Beer, Bait, and Ammo

by Harper, Chap

  Becca and Little Richard were sharing a room with two beds in case Rich needed to escape from her at times. They had shared a bed a few times in the past so it wasn’t a new experience for either of them, but they hadn’t been out together in about four months.

  Lester and Debi opted for a king-sized bed since neither wanted to get away. They made reservations for 7:30 at the Oyster Palace for the four of them, and decided to explore Bourbon Street before dinner.

  Friday night in the French Quarter was a feast of sensations for the four who were used to a considerably more sedate atmosphere in Hot Springs. Street performers, hawkers for strip clubs, and music coming from everywhere. Jazz, Dixieland, rock and roll all fused together causing an excitement that took them to another world. There weren’t many places like this. It seemed so permissive. They walked past the St. Peter Street massage parlor and noticed it said “Closed for Renovation.”

  “What kind of construction is needed for a place housing a few massage tables, a big box of condoms, and some rubbing oil?” Becca said.

  Lester then recalled the recent shooting. “This is the place owned by Spider’s brother. The Matrangas stole most of the girls, so the Gambinis gunned down a bunch of Matrangas having diner in Metairie.”

  Lester thought about the darkness below the revelry at many of the clubs and businesses in the French Quarter. Crime families had been a part of the history of New Orleans for about a hundred years and were unlikely to dispose of their holdings anytime soon. If they owned a strip club, it also gave them a place to deal drugs. If they owned a massage parlor, it also gave them a place for prostitution.

  As he walked the streets and saw all the colorful and festive activity around him, he wondered who owned certain businesses. Did most of these businesses have a box on Jim Webb’s charts? Lester wished, if they existed, he could see the boxes for the entire French Quarter. After walking a few blocks he saw it: the Royal Street Asian Massage parlor. It certainly had a prominent box with arrows pointed directly to Hot Springs, Arkansas.

  At the Court of Two Sisters, the group stopped and inquired about their jazz brunch and turtle soup. They were told they would need reservations and because their schedule was in doubt for Sunday they opted not to do it. At Pat O’Brien’s, they did the tourist thing and grabbed a Hurricane in a plastic container to go. They visited the Voodoo Shop as well as several shops selling t-shirts and beads. Having explored enough they returned to the hotel in time to clean up for dinner. All made it about 7:30, the ladies wearing dresses and the guys in slacks.

  “Lester, when do I get to sleep with the police captain?” Debi asked, laughing.

  “Why don’t I call him?” Lester said and dialed his cell phone before Debi could grab it.

  “Captain Campanella? Hey, we’re having dinner at the Oyster Palace downtown. Would you care to join us?”

  “Thanks, Lester, but we probably shouldn’t do that with the way things are stirred up here. But I’ll run by just to meet you guys. Be there in 20 minutes.”

  “Lester, was that really the captain?” asked Little Richard.

  “Yes. He wants to sleep with Debi but doesn’t have much time,” Lester said.

  “Whaaat?” Becca asked.

  “Private joke, Becca—but if he really looks hot—maybe,” Debi said.

  They all ordered drinks and were about to order their entrees when Captain Campanella and an attractive blond lieutenant appeared at their table. He was taller than Lester and in his late forties with some grey hair peppered through thick black hair about his temples. He must have set aside time for the gym because he had no gut and looked extremely fit. He was Italian and had a powerful face with dark eyes and a strong chin. Debi looked at Lester and whispered, “Yes! Yes!—can I take him to our room?”

  The Captain acted as though he didn’t hear Debi and went about his introduction.

  “I’m Hank Campanella, and this lady is Holly Foss.” Lester and Rich stood up to great them.

  They went around the table and introduced themselves. Lester said to the captain that he was Hamilton Richardson. Hank smiled and whispered that he hoped his meeting would be successful tomorrow.

  “Are you expecting an all-out mob war here?” Lester asked.

