by Jeff Gulvin
Swann nodded. ‘Leaderless Resistance causes one set of problems, but you give an organisation a central chain of command and you’re looking at fighting a war.’
‘Exactly. Reece has been buzzing around the websites ever since Lafitte got killed. Hope Heights has all the potential to become a siege town. Even the sheriff over there is pro militia.’
‘Just how many law-enforcement officers are there, Chey? D’you know?’
‘We have no idea. None whatsoever. Reece is ex-Vietnam and a Green Beret to boot. He’s big-time Christian Identity and trying to get all the different groups to sing from the same hymn sheet. The Phineas Priesthood is all but in his backyard, then there’s Hayden Lake and Wyoming. The Priesthood’s a really nasty bunch. They took their cue from Numbers twenty-five, in the Bible. A man becomes an avenging priest after killing a Midianite woman who had sex with a Jew.’ She paused. ‘We arrested three of them from Washington State in 1996. They’d robbed a US bank in Spokane and were casing one in Portland, Oregon. Barbee, Berry and Verne Jay Merrell.’ She shook her head. ‘They don’t believe in the federal system, Jack. Any US bank is just a stooge for the Federal Reserve, so it’s OK to take the money. Funny how some people can do what the hell they like, when they believe they’re in the right.’
They parked in the self-contained parking lot at the Provincial, and Swann carried Logan’s bags up to the fifth floor and their room overlooking Decatur Street, the river and the ironwork bridge to the west shore. Logan immediately opened the window and all benefit of the air conditioning was lost. ‘I know it’s hot, honey, but I like to hear the street.’
Swann took her in his arms and kissed her, then he eased her out of her jacket. She was wearing a flimsy white camisole with no bra, and her breasts moved under his hand, the nipples pert and erect against the silken material. Her skin was very black, like velvet under his palm, and he hoisted the camisole over her head and kissed her breasts, tweaking the nipples between his teeth until she shivered.
They made love on the wide double bed, Swann pressing himself deeper and deeper inside her, until she squirmed and arched her back and the muscles stood out like cord against her neck. Her lips were full and painted red, and her eyes were the same olive hue as her skin. Swann roamed her face and neck with his tongue, kissed her along the shoulders, and let his lips trail her stomach and down her thighs. She gripped the sheet in one hand, twisting it into a knot, and then she worked him over on his back and rode him until she came with a muffled cry in her throat.
He sat naked at the window, smoking a cigarette, listening to the fall of the shower and watching the heat rising from the softening concrete pavement. Looking right, he could see the WESTIN building and the old Jax Brewery, where they no longer made any beer. Harrison had told him it tasted like shit anyway, much worse than Dixie, which was bad enough. The river was quiet today, the sun bouncing off flat, mud-coloured waves, which crested in a mush of greyed wake when a tanker ploughed under the bridge. Swann had been here a few times now and he was beginning to like the place. The French Quarter people were friendly, although they were always looking to make a buck. Harrison knew most of them and had told Swann about the Chicken Man dying, which had made the Picayune. The Duck Lady was still around, though, along with the Wizard with his long black hair, top hat and blue-lensed sunglasses.
Logan came out of the shower, naked, the water not quite dry on her skin, and Swann felt the saliva drying inside his mouth. ‘You are the most beautiful creature I think I’ve ever seen,’ he said. ‘Will you marry me?’
‘Jack,’ she said. ‘You asked me that and I already said yes. Now come over here and make love to me again.’
Harrison sat in Swartz and Penny’s office in the gang squad section. Friday night, and everyone was about to head home. Cimino, his partner from NOPD, was going to the tiny ranch he had bought north of the lake, where he and his wife were trying to raise some horses. He had invited Harrison out there on many occasions, but Harrison had so far never made it.
‘Come back with me now,’ Cimino was saying. ‘We got beer and steaks. Barbecue and fresh north shore air, Harrison. You’ll shrivel up in the quarter.’
‘I like the quarter, Davy. Besides there’s someone I wanna see tonight.’
‘A date.’ Cimino poked him in the chest. ‘You got a date?’
‘Fuck you, asshole.’ Harrison patted away his hand. He stood up as Agent Cox came in from the wire room. ‘Little Nate’s just been using his phone,’ he said. ‘His buyer’s in town. They’ve got a face to face planned for this evening.’
