24 Declassified: 07 - Storm Force

by David S. Jacobs

  Shelburne said sarcastically, "Now that we've all gotten acquainted, you mind telling me what you want so I can get back to business? I've got a club to run here."

  Buck Buttrick said, "Maybe not for long, Shelb."

  The fat man looked up, his expression suddenly haunted and hunted. There was a lot of fear in him. "What... what do you mean?"

  "The licensing board might take a dim view of all the goings-on here, all them murders and such."

  "I had nothing to do with them!" Shelburne all but shrieked. "I'm a simple club owner!"

  Dooley said, "He's just funnin' you, Shelb. Nobody figures you had any piece of this, 'cause you're a yellow belly. Now hush up for a minute."

  Francine snickered, a dirty laugh. Shelburne turned to her, demanding, "What's so funny?"

  "You," Francine said. "You should hear yourself. When you get excited, you start screeching like an old lady."

  Shelburne turned on her. "Shut your mouth, you... "

  "Yeah? Or what?" Francine was the type to rush into a confrontation, not back off from it. "What do you think you're going to do, fatso?"

  Buttrick said, "Can the chatter."

  Shelburne and Francine fell silent.

  Dooley turned to Jack and Pete. "Which one do you want to question first?"

  Jack indicated Shelburne. "Him."

  * * *

  While Jack was grilling Shelburne, Pete Malo and Floyd Dooley had a little private chat. Buttrick remained behind at the bar to keep an eye on Dorinda and Francine, to, as he put it, "make sure they don't put their heads together and cook up any stories."

  Pete said, "That was nice work you did on identifying Dixie Lee so quickly."

  "Shucks, that weren't nothing," Dooley said. "Lots of fellows on the force could have done that. Dixie's been around for a long time, with a long rap sheet."

  "I appreciate that you passed the word to me first."

  "What I do, I play the man. I know you, I know you got something on the ball, Pete, and I know that you know how to follow a hot lead when you got one.

  "I also know you know how to keep a secret instead of blabbing it around to all creation," Dooley added.

  He didn't have to come out and say what he and Pete both knew, namely that the streetwise CTU agent knew plenty about the deep-dyed corruption that lubricated the big-money machinery of the New Orleans infrastructure, including some shady doings that Dooley and his partner, Buck Buttrick, were involved with, and that Pete kept it strictly confidential.

  And why not? CTU wasn't a law enforcement agency, it was a counterterrorism operation dedicated to protecting the people of the United States from catastrophic acts of mass destruction hatched by the nation's enemies. If that mission required looking the other way when it came to the sideline rackets of a couple of crooked cops who'd proved to be valuable informants in the past, why, then, so be it.

  '"Sides, I figure you and your bunch will know what to do with it better than the rest of those clowns out there," Dooley said, gesturing toward the club's front windows, which looked out on the mass of investigators milling around the crime scene.

  "Look at 'em. Everybody's trying to get into the act. The District Attorney's got his special squad of investigators snooping around. The Mayor and the Governor have got their folks sticking their noses in. Then there's the parish Sheriff's Department; the State Police boys; the FBI; Homeland Security; the Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms revenuers; and who knows who else. They're all so busy stumbling over each other's feet that they wouldn't know what to do with a clue if it up and bit 'em on the ass," he said.

  Pete said, "Was Dixie wired into the local mob?" The New Orleans Mafia had been established early in the twentieth century, and was one of the most powerful branches of the national crime syndicate.

  "Hell, no," Dooley said, "though not for lack of trying. He was too political — that is, he was hip-deep in with the Klan and American Nazis and that sort. Supplying 'em with guns and bombs and whatnot. That brings down too much Federal heat, and that's one thing the Family don't need. Plus, them Ku Kluxers are down on the Catholics, and that don't sit right with them Mafia dons."

  "You know how things work in this town, so I'd be grateful for any light you can throw on Dixie and where he fits in with the Paz hit try."

  "Like I said, Pete, I made Dixie right off, but the rest of those jokers laid out on the street were strangers to me. They sure wasn't Mafia, I can tell you that. As to who they was, well, your guess is as good as mine. Probably better."

