by Mark Treble
I had an hour before having to call in again. I pulled out another burner phone and called Luke's house.
“Morehouse College. Or Whorehouse College, I can never remember which. How can I help you?” It was fucking Marcus.
“Just the guy I wanted to talk to. Marcus, can you house sit for me for a couple of hours? I'll get someone straight to relieve you for the evening. I know it's Decadence.” I was trying to be kind.
“I haven't had a straight guy relieve me in a couple of years, Ethan. This should be fun.” Marcus was always a smart ass. “Yeah, I can work from there as easily as here. I'll sit on the place until relieved.”
Next call was to Barbara, the paper's executive administrator. “Barb, it's Ethan. No time to explain. Do you have an intern smarter than an aardvark who can babysit my place from mid-afternoon on? There's a guy already there, but he has urgent business tonight.” I didn't want to know about Marcus's urgent business, I'd seen his “Fuck Me Hard” T-shirt.
“I'll send Lucy.” Barb was one of my favorite people. “She was supposed to shadow Xavier today but he called in sick. Can I tell her what it's about?”
“Tell her I'm working on a big story with the police, but nobody besides the two of you can know it at the paper. If we can publish, I'll get her to do some of the writing and fact-checking, and give her credit as second byline.” I knew that would be more than enough for Lucy, and hoped Barb understood the fragility of the situation.
“Lucy will be at your house at three. She'll answer the phone and the doorbell and claim ignorance. It's easy to do when you don't know jack shit.” Barb got another brownie point.
“Can you let me know where Kendra takes her lunch?” Kendra was our financial reporter. I wanted to pump her for information about the accountants. Actually, I wanted to pump her in any event. Cheryl and I are not exclusive, and Kendra is a babe.
I got the information and called Kendra's cellphone.
“Kendra, it's Ethan. Yeah, that Ethan. I'll meet you for lunch at 2:30 at your usual place, OK? And no word to anybody. It's a big story with a financial sidebar you'll want to write if we get to publish.” The babe agreed to 2:30.
A couple more hourly calls to Danny and I pulled into the restaurant parking lot. Kendra was seated on the patio, smoking a cigarette and sipping an iced tea. Ever since the smoking ban the patios in town were jammed.
After exchanging quick pleasantries and pecks on the cheek, I got down to business. “I need to see the entire client list for Weecham, Weecham and Klotzbaumer yesterday. I can't tell you why. My son is missing, and that's not for public consumption. This is beyond urgent.” I had little hope of getting it in time to do any good.
Kendra picked up her cellphone and made a call. “Bookie, it's Kendra. Big favor to ask. Can you download a current client list for WW&K and e-mail it to me. And, this is on the down-low for now.” She paused for a few seconds. “Wow, that's fast. Thanks.”
Her phone chimed with an incoming message seconds after she hung up. She offered to forward it to me, and I thanked her. I left a twenty on the table to pay for her lunch and ran off.
I took off for an obscure gay bar located on Dauphine Street. First I parked in a city garage in the Warehouse District and took a cab. This was Decadence in New Orleans, and parking in the Quarter was impossible.
The Triple Toe bar combines a little bit of everything. Open twenty-four hours a day, it attracts drag queens, tranny prostitutes, tourists, bartenders from other bars because their pours were generous, insomniacs and enough other people that I could hide out in the open there for a couple of hours if necessary.
I ordered and paid for a double shot of vodka. The shirtless bartender winked at me and said, “There you go, honey.” I smiled and put a five dollar bill into the waistband of his Batman boxer briefs, the only clothing evident on him.
“I can be very grateful, you know.” Batman was showing a half smile. Yeah, I do know. I just don't want.
I went over the information Kendra had given me. I could eliminate old New Orleans firms with no change of ownership in the past fifteen years. I could eliminate the boutique firms providing nothing of much value to the drug traffic. That got me down to fifty-eight firms, still too many.
Then I looked at the date the audit firm was engaged. Seven firms had engaged the auditors within a week of one another eleven years ago. I had it.
