The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1)

by King, Leo

  Ernesto’s introduction finally got the attention of Marcello, who in turn waved the short man off, then turned to his dinner companion and said, “Doll, why don’t you wait in the car for me? I’ll be about thirty minutes.”

  “But, Giorgio, I haven’t finished my dinner!” whimpered the woman in a particularly spoiled-sounding voice.

  “She hasn’t finished her dinner,” replied Marcello with a chuckle, turning to some of his associates. “You guys hear this? She hasn’t finished her dinner!”

  The associates started chuckling as the woman folded her arms and huffed.

  Marcello, cutting another piece of steak, said, “Then take your damn dinner back to the limo, doll. Take the whole fucking bottle of wine, too, for all I care. Just get the fuck out of here.”

  Scowling at Marcello, the woman got up, looked over at the butler, and said, “Bring my plate, my glass, and the bottle, Robaire.”

  The butler nodded and replied, “Yes, madam.” He then placed all three articles onto a silver tray and followed the woman.

  “And take the elevator,” called out Marcello over his shoulder. “I don’t want you to break those five-hundred-dollar heels!”

  “Fuck you, Giorgio,” called back the woman as she left with the butler.

  With a shrug, Marcello looked over at Richie and said, “Seriously, I don’t know sometimes who runs this outfit—me, her, or my cock.” The man motioned toward the empty seat and said, “Take a seat, Mr. Fastellos. Let’s talk.”

  As Richie took a seat, Marcello asked, “Do you want something to eat?” He looked around and said, “Can someone get Mr. Fastellos something to eat? Maybe another steak, or some fried catfish?”

  As Richie was about to reply that he wasn’t hungry, Marcello looked at him and asked, “What do you all eat up in Pittsburgh, anyway? Cheesesteak?”

  Richie couldn’t help but chuckle, saying. “That’s Philadelphia, Mr. Marcello.”

  “Right,” Marcello replied with a chuckle of his own, and cut at his dinner, popping a juicy morsel into his mouth. As he chewed on it, one of the goons placed a plate in front of Richie with blackened catfish. A glass nearby was filled with white wine.

  Marcello motioned to the food and said, “Eat up. Drink up, too. Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned or anything.”

  Richie, who hadn’t even suspected poison, found himself not very hungry. Suddenly, he was very aware that he was sitting there with a New Orleans crime boss, from a bona-fide crime family, surrounded by cronies, in an isolated place where he couldn’t be heard.

  The situation reeked of murder.

  “If it’s all the same, Mr. Marcello,” replied Richie, looking at his host, “I’d really like to know why I’m here.”

  Giving a nod, Marcello said, “Just get to the point, eh? I can respect that kind of attitude, Mr. Fastellos.”

  Taking a long drink of his wine, Marcello sat back and began, “The truth, Mr. Fastellos, is that we’ve been watching you for a couple of days now, and we know what you’ve been up to in this fair city.”

  Richie found his lips tighten and his gaze narrow as it suddenly became apparent that Marcello wasn’t talking about the Lady in Red.

  Deliberately, he said, “What do you mean, Mr. Marcello?”

  Marcello waved his fork and knife around, saying, “I mean, that you’ve been cavorting with Miss Castille. You know, the Ripper’s granddaughter.”

  Richie’s gaze remained focused. “She has a name,” he replied dryly. “Samantha Castille. Or Sam, to her friends.”

  “She ain’t got no friends, Mr. Fastellos,” replied Marcello in conversational way. “And that’s how we like it. No friends. No outside influences. Nothing to bring out the evil that family committed.”

  Richie felt emotions bubble up inside of him. Strong emotions. Like with Aucoin, he imagined punching Marcello in the face until he had no more teeth.

  Gritting his own teeth, Richie hit the table and growled out, “What is wrong with everyone in this city? Why are people persecuting Sam over something her grandfather did twenty years ago? Why can’t you people just let it go?”

  Immediately, Richie regretted his actions. Anxiety started to bubble up inside him. Remembering that he was out of pills, Richie concentrated on pushing those feelings down. All he had to do was get through this meeting and get back to the hotel room.

