by Harper, Chap
Lester reached in his pocket, pulled out some paperwork, made a slight adjustment in his offer, then handed it to Tony. The bid to buy the guns from the county was $43,200, and it had been accepted by Hamilton and represented the wholesale price for a retailer. The cost to buy them back was $58,000. It was almost a $15,000 profit that only required shipping to Chalmette and then turning around without unpacking the boxes and shipping them back to Hot Springs after recording and relabeling. Tony and Simon spoke to each other as though Lester weren’t in the room. He waited patiently for them to come to a conclusion.
Finally, Tony spoke. “Ham, you realize that we could sell them here individually and make a lot more money. But time is money. I will see these guns again when the club sells some of them and buys others. I buy and sell with those clubs you talked about and two others in Mississippi. What I really want is a big client in Arkansas. So the answer is yes. I will send a check for the county, and if you would be so kind as to have Monte send me a check. This will be done quickly as club paperwork for automatics is almost automatic.” He laughed at his little joke. “I’ll send Monte the forms. He’ll have to pay two hundred dollars per weapon for the federal fee.”
“Mr. Richardson, can we take your group out to eat tonight?” Tony asked.
“Thanks, but they have someplace picked out already. They’re downstairs now with your son, shooting themselves goofy. I got to shoot the MAC 11 before I came up here. What kick-ass fun! I see why the gun clubs can charge sixty-five an hour for them,” Lester said and handed Tony the offer with all the club information listed on it. A copy would be signed and mailed or faxed to Monte Hart in a few days.
Lester found his group packing up at the range. Nicco had left them a few times during the shoot, so the girls were able to pull the video devices out to film down range and to the left and right. Both took trips to the bathroom and found places in the hallways to leave surveillance cameras. They stuck them under the edge of the firing enclosures facing down range. The little cameras were so small they were almost undetectable, yet had a closed circuit range of almost a mile. As soon as they left, they made contact with the ATF unit using a number Jim Webb had given them. They had already started to pick up the signals. The group had done well.
They pulled onto the highway leading to New Orleans from Chalmette. The group talked excitedly about how much fun it was to shoot the machine pistol. They didn’t notice a black Cadillac Escalade pulling out behind them. They also didn’t see it following them to their hotel, always staying a couple of cars back so as not to be obvious. It parked across the street for quite a while, then pulled into the hotel parking garage and parked close to Lester’s red SUV. Four men got out and took turns watching the movements of the Hot Springs visitors. These four men in suits had been sitting at a table some distance across the restaurant from Lester’s group on Friday night when Captain Campanella stopped by their table to say hello. Four visitors from out-of-state spending time at Tony Evola’s and talking with the cops piqued their interest. Captain Campanella’s visit, while only brief, had been a foolish risk.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dinner was enjoyed at Commander’s Palace and then back to the French Quarter for drinks. Becca was really excited since she had booked a short swamp adventure for them the next morning at nine. She wanted to see a real wild alligator living in a primeval setting, but mainly, it was the airboat ride that was on her bucket list. No one understood her fondness for alligators and swamps. Rich worried about snakes but agreed to go along. The trip was only about an hour long and they would leave from there to go back home.
Lester charged it on the Hamilton Richardson credit card and figured they would bounce that expense back to him when they saw the price. Becca had the directions and acted as navigator for Rich, who was driving. Lester happened to glance behind them a few times and noticed a black Escalade hanging back a few cars behind them. If it was really following them, they would know soon enough.
Their destination was Paradis, Louisiana on the banks of extensive swampland and bayous. It was a small town of around 1,200 people in St. Charles Parish. Lester guessed Paradis was French for Paradise, but that was pretty obvious. Lately, he would spit out other information from some hidden crevice in his brain. The landing where they were meeting the boat was off a rural road, and it was unlikely other cars would be crowding the two-lane roadway. However, the black Escalade was there—several hundred yards back. It was definitely tailing them.
Lester told everyone to bring their weapons just in case. Little Richard began to walk to the dock with his pistol stuck under his belt at his rear, but Lester called him back.
