“Yeah, that’s what our man said. Does Bugati know anything?”
“Could be. He may know the Chemist did some work for us.”
“Jesus, could he tie us to Manetti?”
“It’s possible.”
“Can we get to him?”
“Hell, yes. I could have him shanked tomorrow, but it might look suspicious. One day he’s talking to the feds about the Chemist, and maybe us, and the next day he’s dead. The hit would point right to us. No, we’ve got to find another way. See if Bugati’s got any family, anybody we can use to keep his trap shut.”
The fuel-truck driver confirmed the man in the Scotland Yard photo was the same man who had asked him about re-fueling Trueblood’s plane.
Special Agent Monroe went into hyper-drive.
“Okay, people, I want a nation-wide APB out on this Flannigan character. Include his photo and all known aliases. I want this troll hauled in—now.”
Chapter 51
The mining convention was winding down, and a lot of the players had already left town. I was still manning our booth, hoping for the odd straggler, when Lei Chang walked up.
“Mr. Chang, I was just thinking about calling you.”
“With good news, I hope?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Chang. I’ve decided to hang on to my shares. And as you no doubt know, our current share price is above your proposed tender offer.”
“Yes, I am aware of that fact. However, share prices go up and down. Sometimes quite rapidly, as yours have this week. But next week, when the frenzy of the mining convention is over, will your shares maintain this level?”
“I am sure we’ll have peaks and valleys, but I have a feeling each valley will be a bit higher than the last. I think we could hit ten dollars once our engineering report is published.”
“I see. Let me ask you this, Mr. Brandon. At what price would you tender your shares to us?”
“As I said, I think the stock will go to ten dollars a share. But if I were to sell, I would be more inclined to sell to Jim Lee’s company. IUC believed in our project, invested early, and stuck with us through good days, and bad.”
“I doubt IUC could pay you what we could for your shares.”
“Agreed, but sometimes relationships are more important than money.”
Mr. Chang smiled. “Are they?”
He held my gaze for a moment, then bowed his head slightly, turned, and disappeared into the crowd.
Cyrus came up a moment after Chang left.
“Hey, Trace. Any word from our communist friend?”
“Oh, yeah. Chang was just here, and he wasn’t a happy camper when he left. I sense we haven’t heard the last of him.”
“Well, to hell with him and his red buddies. Have you seen our stock price this morning?”
“Yep, we’re getting close to six bucks a share. I told Chang I thought we might go to ten dollars.”
“I’ll bet that fried his wontons.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I think it probably did.”
Chang returned to his suite and told one of his assistants to book a flight to New Orleans, and set up an appointment with a Mr. Al Pantelli.
Chapter 52
Flannigan left Houston as soon as he’d confirmed Trueblood’s plane was splattered over the Gulf of Mexico. Everybody has a weakness, and Flannigan’s was whores, and his favorite hunting ground was the French Quarter. He’d driven his old Ford F-150 pickup from Houston to New Orleans, where he kept a small apartment on the edge of the Quarter.
He parked his truck in the small garage adjoining the two- story pink stucco apartment building. His second-story apartment overlooked a small courtyard on the opposite side from the garage. The location was convenient to Bourbon Street and the skin joints he frequented, but far enough from the action so a person could get some sleep.
Flannigan took a nap, then showered, went on-line, and checked his bank account balance. One thing about the Pantellis, they paid well, and they paid on time. He smiled when his balance showed two recent wire-transfer deposits. He’d have a hell of a good time tonight.
Special Agent Beau Monroe played a hunch. Everything pointed to the Pantellis being behind the hit on Malcolm Trueblood. And he was betting they hadn’t strayed too far from the reservation looking for a mechanic. It was human nature; people look for the easiest solution to a problem.
Monroe was betting the bomber was from the New Orleans area. He made sure every police and sheriff’s department within fifty miles of New Orleans got the information on Mr. Flannigan.
