by Ed Kovacs
A silver one, with the doors welded shut.
I’d texted Honey to come ASAP with a warrant, had already picked the hockey-puck-type lock, and now we all three stood in front of the big steel box.
“I say we open the gifts now instead of waiting till Christmas morning.” And with that, I wrenched up the two levers simultaneously and muscled them to the right. Gaudet had grabbed a tire tool from his trunk and he wedged it into a door crack.
“One, two, three—”
I pulled the handles as he put his weight onto the tool and the welds broke, the door popped open.
“Imagine that,” said Honey, gawking at the contents.
“Holy cow,” said Gaudet, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“Funny,” I said, shaking my head. “This container has absolutely nothing to do with the murders or the arms dealing.”
“Yeah, but this is huge! I recognize some of this stuff. These bronzes were stolen from that famous artist’s studio over in Mid-City.” Gaudet was a burglary detective, so it was perfect he stood here in front of a treasure trove of loot.
“The Jefferson brothers knew enough not to melt them down.”
“This marble topped table with the gold gilt? Used to be in the lobby at the Fairmont,” said Honey, as she reached out to touch the beautiful piece.
“The Fairmont was badly looted. Bet some of this other stuff came from there, too.” I used my SureFire to light the way. The temperature was sweltering in the trailer, but we were too fascinated to complain. I came across large cartons stuffed with brand new Rolex watches still in their boxes, and small leather cases full of gold and diamond jewelry. “There’s a whole jewelry store in here.”
“See those paintings. Looted from Jonathan Murphy, the rich collector Uptown,” said Gaudet.
“There has to be ten, maybe fifteen million dollars’ worth of merchandise in this container,” I said. “Maybe more. Some pretty good junk.”
“We need to take photos. Post them on the NOPD Web site. Chief Pointer has sticky fingers,” noted Honey.
We found exquisite silver services, artwork of all kinds, gold coin collections, an antique firearms collection that was alone worth over a million. Furniture, crystal, tortoise-shell jewelry boxes brimming with precious stones that had probably been stolen from some Uptown mansion.
“I get it. Joey Bales fenced high-value stolen items to Leroy and Jimmy after the Storm. He must have gotten a look at what was in this container before it was sealed. He told his boyfriend Danforth about it. Part of Danforth’s deal with Chu must have been that he got custody of the silver container.”
“But why did the Jeffersons keep the merch? Locked in a container?” asked Honey.
“I know why I would,” I said.
Gaudet nodded. “There was so much loot in play after the Storm, prices dropped. If a guy isn’t pressed for cash, better to sit on your stash till a later date.”
“And better to let the heat die down. This stuff was red hot.”
“The Jefferson boys were smarter than we thought,” said Honey.
“Yeah,” I shrugged. “But look where it got them.”
The recovery of stolen goods garnered more ink and TV time than the arrest of Danforth for the five murders. New Orleanians were so used to the overwhelming tide of murder and mayhem, that they sometimes tuned it out.
Due to all the press, for about a week I couldn’t buy a drink anywhere in town. I hated it. Better to keep a low profile; you can get away with more. And Twee Siu’s words haunted me. Decon had made the ultimate sacrifice, but his deeds would go unsung. I got fifteen minutes of fame just for recovering some stolen property. It’s no secret that life isn’t fair, but I was currently shedding guilt and not taking any on.
The onslaught of so much good press had strengthened the chief’s position to the extent the mayor had to set aside any attempt to force Pointer’s resignation. I wasn’t sure that was a good development, but it meant I still carried a gold shield.
I returned to my dojo for the first time since I’d killed Bobby Perdue. I was still too banged up to participate, but I climbed back into the fight cage and offered comment and encouragement as Kendall and Big Bob took turns sparring with students.
I asked Honey on a date and she accepted. Over a bottle of pricey Chilean Shiraz I told her I loved her and that I would like us to move in together and become a real couple, complete with sexual intimacy. I told her this would be a big step toward helping me to clarify confusing elements of my personal life. I told her I thought we would make good life partners and would have beautiful children. She said we already were good life partners and quickly changed the subject. I could tell I had made her feel uncomfortable and realized that if we were ever going to become traditional mates, it would happen thanks to her doing and at her pace.
I hadn’t yet called Harding but I knew that day would probably come. I had a serious bone to pick with her. I knew from the get-go that I couldn’t count on her to back me in the clutch, but she’d proven more than true to form; she had helped set me up.
