The Lowdown (Dale Conley Action Thrillers Series Book 3)

by Erik Carter

  Dale, Marty, and Taft were at one of the long rows of cushioned seats in the middle of the corridor. Ervin sat by himself at the row of seats across the hall, several feet away, ignoring them. Percy had left to call into the station. The bags of drugs sat on Marty’s maroon-clad lap. He was bent over, scrutinizing the symbols, squinting through his oversized glasses. He’d been like this for a several long minutes, in an almost trance-like state. The other three were quiet, giving the genius a few moments to process his inspection. Taft’s arms were crossed, and he picked at his thumbnail. The eccentricities of the agents under his charge annoyed the living hell out of him.

  Finally, Marty sat up.

  “Like I told you on the phone,” he said to Dale. “I have no clue what these symbols could be. They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

  “But I know I’ve seen them before,” Dale said. “Come on, Marty. Think.”

  Marty shrugged. “I haven’t the foggiest idea. Frankly, I can’t believe you flew me all the way here for this. It’s not my expertise. Or yours. This isn’t art or history. This is symbology.” He thought for a moment. Then his eyes lit up. “I know who you ought to bring in to help.”

  Oh no …

  “That treasure hunter!” Marty said, quite pleased with the brilliance of his idea. “The one from that heroin assignment you had. Unless you totally burnt that bridge.”

  Al. Al. Everyone wanted him to bring in Al. Fine. Dale was a stubborn man, but he knew when he needed to admit defeat.

  He turned to Taft. “Sir, I need a consultant. I need to bring in—”

  “Al Blair?” Taft said. “It’s already done. Al got down here a couple hours ago. Here’s the phone number for the hotel.” He reached into his pocket, took out a scrap of paper.

  Dale stared at him, confused. “But how …” He trailed off. And then his mind put the pieces together. “Percy.”

  Taft nodded.

  Percy. That son of a bitch. Dale smiled though. Percy was a clever rascal, but he usually made the right call. Even when Dale disagreed.

  And there he was.

  Percy sprinted up to them. Out of breath. “We gotta go. Now.”

  “What’s going on?” Dale said.

  “The Grizzly came through for us. Phoned in a tip. There’s a deal going down. Got an address. But we only have twenty minutes.”

  Dale’s eyes lit up, and he jumped out of his seat.

  Percy turned to Ervin. “Stay here. We’ll come back for you.”

  “Whatever, man.”

  Dale smacked Taft on the shoulder. “Sorry, sir. Duty calls.”

  Dale and Percy dashed off down the hall.

  Chapter 16

  The middle of the night on Bourbon Street. Jesse had returned.

  There was the typical drunken madness. Crowds walking down the streets, stumbling. Laughter, shouting. Sloshing drinks. Slovenly acts of passion.

  Jesse stood to the side, leaning against a pole supporting one of the famous second-floor balconies. He was the only static person in a swarming mass of hysteria. He glanced at the pole in front of him where, several feet up, there was a wreath of metal spikes. During one of his trips to Bourbon Street, he’d passed by a tour group, and he overheard the guide explain that those pointed pieces of metal were “Romeo Spikes” and in the past had been a father’s means of keeping amorous admirers of their daughters from climbing the poles to the second floor. Even the history of New Orleans, even its architecture was steeped in debauchery.

  He’d been leaning against the pole for half an hour, staring at the entrance of Voodoo for You, a block and a half away. A brochure he grabbed earlier noted that Madame Gertrude held her readings from 5 to 9 p.m. He checked his watch. 9:17.

  Madam Gertrude exited the store. She stopped at the door, looked back inside, and said a few words to someone within. She turned to leave.

  Her gaze shifted to her right for a moment—and she saw Jesse. Their eyes met. She quickly headed in the opposite direction.

  Jesse sprung into action. He couldn’t spare a moment. She’d spotted him. This complicated matters a lot. But he’d be fine if he kept his cool. He followed her, pushing his way through the crowds.

  She was about a block ahead of him. She used her hands to clear people out of her way. Her vibrant outfit made her stand out even among the other flamboyantly-dressed people. She looked behind her, made eye contact with him again. She was afraid.

