by Don Bruns
TWENTY
It took twenty minutes until he’d crossed the bridge into Algiers. Passing emergency vehicles and law enforcement vehicles going both ways, he thought about the preparation for the rest of the day and this evening. He’d had basic training in riot control, but this was above his pay station. A riot on this scale was frightening. The morning hours seemed much safer.
To his knowledge, no one had been killed. The police had used intimidation, instructing National Guard and State Troopers to let things work themselves out. So far, so good.
If there was an arrest for every infraction, there would have been thousands of people in jail, more than the facilities could handle. In a riot situation, you let the small crimes go. The insurgents throwing rocks, let them throw. The ones tossing bricks at police cars, move on. If they toss a homemade bomb, brandish a gun, those are the ones you want to stop. And if you see a harmless individual with a tattoo around his neck, it just wouldn’t seem that important until later in the night.
There were people trying to kill you during a riot and you had to act somewhat passive, which went against anything you ever were taught. He wasn’t upset at all that the officer who saw the necklace tattoo didn’t register at first. Saving your life and trying to keep a semblance of peace far outweighed reporting a ‘sighting.’ Except it would have been nice to have a suspect in confinement. As of now, there was no one.
Archer keyed in the Fox Glass address and followed the voice prompts. In another ten minutes, he was there. The brick building was long and low, a one-story structure that appeared to have been a warehouse at some time in its history. The pitted, cracked asphalt parking lot was sparsely populated, only seven cars, a pickup truck and two delivery vans. The large lot could have handled fifty automobiles and trucks easily.
He pulled up by the entrance, next to a white van sporting a cartoon of a smiling brown fox. Stepping from the Honda, he heard a garage door opening further down and two men came walking out, carrying what appeared to be a large, plate-glass window. The glass was covered in brown paper and tape. The van door slid open, and they slipped the window inside.
He walked to the entrance door where the same cartoon fox leered at him from the etched glass.
Inside there was an attempt to make a customer feel comfortable. A worn couch and two faux-leather chairs decorated the lobby. Photos of modern bathrooms with glass-block showers and pictures of elaborate entranceways hung on the walls. You could dream of what your remodeled home would look like. He walked across a soiled gray carpet to the reception desk where an older, gray-haired lady sat bent over her computer. She never once looked up. Archer thought she might be asleep or dead but she occasionally snorted. He’d never heard a dead person snort.
‘Excuse me.’
She never raised her eyes.
‘Just a minute, hon. I’m a little busy at the moment.’
He waited for a minute, standing there watching her drooping eyes gazing at the screen.
‘Ma’am?’
‘Not right now, Sonny. Give me a minute.’
Maybe she was playing on-line poker or Candy Crush.
‘I would like to talk to Matt Fox.’
Finally she raised her head and studied him for a moment.
‘Matty? You want to talk to Matty? What do you want? Is there a problem with a project? Delivery? Installation? Just tell me. I’ll route it through the proper channels.’
‘No, there’s no problem.’
‘Then what do you want with Matty?’
Archer pulled the trump card clipped to his belt and held up his gold-plated detective shield.
‘NOPD, ma’am. I’m just here to ask Mr Fox some questions.’
‘Police?’ She seemed to come alive.
‘Just a couple of questions,’ he said.
‘Is he expecting you?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Archer smiled. Ever since he’d met Solange he wasn’t always sure that people weren’t aware of more than he gave them credit for. Maybe this guy had a premonition that a police officer was going to question him. You never knew.
‘Well, I’m quite certain he’s busy, Mr—?’
‘Detective,’ he said. ‘Detective Quentin Archer.’ He laid heavily on the word detective.
‘I’ll check.’ She stood up and stepped out of the area through sliding glass doors. Archer stood and watched as she walked through what appeared to be the factory. Someone with thick safety glasses and gloves was running a high-speed saw, cutting one pane of glass into two. Two men in the rear wearing identical glasses and gloves worked three long tables, buffering, polishing or sanding plates of glass. As the hand-held machines ran along the edges of the glass, a cloud of particles filled the air.
