by Don Bruns
50
He left after one drink. That was one more than he should have had. But this time he felt that he really needed it. Archer headed for his car, two blocks away.
He didn’t need some bartender to point out how his business worked. As much as he liked the man, the detective was somewhat put out with Mike’s spin on the science of solving crimes. Put out because the son of a bitch had pretty much nailed it. Archer may have had enough evidence about the case to solve it, but he had yet to put those puzzle pieces together, and that was the frustrating part. It was always the frustrating part. Like a damned Rubik’s Cube.
Turning a corner, he stepped aside as the short man brushed up against him, stumbling and moving on in the other direction. Spinning around Archer ran his hand over his rear pocket. To his surprise, he found his wallet intact. He looked after the retreating figure.
‘Jackson.’
There was no acknowledgement from the would-be pickpocket. Without hesitation Archer walked after him.
The man in the worn burgundy sport coat kept moving up the street.
‘Jackson, stop. Get back here or I’ll arrest your sorry ass.’
Abruptly the short man stopped, seemed to consider the consequences then slowly turned around, a questioning look on his face.
‘Hey, Detective Archer.’ He acted surprised. ‘Didn’t even know it was you, sir.’ Opening his hands and holding them out he said, ‘I never did nothing. You check, sir, and see for yourself because I saw the light the last time we met, sir. No more pickin’ pockets, no sir. I’m a changed man.’
‘No pockets picked?’
‘No, sir.’
‘So what are you doing for a living? Now?’
Jackson bit his lip. Slowly walking back to Archer, he folded his hands in front of himself.
‘Sir, what if I confided in you. Told you something that would possibly help you in your line of work. You know what I mean, sir?’
Archer didn’t have a clue.
‘Have you been charged with something? Do you want something from me?’
‘Lord, no,’ Jackson said. ‘If I needed something from you, I think I’d look elsewhere,’ he said. ‘After all, you and I have a history.’
Archer studied the man for a moment, there on the street, cars passing by and tourists and colorful locals crowding the space.
‘So what are you confiding?’
‘Please, sir, this doesn’t go against me?’
‘How bad is it?’
‘It’s only an observation, Detective.’
‘Jackson,’ Archer cleared his throat, ‘an observation is not anything that can get you in trouble. At least legally.’
Nodding his head, the short man smiled.
‘Well, an observation may be a thought, or it may be something I saw. If it was something I saw and didn’t report directly, I am afraid it may get me in trouble. I’ll let you decide.’
Archer nodded, intrigued.
‘Sir, before I tell you, did you seriously donate my money to some charity? You told me you would. You do remember taking some of my hard-earned money, right?’
Archer found himself smiling. The first time in a long time.
‘Yes, I did. I most certainly did. Your twenty went to help police families who are facing a rough future.’
‘I’ll need a receipt for tax purposes,’ Jackson said with the straightest of faces. ‘A receipt, Detective.’
‘Understood. I’ll get it to you.’
‘Thank you, kind sir.’
‘Now, Jackson, about what you saw?’
‘Well then, I noticed that a man named Gandal was killed today here in the French Quarter. Don’t misunderstand, I didn’t see any murder, but it happened. It did happen, ain’t that right, sir?’
What the hell? The last two people Archer had talked to had made that murder a focal point of the conversation. Now a street-smart criminal?
‘I heard the same thing, Jackson.’
‘Well, I may have stumbled on some information regarding that murder. Something that might interest you.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What kind of information?’
‘I’m paying this forward, Detective. You know, so if I run into a spot of bad luck, you’ll remember I helped you out.’
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a black American Express card. Holding it back, he said, ‘No questions asked, Detective? Got to have your word on this. Is that OK?’
‘I won’t ask any questions, Jackson.’ He might not, but what his superiors would do was an entirely different story.
Samuel Jackson handed the card to Archer.
‘Never used it or anything,’ he said. ‘Hell, a Black Card? You just don’t mess with stuff like that, you know what I mean? Man has to spend two hundred fifty thousand dollars a year just to own one. Two hundred fifty thousand, sir. Now you know I don’t have that kind of dollars on me. Twenty here, maybe, twenty there and that just don’t add up.’
Archer looked at it, then looked at it again. It was the shiny black anodized titanium card used by high rollers only. He’d heard about it, but never dreamed he’d hold one in his hand. The Centurion Black American Express Card. Archer was lucky to have a MasterCard with a thousand dollars charged to it, and that was probably delinquent.
‘Where did you get this?’ He studied the name, his hand slightly trembling. The entire encounter was getting stranger by the second.
‘You askin’ questions already? You promised.’
‘Sorry.’ He looked at the raised name again, not sure whether to believe his eyes. The name scared him.
‘OK, Detective. I will volunteer one piece of information.’
‘That being?’
‘That Lincoln Navigator where Gandal was killed?’
‘Right.’
‘Please, Detective, now this can’t blow back on me, understood? You and me, we got a history. I donated to that police charity, sir, am I right?’
Archer nodded.
‘The man who walked out of that vehicle before they found Gandal’s body, he carried this credit card. Understood? I ain’t sayin’ he did nothin’, but he walked out of the back seat of that Lincoln.’