  Dooley added, "Word is, Paz is big in the drug trade. Could be a rival gang tried to wipe out the competition — but I'm just guessing now."

  "You've been a big help," Pete said. "What can I do for you?"

  Dooley pushed his fishing hat back on his head. "This ain't no city matter, it's something much bigger. Just you being involved tells me that. That makes it Federal and puts it way over my head. Still, there's a local angle involved. Anything you can say to make me and Buck look good with the Police Department or the Mayor's office, put in a good word for us and say how we're cooperating, come up with some helpful clues, you know the routine, well, I'd surely appreciate it."

  "Consider it done," Pete said. "And if you come up with anything else, you know where to reach me."

  "Right now, you know what I know. Me and Buck'll keep our eyes and ears open. Anything comes up, we'll see that it gets to you in quick time."

  Dooley frowned, shaking his head. "Thing like this, a mass killing on Bourbon Street, it's bad for business."

  * * *

  Where to take Shelburne for questioning? The manager had a private office in the back of the club, but Jack nixed that. Chances were that it might be bugged by the city's Vice Squad or some other law enforcement agency. The side rooms off the main floor, where patrons could go with the performers for private dances and whatnot, were also ruled out, for the reason that an operator like Shelburne was likely to have them outfitted with hidden video cameras to pick up some blackmail material.

  Jack wound up taking Shelburne off to one side of the main floor, to an alcove where a pillar blocked the view of the stage. A table with bad sightlines was undesirable, a spot to be relegated to customers of no importance, and therefore least likely to be bugged or wired for sound. All the same, Jack looked under the table for evidence of eavesdropping devices, but found none.

  Grouped around the table were four rickety, wooden armless chairs with woven cane bottom seats. Jack was doubtful that they could support the manager's massive weight, but Shelburne must have dealt with that problem before, because he came up with a ready-made solution. He pushed two chairs together and sat down on them with one meaty buttock perched on each chair.

  Jack sat across the table from him. Shelburne said, "Why're you picking on me? I didn't do nothing. I'm a legitimate businessman. I've got no more to do with those killings than the man in the moon."

  Jack said, "Vikki Valence works for you. She lives upstairs over the club. Her boyfriend was attacked outside your place in an ambush that left seven dead. Vikki's gone, disappeared. You're involved, all right."

  Shelburne squirmed in his seat, the chairs creaking beneath him. "Sure, I rented the apartment to Vikki. Why not? It's standard business practice, see? It's a tradeoff. She gets a knockdown on the rent and the club gets a knockdown on her fee. She's a headliner and headliners are costly. It's the star system. It's a perk. If she don't get it from me, well, there's plenty of other clubs in the Quarter who'll give it to her."

  He bobbed his melon-sized head in the direction of the two women seated at the bar. "Francine and Dorinda got a similar arrangement; they live upstairs, too. It's strictly business."

  Jack said, "How long was Vikki going out with Paz?"

  Shelburne shook his head, agitating his triple chins. "Hey, I'm not responsible for what the talent does during their off hours. These are healthy young women with normal physical appetites. What they do in their private lives is none of my business."


  Jack, flat-eyed, looked at Shelburne until he was squirming again. He repeated his question. "How long was Vikki going out with Paz?"

  "Coupla' months," Shelburne said.

  "She have any other men friends?"

  "She had her admirers, sure. All our dancers do. But she wasn't here long enough to pick up any steadies, because Paz moved in on her the first week she opened at the club. And there were no others after she took up with him. He liked to show her off, as arm candy. So everybody could see what a big shot he was, keeping company with a hottie like that. He liked to be seen with her, but he didn't want anyone else getting close to her. He's the jealous type.

  "Besides, with the money and jewelry he was throwing at her, she didn't need no other sugar daddy. Why spoil a good thing?"