  This outburst seemed to make everyone present grow more alert, with some of the goons who had been slouching straightening up. Even Ernesto, who moved forward with an outstretched finger, started to say something when Marcello waved him back. Placing both hands together, fingertips tapping against each other, Marcello looked right into Richie.

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” Marcello began. “I don’t have to explain shit to you, Mr. Fastellos. New Orleans is my fucking city, just like it was my grandfather’s. Now we do some shady shit, Mr. Fastellos, but that’s just business. But the Bourbon Street Ripper, well, that was just plain sick shit. If my grandfather, God rest his soul, had known what Vincent Castille was all about, there would have been no business partnership, no nothing. Money from the Castille fortune wasn’t that important to Grandfather.”

  “Business partnership?” asked Richie, the revelation of that catching him off guard. “Wait, your grandfather and Sam’s were business partners?”

  Marcello smirked, looking both smug and uncaring as he said, “Shit like that stupid nightclub. Grandfather and Vincent were, what do you call it, anachronistic and stuck in the fifties. I guess the club was just a way for them to hold on to the old times.”

  Richie blinked in confusion.

  Club? What club?

  “But that’s not why you’re here,” continued Marcello, swishing around his wine and sipping at it. “I just want to know how Miss Castille is pulling this off. That’s all.”

  “Pulling what off?” asked Richie, cocking his head to the side and peering at Marcello.

  Marcello again looked into Richie. “The murders, Mr. Fastellos. The murders.”

  Feeling himself bristle like a male protecting his female, Richie replied, “Sam is not the murderer, Mr. Marcello.”

  Sniffing at his wine, Mr. Marcello asked, “How can you be so sure?”

  Richie was getting tired of explaining things over and over again. “She was drunk the night of the last murder, and there’s no reason for her to incriminate herself by writing about the very thing she did. God, why is everyone so convinced that Sam is behind the murders?”

  Marcello started laughing, and some of his men soon joined in. The long laugh made Richie bristle up even more, and only when the mob boss seemed to calm down, did he say, “Oh, she’s behind the murders, Mr. Fastellos. I can promise you that. You see, the Castille bloodline is filled with evil. It started with Vincent, and it’s continued to Miss Castille. Only her father, who was a regular pain in the ass anyway, was innocent.”

  Richie wasn’t sure how Sam’s father fit in to this, but he was sure it was important.

  Richie’s ponderings were interrupted by Marcello saying, “Again, Mr. Fastellos, any idea how Miss Castille is doing it? Any information would be richly rewarded.”

  Richie frowned at that statement. If he could guess at how ruthless these kinds of people were, he was sure that they’d never leave Sam alone.

  I have to get out of here and warn her.

  Richie finally said, “Sorry, I honestly don’t know anything. I wish I could help out, but my dealings with Sam have been purely professional.”

  Eying him, Marcello asked, “Are you sure? Is that your final answer?”

  Folding his arms, Richie nodded. “Yes. I don’t know anything.”

  The look on Marcello’s face was one of pure disappointment. “That’s really a shame, Mr. Fastellos, because I was hoping to find a use for you.”

  Snapping his head toward Richie, Marcello went back to eating.

  Suddenly, Ernesto and the goons from the car were upon Richie, grabbing his arms and legs
and carrying him toward the balcony.

  “What the hell?” screamed Richie, his body suddenly going hot as his heart rate exploded. “What the hell are you doing, you lunatic?”

  “I can’t have you warning Sam that we’re on to her,” replied Marcello, casually cutting his steak into small chunks. “And as soon as we figure out how she does it, we’re gonna do her the way Vincent did that poor bitch Maple. So I’m afraid you’re gonna have to wait for her in hell, Mr. Fastellos.”

  “Are you out of your damn mind?” cried out Richie, flailing his arms and legs in an effort to get free. The goons held tightly on to him, and Ernesto, who was grinning sadistically, drew a switchblade out from underneath his coat.

  Richie, sweating bullets, anxiously called out, “You seriously are going to kill me because I couldn’t help you? Christ, you could just send me back to Pittsburgh! You could lock me in a room for a week! You could do anything to stop me from talking to her!”