  A wave of people stumbled in front of Jesse, some sort of group, about half a dozen men wearing matching pink T-shirts. Jesse shoved one of them, knocking him over.

  “Get the hell out of my way”

  He moved past the group. From behind, there were shouts of anger. He ignored them, looked forward. Madam Gertrude was nowhere to be seen.

  He felt a wave of panic. But he continued to push forward.

  He went to the next cross street, Toulouse Street, peered down it. More crowds. More drunks. Then he spotted her … talking to a cop.

  Madame Gertrude and the cop both looked his direction. And spotted him. The cop started toward him.

  Change of plans.

  Jesse took off again, continuing down Bourbon Street. He slipped through the crowd. A doorway to his left, the entrance to a bar. He took a turn around a large woman wearing a mask and a dress made of faux peacock feathers and stepped into the building.

  Loud music. Laughter. The place was thick with people, and Jesse grimaced as he squeezed between them, feeling them pressed against him. Sweat. Shoulders. Beer breath. The bar was to his right, and he spied a bit of space. He shouldered his way in and put an elbow on the bar. He halfheartedly waved at one of the bartenders. She acknowledged him, continued with her current drink order.

  While he waited, he watched the bar’s open doorway. The cop walked past.

  Jesse exhaled.

  He’d avoided immediate disaster, but he knew that things were going to escalate soon. Dylan would find out about this. Jesse thought again about the ominous warnings he’d been given in Florida. This business with Madame Gertrude would prove disastrous for him—unless he took measures to protect his reputation. He was going to have to do something preemptive. Something bold and decisive. A new course of action, something to show Dylan how valuable a leader Jesse really was to the organization.

  Jesse was going to do something drastic. He was going to shake things up. And he was going to do it tonight.

  Chapter 17

  Dale’s chest heaved, and his feet ached as they pounded the pavement. Another group of people on the sidewalk in front of him—bathed in the orange glow of a streetlight—watched him as he flew by. They’d already cleared the way for the man Dale was chasing.

  The guy was in his twenties, about six-foot tall, and white. He wore jeans and a paisley shirt. His hair color was brown, which meant he wasn’t Jesse James. He was fifty feet ahead of Dale and getting away. Dale was a fast runner, but this guy was in excellent shape and had the threat of the law biting at his heels. Fear was a strong motivator.

  Dale looked back. Percy was behind him by maybe another fifty feet or so. He was nowhere near Dale’s fitness level. His face was tortured, sweating profusely. Poor guy. They’d been chasing the dealer for almost two miles.

  Farther behind Percy was another person running after them, a coarse-looking woman in a drab dress. The dealer’s old lady. When they’d approached the dealer and his mark, right as the drugs were about to change hands, she’d been with him. The dealer bolted, leaving her behind. Ever the faithful companion, she took chase after Dale and Percy. Screaming. She hadn’t stopped.

  “Leave him alone! He ain’t done nothing! You leave him alone!”

  She was the slowest among them, the caboose pulling up the rear of their train of people sprinting down the street in a shithole part of New Orleans. Dale pictured what this whole scene must look like to the bystanders, and it looked absurd. The Benny Hill theme—“Yakety Sax”—played in his head.

  “Leave him alone!�
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  Ahead of Dale, the dealer pulled to the side as he ran, going toward a trash can. He threw something at the can, missing. The item fluttered to the ground. A plastic bag.

  Dale yelled out behind him. “Grab it, Percy!”

  He couldn’t risk losing the guy. Percy was farther back and the slower runner. He could pick it up.

  Moments later, after Dale had sprinted past the trash can, he looked back and saw Percy grab the bag before continuing the chase. Dale noticed that the screaming had ceased. The woman had given up. She was much farther back, stopped, bent over with her hands on her knees.

  But now there was barking. Behind Percy, a dog had picked up where the woman left off. Evidentially they’d excited it as they ran past wherever it called home. It was a vicious thing. Squat, muscly. A good candidate for a junkyard dog. And it was gaining on Percy. Fast.

