Beer, Bait, and Ammo

by Harper, Chap

  “Jim, the story of the club wanting the machine guns to rent may not be true, but Jesus, it sounds so damn believable,” Lester said.

  “Gun clubs all over the South do this because they know how to do the paperwork. They set up old cars and refrigerators and blow them all to hell. Women, teenagers, little fucking kids—all shooting machine guns. Redneck heaven! I researched it, and most do charge about sixty-five an hour for that kind of shoot. Imagine, ten people lined up—six hundred fifty dollars an hour plus the profit on ammo sales. Shit, I might open a range! Also, they do jungle walks where you go down a trail and shoot full automatic with AK-47s at pop-up targets. The Hot Springs club doesn’t do it, probably because they don’t know how to get started. They’d be crazy not to do it. Oh, another thing: most of the clubs buy their machine guns from Tony—he’s the biggest buyer and seller of fully automatic weapons in the United States. He really doesn’t need to sell the illegal stuff, but the ‘families’ have a need, and he is family,” Jim explained.

  “Jim, do me a favor.”

  “What’s that, Lester?”

  “Put a call in to the club president Monte Hart at American Guns, and tell him if anyone calls about a deal to buy automatic weapons for the club that his attorney for the club is working on it and he didn’t know the particulars. Give him my lawyer’s name and number. That way if Tony or his sons do their due diligence, our ass will be covered,” Lester said.

  “Great idea. I’ll do that and call you back,” Jim said and hung up.

  In about ten minutes Jim called back.

  “Lester, Monte is fine to play the part and loves the FBI, so it will be okay,” he said. “Funny thing—they’ve talked in their club meetings for the last two years about getting a machine gun owned by the club. Their insurance company wanted to go up on their rates for liability if they did. I explained that at sixty-five an hour they might easily pay for the extra premium. I can’t believe I’m trying to sell this guy on getting machine guns. I had to apologize for not staying on task as an FBI guy. Mr. Hart was cool and glad we put him in the loop so he didn’t get blindsided.”

  “Call me if you need anything else, Jim. It might be a good idea to give me a little stick-on listening device for my meeting with Tony. I might get a chance to place it if he is distracted. And I’m going to assume you guys have cleared, or will clear, all these devices with a warrant at some court or judge in New Orleans. One I hope and pray isn’t paid off by all the organized crime families in Louisiana. Where the slip up comes isn’t from the judges, but from the clerks that type them and make copies and mail them and file them. You know, those ten-dollar-an-hour clerks who are given an extra thousand each year by the mob to report every search warrant that goes through their court. A thousand a year for every judge in the state shared by the families ain’t a bad investment. All I’m saying, Jim, is to go directly to the judge with the warrant—get it signed by him—no copies—no clerks. I don’t want us floating in a swamp to be a meal for some friggin’ alligators,” Lester said.

  “Got ya! Probably use a federal judge in an adjoining state. Don’t worry; we’ll take care of it. Glad you’re doing okay. Talk to you soon.”

  Lester didn’t feel all that assured but knew it was something he couldn’t control. What he could control was learning everything he could about laws concerning automatic weapons .His limited audio tapes didn’t cover much, but among the skills being taught by the second grade teacher was also how to access information by asking the computer verbally. It was a new program to activate the Google search engine, verbally reading out loud the results of the search merely by him highlighting the printed results. The lady would be there in an hour for the lesson and then Debi would be home a couple hours later. He had some time so he sat down in front of the computer with a bowl of tuna salad and a big glass of water. He clicked on the Google search page which displayed a beautiful Russian girl in a tiny swimsuit in the background. Debi hated the background image, but refused to pose in the nude to replace it.

  “Requirements for owning a machine gun,” Lester spoke to the computer.

  Several short sentences came up on the screen and he highlighted them and pushed the speak button.

  “Federal gun laws for fully automatic weapons dating before 1986” the computer stated with a voice that had no region or accent.