Silence. Nobody wanted to go. Most of them had plans. But this was the buyer and if they were going to get Nate off the street, cleaning up his supply line of heroin would help them do it.
‘Where?’ Mike Hammond, the supervisor, asked.
Cox looked straight at Harrison. ‘Jackson Square. Down by the cathedral.’
All eyes were on Harrison now and he shook his head wearily. ‘What time?’
‘Seven.’
Harrison looked at his watch. That gave him less than a half-hour. ‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘Somebody give me a ride.’
Penny dropped him off on Royal, then left him and headed home to Slidell for the weekend with his wife and son. Harrison did not look back, but hunched his shoulders, flicked his ponytail out from his collar, and walked east to Canal. They were still working on the outside of the Holiday Inn, and he skirted the scaffolding and the dump trucks. Men in hard hats shouted orders to one another above him. Two black guys in shorts, singlets and Nike sneakers were hanging around on the corner by the street artists, as he turned into Jackson Square. Not many tourists were out; maybe they had finally realised that New Orleans was no place to be in the summertime.
He saw a hobo sitting on the concrete with his back to the railings and square of grass. Beside him he had a small, grubby backpack, and he sat with one leg under his butt, the other thrust out in front of him. Harrison could see his boots were almost as worn as his own. His hair was wrapped in a jet-black bandana which was tied in a knot at the back of his neck, and one of his eyelids hung lower than the other. He did not look up, intent on rolling a cigarette one-handed. Harrison walked on and stopped on Decatur, and bought himself a copy of the Picayune and a beer in a ‘to go’ cup. Then he crossed and climbed the steps of Washington Artillery Park, from where he could see across Jackson Square. He was not alone in the surveillance. Two cops from the Vieux Carré Precinct were in a van parked on Decatur and two other FBI agents were on foot, on the Royal side of Jackson Square. Harrison read the paper, smoked a cigarette, and sipped now and again from the beer. The wind was getting up across on the west shore and he knew it would rain later.
Little Nate arrived with a buddy driving his white Z28 Camaro. Harrison had an earpiece in and heard one of the NOPD guys signal his arrival. He had the eyeball now and muttered into his mouthpiece. ‘Eyes on target. On foot now. Crossing the square.’ Little Nate was an amateur. Swartz, who’d been busting gangs for ten years, had told them as much. He reckoned he had listened to over seventy thousand wire-tap phone calls in his fifteen years with the Bureau and had only heard the words heroin and cocaine twice. Both times from Little Nate. Harrison shook his head now as he watched him. Nate squatted down next to the bandana-wearing hobo and started chatting to him. It surprised him: not the fact that Nate was talking openly in a very public place, but the fact that it was that guy he was talking to. Surely he could not be the contact.
‘He’s talking to a hobo,’ Harrison muttered. ‘Anyone else got eyeball?’
‘Yeah.’ One of the NOPD’s officers again.
‘That can’t be who we’re looking at, surely,’ Harrison said.
‘Beats me.’
Harrison watched, bored all at once, bored with the inevitability of it, and again thoughts of the mountains, the dry summer heat of the north, spread over him. He was restless and he knew it. This was not how he wanted to be spending his Friday evenings any
more. He’d had about enough of low life such as Little Nate. Twenty-five years of watching shit like him was a very long time.
He continued to watch, saw Nate pass the hobo something, and then the hobo got up, leaving the backpack on the ground. Harrison saw that he had a larger one, which had been against the railings behind his back, and he shifted this between his shoulders. Nate picked up the other pack and walked back towards Decatur, where his Camaro had swung another loop.
‘You wanna jump this guy’s ass or what?’ Harrison said.
One of the gang squad agents spoke in his ear. ‘Not right now. We got pictures and we got the phone conversation on tape.’
‘What about the other guy?’
‘You wanna stick with him for a while?’
‘I’ll take him as far as the edge of the quarter. My wheels are back at the office.’
Harrison walked fifty yards behind the hobo, who cut his way across Chartres to Royal and then Bourbon Street. Harrison thought he was going to head north, but he didn’t; he walked the length of Bourbon Street, all the way down to the business district. A white United taxi was parked by the side of the road and the hobo got in.
Harrison got back on the radio. ‘Somebody pick me up,’ he said. ‘That guy just got my attention.’