As for Twee, I’d always judged her pretty harshly. And damned if I simply couldn’t figure whether I was justified in doing so or not. I started to receive copies of classified intelligence reports related to local activities that were delivered to my loft in plain envelopes. I burned after reading and didn’t need an astrologer to tell me that a beautiful and mysterious Asian woman was going to play a role in my future.
I kept thinking about Decon. About our talks of violence, redemption, of how I needed to forgive myself. Intellectually, I had gotten to a place where I was comfortable again being who I was, warts and all. Decon and Twee had both been correct: I was indeed more like them than I cared to admit. I repeatedly broke the rules and used illicit means to justify the ends. I could argue gradations, I could hide behind the logic, for example, that I only applied extrajudicial applications of non-lethal force upon those whom I knew to be guilty and who withheld pertinent information necessary to obtain in order to achieve some good. But those were just fancy words that papered over what I really was. I played a dirty game with as much integrity as possible, but I played it. And I knew I would continue to play the dirty game again and again, and let God be my judge, not man.
As for Bobby Perdue, thoughts of him no longer plagued me. Still, I found myself driving with the windows down one beautiful fall afternoon over the I-10 twin spans to Slidell. A new, supposedly hurricane-proof bridge was being built right alongside the old one. It was a sign of progress. Hope for some kind of good future. One took such signs where one could find them in the rubble that was still New Orleans.
I parked in front of Bobby Perdue’s parents’ home but didn’t get out of the Bronco. I simply started to cry. I don’t know where it came from or what brought it on so suddenly, but I lost all control and wept openly. I tried to stop it but couldn’t; it gushed out. I cried for the souls of those I had killed, for those I’d loved and lost, like my dad and my younger brother, for a dead female friend named Kiesha Taylor, for a failed marriage, for everyone I had ever hurt. I cried for the souls I knew I would be taking in the future. I cried for Decon Daniel Hawthorne Doakes, aka Dawson Hayward, a pretty awesome guy who died in my arms. But mostly I cried for a little boy. The innocent one I used to be.
I became aware of people watching me. Bobby Perdue’s parents stood at the passenger window, looking in. I didn’t know how long they had been there, but they held each other.
I reached for my keys and started the engine, ready to pull away as I wiped at my eyes. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this, didn’t want the Perdues screaming at me right now.
“You’ve come to our home three times,” said Bobby Perdue’s father. “The first two times you tried to apologize. You were big enough to do that, and now we are big enough to accept. Please come into our home.”
I couldn’t speak but I nodded. I wiped away more tears and cleared my throat. I turned off the engine and reached
for the door handle. FEMA trailers still sat in many front yards on the block as people slowly facilitated repairs to their storm-damaged homes, most likely the folks who didn’t have insurance, and so the self-financed repairs went slowly. Kids played kickball in the street; a couple of boys dueled using slats from a broken picket fence. Two guys up on a roof nailed shingles in the sun. A mom pulled her SUV into a driveway and unloaded bags of groceries. People were rebuilding things, getting on with their lives.
I opened the door to the Bronco and felt pretty damned lucky to be getting on with mine.
ABOUT ED KOVACS
Ed Kovacs is the author of the critically-acclaimed Cliff St. James mystery / crime series, as well as stand-alone espionage and action thrillers. Ed has studied martial arts, holds many weapons-related licenses, certifications and permits, and is a certified medical First Responder. Using various pen names, he has worked professionally around the world as a screenwriter, journalist, and media consultant. He is a member of the Association of Former Intelligence Officers, American Legion Post 299, the International Thriller Writers association, and Mystery Writers of America.
Mr. Kovacs graduated from Southern Illinois University, having paid his tuition by working in a steel mill, driving a truck, and spinning records as a late-night jazz DJ on local radio. He splits his time between his aircraft hanger home at a Southern California airport, and his home in Asia.
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COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
PRINTING HISTORY:
GOOD JUNK Copyright 2012 by Ed Kovacs. All rights reserved.
Hardback and e-book First Edition, published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
ISBN 978-0-312-60089-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-01605-8 (e-book)
Revised Second Edition Copyright © 2017 by Ed Kovacs. All rights reserved.
Published by The Phoenix Group. For information, contact the author at [email protected].
ISBN: 978-0-9976788-6-4
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Cover design: Go On Write
Photo of Ed Kovacs © Neungreuthai Chanphonsean