by Matt Hilton
Grunting, Keane finally stood. Some strength had returned to his shaky knees. He glimpsed around. ‘Talking of werewolves, where is the big dummy?’
‘Please don’t call my brother that. He’s not dumb.’
‘You know what I mean.’ Keane, along with the strength in his legs, was regaining some of the firmness of his balls. He pointed a finger at Zeke’s chest. ‘You need to get a handle on Cleary, Zeke. I’m telling you, man, you can’t let him go on like this. You might laugh at those stories, but if he keeps up these killings, those superstitious Creoles you just flipped off will be hunting him through the swamps with dogs and flaming torches.’
Zeke adjusted the peak of his cap, and grinned at the future painted by Keane in grim strokes. ‘Remember what I warned about exaggeration, Al? Cleary’s under my control. The only one who has to worry about him losing it again is that young woman back there. Now if we’re done here I’d like to get back to her.’
‘Do what you have to do,’ said Keane, in an effort at re-establishing their pecking order. ‘Try to get this mess cleared up before Mr Corbin arrives. He’s not happy at having to come here in the middle of the night with some of his investors, so I’d like to give him some good news to share when he gets here.’
‘His multimillion-dollar deal moving ahead isn’t enough for the asshole?’ Zeke turned his back on him, dismissing Keane.
TWENTY-SIX
‘Po, you arrogant, wooden-headed son of a …’
Tess was back outside the hospital again. Dumping her coffee minutes ago, she’d rushed back inside, on the chance that she’d missed Po in the lobby while she’d visited the bathroom, but all the time in the knowledge she hadn’t. She hurried to Clara’s room, attracting a scowl from the night nurse on the reception desk.
‘Ma’am, I told you already … visiting hours have ended.’ The nurse’s expression was practiced stern. ‘Hours ago.’
‘Has Clara’s son been back?’
‘He left about a half-hour ago. Mrs Chatard has been disturbed enough for one evening …’
‘I’m sorry.’ The light inside Clara’s room had been turned off, and the blinds drawn on the door. Clara was sleeping, as she recalled. Po hadn’t returned to his mother’s side, but she had never believed he had, only hoped. ‘I won’t bother you again.’
Passing through the lobby she ducked her head inside the men’s bathroom, calling Po’s name, but it was deserted. She knew she was wasting time looking for him there, but she had to cover all the bases. She swept outside again, jogging towards where she’d last seen him near the exit gate. An unsmoked cigarette smouldered at the edge of the sidewalk. She looked both ways along the street, and even checked Po wasn’t strolling about in the parking lot of a machine-repair shop across the road – he was a mechanic by trade, and she didn’t put it past him to go for a poke around at the machinery on display in the forecourt. She rang his cell but he had switched it off.
She cursed him for being a stubborn fool, and after a second quick scan of the street in both directions turned and looked back at the hospital’s parking lot. She couldn’t see Po, and there was something else missing. The silver Toyota Camry XV50. She should have known!
The way the driver had stamped on the brake as he drove past should have warned her. He had recognized Po, and Po had recognized the threat he posed. Goddamnit if he hadn’t sent Tess inside for a coffee to get her out of harm’s way. The stupid, stupid man! Sometimes he infuriated her with his old-fashioned male chauvinism. Not that he looked at things in the same way; he came from the old school where chivalry towards the fairer sex was a given. If he weren’t so morally sincere about molly-coddling her she’d slap his face for being such a damned misogynist. If he appeared right now she would do just that, but only after hugging him out of relief.
She pulled out her cellphone.
Ringing him again would be pointless. He’d sidelined her and would ignore his phone even if it were switched on now. She called Pinky instead.
‘You’re not going to believe what that stubborn idiot has gone and done now!’ she said as soon as Pinky picked up.
‘Uh-oh. I dread to think, me.’
‘He’s left me standing …’
‘That I do believe. He does make a habit of disappearing, him.’
‘I think he took off on one of his damn solo missions,’ she went on, ‘the trouble is I don’t know who he has gone after first.’
‘Emilia hasn’t been home,’ Pinky said. ‘I’m on my way back to you now, pretty Tess.’