“Rich, let’s bring along the MAC-11 and all the magazines in the gym bag. I don’t like the looks of those guys,” Lester said as he pulled out the bags and gave them to Rich.
“Jesus H. Christ, Lester! My mother told you to keep me out of gunfights. It looks like you’re planning one,” Debi said as she headed for the waiting boat nevertheless.
“Don’t want one, and I’m hoping I’m wrong. Like a good Boy Scout, I’ll be prepared. Can’t leave you here alone.”
At the dock Manny Broussard was talking it up with Becca, who got checked out thoroughly by the old Cajun. She was in full flirt mode with him, which resulted in a large reduction in price since the group wanted a one-hour, instead of the normal four-hour, tour. Next to Manny’s boat, the Bayou Flyer, were two more airboats. One was manned by Billy Thibodeaux, and Manny introduced him. He waved a hello to the group. The four found their way into very comfortable seats which featured a second row much higher than the rest. The front of the aluminum craft had a lip that pointed upward at an angle and was used to drop down much like a small landing craft so passengers could go ashore and chase alligators and snakes.
Manny cranked the big engine, and the props in the wired cage began to turn at a high speed.
“Dis babe go mostly fifty miles your hour so I ax y’all ta hold on good,” Manny yelled above the noise. The group had to strain to hear him and then translate his heavy accent.
Lester looked back and saw that four men in slacks and dress shirts were loading into Billy Thibodeaux’s airboat. He took out his cell phone, checked his signal, and called Hank. After a couple of rings he came on line.
“Are you guys causing trouble?”
“As we speak, we’re being followed in the swamp by Billy Thibodeaux’s airboat loaded with four men in dress slacks and shirts. They tailed us here in a black Escalade. We’re in Manny Broussard’s boat out from Paradis landing. I don’t believe he knows what’s about to happen. Ya’ll got some local people to help us? We have our pistols and that little MAC-11 with us. I see Manny has something that looks like a .22 rifle. What do you recommend we do?” Lester asked rather calmly, but Debi was tuned in to every word.
“You calling in for the National Guard, honey?” Debi asked sarcastically.
Lester looked at her and smiled, then turned back to Hank on the phone. He had gone strangely silent for a few seconds.
“Closest Sheriff’s department is Boutte two miles away, but I’ll alert all of St. Charles Parish. Plenty of help if you weren’t in the middle of one of the biggest ass swamps in the world. Tell Manny not to stop to let you hold the baby alligators—haul ass—see if he can lose Billy. Those two happen to be the best airboat captains in Louisiana, so hide-and–seek will be a joke. I think I know who those assholes are. The first time they shoot at you give them everything you’ve got—maybe they’ll back off. Don’t let them board you. Swim with the water moccasins before you let them on board. They will smile—kill you all dead. Good luck!”
Lester approached the boat captain. “Manny, I just talked to a police captain in New Orleans. He thinks the four guys that got into Billy’s boat are killers and they’re after us. You have to outrun Billy—hide us in this swamp or put us where we can take them out. We may need all the weapons we have on us. Is that a .22 you have?”
“What
de fok, man? You shitting to me—no? Who you guys are?” Manny was shaken but did speed up his boat and erased any smile that was there just a few seconds before. “Ya, it’s a .22 long rifle single shot. For gators.”
Lester went around to each of the three and told them to get down below the raised landing platform. Everyone had weapons drawn and since Lester had the best results on the range with the MAC-11, he would use it. Manny told Lester to go ahead and take the .22 and a box of ammunition he pulled from a tackle box next to him. Manny handed the shells over and moved down to the limited cover behind the chairs and a small floor space behind the raised platform for the second row of chairs. Jammed down on one end of the box of .22 shells was a seven-round magazine; another was already installed in the Marlin bolt action rifle. It was extremely simple to operate, so Lester gave Debi a very quick lesson, and she was set to go. The last time Debi and Lester entered into a gunfight, she got mad instead of scared. The pretty little lady didn’t care for being shot at. Lester was hoping for the same great attitude this time.