The gray-haired lady approached one of the sanders, and he nodded, shutting down his machine. Lifting his safety glasses, he walked up the room to the reception door.
Archer stood there to greet him.
‘Detective Archer?’
‘Matt Fox?’
‘You sound surprised.’
The young man who stood before him couldn’t be more than thirty, probably younger. It was impossible that this was the Matt Fox who hired Johnny Leroy. Totally impossible.
‘I expected …’
He chuckled. ‘You expected my father. It happens all the time, Detective. I should have changed my name years ago, but being a Jr. does have some privileges. Dad has a great reputation, and I get a better table when I call a restaurant using that name. And you know, in New Orleans, restaurant reservations are a great perk. Plus, there are other benefits. The longevity of this company depends on Dad’s reputation. It’s an interesting phenomenon. So …’
‘So your father is no longer …’
‘Alive? Or do you mean associated with the business?’ He finished Archer’s question.
‘Yeah.’
‘Quite the contrary on both accounts. Dad still runs things from the business side. I own the company but I keep him on. He’s great with the details, the finances and operations, and I stay on the floor. Just works better this way. He is a very savvy businessman. Saved this company a number of years ago when we were going broke.’
The whirring and zinging sound of the saws and sanders leaked through the doors and continued the assault on Archer’s ears.
‘What brings you here? Is it the rioting? We’re just a few blocks down from where that activity was last night. I’m sure you know that,’ Fox said. ‘We’ve had no damage, no threats so we’re hopeful that will continue. I thought about hiring a security guard but I don’t know that a lone guard could—’
‘No, I’m not here about the riots.’ Archer smiled. ‘I’m glad things were peaceful here last night and I sincerely hope you are safe tonight, but I’m here to ask your father about a security guard your company hired twenty-six or so years ago. Johnny Leroy.’
Fox looked surprised. ‘Twenty-six years ago?’ He seemed genuinely astounded. ‘I was two years old so I’m obviously not going to be much help.’
Archer nodded, understanding the absurdity of the situation. ‘Is there a chance I can talk to your father?’
‘He works from home,’ Fox said. ‘Sets his own hours. He only shows up here when there’s a big order.’
‘He lives near here?’
‘Oh, God no. Dad wouldn’t live in Algiers. After what happened last night I’m surprised anyone lives in this community. The reason we’re still here as a business is because this building is paid for. It’s an old ammunition storage building, and he bought it for next to nothing over thirty years ago. We’ve been in business for over forty years, here in Algiers for thirty-one.’
‘And you?’
The young man shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t live here either. We both have homes in the Garden District.’
‘So, if I wanted to talk to Dad …’
‘I’ll give you his address. I’m sure he’ll talk to you. If I call him, what should I say this is in reference to? A security guard?’
> ‘A cop who was killed a couple of days ago.’
‘Oh, Jeez. I heard about that, sure.’ He brushed his gloves together and fine particles of glass drifted to the floor.
‘He worked for your father before becoming NOPD.’
‘No kidding? I hadn’t heard.’
‘Security guard, worked evenings.’
‘Mmmm. You’d think Dad would have mentioned that.’
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘Still …’ the young man pulled out a business card and scribbled an address on the back. ‘This is where he lives. He’s usually home. Has a bad back and knees so he doesn’t get out much. I’m sure he’ll give you all the information you need. If I can help in any way …’
‘Thanks,’ Archer said.
‘And, Detective …’
‘Yes?’
‘If you ever need glass work, even a small bathroom mirror, call that phone number. I’ll get you a really good discount and remember, we do quality work. There are a lot of glass companies in this town, but ask anyone. We’re the best. You won’t be sorry.’
Walking to his car, Archer wondered why Matt the elder never mentioned Johnny Leroy to his son. Two days ago, the officer’s death was the talk of New Orleans, and Matt Fox had been one of his first employers.
