Miscue

by Glen C. Allison

  Forte completed his circle of the block and sat side-saddle on his motorcycle. He took out a cigarette and lit it. No better time than the present to smoke Checkers number five. He looked along the long expanse of thick brick wall as he smoked. He had no doubt that, even now, his image was being picked up by some hidden video camera and displayed on a monitor inside the house.

  The front gate of the mansion abruptly whirred and swung open. A long black Lincoln Town Car eased out of the driveway onto the street.

  Forte held his cigarette in his mouth and leaned down to retrieve his shotgun from the holster mounted on his bike. The car slowly turned in his direction and crept toward him. Forte shucked a shell into the firing chamber and thumbed off the safety. By the time the car was level with him he had the gun leveled at the side windows.

  The car idled for a moment. Forte could see nothing but his own distorted reflection with the cigarette dangling from his mouth in the dark tinted windows. He waited.

  After a moment the back rear window closest to him slid down a couple of inches.

  “Buenos noches, Senor,” a man’s voice said. The man’s face was still out of sight.

  Forte nodded and kept the gun steady.

  “Can we help you with something?” The man’s tone was polite but insistent.

  “Yes,” Forte said. “You can tell your boss to stop his attacks or I will bring some of my friends over and we will make life very unpleasant for him.”

  A laugh came from someone inside the car but the man who had first spoken to Forte did not respond for a moment. A flurry of Spanish flew around the inside of the car. The window lowered a few more inches. “That is your message, senor?” The man’s voice sounded amused now.

  “Si,” said Forte.

  The window closed and the car backed up. It turned up the driveway. The gate shut behind it.

  Forte flicked his ashes and waited. He had finished the cigarette by the time the gate opened again.

  The car pulled up to him and the window opened again. “If you please,” the same voice said in precise English, “Senor Aguilar invites you to his home to speak with him.”

  “Now?” Forte said.

  “Si.”

  Forte swung his legs over his bike. “I’ll follow you,” he said. He kicked the starter pedal and the motorcycle started up.

  “As you wish, senor.” The black car pulled away and Forte followed.

  The driveway ended at a six-car garage behind the house. The car stopped next to a covered overhang at the end of the house. Four men got out of the car and walked toward him. All were oversized and each had bulges under their coats exactly where a shoulder holster would be.

  The spokesman of the group was tall with black hair pulled into a ponytail. His face showed no emotion as he spoke. “You must leave your weapons here, please,” he said.

  “No,” Forte said.

  The man shrugged. “It is the rules. You will be safe. Your guns will be returned to you when you leave.”

  Forte looked at the four men. No smiles. No hard looks. Just business. He let his gaze sweep across the house. He quickly counted a half-dozen other guards on balconies and patios. His weapons would do him little good anyway.

  He took out the nine millimeter automatic at the small of his back. He bent down and pulled out the .380 automatic in his boot. He took both of his throwing knives from their hidden sheaths where they were tucked on each side of the waistband of his pants. He handed them over. One of the four men stepped over and pulled his shotgun from its holster on the bike.

  Forte followed the spokesman into the house. A fountain sparkled in the center of a tiled foyer that was bigger than the entire first floor of his apartment. The entry room emptied into an even larger dining room with three large openings. On the right was a sitting room, on the left was a corridor leading to the kitchen, and straight ahead Forte could see a sweeping stairway leading up to a circular landing. He followed his guide up the stairs. At a heavy oak door, they stopped. The other man opened the door and held out his hand for Forte to walk ahead into the room.

  On a large table in the middle of the room stood a half-finished wood carving of a horse. The front half of the horse was rearing in the air, mane flying and eyes wild. The rear half of the horse did not yet exist, remaining encased in the sun-bleached driftwood log on the table. A wooden case with various carving tools lay open next to the carving.

  A powerful-looking man was bent over the wood, carefully digging out curls of white wood with a slender instrument. His sleeves were rolled up. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back on his tanned head. For another full minute the only sound in the room was the snick-snick of the man at work. It looked incongruous to Forte, the man’s thick fingers as they maneuvered the small tool to bring out the beauty of the carving. But then again, it seemed to work for him.