  “Unfortunately, Les—Hamilton, that could be the case. One reason I’m working late tonight. The logical next hit would be from the Matrangas and those aligned with them.”

  “Tony neutral on this—since he supplies all of them?” Lester whispered.

  “That and he’s kin to both families,” Hank said quietly.

  “We’ll let you enjoy your dinner and hope we can meet again soon where we have more time to visit. Debi, I’m sorry I don’t have time to come to your room tonight, but Holly keeps a tight rein on me.”

  Debi laughed out loud. “Hank, I didn’t think you heard me say that. Lest—uhhh—Hamilton has said all along that I would be required to sleep with you when we came down here. One of our private jokes. Then you turned out to be a hunk. And the joke is on us. About 9 o’clock, would that be okay?” She laughed again and blushed.

  “You guys have way too much fun up there in Hot Springs—but I hear things might bust loose there as well. I wish you guys well and want to thank you for your information on the item that now has been returned to its rightful owner,” he said. He looked directly at Lester and handed him a card that had his cell number printed on it.

  Hank and Holly left, and Lester and Rich checked out the rear end of Holly, whose pants were tight in all the right places. Almost in unison the two girls elbowed the two men at the table.

  “Is it tattooed in your brains to check out asses on every girl that walks away from you?” Becca asked.

  The two men just smiled and signaled the server that they were ready to order. Everyone ordered grilled oysters, but Lester took his out of the shell and placed them on a salad base that was created especially for him. They had Key lime pie for dessert, after-dinner drinks, and coffee which was all placed on the new credit card. Some time was spent discussing plans for going to the Louisiana Sportsman’s Super Store in Chalmette the next day. One thing was for sure: a trip to Café Du Monde would take place first thing in the morning where they would have café au lait and a plate full of beignets covered with powdered sugar. The events that would happen after that didn’t really seem to matter.

  On Saturdays, the noon alligator feeding always drew a large crowd at the monstrous sporting goods store. Becca particularly wanted to see it and compare it to a feeding at the Hot Springs Alligator Farm. An announcement said they would feed the alligators in ten minutes. She pushed children aside to lead the group to the edge of the enclosure where the sleeping and bored prehistoric creatures were beginning to stir. A young, slender, and agile man with rubber boots and a pith helmet jumped on the feeding platform. Talking to the crowd with the aid of a microphone clipped to his safari shirt, he explained the eating habits of the now agitated alligators just a few feet below his elevated stage. After explaining ad nauseam how gators and crocodiles perform the death roll and how long it took for food to digest in their bodies, a large percentage of the crowd wanted to see it performed on the speaker. Finally he quit talking long enough to start slinging dead chickens at the large scaled beasts.

  Becca seemed pleased but remarked how the Hot Springs guy sometimes got in and amongst the gators as they snapped at his legs. Everyone believed he was one-dead-chicken-removed from an ambulance ride to the nearest artificial limb store. This guy didn’t take chances and stayed perched on his platform throughout the ordeal.

  The group explored the store and took in all the stuffed big game animals and other creatures placed in reproductions of their natural habitat. Most impressive was a pride of lions that had taken down a wildebeest and were devouring him while he looked to be still alive.

  Lester wanted to see the guns that were for sale and headed for the assault rifle section. As he looked at wide assortment of new and used large clip and magazin
e-fed weapons, he noticed a sign that read, “Automatic weapons are available for those discriminating individuals and sporting clubs who have clean police records and are willing to file an application with the federal government. A $200 fee will be assessed and only automatic weapons that were manufactured on or before 1986 will be considered for sale. Because of the limited supply of these weapons, the prices are reflective of that scarcity. Please ask one of our team members for further information.”

  A case near the sign held an M60 machine gun and a Browning automatic rifle. Neither had a price attached. Lester commented to the others, “If you have to ask the price, then you can’t afford it.”