I sent a message to Kendra's cellphone from a new burner. I listed the seven firms and told her to look at their client lists. Please don't publish anything you uncover for twenty-four hours. By then I would either have found Alex or my forty-eight hours would be up. Or I'd be dead.
Chapter Nine
One of the firms provided bulk transportation by truck. Not a bad place to start. I made a call to another source, this one in the local Motor Vehicle Office. I called her cellphone.
“Hello?” Good, no names yet.
“Do you know who this is?” I hoped and hoped.
“Lenny? How did you get my number?” She sounded confused.
“Nope, try again. I hope your life continues well.” The mention of my column name should bring me to mind. I hoped and hoped.
“You hope my… Oh, yeah. Hi!” Evangelina was sweet, just not the sharpest pencil in the drawer. Or the Motor Vehicle Office, for that matter.
“You get a break soon?” More hope.
“Yeah, my break's coming up in fifteen minutes. You want to see me?” Again, not the sharpest pencil in the drawer. Who the fuck calls the Motor Vehicle Office unless he wants something desperately enough to go through the hassle.
“I always want to see you.” Well, that was a lie. “Can I buy you a coffee at that place across the square?”
“Sure! I love their coffee. I haven't had that in a long time. Can I ask Belinda to come with me?” Sounds as though the eraser end has taken over this pencil.
“I'd rather see you alone, OK? And, can you bring your I-Pad with you? You said you had some new pictures of your family on it.” I couldn't remember her husband's name, nor the names of her two or three or four kids, or however many there were.
“Sure, the boys have really grown. Eric is in fifth grade now and Dawson is in fourth. Evelyn starts school next year, thank goodness. That'll let Big Eric go back to work and stop playing house husband.” Sometimes the stuff comes to you.
Fifteen minutes later I was occupying a corner booth at the café. Evangelina looked very happy, toting her I-Pad and clutching a (new?) purse. I complimented her on the purse. She had bought it on sale the previous weekend. Whew, one down.
We ordered coffee and I spent five minutes going through her picture album. Then I brought out five twenties and spread them out between us.
“The kids need clothes for school, and I want to help.” This was always the ruse under which she took a, well, uh, a, oh fuck, call it what it was. A bribe.
“Thank you! I guess you want to look at my I-Pad while I go to the ladies room?” She had the routine down pat.
“Thanks. The pictures are great.” As soon as she stood up I used her log-in to the Motor Vehicle data base. Got the information on the trucks and found the one I wanted. It had just passed its road test two days ago and was back in service. It was the smallest of the trucks, and I hoped that meant that it was used for deliveries in the cramped streets of the Quarter. Now, finding it was another problem.
When Evangelina returned I gave her a peck on the cheek, handed her the I-Pad, and wished her a good day.
“Danny, it's me checking in. I know I'm fifteen minutes late and I'm sorry. I have a huge favor to ask. Can your folks locate a specific truck in the Quarter?” Who knew, maybe the NSA had trackers on every vehicle in the country. Wouldn't surprise me.
“Give me a minute.” Danny put me on mute, and I hoped this wouldn't take too long.
“It's on Governor Nicholls approaching Chartres. Mounted patrol report. I don't want to ask why, do I?” I think Danny was hoping I'd tell him.
&nbs
p; “Tell you later, Danny. Thanks, I've got to run.” I had three blocks to go. If I ran, I'd draw attention. If I walked, I might miss it. I walked and hoped.
The truck had just turned onto Chartres when I got there, and it was headed for me. Thank God, I just might make this. It pulled into a small store's loading area and stopped. Two guys got out. They off-loaded about six boxes, all of which appeared well-sealed. One guy stood on the sidewalk looking around while the other took the boxes into the store.
I've got to get them to stop and talk to me. What do I do? I can't walk up and tell them they were delivering drugs, would you mind answering a few questions? I was running out of ideas when I saw them.
A half dozen guys wearing what looked like three square inches of material among them were lazily walking down the street. Decadence revelers getting an early start, no doubt. Without thinking I stripped off my shirt and pants and joined them. I'm a bit old for this kind of nonsense, but it turned out I wasn't the oldest one in the group. Just the one most out of shape.