  Shelburne was opening up. Jack soon learned the following:

  Paz first started coming to the club in the spring. He'd gone out with several of the other dancers, including, most notably, Dorinda. In Shelburne's lexicon, "gone out" and "dating" were euphemisms for the same thing: having sex. Vikki started working at the club in late June. She was booked into the venue for the entire summer. When she hit the stage of the Golden Pole to do her star turn, Paz liked what he saw. He was smitten. He gave her the big rush, the full-court press, courting her with flowers and gifts of expensive jewelry, lingerie and the like. She and Paz hooked up in late June and had been an item ever since.

  "It was a sweet deal for me," Shelburne said. "Paz spent a lot of money in the club, a bundle! He brought back the good times, money wise. He brought in a lot of other business, too, friends of his."

  Jack said, "Who? We'll want their names."

  Shelburne made a face. "Names? Who knows names? Every night we're packed to the rafters with customers, hundreds of 'em. Does a theater manager know the names of everybody who buys a ticket to a show?"

  "Try."

  Shelburne frowned heavily, as if to show that for him, remembering was hard work. "They were Latino dudes, that's all I know. Maybe they were from Venezuela, like him. I don't know, I don't speak the lingo. What I do know is that they were dough-heavy, too, and didn't mind spreading it around."

  Jack said, "What about the other dancers? Any friends there that she might have contacted, gone to for help?"

  "I don't mix in the dancers' personal lives, so I wouldn't know," Shelburne said. "But remember, Vikki was a headliner. A star. A real prima donna. She kept to herself, not buddying up much. Paz liked it that way."

  * * *

  Jack questioned Dorinda next, while in another corner of the club, Pete went to work on Shelburne, grilling him to see what else might be pried loose from the manager.

  Dorinda was second-billed on the club roster, right below Vikki.

  She was restless, fidgety, in constant motion. Not out of anxiety about the massacre, or at being questioned, but mostly because she was the type who couldn't sit still for a minute and always had to be doing something. That's how Jack read it. She might have had a drug habit of some kind, too, that was affecting her.

  She kept running her fingers through her hair, pushing it away from her face, only to have the same strands keep falling back over her eyes whenever she moved her head.

  She wore lots of gold bracelets that clinked and jingled as she moved. She chain-smoked filtered cigarettes and sipped from a plastic bottle of water throughout the interview.

  Jack said, "What do you know about the shooting this morning?"

  "Nothing. Not a thing," she said. "I was asleep when it happened. The shots woke me up. I got out of bed and lay on the floor until the shooting stopped.

  I waited a couple of minutes before looking out the window and saw a bunch of dead guys in the street. I waited in my room for the cops to show up. That's all I know."

  "So you didn't see Vikki Valence run away?"

  "No, but I'm not surprised she's in the middle of this," Dorinda said, adding under her breath, "the little tramp."

  "You don't like her much," Jack said, working the obvious.

  Dorinda said, "I'm not in her fan club, if that's what you mean. Simply put, she's a conniving little bitch. I knew she was going to get Marty into a mess of trouble sooner or later."

  "Marty? You mean Colonel Paz?"

  "Who else? Martello, that's his real name, but I called him Marty. He seemed to like it."

  "You and he were friends."

  "You could say that. Good friends, very good friends, if you catch my drift."

  Dorinda's long, narrow green eyes took on an inward look, remembering. "I had Marty first," she said. "Had him from the moment he first came into the club and saw me."

  Jack said, "When was that?"

  "Back in the spring, around April."

  "You and Paz were together for how long?"

  "Couple of months, until the end of June. I cut him loose."

  Jack said, "You broke up with him."

  "That's right," Dorinda said, eyes narrowing. "Men don't leave me, I leave them. Why? What'd you hear? Has that fat bastard Shelb been talking out of turn?"

  Jack said, "Why'd you break up with Paz?"

  Dorinda said, "It wasn't working. He was just too jealous. It's that hot Latin blood, I guess. Once we were together, he didn't want me seeing any other men. Or even talking to them. Which isn't possible in this line of work, being a dancer, I mean. The job requires that we get along with the customers, be sociable, you know, to build goodwill and whatnot.