  Finally he stopped and stepped back. He walked around the carving once then took a towel out of his belt and slapped it against the horse several times to knock the sawdust away. Only then did he look over at Forte. He smiled broadly and extended his hand.

  “Good evening, Mr. Forte. Welcome to the humble home of Ricardo Aguilar.”

  Forte looked at the man’s hand and shook it. He could feel the calluses in the man’s strong grip.

  Aguilar folded the wiping towel neatly and placed it on the corner of the table. He motioned to the man who had led Forte up the stairs and the man went to a teak cabinet, opened it and brought out a polished wooden box about a foot square. Aguilar took a seat in an oxblood leather chair and waved a hand at the matching leather divan for Forte to sit. He did.

  The assistant brought the box to Aguilar and held it open. The drug lord. selected a cigar and began rolling it between his fingertips. “Thank you, Manolo,” he said. The man brought the cigar box to Forte. He held up his hand to signal no.

  From the table next to his chair Aguilar picked up a bone-handled folding knife, flipped open the blade, and, with precise movements, cut the tip off the cigar.

  Forte sat and watched the man, knowing that the drug boss had reached the point where he could live his life with such nonchalant ease. The slashing and screaming and undiluted hands-on violence had come earlier in his career. Not that those times were over forever.

  Manolo stepped forward again and lit Aguilar’s cigar with a silver lighter. The drug lord closed his eyes and drew in the smoke, held it, then released it. “Ahhh,” he said as he exhaled. “Magnifico.”

  He opened his eyes and watched the smoke drift to the ceiling. “Mr. Forte,” he said without looking at him, “have you ever seen an albino horse?”

  Forte looked at the man. “No.”

  Aguilar puffed again and put his head back. “The albino is a freak; it is born with no pigment in its skin or eyes. A beautiful animal. So innocent, so pure. And valuable. Would you like to know why?” He puffed again and continued without waiting for a response. “Because when it is bred, the albino passes along none of its own traits. The resulting foal is the exact replica in coloring to the other horse that mates with the albino. It is guaranteed. For as long as it lives, the albino horse fulfils its role in life exactly the way it should, every time.”

  He looked at Forte now. “I admire that,” he said, “because predictability is a rare thing in the world we live in, wouldn’t you agree?” He puffed again, his eyes closed. He turned to Forte. “Thank you for indulging my idle rambling, my friend. To what do we owe this visit?”

  “Stop coming after the girl,” Forte said.

  Aguilar arched his heavy eyebrows slightly. “The girl. Kyra, the daughter of the man who was killed.” It was a statement, not a question. “Tell me, Senor Forte. If I were interested in capturing this girl, what makes you think you could stop me?”

  Forte could not tell if the glint in the other man’s eye was amusement or annoyance.

  “My resourcefulness and dogged determination?”

  Aguilar threw his head back and laughed, his cig
ar waving over the Persian rug. “Manolito, here is a man who enjoys life on the edge. We could learn much from him, eh?”

  Forte leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “Mr. Aguilar, I am your guest here tonight. I must be direct with you, however. If there is another attack on the shelter, I will bring back more people the next time I come here. We will do whatever it takes to stop you. Guaranteed. I am kind of predictable like that.”

  Aguilar rolled the cigar in his hands. “You do enjoy the edge of the cliff, senor.” His eyes had lost their humor. He held Forte’s stare for what seemed like a full minute. Then he regained a hard smile. “But I admire your courage. Come, my friend. Let me show you something.”

  Manolo was on his feet, opening the door. Forte followed Aguilar out of the room, down the stairs and across the back lawn. A smaller building that matched the house in design and color was on the back corner of the property surrounded by trees. A man-made goldfish pond bordered the manicured walkway leading to the building. There was a large drive-through door on one side of the building and a regular door next to it. A man was guarding the door, an automatic rifle at ready position. He stepped aside and swung open the door as his boss approached.