  Lester clicked on that one and found several pages of regulations and requirements. Again he highlighted the text and listened to the man from nowhere.

  He had found what he wanted and would continue until he knew what the computer knew. He would not be embarrassed in his new role as a slimy lawyer. Becoming a lawyer was really something he wanted to do, now that he could potentially learn anything. Not really a slimy lawyer, but one of the best lawyers anywhere. This game, or acting job, turned something on in his brain that had been latent. The fire was lit. Goals were being set, wheels turning, plans cooking, and nothing would be stopping him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tammy Fortis couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Lester was reading a grade-school level book as fast as he could talk. It wasn’t this week’s assignment—it was next week’s homework. He was really reading, and though large words were a stumbling block at times, once he mastered them, he didn’t forget the next time they came up. Tammy went to her car and gave Lester assignments she had laid out for three months from now. He wanted to take material to New Orleans later in the week, even though Tammy would return each day until they left on Friday.

  When Debi came home later, Lester was typing an outline for his studies for the next week. It included more legal studies, reading assignment for the next few months, which he knew would be done before the trip to New Orleans was over, spelling tests he would give himself if Debi would read the words, and several writing assignments. She couldn’t believe it.

  Tammy had already called her to say he was like a human computer that just downloaded everything plugged into it. She knew her services wouldn’t be needed long.

  Debi walked over and sat in Lester’s lap, wedging in between him and the laptop computer, as would a family cat wanting attention. He responded and stopped his work to kiss her. She frowned.

  “Lester, I’m worried.”

  “Why?”

  “Have you ever known anyone who was a true intellectual? The kind of person who would interject references to obscure literature in sentences as a direct question while they looked at your glazed-over eyes and waited for an answer they knew would never come? The answer would never come because you had no frigging idea what they were talking about. Are you going to be that kind of an intellectual after you learn all this stuff?” Debi asked as she gently bit down on his bottom lip and stretched it out a little before she slowly let go of it and then smiled.

  “Yes. Yes, I will! Then I will give you the reference number for the book in question and make you read it before I speak to you again.”

  “You will always be an asshole. I can be comforted by that,” Debi said.

  “Why would I ever do anything to cause me to make someone I care about very deeply uncomfortable? Also, I don’t like obscure literature.”

  “I really mean—I guess I mean, will there be any changes? I like you the way you are—the way you are good to me. Can you not unlearn that?” Debi asked, feeling a little insecure about this new person emerging.

  Lester turned her more in his lap where she would be facing him. He kissed her lightly and locked his blue eyes squarely on her soft brown eyes and spoke softly but sternly.

  “Damn it, Debi—I am doing all of this for you. The operation, the study, the tutor, and anything else I do to learn is so I can be normal like you—not superior. I will never be your superior and don’t want to be. Just an equal. Sunday mornings—you next to me as I read the newspaper. Can’t do that now. Discuss a menu item when we go out to eat. Can’t do that now. Take a college entrance exam like you did. Can’t do that now. So many things that I want to learn so I won’
t be a freak. I know I’ve overcome much of my disability, but I’m still a freak until I can read like a normal human. When you see me studying like crazy it’s to be normal first. What comes after that will never be used to belittle anyone, especially you. You—who I love so much!” Lester spoke with every ounce of sincerity in his large body.

  Debi seemed satisfied with his long explanation. “I love you, too and don’t want you to change. My parents are coming by to check on you tonight, if that’s all right.”

  “Are we cooking them dinner or just drinks and snacks?”

  “Drinks and a few nuts and cheese. Mother drinks wine and Dad will but would rather have a good single malt scotch,” Debi said as she walked over to Lester’s small wine cooler and looked in. “You’ve got a lot of reds—mostly reds—mostly cabs.”

  “Mostly because that’s what I like—duh.”

  “I’d better go to the liquor store. I’ll get everything we need. They said around sevenish,” Debi said.