‘You know this because?’
‘Shit, you askin’ questions again? Give me back my card then.’
‘No. No.’ Archer studied the card again, shaking his head. He couldn’t understand how this entire puzzle fit together. ‘Do you recognize the name on this card? Do you know the man?’
Jackson’s eyes drifted as the two men stood on the sidewalk. He shrugged his shoulders, uncomfortable with the question.
‘I heard about a guy with that name.’
‘You lifted this off of him?’
‘What? Lifted it? Hell no. What you trying to imply? He dropped it. I simply picked it up.’
‘Ah,’ Archer nodded. ‘You picked it up. I see. Well, what do you know about him? This guy who dropped his card?’
‘Man owns some big oil company or somethin’. Kind of guy who is used to having his own way.’
Archer nodded again.
‘I would guess you’re right.’ Again he read the raised white print on the shiny black object. Richard Garrett.
‘And here I am, being a model citizen, Detective. Check it out. I find this card on the ground and first thing I do is turn it in to an officer of the law.’
‘You’re cream of the crop, Jackson.’
‘Yes, sir. Well, I got to go. Got a job interview as janitor at a club over on Toulouse Street.’
‘Garrett. He walked out of the Lincoln Navigator? After Gandal was dead? And you saw him?’
‘I’m tellin’ you, Detective.’ He paused. ‘But you can’t be tellin’ anyone else. My life would be worth shit.’
Archer nodded. ‘You checked the Navigator?’
‘May have glanced through the driver’s window.’
‘And you saw—’
‘Detecti
ve.’ Frustration in his voice. ‘How much more you gonna ask?’
‘Let’s say you saw someone slumped over the steering wheel. Let’s just say that might have happened.’
‘Let’s say I did.’
‘Jackson, you’re aware I’m going to have to know where to reach you. I may not be the one asking questions but I’ve got superiors who will want more information.’
The small black man nodded. ‘I may not have any more information, sir. Probably don’t. You know, shit, I should have kept my mouth shut.’
‘OK, if I’m going to get you a receipt for your taxes, where would I deliver it? You want to get a tax form, just give me an address.’
Jackson shot him a grim look.
‘In that case, I hang at CC’s Coffee House on Royal. You want to reach me, you just leave whatever you have there. A receipt, maybe an envelope with cash for the information I just gave you. Or how about you want to give me a “get out of jail free” card, but whatever it is you want to give me, leave it at CC’s. Those folks know me well.’
‘How did you know so much about the Black Card?’
‘I, uh—’
‘You tried to use it, didn’t you?’
Jackson stared up at him, a thin smile on his lips. ‘Apparently,’ he said, ‘you don’t use one of those Black Cards to buy a po-boy and a beer. They ’bout threw me out of that place.’
51
He missed Denise every day. Every hour. Every minute. They didn’t get to spend a lot of time together, the couple’s two jobs in Detroit ate at their chance to be together, but they’d been close. Married just three years, dating on-and-off for ten. They’d grab ten minutes here, twenty minutes there, a cup of coffee, a fast-food sandwich, different spots around the city when he was working.
Denise worked as hard and almost as long as he did. She’d meet him during the day at the El Taquito food truck in southwest Detroit, where they would share a ceviche tostada and a chorizo taco, the sound of souped-up car engines and loud Harley-Davidsons gunning down West Vernor and Military ringing in their ears.
At night, they’d sometimes grab a bite near the Henry Ford Hospital in the north end, where Denise tended to emergencies like knifings, shootings, poisonings and a steady parade of hapless Detroiters who had the misfortune to get mugged.
She’d take her break close by, maybe at Park’s Old Style Bar-B-Q on Beaubien Street and they’d share a slab of ribs covered in Park’s famous sauce. He could almost taste it now. And if he closed his eyes for just a moment, he could taste Denise, her sweet kisses and soft, supple lips.
It seemed that he and Denise only saw each other over a meal. And of course the times they connected in bed. There was more than one time when one of them had been late for their shift because the loving lasted a little too long and was a little too intense. But then, like she once told him, when it came to making love, it could never be too long or too steamy.
As Archer drove back to the office, his thoughts turned to Solange Cordray. Strange to think it, but there was a food connection with her as well. She showed up at the damnedest times. He’d sit down to eat, and there she’d be, piecing out tidbits of information. Cryptic, mystic, just like Mike the bartender, the girl was playing with his head.
And he wondered what Solange Cordray was like in her moments of passion. He hadn’t fantasized much about women since Denise was killed. Tried to keep his mind off anything but surviving, getting out of the Motor City, and starting a new life down here in the Big Easy. And of course finding Denise’s killer. But the Cordray woman piqued his interest. He’d only seen her a few times, but there was something sexy about her. Possibly the mysterious way she approached him, but certainly for the soft dark skin, the thick dark hair. She was a beautiful woman to look at, with slight curves in just the right places. For some reason, if he were asked to conjure up images of witches or voodoo practitioners, they would be evil-looking women with warts, hooked noses and bad teeth. Solange’s skin was smooth, her nose turned up just slightly, and her teeth appeared to be perfect.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Sergeant Dan Sullivan walked to his desk.