Dressed in his best Tony Manero outfit, Sean Flannigan set out in search of a little action. He pulled up his right pant leg and slipped a .25 caliber automatic into an ankle holster. Sometimes a little action could turn in to a lot of action, and Sean Flannigan always came prepared. He walked out of his apartment and hailed a passing cab.
“Club Le Bon Temps, on Bourbon Street,” he said, to the cabbie. Flannigan never drove into the Quarter. Too many cops looking to bust a drunk driver, and no damn place to park.
The cab dumped Flannigan off in front of Roddy Kincaid’s Club Le Bon Temps. The doorman recognized him from past visits and smiled.
“Good evening, sir. Good to see you back.”
“Top of the evening to you, Mike,” Flannigan said, extending his right hand, in which he’d folded a twenty. “How’s the action tonight?”
“It was slow earlier, but it’s kicking into high gear now. You should have a good time tonight,” Mike replied, expertly palming the twenty.
Flannigan smiled and nodded. “You never know.”
Inside the club the lights were dimmed, and the air was heavy with the smell of booze and cigarette smoke. Kincaid had done a nice job fitting the joint out. The chairs and couches were red velvet sitting on expensive wall-to-wall carpet. Sconces on the wall provided soft light for the patrons, while a spotlight lit up the topless dancers’ stage and pole.
Flannigan took a seat at the bar and ordered a drink.
“Glenlivet on the rocks, if you please, Jake.”
A statuesque blonde had just begun her routine. Flannigan was watching her with keen interest.
“She’s new, Mr. McDougall,” the bartender said, setting Sean’s drink on a glass coaster. “Her name’s Misty Rowe. At least that’s her stage name. I can introduce you to her when her set’s over, if you like.”
Flannigan always used the alias of Sean McDougall at the club.
“Hell yes, Jake. I’d love to meet her,” Sean replied, pushing a twenty toward the bartender. “Keep the change, and thanks for the intro.”
Jake smiled as he pocketed the change from the twenty, until he noticed a big fellow in a suit coming into the club. He leaned his head closer to Flannigan.
“See the guy in the suit just coming in?” Jake asked, in a low voice.
“Yeah, I see him. Gotta be a cop.”
“You’ve got a good eye, Mr. McDougall. His name’s Detective Frances Hebert. Don’t let the Frances part fool you. He’s tougher than boot leather, and he’s not on the pad.”
“Thanks for the heads-up, but I’m on the right side of the law.”
“Ain’t we all, brother.”
Detective Hebert walked over to the bar and pulled up a stool. He was two places down from Flannigan. Flannigan could see the bulge under the left armpit of the detective’s suit. Whatever he was carrying in his shoulder holster, it was big.
Detective Hebert motioned to the bartender.
“Jake . . . gin and tonic, but leave out the gin. And a fresh slice of lime, please.”
“Coming right up, sir,” Jake replied.
Hebert looked around the room, and then at Sean.
“Evening. How’s it going?” Hebert asked.
“So far, so good,” Sean replied, tipping his glass in the detective’s direction.
“You sure look familiar to me,” Hebert said. “Have we met before?”
“No, sir. I don’t believe so. I’m Sean McDo
ugall.”
The detective pursed his lips and was obviously running the name through his on-board computer system.
“You’re right. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
Flannigan knew immediately from the detective’s body language there was some kind of problem.
“Watch my drink, will ya, Jake?” Sean asked, the bartender. “I’ve got to use the head.”
Flannigan got up and walked over to the men’s room. Pushing the door open, he took a quick look around. It was empty. Every swinging dick in the joint was glued to the performance Misty was putting on.
Flannigan pulled up his right pant leg and pulled the .25 auto from his ankle holster. As he walked to the farthest urinal, he worked the action and jacked a shell into the chamber. With his left hand he pretended to urinate. He let his right hand, holding the little automatic, hang limp beside his right leg. Just out of sight.
It didn’t take long. The detective opened the door and looked at Flannigan. And then surveyed the rest of the unoccupied men’s room.