Usually when he used the affectionate term of endearment for her it gave her a gentle thrum of pleasure, but hearing him call her pretty now only rankled. Could a gay man be as misogynistic as the lout she’d fallen in love with? She didn’t challenge him on it; she knew he was only trying to calm her. ‘Please hurry, Pinky. You know that damn fool even better than I do. And I know he’s gone and stirred up trouble.’
‘I’m a few minutes out. Is there anything you can do to find him?’
‘I’ve tried phoning but he typically isn’t picking up. Damn him, Pinky, why is he always so stubborn?’
‘It’s that wooden head of his, it’s in Nicolas’s nature.’
‘Where the hell could he be?’ Tess regretted not demanding Zeke Menon’s phone number off Po earlier, but she had noted Darius Chatard’s. She should warn him what would happen if he harmed as much as a hair on Po’s head. She thought again about the silver Toyota Camry. Who had been driving it? Zeke Menon? Another of those he’d paid to watch for Emilia? If it were Menon he’d swapped out his wheels since earlier: she recalled the beaten-up pickup truck, the decal on its sides, and its registration number. ‘Pinky, I have to hang up.’
‘No worries. Be with you in no time.’
She called a contact in the DMV and within two minutes she’d confirmed the pickup was registered to a large construction company based in Louisiana, matching the details she recalled from the side of the truck. She had to check; what was to say Menon wasn’t driving a second-hand vehicle without removing the decal, or that he had stolen it, even switched out the plates?
A huge Chevrolet Tahoe roared along the one-way system towards her, its headlights flicking up and down. Under no doubt about who was driving, she stepped out, waved it down, and Pinky brought the SUV to a halt alongside her. She hopped in the front passenger seat.
‘Anything?’ Pinky’s eyes were wide, hopeful, reflecting the dim glow from the instrument panel.
‘It’s a long shot, but I think I might have an idea where we can find Zeke Menon. I’m betting if we find Zeke, we’ll find Po.’
‘Tell me where,’ Pinky said, already pulling away from the curb.
Tess brought up the web browser on her cell. ‘I’ll have the directions in moments. Hang on.’
‘You hang on,’ Pinky announced and the SUV surged onward.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Po was in a large SUV similar to Pinky’s. But unlike Tess, he was lying face down across the bench seat in the rear compartment, his hands cinched behind him with thick nylon rope. There was a sack over his head. It was an untenable position to be in, and that was discounting the fact that a man sat on his legs, holding him still, while another threatened him with a sawed-off shotgun. It was over-kill, considering he’d offered no resistance to his captors. He’d have happily sat up front, chatted pleasantly to the driver while he was escorted to whatever destination they had in mind: it was his intention to go there anyway and his kidnappers had only speeded up the process.
He was taking a stupid risk. But he wasn’t stupid, and understood the consequences. On any other occasion he would have fought tooth and nail, but when they’d swooped on him with tires screeching and dire promises made at the end of the shotgun, he’d merely flicked aside his unsmoked cigarette and held his empty hands out to his sides. One of them found the gun tucked in his belt and spirited it into his, before two of the three men from the SUV grasped him and bundled him towards it. The third
ensured he didn’t resist by jamming the gun in the small of his back. One of the two men from the silver Toyota Camry, having sped from the parking lot to offer support to the snatch team, wore a gloating expression before he spat in Po’s face. Watching the saliva dribble over Po’s mouth, who had no option for wiping it away, the spitter laughed nastily, and went as far as lifting a fist to punch home his hatred.
On a main road outside a hospital wasn’t the ideal place to deliver swift justice, and the man stepped out of the way so Po could be thrown across the back seat. One of the men clambered in on top of him, pulling the evil-smelling sack over Po’s head then yanking his arms behind his back so he could loop the rope around his wrists. Taunts and curses were directed at Po from all three who got back in the SUV, and he took a couple of hard digs in his kidneys from the one in charge of his immobility. He took the blows stoically, pleased that Tess wasn’t along and being similarly roughed up.