I carried my clothes with me and weaved about a little, trying to act unsteady. It wasn't difficult – I was walking down the street in my boxer-briefs a hundred feet from a drug delivery truck while following a bunch of gay men looking for a good time. I heard the truck coming from behind me, and darted in front of it.
The truck hit me. Shit, that really hurt! I went to the ground and dug in my pants pocket for the panic button, then covered it in my hand with my shirt. As expected, the two guys jumped out of the truck.
“Holy shit! You jumped right out in front of me, you faggot! What are you trying to do?” The guy might have been trying to establish who was at fault for the accident, but I didn't care. I already knew I was at fault.
The other guy was a bit more solicitous. “Buddy, are you all right? Is anything broken? Can you talk?” He seemed a bit jittery, and the asshole was starting to look concerned.
“Yes, I can talk. I want to talk to you.” I pointed at the asshole. “I can call the police before you can stop me and they'll be here in seconds. If they search your truck, not to mention the cargo you just delivered, what are they going to find?”
Asshole actually broke immediately. Jittery was the one still thinking, so I ignored him.
“While I get dressed you're going to get your boss on the radio and report the accident, and that the police are on their way. You can't deal with the pedestrian for reasons you'll explain later. Tell him I must see him immediately.” I was a whole lot braver than I felt.
“Look, dickhead, I don't know what your game is, but” I interrupted him. The him in this case was Jittery, not Asshole.
“I wasn't talking to you, I was talking to your boss.” I finally had my pants on and just threw the shirt away. Explaining the blood stains wasn't on my bucket list. I still had my cash, car keys, panic button and two burners in my pants pockets.
“Now, boss, you and I are going to walk to the truck and you're going to get on the radio. Not the phone, the radio. Understand?” God, this was right out of a straight-to-video low-budget gangster film. I hoped the boss hadn't seen me trying to catch my breath.
“He's bluffing,” said Jittery. He approached me, but the group of inebriated (and probably horny) nearly-naked guys were headed our way.
“Need any help?” The guy talking was not quite sprinting, but not exactly walking either. I let him get within teen feet before telling him that it all seemed to be OK. The only problem was (I gestured at Jittery) that this guy is trying to pin the whole thing on me.
By then the whole bare-skin crowd had surrounded the three of us. “The boss is going to take me to the truck so we can call for some help, OK?” I looked at the group and hoped enough of them were sufficiently sober, and insufficiently horny, to stay back.
Asshole and I walked to the truck. “Skinny for Stiletto, over. Skinny for Stiletto, over.” Christ, if I wrote the way this thing was going down I'd be fucking fired.
“This is Stiletto, what do you need?” The man's voice sounded bored. I reached for the mic.
“Your truck's contents and what they just delivered can be in police hands in thirty seconds, so work with me here.” Dialog still sucked.
“Dipstick, you're supposed to say ‘Over.’ And who is this?” Stiletto was engaged, which was all I needed.
“Stiletto, this is Little Dick.” It was the only name I could bring to mind. “You're going to meet me at the – wait a minute –“ I stopped pressing transmit and asked Skinny for the name of the drug retailer to which he had just delivered. “At the Quarter Glass and Silver Extravaganza, and do it in five minutes. I don't care what you have to do to get here. At five minutes the police show up and Skinny and Blowjob are toast. As is the whole transport business.” Jittery was mightily offended at the nickname Blowjob. Well, fuck him.
“Put Skinny back on.” I didn't know what was going through Stiletto's mind, but I hope he thought quickly.
“Is this shit real?” Stiletto actually sounded concerned. Well, good for him.
“Yeah.” That was Skinny. Jittery/Blowjob started towards me and a couple of waaaay underdressed young men got between us.
“Is your name really Blowjob?” That came from one of the Decadence revelers. Jittery/Blowjob looked worried.
“OK, Stiletto on his way. Out.”
I grabbed the mic one last time. “The five minutes started almost a minute ago. I can call NOPD before anyone can stop me. Be on time.”
One of the gay carousers put his hand on Blowjob's chest. “You are kinda cute, sweetness.” A second one joined him and also put his hand on Blowjob's chest.