  “Here’s my credit card. Get them the good stuff. I’ll clean up here and slice some cheese and bust open a can of nuts.”

  The Greens left around 8:30 and were pleased with Lester’s progress. He showed Susan his ambitious study guides and goals for learning. Tom was more interested in when Lester’s dad could take them striper fishing. Lester thanked Debi’s dad for recommending Dr. Arrison.

  After they left, Lester asked if he could get in an hour or two of studying before bed. Debi had a better idea. They would go to bed first and Lester could get up and study as much as he wanted afterwards. This worked out well for both of them. Lester, however, studied much later than he planned, trying to operate with the volume down as the computer spoke. He let it soak in and now listened to everything available on gun laws in the U.S. He looked up actual cases and studied them as they applied to certain state, circuit, and federal ruling. It was fascinating how he memorized the case numbers. He would see the numbers like a picture in his mind. The blood clot on his brain had been like a plug in a sink. Now that it was removed, everything he learned rushed into his brain. Some things came in he didn’t want there. If he looked at a serial number on his computer or a bar code on a bottle of wine—there it was stamped on the wall of his brain. Now he avoided looking at numbers because he couldn’t stop memorizing them. Before there was a filter—now he had to develop his own filter.

  A tentative peace had been in place in New Orleans after Richie Gambini had been killed. The word was given for no retaliation since Richie had stepped into another family’s territory and got what aggressive action brings—aggressive action returned. Below the surface though, the Gambini family was just looking for a chance to catch a member of the Matranga family in a misdeed. It happened about mid-September when ten ladies from the St. Peter Street massage parlor owned by Richie’s brother Frank Gambini were given huge bonuses to move to a rival massage parlor owned by the Matrangas. The loss of that many girls meant the St. Peter Street business was liable to find itself at the pearly gates. It could easily go out of business.

  A few days later, five members of the Matranga family were having a late evening meal at The Oyster Palace Restaurant in Metairie. Two were uncles of Spider, one was a cousin, and the others were related to her by marriage. They were in the rear next to a wall when someone came from the kitchen, uncovered a Tec-9mm machine pistol from a red cloth napkin draped across his arm and emptied a full thirty-round magazine of Parabellums into the five guys. Unbelievable as it might seem, three of the men were able to get shots off before they died. Some hit other patrons as they gobbled down grilled oysters, but two bullets struck the Gambini family shooter, a hired gun, making the hit a little bit harder to trace. One bullet went through his neck and severed an artery while the other went right into his brain blowing pieces of gray matter into a freshly made crème brûlée back in the kitchen. The evening was ruined for many of the patrons.

  Captain Campanella was not the lead on this investigation, but was called in as an advisor because he was Orleans Parish’s expert on organized crime. This was Jefferson Parish and popular for great restaurants and a little quieter party scene than New Orleans. It had been called Fat City as far back as anyone could remember. Some give credit to a snowball stand near the Lakeside Shopping Center named Fat City Snowballs, but it wasn’t official until the city fathers changed 18th street to Fat City Boulevard in 1973. Most people didn’t care.

  The Oyster Palace was an upscale eatery which appealed more to people who were willing to spend a little more to get a great culinary experience. It was the least likely place that one would expect a mob hit. Had it been Mosca’s or Salvatori’s, nobody would have been too surprised, but a classy place like The Oyster Palace raised some eyebrows. “Six People Dead and Four Customers Wounded” blasted the headlines of the Times-Picayune and on the news, local and national.

  After gathering as much crime scene information as possible, the captain realized the investigation just went backwards from this scene. Why was the hit ordered? What did the Matranga family do to piss off another crime family? Who was the other family? The first suspects had to be the Gambini family since Richie was killed by the crime family currently bleeding all over the restaurant floor. It was first hypothesized Richie’s killing was set up by Angel Gambini because of an affair Richie had with one of the Asian massage girls. If these crime families got murdered because of their sexual escapades they all would be dead, Campanella thought.