  Shit.

  Percy had seen it too. His eyes were wide. Clearly the threat of the dog had awoken some reserves deep in Percy’s middle-aged legs because he was starting to catch up with Dale. Fear was indeed a strong motivator.

  Ahead, the dealer took a left into an alley. Another group of people screamed as Dale ran past them, tracing the other man’s path. There was a tall fence—about ten feet—at the far end of the alley. To the right side was a phone booth. The dealer made it to the fence and sprung upon it with a frantic leap. He scrambled up the chainlink.

  This would give Dale a chance.

  He ran up to the fence as the man was almost to the top. He grabbed the man’s left shoe with one hand, the fence with the other. Pulled. The dealer smashed his free foot into Dale’s face. A sharp pulse of pain. The man yanked himself free.

  Barking. Harsh barking from behind.

  Percy and the dog had entered the alley. Drool flung from the dog’s snapping teeth. Percy’s eyes were saucers of fright. His legs kicked furiously.

  Dale looked up. The dealer cleared the top of the fence.

  Then there was a flurry of action, so fast that Dale wasn’t sure how it had happened. He turned. There was Percy. Those huge eyes, scared shitless. His mouth was open, screaming unintelligible words. The dog’s mouth, too, was open. Rows of sharp teeth. Piercing barks. To the side was the phone booth. Dale was moving. The dog was close. The door of the phone booth. Squeezed inside. Something next to him. Warmth, human touch. Screeching as the door shut. His cheek slammed against the glass. Neck twisted uncomfortably. Percy pressed up against him. Barking, inches away. Incessant. Scratching of claws on glass.

  Dale’s senses returned as the chaos congealed. A realization. He was squeezed into a phone booth with Percy. And he was trapped. The exit was guarded by a ravenous hellhound. Cerberus himself.

  The phone booth shook. Puffs of steam appeared on the glass from the pouncing demon’s hungry breath.

  Dale couldn’t assess the situation fully, as his face was cemented against the back side of the phone booth. His view was of the dark brick of the alley wall, a few inches away. He could feel that his legs were contorted, one of Percy’s legs lodged between them. His right arm was pulled behind his back, held in place by Percy’s chest. The side of the telephone dug into his shoulder. More barking, scratching from outside.

  “What the hell do we do now?” Percy said.

  Dale summoned his quick-thinking again. “There’s no better place to get trapped than a phone booth. I have a dime. We can call the station.”

  “The station?” Percy said. “And have other cops come and rescue us. No. You and I are operating a task force out of this city. I want to maintain some level of respect. You know who was always good with animals?”

  Dale had managed to remain calm after being twisted into a pretzel with another man within a coffin-sized structure guarded by a mad beast, but Percy’s broaching of this topic again made him lose his patience. “Oh god. We’re in a situation like this, and you’re bringing up Al again?”

  “Taft gave you the hotel’s phone number.”

  “Absolutely not. We’re calling the station. I’m still the lead agent. You’re gonna have to get the dime. My arm’s stuck. Front right pocket.”

  Dale felt Percy’s hand slide from the middle of his back toward his 501s.

  “Fresh,” Dale said.

  The hand plunged into Dale’s pocket. Both men grunted with discomfort. The hand went lower.

  “Hey!” Dale said as the hand reached the bottom of his pocket. “You didn’t even buy me dinner.”

  Then a noise came from outside. The blip of a police siren. It came from the end of the alley.

  Percy’s hand quickly retracted. “Saved by the bell,” he said.

  The dog continued to bark savagely as Dale stared at the bricks and listened intently to what was happening outside. Footsteps approached. Slowly, cautiously. Then stopped. Several feet away.

  The barking got quieter. And quieter. And ceased. It was replaced by a low growl, almost a whimper. There was the sound of the dog’s feet padding away. It whined for a few moments longer and stopped. Silence. Then a voice came. A voice very familiar to Dale.

  Three words. Bemused but incredibly annoyed, as though the situation in which Dale had found himself was somehow so ludicrous that it offended the sensibilities of the voice’s owner.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  It was a female voice. Dale’s ex-girlfriend.