As soon as he’d spotted the driver of the Toyota, when the man had injudiciously stamped the brake in disbelief, his immediate future was set. He had remained calm, allowing the driver time to make his preparations. He had given Tess no reason to suspect what was on his mind, so that when he suggested she head inside to warm up and grab a hot drink it would sound agreeable. His timing had been close, because Tess had no sooner disappeared within the hospital lobby, and he had turned off his phone and lit up another cigarette to add to his nonchalant, unsuspecting pose, than the SUV had coursed along the road towards him, and the Toyota had zoomed from the parking lot in a pincer move. Tess wasn’t going to be happy when she learned of his subterfuge, but he’d take the ear-bashing gladly, it was nothing compared to what might happen if he couldn’t convince his abductors of a course of action other than slowly beating him to death.
He hoped she wouldn’t go and do something stupid when she found him missing. She’d assume a lot, probably come to the wrong conclusions. The last he wanted was for her to follow her old instincts and think that the cops could sort out everyone’s problems. The inhabitants of his world didn’t obey the laws of the land, but were governed by ancient ones akin to medieval feudal rule and Old Testament justice.
He didn’t bother asking where he was being taken, just kept his peace and tried to control his breathing through his mouth so he didn’t retch on the stench of the sack.
His abductors’ mood changed to disbelief at their luck, and then celebration. They still cursed, but now it was to colour their triumph and the lurid pictures they painted of Po’s future. Speaking to them was now off the cards, because he’d nothing to say to minions. He’d save his breath for the bosses. The Toyota would be following them, with its driver and front-seat passenger. Five men in total to take him, but there’d be more where he was going.
Of course he could have made a miscalculation concerning numbers, and where he was being transported. If these punks had instructions to take him out into the swamp and execute him then he was supremely fucked. He’d fight back then, but with his arms tied behind him and a sack blinding him he didn’t credit his chances. Perhaps he should have given Tess and Pinky a heads up after all. No. He couldn’t think that way. He had to be confident that the men who’d ordered his capture also wanted to be in on his punishment. Stay positive. He actually grunted in mirth at the inanity of his warning. And took another punch in his kidneys for what was perceived as resistance.
Whatever the future brought, whatever his fate, he wouldn’t end things until he’d paid back some of the delight his rough captor took in beating him.
Time passed achingly as he was transported from alongside Bayou Teche to the hinterlands surrounding the Port of New Iberia. As the crow flew it was no great distance, but the drivers of both the SUV and Toyota took things easy, obeying the posted speed limits and traffic lights. There would be NIPD patrol cars on the road and nobody, including Po, wanted to be pulled over while a captive was trussed in the back of the SUV; that would spoil everyone’s plans. Finally he sensed the terrain change beneath the wheels of the SUV, from smooth asphalt to a rutted gravel trail. Small pebbles rattled off the undercarriage as the SUV crept forward. Finally he felt the front rise up, and a moment later the rear wheels completed the manoeuver and the car rolled to a slow stop on some kind of platform.
The engine shut off, and his back-seat companion grasped the sack, bunching a handful at the back and yanking up Po’s head. ‘Give me any trouble, bra, and you’re history. Don’t forget, you got a twelve-gauge aimed at your ass.’
The evil-smelling sack rubbed at Po’s features, tugged at his hair. He didn’t reply; the sooner he was outside and the bag removed the better. As the door was thrown open, he heard the Toyota prowl by before coming to a squeaking stop. Doors were thrown open. Boots scuffed on decaying concrete. Men’s voices began calling back and forth, some from a little distance away. Po was manhandled out of the SUV, and forced to one side. A boot to the back of his knees folded him with a groan to the concrete. Shards of perished concrete jabbed his knees.
Po struggled up again.
‘Get on your fuckin’ knees!’ the man controlling him barked.
‘Have your buddy pull that trigger,’ Po snapped in response, ‘I’m kneeling for nobody.’
‘On your knees …’
Po stood straight, resisting the hands that tried to force him down. A fist pummelled his gut, landing squarely where he’d been stabbed not so long ago. He wheezed, bent as his abdominal muscles contracted but then forced himself upright again.