  “Please don’t insult me,” replied Marcello as he sipped his wine, smacking his lips. “If I let you live, you’ll find a way to warn her. That’s how you guys think. With your dicks. Just die with some fucking dignity.”

  The goons carried Richie dangerously close to the edge of the balcony railing. One toss, and he’d end up swimming for his life in the mighty Mississippi. Trying to kick free, Richie called out, “You know the police are gonna come looking for me, Marcello! Don’t think they’ll notice a famous author missing?”

  “You aren’t all that,” replied Marcello. “You’re just a flash in the pan. In a few weeks, someone else will be a best seller, and you’ll be a memory in the newspapers. I was just gonna have you shot, but your whining’s pissed me off. Ernesto, carve this guy up and toss him over.”

  Marcello emptied his wineglass. “Good-bye, Mr. Fastellos.”

  Ernesto, flipping open the blade, called out to the goons. “Open his shirt.”

  Suddenly, Richie felt the rough hands of the goons rip open his shirt, and he cried out again as he struggled to get free. His heart and head pounded. His eyes were glazed, and every breath seemed to grow heavier and heavier. He thought that if he hadn’t left his pills at the library, he could have taken one and he’d be able to think clearly now. If only he could get to his medication.

  As he felt his shirt rip open, Richie could only think of how he’d never see Sam again. Deep inside of him, the thought of being kept away from her made every synapse in his brain start to fire off wildly. He became aware of every breath he was taking, every sensation around him.

  “Hold him steady,” called out Ernesto, as Richie felt the hot night air on his chest and stomach. “I don’t want to cut my fucking fingers. I said—”

  Richie never heard Ernesto finish his statement. The next time Richie looked up, he saw the short man flying over him and over the balcony, hurtling toward the river. Richie felt the goon holding his feet let go, and as his feet landed on the ground, he looked up and saw the same goon falling to the ground in a heap, his neck bent so hard that his spine protruded from the base.

  Richie then felt himself being pushed down, and was vaguely aware of someone in black ramming together the heads of the two goons holding his arms. Suddenly his arms were free, and Richie felt himself fall to the floor.

  Everything was happening so fast, yet all Richie could feel and hear was the pounding of his heart. The world seemed to be moving in slow motion.

  Looking up, he saw one of the goons falling back, his throat cut and crimson blood squirting out like in a movie, his jugular torn open. The sight of blood started Richie’s motor skills again, and he quickly scooted back. As he looked at the last goon remaining, the Jamaican named Damarco, he finally saw it—a person in a black hooded robe landing from a jump.

  Damarco reached into his coat, presumably for a gun, and the figure in black stabbed into the Jamaican’s abdomen with Ernesto’s switchblade and ripped upward. Damarco’s intestines almost immediately spilled out onto the balcony.

  Richie scooted back in terror, and then started to hear gunfire and screams from inside the Riverwalk. Looking inside, he saw more people in black hooded robes landing near him from the roof above and rushing in toward the goons inside, who were drawing their guns and firing. Instinctively, Richie rolled out of harm’s way as stray bullets sprayed past him.

  As he rolled onto his stomach, he suddenly felt warmth in his left hand. Looking down, he saw that the person in black who had saved him was pressing Ernesto’s switchblade into his hand.

  From underneath the hood, Richie only saw a dark mouth, which said, in a thick Creole voice, “Protect yourself.”

  Wide-eyed, Richie pushed himself up, his hands slipping on a puddle of Damarco’s blood. Falling down, the red junk splashing all over him, he could only watch as the people in black tore through Marcello’s goons with blades and bare hands.

  Some had their necks broken, some were used to absorb other goons’ bullets, and some were eviscerated. All around Richie, the screams of the dying mixed with the music of Johannes Brahms in a symphony of death.

  It was beautiful, in a horrific and blood-chilling way.

  Richie was aware that he had finally gotten up, the shock of what he was seeing still registering in his brain. Wading through the carnage, still holding the switchblade, Richie noticed how everything seemed so distant, so unreal.