TWENTY-ONE
The glass business had been good to Matt Sr. His huge white house sat comfortably on a well-manicured, spacious corner lot, its wrap-around porch allowing a wide view of the neighborhood. Archer could see Adirondack chairs and wooden swings hanging from steel chains that adorned the deck as he walked up the flagstone walk from the driveway. He climbed five steps and landed on the spacious porch, a strong reminder of what Southern hospitality must have been like several generations ago.
The solid oak door was answered by a black man in a white jacket and Archer thought he must have stepped back in time.
‘I’m here to see Matt Fox.’ He flashed the badge. ‘Detective Quentin Archer.’ You never mentioned homicide unless it was mandatory. Scared the hell out of most people. Detective was enough to send shivers down their spine.
‘He’s expecting you, sir.’ He motioned to a chair on the porch. ‘He’ll see you out here.’
Archer nodded, sitting in the wooden chair. Matty had apparently called ahead as he had said he might. Staring out at the sprawling lawn he admired the four deep-South oaks that shaded the yard, with Spanish moss hanging from their far-reaching limbs. The rich green emerald grass rivaled whatever imagery L. Frank Baum had conjured up in The Wizard Of Oz.
‘Detective Archer.’ A wizened man, stooped and small, stepped out of the door grasping a gnarled wooden cane and he reached out his other hand, whether to shake Archer’s or steady himself Archer wasn’t sure. ‘Matty said you’d stopped by the shop and you wanted to talk. Something about a security issue. Now what is it you want from me?’
He gingerly sat down in the chair next to Archer.
‘Thank you for seeing me, Mr Fox.’
The black man in the jacket appeared with a tray, two glasses, and a plate of small white cookies.
‘I took the liberty of having Oscar fix some lemonade. If you like, I can have him pour a little vodka in yours?’
‘No, no thanks. It’s a little early in the day for me, but I appreciate the lemonade. It’s a hot day.’
‘It is,’ Fox said.
‘Mr Fox, I’m certain you heard that Officer John Leroy was killed in Bayou St John two days ago.’
The man just nodded and took a sip of his drink. Archer felt certain there was vodka in that drink.
‘I’m doing some investigating into the officer’s background and of course your name and company came up.’
‘Quite a few years ago, Detective.’
‘Yes, but he did work for your company for at least a year.’
‘Sir, that company, Fox Glass, has been in my family for over forty years. A lot of people have come and gone. Of course I remember he worked there. Somebody on my staff reminded me of that fact immediately, but understand, he was employed by a private security company. Not by me. And he worked a night shift when I was home, in bed. So, security officer Leroy was not someone that I knew well. In fact, I’m not certain that I ever met him. A long time ago. I just remember that he worked his shift.’
Archer took a swig of the tart lemonade. He wasn’t sure what it was he expected to learn, but it didn’t sound like he was going to find out much.
‘Mr Fox, Johnny Leroy was responsible for capturing two thieves who were ready to steal several pounds of gold leaf. Do you remember that incident?’
The old man shook his head. ‘I don’t recall.’
‘I was reading a news report about the attempted robbery, and you were interviewed. You told the reporter that Leroy had caught the suspects and wrapped them up in packing tape until the authorities arrived.’
‘I may have. I don’t remember. We do use tape to protect glass from breaking, so I suppose it’s possible.’
‘It sounds like Officer Leroy did a good job for you. If those guys had stolen the gold—’
‘Son, I don’t know what you want, but whatever it is, I don’t have it. I’m truly sorry I can’t help you. What I know is, he worked as an independent contractor. I’m pretty sure I never met the man and if I did, it was fleeting. I really don’t remember isolated incidents that happened that long ago.’
Archer nodded and set his drink on a small table. ‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time, sir.’
‘Should have had some vodka. Takes the edge off,’ Fox said.