  Inside on the concrete floor were three large riding mowers, four push mowers, two small garden tractors. Weed trimmers, leaf blowers, shovels, hoes, and rakes hung from organizer racks along one wall. The opposite wall was covered with shelves laden with various weed poisons and fertilizers.

  In the far corner, behind one of the riding mowers, sat the man who had shot up the van at the Refuge.

  He was shirtless and his belt was unbuckled. A crimson trickle came from the corner of his mouth. A yellow bandana was tied tight between his lips. His left eye was swollen shut. His hands were tied behind the wooden chair. His right eye shone with terror as Aguilar approached him. The man flinched when the drug lord laid a hand gently on his shoulder.

  In the harsh light of the bare overhead bulb in the storage building, Aguilar’s face was all hard angles. “This is Jorge, the man who shot at you, no? Unfortunately, Jorge has not proven to be a very predictable and dependable member of our family. He has engaged in some… how do you say it… extracurricular activities.”

  Jorge’s right eye rolled in fear.

  The drug lord untied the bandana in the man’s mouth.

  “Jorge,” he said softly, “tell this man who hired you to attack his organization.”

  Jorge tried to speak. His voice croaked but no words would come. Aguilar motioned to Manolo who stepped over to a refrigerator by the door. He brought out a bottle of water, uncapped it, and held it to the bound man’s lips. Water ran out of the corners of his mouth and dribbled down his chest. The man gulped noisily then gagged and erupted in a fit of coughing. He bent over as far as the duct tape that held him to the chair would allow, then straightened again.

  Aguilar spoke again, his voice louder now. “Tell him, Jorge.”

  The man in the chair looked at Forte with his one good eye. “A man,” he croaked. “Long hair. Black hair.” He tried to say more but nothing came out. His voice sounded as if he had screamed himself hoarse. The right eye moved back to focus on the drug lord.

  Forte pulled out the ID photos he had been given by Benny the counterfeiter. He found the one of the clinic employee Brent Garrison and held it up in front of the man’s face. The bound man pulled his head back and looked at the picture. He nodded.

  Forte turned to Aguilar. “Thank you.”

  The drug lord turned and walked out of the building. Forte and Manolo followed him.

  Aguilar stopped by the goldfish pond and turned to face Forte. The lights that illuminated the pool gave the drug lord’s face a deceptive softness. “Things are not always as they appear, eh, Mr. Forte?” He watched a foot-long goldfish dart up from the depths of the pool, then disappear into the water beneath the lily pads. “This business I am in, it is a hard business at times. I know this and am not shy about doing the hard things that are sometimes required. I am not, however, without compassion. I know about the girl who was kidnapped.” He stooped and picked up a small jar on the stone border of the fish pond. He twisted the top off the jar, scooped out some of the fish food flakes, and sprinkled them over the pond. Immediately several fish thrashed to the surface of the water in competition for the food. Aguilar set the jar on the stones again and stood up.

  “Jorge will make a statement to the police about the attacks on your shelter. He will not give the police the location of the man who hired him. Because he does not know his location.” He snapped his finger and Manolo stepped forward with a small piece of paper. He handed it to Forte. On it were written two things: an address in Gretna and a description of a vehicle.

  “I took the liberty of having Jorge followed once my operation was accused of the attacks on you. Obviously, I knew that the orders to attack you did not come from me. I wanted to know who gave them. Manolo here had the good sense to follow the man who hired Jorge. He trailed the man back to the address on that piece of paper. Now you know what we know. We are out of it.

  “I apologize for Jorge’s behavior. Since he is part of my family here, I must take responsibility for him. I hope this bit of information will balance the scales between us, you and me, Senor Forte.”

  Forte tucked the paper into his pocket. “Thank you,” he said.

  Aguilar nodded. “Vaya con Dios,” he said.

  Chapter 23

  Sunday, 11:55 p.m.