“Sean McDougall, eh? You sure it’s not Sean Flannigan?”
The detective moved his right hand toward the hog leg he had holstered under his suit coat. It was the last move he ever made. Flannigan spun and put two rounds in the detective’s chest and a third through the bridge of his nose.
Flannigan holstered the automatic and walked out of the men’s room. Misty Rowe was still on stage in full-tilt bump and grind, backed up by a pounding drum-beat. A few of the men were looking around like they’d heard something, but their attention quickly returned to Misty’s bodacious tatas.
Flannigan went back to the bar and finished his Glenlivet. He was damned if he’d waste a drop of the single malt over a piece-of-shit New Orleans’ detective.
“Any trouble with the cop?” Jake asked.
“The big fellow with the cannon under his coat?” Flannigan replied. “No. But I think he’s got a hell of a case of the drizzles. I wouldn’t go in there for a while if I was you. It really stinks.”
Flannigan finished his drink and casually strolled out of the club. Once outside, he quickened his pace, then cut through an alley to a side street and hailed the first cab he saw.
When Misty’s dance finished, several fellows headed for the men’s room. A couple minutes later one of the men, a club regular, went over to the bar and signaled to Jake.
“Jake, you got a problem in the can,” the customer said, in a low voice.
“What’s up?” Jake said with a chuckle. “The cop shitting his pants, is he?”
“Could be. He’s got three holes in him, and he’s deader than last night’s beer.”
Flannigan stopped the cab a couple of blocks from his apartment and walked the rest of the way. Before going into his building, he took a good look around. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he went upstairs.
Once in his apartment, he headed straight to the bathroom. He pulled his Dopp kit from under the sink and went to work. Twenty minutes later the goatee was down the drain, and his red hair was now chestnut. He put the clothes he’d worn to the club in a trash bag and dressed in jeans, work shirt, and cowboy boots. The boot heels would make him a bit taller than the man they’d be looking for.
He pulled a small suitcase from under the bed and grabbed an old-style brief-case from the shelf in his closet. The briefcase contained about fifty thousand in cash and two sets of forged ID’s.
Flannigan, now posing as William O’Connell, put his gear in his pickup and drove until he spotted a Dumpster in a quiet alley. He stopped and tossed the trash bag with his Tony Manero outfit into the Dumpster. Heading west, he started across the bridge over the Mississippi. Seeing no immediate traffic, he lowered the passenger-side window, slowed a bit, and tossed the .25 auto into the Big Muddy. In a few hours, he’d hit Houston and disappear.
Chapter 53
Pino Pantelli walked into his brother Al’s office in the family- owned building in the French Quarter.
“Morning, Al. Hey, did you see someone smoked a police detective in Kincaid’s place last night?” Pino said, handing the newspaper to his brother.
“No shit? Let me see that.”
Pino watched his brother read the account of the homicide and saw Al’s cheeks flush.
“Holy shit,” Al whispered. “We got another problem, and this one could be real trouble.”
“What problem? Hell, it’s just one less fuckin’ cop. And we sure as hell didn’t whack him.”
“No. But I know who did, and that’s the fuckin’ problem.”
“Who hit him?”
“From the description the bartender gave, it’s Sean Flannigan. The guy I hired to take care of our aviator buddy.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. The description fits, right down to the Irish accent.”
“Do you know where this Irish idiot is?”
“He keeps an apartment near the Quarter, but he won’t be there. Sean’s tough and smart, and he’s been on the lam for years. The New Orleans Police Department hasn’t got a chance in hell of finding him.”
“I hope you’re right, because if our cops do get him, he’ll likely try and cut a deal. And any deal could include him handing our asses to the feds.”
“True enough, but I know Sean. He’s got money and contacts all over the world. He’ll disappear, blend in. He’s probably out of the country already.”
“But what if they grab his ass?”
“Then we’ll have to take care of it. No sawed-off Irish prick is going to take this family down. Capisce?”
