a decision, something that would end his life or save it. Time was running out so what choice did he have?

  Jack breathed deeply. “This guy, Enrique?”

  “My brother, man.”

  “You work for him? He gives you a job to do?”

  “DB stiffed us good. We stiffed him back.”

  There it was again. DB. Jack turned carefully to look at the address on the Saunier house. Fifty-two in big brass numbers. Jack understood now what had happened, and it sickened him. “The guy inside. Name’s Saunier, daughter Sherra, Sal. Her friends were part of her cheerleading squad. No one by the name of DB was inside the house. No one.”

  In the sat truck Kaitlin cringed. Shit. Could this be possible? “Fuck you,” Salvador spat. The gun came level – eye to eye with Jack. The smell of gun oil swirled around Jack’s face. Deadly vapours. “You know that fuck DB or what?”

  Jack ignored the question. “Sherra and her dad and seven of her friends were headed up to Biloxi today.”

  “Like shit. Enrique said DB would be there. DB is always there, case his customers want stuff. So I show up and he’s home. So I can take care of business.” Salvador pressed the barrel against Jack’s forehead. “Only he’s got all those little bitches with him – and they need to be taken care of too. They think I’m stupid or somethin’. Is that what you think, Doyle?”

  Frank Simmons was glued to the studio monitor. “What’s Jack doing?” he said quietly.

  “Mic’s hot, Frank.”

  Simmons took it as a cue. “Ladies and gentlemen, for those of you just joining us. What we’re watching is a standoff in New Orleans where our senior reporter Jack Doyle has been taken hostage by a gunman…”

  “Jack,” Kaitlin said in his ear, “you’re pushing this guy too hard. Ease back.”

  Jack had just begun to push. It was risky but he had no other choice. “You get the wrong house, Salvador?” Eye contact. Watch for the signs.

  Salvador puffed wind between his lips. “What the fuck you talking about?”

  “The address, Salvador. You got the wrong address.”

  “You’re crazy, man. Loco.”

  There it was again, Jack saw. A shift nearly too insignificant to detect in the contour of Salvador’s face. Maybe Sal figuring this had gone on way too long. Time to end it.

  A cop clamoured up metal steps into the satellite truck and handed Billings a piece of paper. “Salvador Diego, Enrique Diego. Drug boys say they’re in the majors,” he said.

  Kaitlin watched Billings’ face as he read. “Jesus,” he said, folding the paper and handing it back to the cop. “That’s an understatement.”

  “What does that mean?” Kaitlin asked.

  “It means it’s time to shut this down – now.”

  It looked to Jack like Salvador was hungry, really hungry. “Need more rock, Salvador?”

  Salvador removed one of his hands from the gun to wipe snot from the end of his nose. “You got rock? Any of you fuckers got rock?” The gun wavered, like Salvador was having trouble deciding which part of Jack’s forehead needed a hole in it.

  “Put the gun down, Salvador.”

  “Like fuck,” he spat. “I’m a dead man anyway, my brother gets me.”

  Jack didn’t doubt it. He counted silently.

  Three.

  “You know what, Doyle?”

  Two.

  “Maybe you’re fuckin’ right. Maybe the guy wasn’t bullshittin’ when he said he wasn’t DB. He’s crying, saying don’t hurt us and shit. Then I shot him. Bang, bang.”

  One.

  “Then this loud music downstairs. The bitches dancing and shit and I kinda get into the groove. Bang, bang, bang. I kinda lost it then…don’t remember much of that. How many you say were in there?”

  Jack had one advantage – no drugs gumming up his synapses. He flashed his hand in a clockwise arc and made contact with the gun. Pain shot through his wrist as the weapon jerked to the right, throwing Salvador off balance. They tumbled to the ground fighting for control of the weapon. Salvador was stronger than Jack expected. Insane with rage as he cursed and grunted and desperately attempted to lodge the weapon between them. Jack knew he was trying for a gut shot.

  On the locked off cameras, a blur of movement – flesh slapping and punching with Jack on top of Salvador Diego. The life saver came when the gun slipped from Sal’s hand. Jack kicked it away, balled his fists and put everything he had into three jackhammer punches to Salvador’s face. He pulled back for a fourth and saw it wouldn’t be necessary. Salvador was out cold, a stream of blood spilling from his nose. Jack immediately heard the thump of heavy boots, the clack of ammo being chambered, and the sound of smaller feet tumbling down the steps of the sat truck. Kaitlin. The third thing Jack Doyle heard as he slumped onto Sal’s unconscious body was Frank Simmon’s voice.

  “Jack, this might be a bad time, but…”

  FOUR

  The debriefing by cops took more than an hour. Lots of questions while a detective whose name Jack had already forgotten frantically typed. When he was done they printed two copies and Jack signed them both. There were only four of them left in the windowless squad room which was a blur of manila files, used styrofoam cups and mug shots plastered all over the walls. There was Jack, the two-finger typist, and Billings who watched as a paramedic named Randy patched up an ugly gash that ran along the back of Jack’s wrist. “Lucky man,” Randy said, “won’t need stitches.”

  “How’s Sal?” Jack asked, inspecting Randy’s workmanship.

  “Badly bruised jaw. Keeps asking for rock,” Randy said. “He’ll live.”

  Jack looked at Billings. “I presume you got the senator out of there as soon as the trouble started.”

  “Had to tear him away from his daughter’s body,” Billings replied. “Wanted to take her with him.”

  Jack drained cold gritty dregs from the bottom of his cup and
tossed it into an overflowing trash can. He flipped his cell phone open and saw he’d missed five calls, four from the network. “We done here?” he asked, testing his hand for flexibility.

  Billings nodded, but when Jack stood to leave, the cop held up a calloused hand. “One more thing.”

  “Sure.”

  “How were you so sure Diego got the wrong address?”

  “You mean besides the fact Saunier’s initials aren’t DB?”

  “Yeah”

  “The mailbox,” Jack said.

  Billings lifted his shoulders. “Saunier’s house has no mailbox.”

  “That’s right, but the house down the street does. D. Bastarache – number 25 Avalon Road. I noticed it when I came in – hard to miss in neon green – probably a flag for his buyers. “

  “I’m still not getting it, Doyle.”

  Jack paused a second to wait for the cop to catch up. “Salvador kept referring to DB, the guy he was supposed ‘to take care of.’ D. Bastarache. That’s the name on the mailbox outside 25 Avalon Road. Saunier’s house number is 52. Our genius must have reversed the numbers.”

  “Jesus,” Billings said, his face lighting up like he’d just tweaked to a tough algebra question. He turned to the cop who had taken Jack’s statement. “Run the guy’s name and address. See what pops up.”

  “Right on it, Cap.”

  “Nice work, Doyle,” Billings said. “This reporter stuff doesn’t work out, you come see me.”

  Jack had already started to walk out the door.

  FIVE

  It was close to nine o’clock when Jack got back to his hotel. He paid the cab driver and walked into the lobby. Laughter and loud voices came from the bar on his left. Cap’n Patout’s was a popular spot in the Garden District, about a block from the Quarter and right on the streetcar line that carried thirsty riders up and down St. Charles. Jack was hoping to avoid the pack and was making a beeline for the elevator when he heard someone shout his name. “Doyle. Where you goin’?” Mona Lasing held a drink in each hand, a cigarette dangled from her lips. “Get that beauteous ass over here,” she shouted across the lobby.