  "When you're a star like me, you don't have to mingle much, not like the gals at the bottom of the bill, but even then, sometimes there's some guy who wants you to have a drink with him at his table, and it's easier to go along than to say no and make a big deal of it. A lot of heavy hitters come in here, powerful and important men, the real gentry, and you can't risk a shutdown because the invite you refused came from somebody high in City Hall or something. Marty didn't like that so well, even after I explained it to him a thousand times. He got used to it, but he didn't like it."

  Jack said, "I understand he had a hot temper."

  "Not with me," Dorinda said, "except once or twice when we had a few misunderstandings. As couples do. But he was a real gentleman. He never hit me. He could be scary when he got mad, though, his face would swell up and his eyes would turn all red. You've heard the expression, that somebody 'sees red'? I always thought it was just a saying. But when he gets mad, Marty's eyes, the whites of them, really do turn red. You knew he was nobody to mess with when he got in one of those moods.

  "But they blew away fast, and most of the time he was — I wouldn't say a real nice guy. But he was decent enough," she said.

  Jack changed the subject. "What about his bodyguards?"

  Dorinda said, "What about them?"

  "What were they like? Did you get along with them?"

  She laughed, a harsh cawing sound. "Sure, I got along with them. I'm the easygoing type. I get along with most everyone, especially men. Men like me, I wonder why?"

  She made a show of stretching and yawning: lacing the fingers of both hands over her head, arching her back, and thrusting her breasts forward, so that they threatened to break loose from her low-cut blouse.

  Jack asked, "Talk to them much?"

  "Nah. A little, mostly hello-goodbye, how you doing. The two main ones I knew were Aldo and Espy — Espinosa, that is. He was killed, huh?"

  "They both were."

  "Too bad about Espy, he was a good-looking guy. What a waste of prime beef."

  Jack said, "Did Paz have any enemies?"

  Dorinda laughed again, that harsh cawing sound. "He must've, considering the trouble they went to try and kill him."

  "Any that you know of, that he mentioned to you."

  "Enemies? Yeah — you guys. That is, guys like you, cops. Cops and government guys. Marty was always going off about the government. Ours, that is, not his. The U.S. He kept sounding off about the FBI and the CIA, two of his pet peeves, and how they were always trying to bug him
and follow him, and how they were the tools of the rich in this country and they only wanted to take back Venezuela from the revolution so they could go back to stealing the oil like they'd been doing before his crowd got in, and so on and so forth, and all that kind of crap. I didn't listen when he'd start spouting off; he could go on like that for hours."

  Jack said, "Any other enemies. Apart from the government, that is. Any personal rivals, men he'd crossed in love or business?"

  Dorinda shook her head. "Marty didn't talk about his business with me. He's one of those macho types who thinks a woman has no business being in business. But he had bodyguards with him all the time — well, not quite all the time, if you know what I mean. In bed," she added, just in case Jack didn't know what she meant.

  "So he must have had enemies, or he wouldn't have had bodyguards with him all the time," she went on. "And I guess he was right, because somebody did try to kill him after all."

  Jack asked, "What about friends? Did he have any of them?"

  Dorinda's green cat eyes widened, then narrowed. In calculation. And malice.

  "I know one!" she said. "Raoul — Raoul Garros."

  Jack knew who Garros was, all right. CTU's GCR Center had a file on him, a big one. He said mildly, as if the matter was of little interest to him, "Raoul Garros? I believe I've heard that name. He's that big Venezuelan oilman, the one that's in the papers?"

  "The very same," Dorinda said. "He and Marty were thick as thieves for a while. In fact, Raoul first brought Marty into the club."

  Jack silently noted her familiar use of Garros's first name. "An odd couple. Paz is a roughneck and Garros seems like a smoothie. From what I read about him in the papers."

  "Smooth? Slippery, that's the word you're looking for," Dorinda said, with no small bitterness of voice and expression. "Or oily, that's even better. Yeah, oily. That describes Raoul to a T."

  "Sounds like you don't like him."

  Dorinda's face was a porcelain mask, flawless, unlined, expressionless. Only the eyes were alive. Green eyes. Glittering, though, not sparkling. "Raoul? I don't like him or dislike him. I don't think about him. He's nothing to me. Less than nothing."