Chapter 54
Al’s secretary knocked softly on the door and stuck her head in.
“Mr. Pantelli, you have a call on line one.”
Both Pantellis looked at her.
“The call is for Al.”
“Who is it?” Al asked.
“The caller said his name is Lei Chang. He said he’s managing director of URAN-China Nuclear Corp.”
Al looked at his bother and raised his eyebrows.
“Now what?”
“If he’s in the uranium business, it must have something to do with Montana Creek Mining. You’d better take the call, Al.”
“Okay,” Al said, nodding to his secretary. He punched line one and picked up the phone. “Al Pantelli, speaking.”
“Thank you for taking my call, Mr. Pantelli. My name is Lei Chang. I’m the managing director of URAN-China Nuclear Corp. We’re a Hong Kong-based Chinese uranium company.”
“I see,” Al replied. “Do you mind if I put you on speaker phone, Mr. Chang? My brother, Crispino, is here in my office. We’re partners, and I like him to be on this call.”
“No problem, Mr. Pantelli.”
Al hit the speaker button.
“Okay, Mr. Chang, you’re on the speaker, and Pino and I are all ears.”
“Very good, gentlemen. I am calling in regard to our mutual interest in Montana Creek Mining.”
Pino nudged Al with his elbow and nodded.
“Yes, sir. We do own an interest in Montana Creek Mining. So what’s on your mind?”
Direct and to the point. Crude, but in some cases effective, Chang thought.
“My company owns various interests in a number of major uranium deposits around the world. We’ve recently acquired nearly ten percent of Montana Creek Mining, and we’d like to acquire more.”
“Call your broker and put in a buy order,” Pino interrupted, slightly sarcastically.
“We are looking for an out-of-market acquisition, at a set price,” Chang replied, showing no reaction to Pino’s tone.
“Why don’t you just make a tender offer, and pick up the majority of the shares?” Pino asked.
“We could do exactly what you suggest, but without certain key shareholders accepting the tender, we would never be able to obtain control.”
“Have you discussed your proposal with Montana Creek Mining’s management?” Al asked.
“Yes, I met with three of the four
directors in Toronto a few days ago. Including the CEO, Mr. Trace Brandon.”
“I see,” Al replied. “And what was his, their, response?”
Chang paused for a moment. He didn’t want to give away too much information.
“Mr. Brandon was not interested in selling his position. And without Mr. Brandon’s shares, one cannot obtain control of the company.”
“So why are you calling me?” Al asked.
“We would like to buy your shares, at a premium to the current price. And we’d like your help in convincing Mr. Brandon to sell us his shares.”
Al looked over at Pino and grinned. “I see. And how much of a premium are we talking about?”
“Twenty percent over the last sixty-day average price,” Chang replied.
“Uh-huh,” Al replied, “and what kind of pressure could we put on Mr. Brandon to induce him to sell you his shares?”
“I would leave that to your discretion. But my understanding is, you can be most persuasive.”
Al looked again at Pino. “If the situation warrants. Why don’t you give me a number where I can get back to you? We’ll need a couple of days to kick your proposal around.”
Chang gave them his unlisted cell phone number.
“I look forward to hearing back from you. One more thing, gentlemen. As time is of the essence, this proposal will be withdrawn in ten days. Good day, gentlemen.”
Al hung up his phone. “Jesus, talk about out of the blue. Whadda you think, little brother?”
“I think it could be a hell of an opportunity. Remember, we got a half a million shares from Rosy for his gambling note. Hell, the casino has already washed his debt off the books. Anything we get for old Rosenburg’s shares is gravy for you and me. Plus, there’s the shares we’ve acquired in the open market.”
“What about leaning on the CEO? Sounded to me like we have to get Brandon to sell to the Chinks, or no deal?” Al asked.
“Yeah, that’s what the man said,” Pino replied. “Leaning on Brandon could cause problems . . . of which we already have a couple on our plate.”
Deadly Lode (Trace Brandon Book 1) Page 20