‘You and me, asshole,’ Po hissed to the man holding him, ‘are going to have words after this.’
‘Ha! Try saying that again when you’ve no teeth left in your face.’
Again he was forced to one knee, but he struggled against his captors, and made it upright. He was pushing his luck, but if they intended shooting him they’d do it whether he was on his knees or not. He preferred not to give them the satisfaction of seeing him debased. His over-exuberant captor punched him in the lower back again. ‘Kneel down, or I swear you’ll be pissing blood!’
‘That’s enough, Rocco,’ growled another voice. ‘Let him stand, and get dat sack off his head. I want to look d’ fucker in his eyes.’
The man’s command was obeyed instantly.
The sack was yanked backwards, the bottom pulling and scraping at Po’s lips and nose, leaving his skin raw. His vision was bleary with tears. He blinked hard as he sucked in fresh air. Not so fresh: the atmosphere was pungent with rotting vegetation and diesel fumes. Finally he squared up and faced the thickset figure standing ten feet away. In his peripheral he counted six figures milling close by. Another two men stood behind the leader like personal bodyguards. Po ignored everyone else.
‘Hello, Darius,’ he said.
‘Been a long time,’ Darius replied.
‘Should’ve been longer. I didn’t come here for you.’
‘I know why you’re here. Dat mother of yours, I never could control her, even wheezing out her last breaths she’s still a wilful bitch.’
Po didn’t reply. He studied the two men looming behind Darius, watching their expressions as their father maligned their mother’s character. They didn’t like Clara being badmouthed, but not at the expense of challenging their father. He hadn’t laid eyes on either man in years, but recognized them as Francis and Leon Chatard, the two surviving brothers of the men he’d killed. The driver of the Toyota Camry, who’d spat in Po’s face earlier, and who was now standing to Po’s left, was their cousin Jean Chatard. When Jean had arrived at the hospital, no doubt on some errand at Darius’s request, and spotted Po standing by the entrance gate, he must have almost messed his pants in surprise. He’d stamped the brakes, and blinked in open-mouthed recognition. The instant Po got a look at that face he’d planned his reunion with the Chatard clan.
‘You’ve got steel balls showing your face roun’ here,’ Darius said. He nodded his large, square head in respect of Po’s bravery, but Po didn’t buy the sincerity
in the gesture.
‘You expected I wouldn’t come?’ Po asked.
‘I had you down for a coward. I thought you’d keep hiding your face for d’ rest of your life. You should have.’
Po checked out the men gathered around him. They were standing on a platform alongside the sluggish water of a coulee. Parallel metal rails had been sunk into the poured concrete. It was a jetty, but it hadn’t been used for a very long time. Across the water there were a number of industrial buildings, all deserted this late in the evening. Nearby lights flooded over the top of the treetops, casting a sickly yellow pall on the low-lying clouds. He could hear the distant sound of traffic passing along a highway. He was encircled by his enemies and in a location removed far enough from potential witnesses so that any screams for help wouldn’t be heard. Not that Po would ever scream for help.
‘There’s nine of you,’ Po pointed out. ‘Who are the cowards?’
Darius smiled grimly. ‘There’s nine of us, yes. And each and every one owes you for what you did to their kin.’
Po had already assumed that most of the gang members were close relatives to the three standing directly in front. He didn’t know their faces, but then most of them would have hardly been born before he went to Angola. He eyed the one referred to as Rocco. For all Po knew he was the grown-up son of Roman or Lucas Chatard, the brothers he’d originally come into mortal conflict with. Then again, probably not: otherwise the level of punishment Rocco doled out during the car ride would have been worse, and delivered more passionately. Rocco was most likely a cousin’s boy. The young thug had learned his hatred.
Po nodded at Darius’s surviving sons.
‘I understand you guys having a beef with me, not so sure about any of these other punks. Whaddaya say we cut these ropes and we’ll sort things between us?’
Francis and Leon stirred aggressively. Darius held a palm back towards his sons. He took an extra step towards Po. ‘You don’t think I have a right to avenge my boys?’