  It was Al.

  Chapter 18

  A different voice, a man’s voice, called out from the alley. “The coast is clear, Agents.”

  There was movement against Dale’s back as Percy opened the phone booth door then stumbled outside. Dale felt a wave of relief as the pressure of Percy’s body left him. He stepped out of the phone booth and grabbed his neck. Then he looked to his left.

  In the dim light of the alley, he saw her.

  Allison Blair.

  Everyone called her Allie. Except for Dale. He’d called her Al.

  She was knelt over. The dog was in front of her, and she rubbed its ears. It licked at her hands, tail wagging. Behind her were two cops. Young guys. One white, one black. They were snickering at Dale and Percy, trying to hide it.

  When you haven’t seen someone in a long time, there’s always a moment of quiet reconciling, a split second when your brain rectifies the memories with the irrefutable new truth of the person standing before you. Dale had never experienced this sensation with a former girlfriend before because, though Dale had done more than his fair share of dating, Al was the only girlfriend he’d ever had.

  There was just a split second between the moment he exited the phone booth to when she turned her attention to him. He studied her in this frozen bit of time while her eyes were still cast down at the dog. Her hair was shorter. Shoulder-length. Curly, dark red, and untamable. It had been midway down her back when they were together, and the new shorter length made it even wilder, pushing away from her head with an unrestrained volume must have been difficult for her to maintain but nonetheless looked great on her, framing her round face. She wore a light blue T-shirt with a deep V-neck and a pair of bellbottom blue jeans. Her curves. Freckles, on her arms, her face, just visible in the darkness. The tops of her eyelids, as she looked down at the dog. Long eyelashes that blinked once as she looked up and saw him.

  Their eyes met.

  She stood up.

  “Al?”

  “Dale, what do you think you’re doing?” she said. There was the voice. Sweet but bordering on shrill. Familiar. “Are you a dog trainer now, Dale? Locked in a phone booth. My god, Dale.”

  Three times. Three times in four sentences she’d used his name. This was the annoyed Al. She always punctuated her sentences with his name when she was annoyed with him. And his antics annoyed her more than anything else because—

  Dale stopped his train of thought right where it was.

  “Why are you here?” he said, his eyes turning toward the cops as the words came out.

  One of the cops took his meaning. “She was already at the s
tation,” he said. “Trying to find you. Someone called in your foot chase. When she heard your name and the phone booth situation, she insisted on coming. Insisted.” The cop gave him a look.

  Dale understood what the cop was getting at. When Al insisted on something, she was going to get it.

  He looked at her. “Why are you here?” he said again.

  “Well, that’s a fine how-do-you-do after all this time. You don’t need to be a mean green bean.”

  Her phrases. Little cutesy expressions like that. Mean green bean. He’d forgotten about those.

  Dale just looked at her.

  “It’s nice to see you,” she said.

  More memories rushed back into Dale’s brain. Less pleasant things. “I believe the last thing you told me was you never wanted to see me again.”

  Al crossed her arms. “No, you asked me if I ever wanted to see you again. I said no.”

  “It means the same, Al.”

  “Don’t call me that. My name’s Allie. You’re the only person who’s ever called me Al. Well, you and your little buddy here.” She looked at Percy.

  “Hi Al,” Percy said.

  She scowled.

  “Alright, Alright,” Dale said. “‘Allie’ it is.”

  She turned back to Dale. They stared at each other, both of them making assessments, calculating their thoughts and words. Dale glanced at the cops. They were incredibly uncomfortable.

  Allie took a deep breath. “You look good.”

  “I do, don’t I?” Dale said and pumped up a little bit. He winked at Percy. “You know what they say. Men age like wine; women age like milk.”

  “Oh, a little quip. Surprise, surprise. That took you all of a minute,” Allie said and looked at her wrist. She wasn’t wearing a watch. She took a step toward him, put her hands on her hips. “And a mean quip too. Who says something like that? You’re such a prick, Dale.”

  “Come on, Al. I was—”

  “Allie.”

  “Allie, I was joking. Don’t be so sensitive. You look good too.”