‘I told you, I needed a little time.’
‘Well, here’s what you missed.’ Pointing his finger at Archer, he numbered the things they had learned in the brief time Q was gone.
‘Number one, we found Jim Gideon, Skeeter Lewis’s accomplice. Dumb-ass was hanging out at a place his wife’s brother owns, wine bar called the Met. Gideon is next door but we’re bringing him in for questioning in half an hour. Number two,’ he continued, ‘Gandal, the guy who was strangled in his Lincoln Navigator today, was seen having coffee at MRB this morning with a prominent New Orleans businessman. We’re tracking down the identity, but several of the help said the man was a regular. Number three—’
‘Sergeant, here’s what I have for you.’
He handed the stocky man the black titanium American Express card.
Sullivan reared back, surprised by the presentation. Then he took the card, studying it for a moment.
‘What is this?’
‘Check it out,’ Archer said.
‘Richard Garrett? How the hell did you get this?’
‘Garrett may be involved in the murder of Gandal.’
‘No. I told you that Gandal worked for Garrett. There’s no way Richard Garrett was involved in his murder.’
‘Yes. Prominent New Orleans businessman. It all fits.’
‘No. Do you understand me?’ Sullivan was livid. ‘This is not possible, Detective. Please understand what I’m saying.’
‘Sergeant, you can’t tell me—’
‘I just did.’ Sullivan handed him back the card. ‘Leave this alone, Archer. I want no can of worms opened on my watch, do you understand?’
‘Well, then let me tell you something.’ Archer palmed the card. ‘This guy was the last person out of the Lincoln Navigator where they found the body of Jonathon Gandal. It may implicate him as Gandal’s killer, Sergeant. I suggest it does implicate him. What do you propose we do? I’ve got an eyewitness that I think will testify.’
‘Give me the card,’ Sullivan said, reaching for it.
‘No.’ Archer backed away.
‘Do you understand the implications here? You’re trying to destroy the reputation of a pillar in this community. I’ll call Garrett and I’m sure he’ll have a perfectly good explanation.’
‘You don’t get the card.’
Sullivan studied him for a moment, cocking his head and squinting his eyes as if deciding whether to officially confront him for his insubordination.
‘Archer, I don’t like you.’
‘That has been obvious.’
‘And if it had been my decision, no one would have offered you this job, knowing what I know about your background.’
‘I’m lucky to have found this job,’ Archer said, staring right back into the man’s eyes. ‘I will admit that.’
‘Damn straight.’
‘But your point is?’
‘You’re mucking up the water. And apparently your job in life is to take everyone else in your circle down with you. I’ve made it clear. There are certain people in this town that you don’t want to fuck with. I’d rather you look in a different direction. Can I be any more direct?’
‘I’m going in the direction of the conviction, Sergeant.’
‘I’ll almost guarantee you that this will garner you no conviction. Jesus, Archer, you lost your job in Detroit trying to take down people.’
‘I was trying to get to the truth.’
‘You’re about to become a one-man train wreck. Don’t fuck this one up the minute you get here.’
He’d started his tenure by pissing off the hierarchy. There was no place to go but up. Or, if he was fired, a spiral death.
52
Garrett stopped for lunch. Galatoire’s on Bourbon Street, with its French Creole dishes. No hurry. It was probably best to take his time, act as if he was just in the
area for a leisurely meal. With a copy of the Times-Picayune in front of him he finished his meal, finishing it off with a cup of cappuccino.
The waiter brought his check, and that’s when the man started to sweat. His wallet was missing. He thrust his hand into his other rear pocket, then his two front pockets. Stepping out of the booth he studied the area, then looked under the table. Nothing.
All he could think of was the Lincoln Navigator. During the struggle it had slipped from his pocket and right now, as the police combed that vehicle, they already knew that he’d been inside the car. In the rear seat.
Closing his eyes he said a short prayer, hypocritical he knew because he believed in no higher authority. But this situation called for extra measures.
Asking for the manager, he explained the situation.
‘Mr Garrett, we want to accommodate you any way we can. Just sign here, sir, and we’ll send you your bill.’
With shaky hands, Garrett signed and left a fifty percent tip. Assuming he’d get the chance to actually pay the bill.
He walked back to his booth one more time, scanning the entire area, but there was nothing. Walking outside, he looked both ways, half expecting a cop to approach him and take him into custody then and there.
What if they hadn’t found the body yet? He could simply go back, open the rear door and retrieve it. Then he thought about the cameras. Passing five, or seven or eight businesses, he was sure to be on camera. The damned things were everywhere. And by now, he was certain, they’d have found Gandal’s body. Sure he’d had coffee with the man, but there was no evidence that … where was his damned wallet?
Then his thoughts turned to the short man who gave him a strong bump on the sidewalk. How naive of him to think the wallet had slipped out of his pocket in the Navigator. The guy who stepped from the alley was most certainly a professional pickpocket. Son of a bitch, that had to be the answer. Didn’t it? So how much did the man know? Was he aware that Garrett had gotten out of the vehicle where Gandal had been killed? Had he watched Garrett actually open the door? It wasn’t a good scenario.