He drove out of the paved driveway, watching the large manor house disappear in his rearview mirror. Different people lived different lives. Vastly different. He recalled the conversation with Levy where he told him he’d always wanted to be a cop. There was no other choice. But sometimes, he saw different choices he might have made. He saw other places he might have been. And he wondered. If he weren’t a cop, Denise would still be alive. Maybe he could have owned a company, made a small fortune and provided her a different life. If he weren’t a cop, maybe his family would still be a family. Just as crooked and dysfunctional, but still a family. It was a crapshoot, and you couldn’t replay what had already happened. He was constantly reminded, there were no second chances.
TWENTY-TWO
On the last day of André Brion’s life, he was holding up a liquor store. Everything had been peaceful and calm, the clerk telling him he wanted no trouble. He’d do whatever was necessary and Brion told him that all he had to do was clean out the register and everything would go just fine. Collar turned up, gun in his hand he was stoned cool.
‘Here’s everything I got,’ the young man said, handing a wad of cash from the drawer. ‘You can just walk away, man. It’s not my money, you know what I mean? Not goin’ to get shot over that.’
Brion shook his head. ‘Now, lest you think I’m stupid, there are some large bills under the tray.’ He pointed at the register. ‘You, you probably thought that since this is a robbery, I would overlook that possibility and you might just pocket those bills and tell the authorities that I took everything. Even the big bills under the tray. Is that a likelihood? Was that what you thought? That you might have a payday as well?’
The man started shaking. Point a gun at him and he was cool as a cucumber. Accuse him of larceny and he started to panic.
‘Just lift that tray and let’s see what we’ve got, OK?’
The clerk’s fingers trembled as he slowly lifted the tray and they both saw several hundred-dollar bills and several fifties.
‘Ah, you see. I was right. Please, don’t ever underestimate me.’ He shook his head and pointed his finger at the clueless clerk. ‘I’d guess another five hundred dollars,’ Brion said. ‘What do you think? Usually I’m pretty good at estimating a take. Would you count it for me?’ The gun never wavered, the index finger resting on the trigger.
Shaking as he flipped through the bills, the man laid them on th
e counter. Stepping back, he said, ‘Five hundred dollars, sir. Obviously, you were right. I am so sorry. I was a little flustered by the gun and your …’
‘Would have been a nice bonus for you and no one would have been wiser. Very nice try. However, since I’m the one putting everything on the line, you can see that the money should be mine. You can see that, can’t you? I think you’ll agree that I should be rewarded for the effort. I’ve got everything at risk. You, you’re a victim right now. Am I right?’
Tears were in the man’s eyes, his right hand on the counter was shaking uncontrollably.
‘Yes sir, you’re right sir. I’m the victim. Please don’t shoot me.’
‘I have no intention of shooting you.’ Brion drew back in surprise. ‘This gun is for show. I’m going to take,’ he started peeling off the bills, adding it to the cash the man had handed him, ‘four hundred dollars.’
‘Four hundred? But sir, there’s—’
‘You are no longer a victim, my friend.’ He smiled at him. ‘Now you are an accomplice. Put one hundred in your pocket as a bonus.’
The man looked into the black burglar’s eyes, then slipped a Ben Franklin into his pocket, nodding to Brion. Honor among thieves and all that stuff.
‘I’m thinking your description of the thief is a heavy-set black man with a backwards Green Bay Packer’s cap. He was shaky, carried a little derringer and seemed scared out of his mind. Can you handle that?’
‘I can do that.’
‘See that you do. Fat, Packer’s cap and a derringer. Frightened and shaky. Also, give me three minutes. Please remember, it’s you and me, brother. You are now an accomplice.’
‘I can do that too.’
‘OK. Spend your bonus wisely.’ He turned and headed for the door as a customer walked in, the bell hanging on the door ringing loudly.
Brion saw the sign hanging in front of the register.
To be 21 you must have been born November 25th of 1976. The man behind the counter seemed barely twenty-one, yet he was selling alcohol.
He stepped into the street, confident the man wouldn’t call anyone for at least three minutes. Change for the customer who walked in the door? That might be a problem since he’d made sure the register was stripped clean.