“What's the fun in wearing all those clothes? Here, let me help you out of them.” I doubt that the banter was serious, but Blowjob looked scared out of his mind. Good.
Skinny just looked at me while Blowjob looked at the surrounding party animals with abject fear. A third guy walked up and undid one of Blowjob's shirt buttons. I was afraid Blowjob was going to faint.
Four minutes and three seconds after I first talked to Stiletto, two Vespas made their way through the crowded streets. One carried a three-hundred pounder with the biggest tits I'd ever seen on a man. The other carried a guy of about forty who had his hand in the pocket of his leather jacket. A very full pocket.
“What do you want, dipstick?” Stiletto was being practical. His companion was being threatening. At least until two of the merrymakers went up to him and began complimenting him on his leather. His eyes darted around like a young housewife in a kitchen full of mice.
“I want to talk to someone who knows the whole drug business that you're running. I need some information. Cooperate and I say nothing to anybody. Don't cooperate and I don't care if I live or die. My son is missing and I need to know if you goons have him.” Goons? Where did that come from? Oh, well.
The most sober of the partygoers had a pen and paper out. Where he had that hidden was something I didn't want to know.
“OK, I got all three license plates.” Stiletto looked like he wanted to shit his pants.
“Stiletto, get in the back of the truck. Leather Boy, you lead. And Blowjob, go do your stuff with Stiletto. I'm riding up front with Skinny.” I knew if this went on much longer I was going to be the one shitting my pants.
The only comment was from Stiletto, and directed at Blowjob. “If you touch my dick I'll kill you. Hear?”
We left the second Vespa behind. Leather Boy led us toward the docks. I had a burner phone out and called Danny. “Headed toward the docks. I may be dead in a few minutes. Don't anybody crash the party, just letting you know where to find the body.” I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt. I hung up before Danny could answer.
We arrived at a nondescript small building just outside the dock gate. I demanded Leather Boy's gun. He was incredulous and obviously was going to refuse.
“Give him the fucking gun. You're expendable, Sarge. If he shoots you he knows we're going to kill him.” That was Stiletto. He ha
nded it over. I sure wish I had even a clue how to use one of these.
I pointed the gun at Sarge in what I hoped was a threatening manner. “Take off your coat, shirt, pants and underwear.” He looked at Stiletto, who nodded his head.
“Tiny, or Blowjob, or whatever your name is today, if you come near me I'll break your fucking neck. I ain't no queer like you.” Sarge was desperate to prove his manhood. I can recognize denial when I hear it.
Soon Sarge was dressed only in shoes and Mickey Mouse boxers. I gestured at the boxers and he dropped then. No other weapons. Then I told him to open the door and walk ahead of me. I was counting on the sight of a completely naked thug to distract them enough to ruin their aim.
There were nine men inside the building, eight of them with handguns. Every gun was pointed at me. Talk about overkill. Oops, how about over-supply? That kill thing sounded too likely.
“Who's the boss?” I hope I didn't sound like the scared little boy I was feeling like.
The only guy in the room without a gun walked forward.
“You know, you're not getting out of here alive. Now, let Sarge go and give him back his gun.” The guy knew what he was doing. Except he was counting on me hoping to survive.
“Look, boss, I just want to find my son.” I dug in my wallet and pulled out his graduation picture. I walked over to The Boss nonchalantly (at least I hoped it was nonchalantly, but I was afraid there was a lot of chalant in my steps).
The Boss didn't look at the picture. “Never seen him.”
I pointed the gun at him. “You seem to have mistaken me for someone who cares if he lives. Look at the fucking picture. Now, where is he? He's my son and he disappeared yesterday morning.”
The Boss didn't look at the picture. And I had taken the gun off of Sarge, who clobbered me on the back of the head with something. I went down and was mobbed.
They searched me for weapons and found the panic alarm. “Fucker's with the police. What do we do now?” That was from one of the eight guys with guns.
The Boss put his hands on his hips. A vision of Alex doing the same thing yesterday morning went through my mind. I need to survive to find him.