  It would help to find out about the Tec-9. He asked permission from the Jefferson Parish authorities to check out the gun’s bloodlines. He took it back to police headquarters in New Orleans for his people to work on.

  Captain Hank Campanella’s staff consisted of ten people, which was a very small number of officers for a captain to supervise in a twelve-hundred man police force in a large crime-infested city. Hank’s team consisted of experts in intrastate and interstate crime. They had charts on the wall that had interconnected boxes of crime families all over the world. Interpol gave them information and visa-versa. They had hot lines into the FBI and NSA, and sometimes certain CIA operatives were listed under the table. The FBI in Little Rock had increased the boxes on their wall and they knew Lester was working the spread of Spider’s kingdom in Hot Springs. Also part of the group was a computer expert that worked full time trying to break the encryption to dark net operations in Louisiana—one in particular was the Louisiana Sportsman’s Super Store.

  The serial number for the Tec-9 was put in the computer. It came up a Tec-DC9, a model that was made after the assault rifle ban. DC was added and meant “Don’t Sell” in California. The only thing changed were the sling hooks placement on the stock and barrel, a joke to everyone in the industry. This particular gun was purchased by Tony Evola’s operation but was reported stolen off a UPS truck. He reported it, took the loss off his income tax return, yet he was still the registered owner of this newly-surfaced weapon.

  “I might have to give this machine pistol back to Tony Evola after it killed a dinner party of four,” Hank said to his officer who was researching the weapon.

  Hank stared at the computer screen. “Here’s what really happened.” He looked to see who was paying attention. “He sold this weapon for about twice what it’s worth. Let’s say around ten grand.”

  The captain walked over to the window and looked down from his third floor window at the traffic below as though he were seeing the crime happen.

  “He would tell his client the day it was going to be on the UPS truck heading for Chalmette. The package would be a bright color like Day-Glo orange and packed fairly large but not heavy. At a stop where the driver had to go into a business, there would be questions about a delivery—some sort of delay—the truck would be vulnerable with the doors open to God and everybody. The customer would take delivery by snatching the colorful box rather quickly and head out in his vehicle before Mr. UPS got back to his truck.”

  Captain Campanella turned away from the window, wa
lked to his desk, and put his hand on his desk phone.

  “On reaching his call on the big sporting goods store or maybe before, he notices that his big orange box is missing. Calls are made, people are pissed, the driver gets his ass chewed or fired, and the criminal has a machine gun that ain’t registered no-fucking-where—just the way he wants it. That gun is golden. Not traceable and could be sold many times at will.”

  Hank Campanella paced the room and decided he would make a call to a number his staff had provided for him, even though it was late.

  “Lester, this is Hank Campanella from New Orleans. How’re you doing?”

  “Good to hear from you, Captain. I had my brain dusted and cleaned last week and might be able to read the newspaper before long. Can I help you on the big shooting in Metairie—not your jurisdiction, though. It’s all over the news here.”

  “Consulting—kinda like you do. How do you keep up with which parishes we work in all the way from Arkansas?”

  “Hank, it’s a sickness. I’ll be in New Orleans on Friday, but I’ll be using an alias because we’re meeting with Tony at the sporting goods store. They said you were to stand down on this one, but I don’t agree with them. You know more about these goons that anybody in the state.”

  “Yeah, I talked to Jim Webb in Little Rock—said you and ATF were going to see if you could catch Tony fucking up. Probably best I’m not in the vicinity since they all know me. They used a Tec-DC9 on this hit. Stolen off a UPS truck in broad daylight just like it was supposed to. So many ways to get away with a machine gun.”

  “Look, Hank, you can cause Tony a lot of heat over this weapon. Possibly cause him to lose his class three license,” Lester said excitedly.

  “What do you mean? He never actually received the gun,” Hank said, confused.