  By the time he finally approached Marcello, the only one left alive, who had fallen back and was scooting away from everything, time had sped up back to normal, and Richie was aware that the people in black were behind him, moving in on the mob boss.

  “What the fuck?” screamed Marcello in a bloodcurdling panic, his blue eyes boggling. “This is fucking not happening! This is fucking not happening!”

  “Giorgio Marcello,” said a sultry voice from beside Richie. “You picked the wrong person to mess with.”

  Richie looked at the hooded figures, remembering the article he had read in the library. He turned, his eyes widening as he saw the Lady in Red beside him. Suddenly, everything made sense—her sudden interest in him, her warning, and most importantly, her being here right now.

  “Nite Priory,” Richie said, looking at the Lady in Red.

  The Lady in Red smiled with those pouty red lips and replied, “We can talk later, Richie. For now, what do we do with Blue-Eyed Marcello?”

  Richie looked back over at Marcello, his eyes narrowing murderously. He vaguely remembered the name from his research, but who Giorgio was didn’t matter to him. Here was a man who had threatened to kill Sam, and tried to kill him. Rationality and humanity were thrown out the window—Richie wanted revenge.

  “Fucking stop this shit,” cried out Marcello. “You fucking psychopath! You are… oh my fucking God, everyone is dead! What the fuck just happened?!?”

  Richie reared back and kicked Marcello right in the stomach, shouting down at him, “You could have just let me go, you stupid fuck! You brought this on yourself! Fuck you and your family!”

  Looking back at the Lady in Red, who was watching Richie dispassionately, Richie said, “Do whatever you want with him. Just make sure he can’t hurt Sam.”

  The Lady in Red nodded at Richie and then motioned toward Marcello. “Carve him.”

  “You’re fucking insane,” cried out Marcello, as three of the hooded figures moved in. “Fucking insane!”

  Richie turned away. As angry as he was at Marcello for trying to kill him and Sam, he didn’t want to watch a human being murdered that way.

  An hour later, Richie sat at the stairs leading down to the bottom floor of the Riverwalk. His blood-covered clothes were, for the most part, gone, taken by one of the people in black, and he was wearing a spare janitorial uniform given to him—most likely from the employee locker room. The blood and bodies had been cleaned up, every corpse tossed into the river. Richie’s heart rate had returned to normal, but his head still pounded. Everything seemed completely unreal, like he was walking in a dream.

  Ri
chie was sure he was suffering from shock.

  “Coffee?” asked a sultry voice above him. Richie turned up to see the Lady in Red holding a cup of coffee out to him.

  “Thanks,” replied Richie, taking the cup and sipping it. It was warm. It was real. In the muddy waters of this insane dream he had been dumped into, along with this mysterious Lady in Red, that coffee was real.

  “Giorgio deserved the death he finally got,” said the Lady in Red, looking away from Richie. “The slime has been a serial rapist since the seventies. We just needed a reason to go after him and his people.”

  Richie nodded in understanding. He was beginning to realize what he had gotten himself into, and he wanted answers. Standing up, he turned to the Lady in Red and asked, “Who are you? Who are you all?”

  The Lady just smiled, tapping Richie’s lips. “You already know the answer to that, Richie. You just need to find out why we’re here.”

  Again, Richie said, “Nite Priory.”

  The Lady in Red just smiled and walked down the stairs.

  Quickly, Richie followed her. “But why? Why are you all committing these murders? Why are you framing Sam?”

  “Is that what you think, that we’re a group of serial killers?” asked the Lady in Red, stopping to motion to a person in a black robe, who had just finished mopping up the blood from the bottom floor, to go upstairs. She then turned to another two people in black, who were disposing of the bodies of the janitors and security guard, and nodded in approval. “Because if it is, that’s a hell of a way to thank me for saving your life.”

  Richie suddenly felt embarrassed, and his headache didn’t make him feel any better. Hurrying after her, he said, “Wait!”

  When the Lady in Red stopped, Richie quickly cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. It’s just that… those notes. I mean, the police think—”