  Rich noted the time was 12:45 and directed everyone to a door at the rear of the store that led to the indoor firing range. Near the door was a large counter manned by two guys with name tags that read Alonso Evola and Nicco Evola. Rich introduced himself and then the rest of the group, carefully getting Lester’s alias correct. Nicco walked to the door, opened it and led them through the back storage area and further through another set of doors marked “Range.” As they entered the next large room, they noticed cubicles lined up side by side and a gun range equipped with electric retractable targets at each shooting position. Earmuffs, shooting glasses, and magazines of ammunition were piled up for them. Six other people were using about twenty cubicles. There didn’t appear to be a range master so shooters fired at will.

  Nicco said he would be back shortly and soon reappeared with a black hard plastic gun case. He smiled and opened it for Rich. Lying in a cutout of foam backing was a shiny black MAC-11.

  “Okay. Who wants to shoot first?” Nicco asked.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The “girls get to shoot first” rule went by the wayside as Nicco explained blowback and rapid-fire gun rise to the group. It was decided that Rich, being the biggest and strongest of the group, would fire first. He moved inside the two-sided firing area with his safety glasses and Peltor Range Guard earmuffs with electronic communication plugs with the capability for a range master to plug in and talk to the shooter while giving him sound protection at the same time. He pulled back the lever to load a shell into the firing chamber. Nicco spoke through the muffs and told him to click off the safety. He held the machine pistol with two hands and aimed at the human silhouette target down range about thirty yards. Nicco instructed him to fire short bursts from the 30-round magazine. Rich pulled the trigger and stopped as the weapon began to rise up on him. After four short bursts he emptied the magazine. The gun performed beautifully, and surprisingly, Rich peppered the target several times. Nicco explained that having the proper-fitting magazine was extremely important. He was offering four guaranteed-to-fit magazines with the purchase and a wholesale price on a thousand rounds of ammunition. Rich said he would take the extra mags and the ammo.

  It was time for the others to shoot, and Lester, a.k.a., Hamilton, asked to shoot next since he had a meeting with Tony at 1:30. A new target was installed and sent down range. Lester donned all the protection and aimed with both hands. His first trigger pull was very short, and he observed the placement of the rounds in the target. Making an adjustment, he shot a longer stream of bullets. Checking those placements, he emptied the magazine into the target. As Nicco pulled in the electronic paper silhouette, they saw the heart area of the target man was cut almost completely out. Nicco stuck his hand through it, and said he had never seen a first time shooter do that. Lester apologized to Debi and Becca for not getting to see them shoot, and left, asking Nicco directions to Tony’s office. The directions led him upstairs to an array of offices; the largest looked out over the sales floor of Tony Evola’s empire. Lester knocked on the inside of an open door with “General Manager” stenciled on the glass. Tony waved him in.

  Tony stood up and introduced himself and an older, distinguished grey-headed man named Simon Ferrari. He shook hands with Lester and explained that he was the operations attorney. As Lester sat down adjacent to Ferrari, he passed out cards as he assumed the part of Hamilton Richardson.

  “Tony, I’m totally impressed with the operation you’ve built here. I know you must be really proud,” Lester said. “I’m going to guess you’re the largest independently-owned store in the country.”

  “You’d be right about that, Hamilton, and yes, it’s been a lot of work—especially after Katrina,” Tony said.

  “Just call me Ham. Yes, I heard you loaded everything on trucks and sold the inventory to Cabela’s in Texas. Worked out for both of you.”

  “You know, another big store called me to see if it would help either of us to expand into Louisiana. Sometimes it actually helps to have competition so gun shoppers have lots of stores to pick from. Right now they’re looking at Shreveport or Monroe, but it’s unlikely that the population base would support it. We already have a Cabela’s and a Bass Pro Shop in Louisiana, and it cost a lot to build those huge stores. They are a marvelous operations.”

  “Mr. Richardson, we’ve prepared a bid list for the guns your sheriff’s office confiscated in Garland County,” Simon Ferrari said. “Do you have the authority to work with us on this?”