In the distance, Lester could see the other boat as a dot in the distance. Manny had the airboat flying through the swamp and was watching intently for a bend in the bayou where he would be out of sight from Billy. That happened after about fifteen minutes of hard running. He could go left or right out of sight from his chasers. He chose right since it was a more difficult turn and crossed the water in front of the boat behind him. The channel he took was narrow, and he hoped to hide in it while Billy blasted past. Manny timed it to be way down the chute and turned into the deep swamp when Billy flew through. It worked, as he heard them go by at full speed. He turned his motor off in case they were stopping and listening.
As Manny’s boat drifted under the low limbs of a bald cypress tree and up against a palmetto, a large water snake crawled from the top of the palm bush and fell into the boat very near Becca’s outstretched leg. Rich put his hand over her mouth so she didn’t scream, and Manny walked from his perch next to the big props and picked the snake up by its tail and slung it back into the swamp.
“I worry some,” Manny said. “When dat boat moves tru da water, in da swamp, dey is a trail. Goes away afta while—not ’fore Billy sees it.”
In the distance the sound of an airboat was getting closer and louder. Then it was quieter and further away—then it was coming back and again it passed the entrance to the chute that Manny had taken. It stopped and entered the chute, then stopped again and was quiet. The factor that favored anyone hiding in the swamp was its hugeness, and all the trails look alike. Inexperienced boaters may get so lost they die before they are ever found. Manny and Billy had spent almost every day of their lives in the swamp for over twenty years. No one in Louisiana knew it any better, yet they were helpless to find people who were lost without some kind of clue. Manny knew Billy could read the boat trails, but maybe he wasn’t looking that hard—why help them?
Two gunshots disrupted the quietness of the swamp. Birds squawked and screeched at the ear-splitting noise. The shots seemed close by, but sound carries far over the water, even in the swamp. Maybe they were intended to make Billy stop stalling and find the other boat. What if they had wounded Billy to get him to cooperate?
Now it was very quiet. The swamp was really beautiful and for the first time, the Hot Springs group actually noticed the delicate Spanish moss hanging from the trees and the wild splendor around them. A large alligator surfaced not far from the boat and everyone pointed it out to Becca.
A motor started again, and it was moving away from them—south of them—away from the dock at Paradis, which was north. As the motor faded, Lester spoke to Manny.
“Look, Manny, if we run for it north back to Paradis, they’ll chase us—maybe they’ll run right into the hands of any help that might be coming. If help is coming. Hank said that there was a sheriff’s office in Boutte—only two miles away,” Lester said. “It’s been about a half hour now—somebody’s on their way—must be.”
“Lester, dey is a little substation there with fo’ deputies a workin’ shifts. Maybe dey be two a workin’ on Sunday and dem are old timers,” Manny said. “Ya’ll get better help from Luling or if dey’s time, from Metairie. I’ll hit and turn to Paradis when we clear dis trail.”
Manny cranked the engine and gunned the boat towards the main channel. As soon as he cleared the chute, hit the main trail and made the left turn, they could see Billy’s boat in the distance behind them to the south.
Lester noticed the distance between the two boats was narrowing. He moved back to Manny’s position at the throttle.
“Manny, they’re gaining. Why?”
“If I was a guessing, dey got shed of some weight.”
“You mean they let some guys out as snipers in a tree or in the mangroves?” Lester asked.
“Dat, or maybe dem shots—took over a man’s boat.”
Lester jumped to the head of the boat and told everyone to look for a boat waiting in ambush. He took the automatic pistol and lay flat on the floor with his head just above the ramp. He thought he saw movement about a thousand yards ahead. It was a fishing boat moving rapidly out of a trail and pointing directly at the airboat. One man had an assault rifle pointing from the bow and his partner was operating the outboard motor. He fired a few rounds which hit harmlessly short of the airboat. Debi started firing the .22 and splashes of water erupted near the fishing boat. She didn’t have a very powerful weapon, but it would go further than anything else they had in the boat. Shots were coming from behind Manny, but they were not yet in range. It would not be long, however. Gunfire was coming from both directions. Manny was closing in quickly on the fishing boat, and now the rounds from the assault rifle were getting closer. A few had buzzed above their heads, and one had struck the heavy landing ramp but didn’t penetrate it.