Swartz swung by in his Ford with the tinted windows and picked Harrison up. They followed the cab part way along St Charles Avenue, then it headed north again, before swinging west on Loyola. The cab crossed the river on 90 and headed through the swamps into St Charles Parish on Highway 310. Harrison sat and smoked. Next to him, Swartz was as puzzled as he was. ‘A hobo taking a cab ride, all the way out here. It don’t add up, Harrison.’
‘It does, if the hobo’s dealing.’
They followed the cab as it turned off and then headed north along the river towards Reserve. Just short of town, the cab pulled over and the hobo climbed out. He started across an open lot and disappeared into the trees beyond. Swartz pulled over and sat for a moment, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘What the hell’s through there?’
‘Swamp and scrub and more fucking swamp.’
Swartz made a face. ‘Let’s forget it. We got the guy on film and we got him on the phone. He’s a mule at best, anyway.’ As he was speaking, the radio crackled and Harrison picked it up. Cox was still in the wire room. He had just taken a call from the Vieux Carré Precinct.
‘You’re kidding me?’ Harrison said, then turned to Swartz. ‘The NOPD just pulled Little Nate’s Camaro and arrested the driver.’
‘Oh, man.’
‘They never got the backpack, but there were two weapons, a 9-millimetre and an AK, just lying on the back seat.’
‘Little Nate?’
‘Ran off, apparently.’
Swartz took the radio from him. ‘Todd,’ he said to Cox. ‘Get on to Hammond. He’s gonna have to talk to the district captain, let him in on the wire. We don’t want the NOPD picking up Nate for illegal possession of firearms.’
Swartz dropped Harrison back in the French Quarter. ‘You know, JB,’ he said. ‘You ought to move to a better neighbourhood.’
‘I know it.’ Harrison sighed. ‘One of these days, I will.’
‘So do it, buddy. Get a little life for yourself.’ Swartz punched him playfully on the arm. ‘If you’re kicking your heels this weekend, we got beer and steak at my house. Some of the guys are coming over for the baseball.’
‘Thanks, bro. But the limey cop’s in town. If I get bored with him, I’ll do that.’
He walked the length of Chartres and cut through the hotel parking lot to Nu Nus. It was nine-thirty now, dark and hot, but the wind was getting up and the streets would be awash with Louisiana rain before morning.
Dewey was bartending and he snapped the top off a beer. ‘Some friends of yours were in, man,’ he said.
Harrison looked around the empty bar. ‘Where they at now?’
‘They’ve gone on down to Levon Helm’s club. They got a band playing.’
‘That’s on Decatur, right?’
‘Yep. Other side of the street from the fire station.’
‘Who’s there?’
‘Your buddy from England.’ Dewey rolled his eyes. ‘His sweetheart of a girlfriend and Jean Carey.’
‘Jean’s with them?’
‘She sure is. Nice lady, Harrison. Way too good for you.’
‘Don’t count on that.’ Harrison walked out on to Decatur.
The rain began before he made it to Levon Helm’s club. He walked with his hands in his jeans’ pockets, his red T-shirt getting very wet. The doorman looked him up and down, and Harrison slipped a five-dollar bill across his palm and the man stood to one side. Helm’s club was spacious, the ceiling high and the bar running the length of one wall to the right. Tables were dotted here and there, and the people crowded the dance floor in front of the stage. Harrison had not noticed whose face adorned the billboard on the windows outside, but he recognised Gary Hirstius. He was midway through one of the tracks on his first album, a copy of which Harrison had back at his apartment. Harrison stood a moment just inside the door to dry off, and Hirstius caught his eye from the stage. Harrison peered through the smoke and the semi-darkness, and saw the three of them at a table on the raised section of flooring, just to the left of the dance floor. He took a cigarette from his T-shirt pocket and lit it. Menthol. Since Vietnam, he had smoked two brands alternately, and every shirt he ever wore had a pack of Marlboro in one pocket and Merit or Kools menthol in the other. He bought a beer at the bar and went over to the table, where he laid a hand on Swann’s shoulder.
‘Hey, bubba. What’s up?’
Swann twisted his head back, looked into the weather-beaten old face, and at the wet, grey hair hanging in two plaits down his chest Indian-style. ‘Harrison.’ He jumped up and shook his hand. But then Harrison, suddenly very glad to see him, hugged him close.