  “Yes, I have that authority, but I’m going to guess you guys know prices and market values as good as anyone in the country. You see these same automatic weapons over and over again. To be legal, each sale has to come back through a class three dealer, and there aren’t many of those around,” Lester said as the bid sheet was handed to him. Along with the paper came a question for Lester that he could only assume was to test his credibility and gun knowledge.

  “Mr. Richardson, what can you tell us about MAC-12s?” asked Ferrari.

  “You know, I’m not a real expert on guns like Tony, but from what I’ve read, there is no such thing as a MAC-12. Even though you may see them listed on the internet, they are just a modified MAC-11. MAC-12 became a popular nickname.”

  Ferrari smiled. Satisfied with Hamilton Richardson’s answer, the two gun masters relaxed.

  The bid was done with market prices stated in ranges according to past sales and most recent sales. The sheet reminded Lester of a residential housing and listing summary. Their offers for the weapons were on the lower side of the market and recent sale prices but not unreasonably so.

  “We’ll accept the bid sheet with these changes: the M60s have become more and more scarce, so if you would adjust that sale by one thousand. And, I realize that you have to make a profit with a mark-up from your bid. However, the BAR on the list will bring over twice what you have offered. Increase that amount twenty-five percent plus the adjustment on the M60 and we have a deal.”

  “Eight hundred adjustment on the M60 and twenty percent increase on the BAR and we’ll pour a drink,” Ferrari said.

  “I believe we can live with that—you’ve got a deal,” Lester said with a smile.

  They all shook hands and settled back in their chairs. Lester was handed the agreement and signed it for Garland County, then dropped his pen, letting it roll under Tony’s desk. He got down on his knees and reached under the desk for the pen and stuck a listening device underneath while his body shielded his actions from Mr. Ferrari.

  As Lester got a hold of the runaway pen and returned to his chair, Tony was readying a drink for him.

  “Ham, we have single malt, Jack Daniels, Crown, or whatever,” Tony offered.

  “Crown—on the rocks with a splash of Louisiana swamp water.”

  “Have you been following any of the new gun control laws that are pending, Mr. Richardson?” asked Ferrari, who was drinking a single-malt straight up.

  “Some, but I’m just a small town lawyer who happens to have the county as a client. I read the proposed ‘stand your ground’ laws and ‘open carry’ discussions. I see what Bloomberg is trying to do in New York. I know something about the law passed in 1994, and I’m of course schooled somewhat on weapons manufactured in 1986 and before. Any new proposed laws probably will fall short with a Republican Congress. But I’m guessing,
being in the business, you guys stay on top of all that and even throw some money at lobbyists in DC.”

  “We do, and help the NRA as best we can. California tried to scare us all back in 1994, but the law faded away in ten years and had little effect—actually increased sales and raised the prices for assault guns for fear they were going away. All this Muslim shit sells us guns every day. If I yelled on the loud speakers ‘Muslims are going to get your ass,’ we would have to put on extra cashiers.” Tony laughed, and so did his lawyer.

  “Listen, I have another proposal for you guys if you’re interested. I also represent the Valley of the Vapors Sports Club in Hot Springs. I’ve talked to their president, Monte Hart, and he wants me to make you an offer for these guns. They’ve seen how much money they can make renting these things by the hour and having the big machine gun shoots like they have in Kentucky and Alabama. Would you entertain an offer? The gun club just sold some highway frontage property, so they have some cash. We understand that you’ll have to take possession of the guns and then ship them back out to us because of the class three rules,” Lester said.

  Tony and Simon looked at each other and raised their eyebrows because an obscene profit was about to land on Tony’s desk without any effort. A legal sale of several weapons all wrapped up and done without a crime family threatening to cut off his balls unless he reduced the prices on the guns. He had no plans to cut Spider in on this deal, even though half the guns were hers.