  The bar at The Beauxgard was half-full, which was not bad for a Sunday night, even in New Orleans. Especially since it was not located in the French Quarter. Then again, this was no regular bar.

  The Beauxgard had been one of the plantation houses along St. Charles built in the early 17th century. Acres and acres of sugar cane had stretched out behind and beside the house with its sturdy white columns and broad front porch. Like many of the regal homesteads in and around the city, it had survived both the War of 1812 and the Union capture of New Orleans during the Civil War.

  Now it was a stately hotel for those travelers who wanted more of a taste of the old South than the all-night party atmosphere that pervaded the French Quarter. The Beauxgard’s décor had been restored to its original luster and, better yet, it had been replumbed and rewired to please the most modern tourist’s taste for convenience.

  The bar was the old mansion’s crowning achievement, according to the travel guides. Rich dark mahogany covered the walls and ceiling. A cozy bar with gleaming brass rails and footrests was backgrounded by a mural of a plantation scene along the river. A 19th-century country gentleman stepping into the room after a long day’s journey on horseback would have been satisfied.

  When Forte walked in, couples and trios of people had spread out among the tables in the candle-lit lounge area. A couple of men sat at the bar with three stools between them as they tipped glasses of amber liquid to their mouths. A woman played a Cole Porter song on the baby grand piano in the far corner of the room.

  Forte sat at the end of the bar away from the door. He sat with his back against the bar, listening to the music. He had seen this scene a hundred times before but with different eyes. At this point in his life, the place seemed comfortable, a quiet stop for a bit of relaxed conversation. During his years of grief it would have been a place of escape for him, a haven from reality. Behind him, he heard the chop-chopping of the bartender at his cutting board.

  The piano player’s song ended. Forte turned and watched the man behind the bar as he sliced lemons and scooped the slices into a clear glass container with a snap-on lid. The bartender’s movements were quick and practiced. Each lemon slice looked exactly the same as the slice before it, from where Forte sat.

  “Water, with a twist,” Forte said.

  One of the men at the other end of the bar looked over at him then quickly looked back at his drink. The bartender glanced up. He set his knife on the edge of the cutting board and wiped his hands on his apron.

&nbs
p; Forte had left Aguilar’s place and had driven straight to his office. He had located the address that the drug lord had given him on a detailed street map of Gretna. Then he had packed up the equipment he needed in a large duffel bag and loaded it into his black van. He had driven straight to The Beauxgard.

  The bartender brought his drink. As he placed it on the napkin in front of Forte, he could see the tattoo of a seal on the inside of the man’s forearm. A woman came in and sat two stools down from Forte. The bartender took her order, filled it, then came back to where Forte sat.

  “Thanks, Nomad,” Forte said.

  “Long time,” said the bartender.

  “Three months since the last time,” Forte said.

  Mike “Nomad” Jones worked the bar at The Beauxgard but few people knew he actually owned the hotel. And that was exactly how he wanted it. He worked the bar a few nights a week because he enjoyed it and because the steady stream of movers and shakers through the bar kept him abreast of what was really going on in the city. He once told Forte that his whole life was undercover. The things Nomad did when he was away from the hotel for a week or two, Forte didn’t ask and his friend didn’t tell.

  The two had trained and worked together as Navy SEALS. The man looked the least like a special forces commando of anyone in the unit. His nationality defied guessing but Nomad liked calling himself a “mongrel of American Indian, African, Irish and Saudi extraction.” Though one of the smallest of the training group, Jones had earned a reputation for toughness early on. Whenever an exercise was given to the trainees by the drillmasters, someone in the group would point out a possible obstacle. Jones’s answer was always the same: No matter. Except it came out “Nomadda” in Jones’s low voice. When it came to pure guts, no one matched him.

  Forte had seen him in action in Panama and in Iraq. He had heard of Nomad’s exploits rescuing two of his wounded squad members during the fiasco in Somalia. That major screwup by the military higher-ups had prompted Nomad to go out on his own. He had moved to New Orleans and bought the hotel. Forte never asked exactly where he got the money for the purchase.