“Debi, let me borrow your .22, sweetie,” Lester said. Debi reluctantly handed it to him with a freshly loaded clip.
“Load me another clip.”
“Say please.”
“Please, goddamn it,” Lester said in a calm but stern voice. He was in his combat zone, and Debi had seen it before.
Lester could feel the rounds from the fishing boat zinging above the boat and hitting the cowling around the propellers. He didn’t know what would happen if the props took a few rounds, and he didn’t want to think about it. He propped the Marlin over the edge of the landing ramp and found the man in the front of the boat in his sight. The water was smooth, and even though Manny had the airboat at top speed, the roll of the boat was minimal and predictable. His first round hit the man operating the motor in the shoulder, causing the boat to swerve broadside towards the mangroves, giving Lester a better shot. He quickly moved the bolt and sent another long rifle .22 round into the chamber.
Lester remembered the first gun that his dad bought him was a .22 and how much he loved it. There wasn’t a squirrel or rabbit in Mountain Pine that was safe if Lester had his .22.
As the man in the front of the boat grabbed the sides of the boat to keep from going overboard, his upper body was exposed. Lester had his range now and took a breath and a strange Zen-like calmness came over him, even as rounds from behind Manny struck the prop housing again. Lester had two shots planned: the first was a head shot for the man in the front of the boat. He gently pulled the trigger and watched a bit of pink mist exit the man’s head. He slumped quickly, and then Lester found the wounded man who was scrambling for the assault rifle.
Lester thought about the bolt action feature of the rifle he held—so many people wanted automatics, and then they just shot wildly and hit nothing. A bolt action makes you care about the round in the chamber. You miss, and you have to pull back the bolt, eject the shell, and move the fresh round into the chamber. You pay careful attention to how you aim, how you breathe, how you gently squeeze the trigger.
Lester let the man pick up the weapon and start to point it. This action allowed Lester to line up the shot above the barrel and betw
een his eyes. The round found its mark and the man fell into the boat.
Manny blasted past the now unmanned fishing boat and headed toward Paradis. There were boats ahead, but they were far off and indistinguishable. More rounds were coming in, and Manny was in danger of being hit as he was basically unprotected from the rear.
“Manny, take a chute quickly and get us in firing position,” Lester said, and Manny did it without saying a word. He blew through the swamp and found a fairly woody area and pulled the airboat behind two huge cypress trees. The center of the bow of the boat was between the large trees. It was a good defensive position. Behind the boat were also huge trees. They knew it was as good as they could hope for.
“Lester, while you were taking out the two guys in the boat, those guys were shooting automatic weapons—big fucking automatics—7.62 SKSs, I’m guessing. We’re out-gunned,” Rich said.
“SKSs aren’t automatics—semiautomatics,” Lester reminded him.
For the first time since the chase began, Lester paused to see if he had a signal. He didn’t. Everyone checked and no one had a signal. Not much demand for cellphone towers in the swamp, Lester thought. If the sheriff’s patrol came by they would never find them.
They heard a loud noise at the entrance to the trail, and saw Billy’s airboat moving towards them. It might as well have been a German Tiger Tank. The two men in the front were also hiding behind the loading ramp. As soon as they spotted Manny’s boat they opened up with automatics. Both were AK-47 fully automatics and used the same 7.62 rounds as the SKS that Rich had misidentified. These rounds were certainly capable of tearing through the hull of the aluminum boat. The rounds were being sprayed all over the swamp but not connecting to their targets. Slowly, they moved closer and closer as Billy idled the boat towards his friend’s airboat. When they were about two hundred yards away, they stopped behind a grove of cypress trees.
Lester believed he had two weapons that were useful. The pistols were not much help. Debi was now holding his .45 automatic, Becca had a 9mm automatic, and Rich used a Glock .40 caliber. All of these were great close-combat weapons but pretty useless at 200 yards. The .22 was accurate at 200 yards but needed to hit something vital or they would just laugh it off. The MAC-11 was just an overgrown pistol but had the capacity to sling a lot of inaccurate lead around in hope of a lucky hit. These thugs didn’t know they had an automatic weapon, and it just might make a difference being peppered with live rounds all around them.