‘New Orleans-style,’ he muttered, and caught Jean’s eye over Swann’s shoulder. ‘Has he been looking out for you, Miss Lady Mam?’
‘Him, Dewey and Cheyenne.’ She smiled.
‘Right on. Southern hospitality.’ Harrison sat down in Swann’s chair and Logan looked slant-eyed at him. ‘Honey chile, you ain’t in the South.’
‘I know it. I’m in N’Awlins.’
They all laughed, and Swann grabbed another chair and sat down again. ‘How’ve you been, Harrison?’
‘Real good.’
‘He’s thinking of quitting the job,’ Logan said. ‘He’s doing that good, Jack.’
Harrison sucked breath and felt Jean watching him. He smiled at her. ‘So, how’re you, Miss Lady Mam? I wasn’t sure you’d still be here.’
‘I’m OK. How was your vacation?’
‘Thought-provoking.’ Harrison looked beyond her then to the stage, where Hirstius had finished playing and was cutting a path towards them, taking the plaudits and pats on the back as he did so. He paused in front of the table and Swann gave up his chair.
Hirstius shook hands with Harrison, then he looked round the table and saw Logan for the first time. ‘Fed or state?’ he said.
‘It shows, then.’
‘Only in the company you’re keeping.’
‘Fed,’ she said.
‘Oh, brother.’ Hirstius rubbed the heel of a palm across his eyes. ‘A table full of cops and me. I’ll never get outta here alive.’ He looked at Jean then. ‘Mam, I did what I could.’ He sat back and took a roll of A4 paper from the back pocket of his jeans. He passed it across to her. ‘There’s been over five hundred people killed on the railroad tracks since 1996,’ he said. ‘They’ve mostly been hobos, which is why nobody seems to give a damn, but there’s also been some straights, like your boy.’
Harrison was staring at him and Jean laid a tiny hand over his. ‘I asked Gary to try and find my son’s killer, John. The police weren’t able to.’
Hirstius was shaking his head. ‘I ain’t even gonna try, mam. I told you that already.’
He looked at Harrison then. ‘I did a little digging, is all.’ He tapped the pages of the mini-report he had prepared. ‘It’s all in there.’ He glanced over his shoulder then, to see what was happening on stage, before going on. ‘There’s a gang out there known as the FTRA, that’s Freight Train Riders of America. I’ve only found out a little bit, but there’s something like two thousand of them.’ He looked hard at Jean. ‘Mam, you ain’t gonna find your son’s murderer. Those killings I just mentioned have pretty much been attributed to the FTRA. There’s three separate gangs which all come together under the one banner. They’re nazi, racist sons of bitches. You can tell them apart by the bandanas they wear round their heads. They ride the trains in groups and kill people who get in their way. Why they kill, nobody seems to know. Maybe they’re running some kinda gig they don’t want people knowing about. Maybe they’re just sick.’
‘You said bandanas.’ Harrison sat forward. ‘What colour bandanas?’
Hirstius shrugged. ‘Like I said, there’s three outfits. Some wear red, some blue, and I think the others are black.’
Harrison went very still; the ash was an inch long on his cigarette. Slowly, he tipped it into the ashtray. Hirstius got up. ‘Anyways, I gotta get out of here,’ he said. ‘Before somebody figures out the company I’m keeping.’
Jean grabbed his arm. ‘Thank you, Gary. How much do I owe you?’
‘Mam, I’m really sorry for your loss.’ He smiled. ‘All I did was make a few calls.’
Swann went for more drinks and Harrison sat staring at Hirstius without really seeing him, as he set up for the next session. Logan laid a hand on his arm. ‘What is it?’ she said.
He glanced at her then. ‘Tonight,’ he said, ‘before I came here, I did a little job for the gang squad. We’re watching this headcase from the St Thomas Project. Gangbanger. Heroin-dealer. His source came into town tonight and I saw a face to face in Jackson Square.’
‘So?’
‘So the supplier was a hobo wearing a black bandana.’
Jean stared at him, and her round face with its high cheekbones and gentle mouth was still. Her hands were clasped in front of her on the table and she sat in silence for a moment, both Logan and Harrison watching her. Harrison laid his rough, calloused palm over the little mound of knuckles. ‘You OK, Miss Lady Mam?’