He could tell from the blank stare he got that Boudreau had never heard the term.
“What the fuck you talking about? I’m the one being generous.”
“It means ‘one of a kind’ Fats. If you could have found Tucci on your own, you wouldn’t need me. I came to you, remember?”
They were all sitting in the breakfast lounge in the Bourbon D’Armes, a small New Orleans hotel on Canal Street. Sudden always chose a very public place for his meetings with loose cannons like Boudreau. The hotel, a staple of the guide books, had loads of charm, right down to the ancient black man who’d been shining shoes from his stand out front since the Depression (the first one). He’d been profiled on 60 Minutes as part of a post-Katrina retrospective and undoubtedly made a fortune. Fats knew Sudden would be packing. If he or his pals made a move, they’d be on the evening news – and probably dead. But weaponry aside, the charming hotel had scads of security cameras. And Fats wasn’t entirely stupid; he knew all about cameras.
“Yeah, how do I know you can even deliver? You got some fuckin’ nerve asking for 100 large for a hit on one person. Even for someone in witness protection.”
“Only half upfront,” Sudden said easily. “And you know I can deliver. I told you who to call to check me out. I hope you gave my regards to Nguyen, Fats.”
Nguyen Tong was the head of a powerful Vietnamese gang in Dallas. Tong, a previously satisfied customer, was only too happy to provide a reference.
“I don’t like the name ‘Fats’. The name is Mr. Boudreau.”
“How about we compromise? Does Mr. Fats work for you?”
Boudreau looked like he wanted to do something. Then he took a deep breath.
“Yeah, I spoke to the gook. But it’s still 50 grand on the come,” he snarled. “You take a powder with my dough and I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”
Sudden took a sip of his coffee and smiled.
“Don’t ever threaten me again, Fats,” he said. His voice now had an icy timber. “You’re not half the man your father was, even though you’re twice his size. You and your boys really should go easy on the beignets.”
Boudreau’s fleshy oval face turned beet red, which didn’t go well his permanent scowl. He’d heard about Sudden through the underworld grapevine. He could see that the killer across from him was obviously in terrific shape. He had the hard-case looks that women like and hoods recognize. Rumored to be an ex-Seal. Or Delta Force. No one was quite sure.
Nevertheless, Fats was no poodle. He told Sudden to go fuck himself. That turned a few heads in the lounge, which was putting out a nice Sunday brunch for the tourists.
So, Sudden gave him the clincher. If Boudreau continued to annoy him, he said, some day when he least expected it he’d shoot him in the ear from a mile away. Sudden leaned forward and spoke in a whisper so as not to further excite the Eggs Benedict crowd. (Sudden had noted with amusement that there was actually something called a “Po’ Boy Benedict” on the menu, made with shrimp, sausage and eggs, which probably killed more people than he did.)
“And in your case,” Sudden said. “I will make an exception about family. That goes for grandma in the mausoleum, if she didn’t float away in Katrina.”
In the end, Boudreau settled for Tucci alone.
***
Before he closed down his iPad, Sudden checked something. The second half of the Tucci payment had not yet hit the Cayman Islands account that was one of the many financial cutouts his unit used to mask the final destination of the funds it collected.
He wasn’t particularly surprised. Word of Tucci’s demise probably had not reached New Orleans. He wasn’t worried about the final $50,000.
Even a dimwit like Fats Boudreau would know that shortchanging someone in Sudden’s line of work was unhealthier than eating too many beignets.
CHAPTER 11 – THE TOOTHPICK
Vincent Vocce never felt more like his nickname.
Sitting with Fats Boudreau and three of his thugs in a private box at Zephyr Field, the minor league ballpark just outside New Orleans, Vocce figured he was outweighed by half a ton.
Not that he was intimidated by the New Orleans goombahs. At six-three and 150 pounds, dressed all in black, with hollow cheeks, sunken eyes and a sallow complexion, he looked like an artist’s conception of the Grim Reaper and usually scared the hell out of everyone.
In truth, Vincent “The Toothpick” Vocce was exceptionally healthy. He was also as lethal as he looked.
Vocce was “on loan” to Boudreau from the Vegas mob. Fats Boudreau, short on good help since losing his top killer, often brought in outside “mechanics” to handle the difficult situations his current crew couldn’t. Which took in most situations, since his average remaining henchman weighed 300 pounds and got winded opening the door to his limo. Vocce didn’t come cheap, but he was reputed to be among the best shooters west of the Mississippi.
“The bastard killed the wrong man,” Boudreau shouted. He had just learned, from an assistant prosecutor he owned on the Louisiana Attorney General’s staff, that the criminal case against his father had been built on evidence supplied by his family’s former banker. “It wasn’t Tucci! It was that rat bastard, Longstreet. I just knew that prick was a crook. I told my old man not to trust him. Right from the gitgo.”
Vocce suppressed a laugh at the thought of Boudreau calling anyone else a crook. He had never seen the Fat Man this livid. And from the looks of fear on the faces of Boudreau’s crew he knew they probably hadn’t either. But Vocce wasn’t afraid of anyone. He even felt compelled to offer a defense for the man who eliminated Tucci. They were, after all, in the same fraternity, so to speak. And it had been so neatly executed.
“You both thought Tucci was the snitch, Beau. He did testify against your father, after all, and then disappeared into protection. It was an honest mistake. Neither of you knew who really provided the evidence against Lorillard. At least you know now.”
Boudreau wasn’t crazy about the name ‘Beau’ either. But it was certainly preferable to ‘Fats.’ He cursed his parents for naming him Beauregard, after some idiot Civil War general.
“Yeah, I know now, but I’ll be fucked if I’m gonna pay another 50 grand to that wise cocksucker for killing the wrong guy. For Christ sake, he should have known it wasn’t Tucci. Don’t these Government assholes talk to each other? It should have popped up on a fucking computer somewhere.”
“We’re not sure he is from the Government,” Vocce said, calmly. “And even if he is, remember 9/11? They’re not always on the same page.”
“They’ve gotten better, boss. They smoked that son-of- a-bitch bin Laden pretty good.”
Both Boudreau and Vocce turned to see who was speaking. It was Lucien, one of the bodyguards.
“Nobody is talking to you, shit-for-brains,” Boudreau snarled. “Watch the game.”
He turned back to Vocce.
“You sure you know where the hitter lives?”
“I picked him up outside the hotel after your meeting. Followed him to the airport. Made some calls and had people trail him up in New York. They stayed on him until he got home to Connecticut.”
“He never made any of you?” Boudreau sneered. “He’s not the hotshot he thinks he is.”
“Don’t sell him short. He wasn’t looking for a tail. He wasn’t on a job. And my contacts were extra careful. They used women, middle-aged, with shopping bags. And they switched off several times. Hell, even then we lost him quick enough when he went after Tucci. Didn’t even know what state he went to. He’s a pro.”
“I want him dead.”
“Just to save $50,000? He was conned, just like you.”
“You can have the fucking 50 grand. Above your usual rate. A bonus. I hate the prick. He threatened me. Showed me up in front of my men.”
Vocce shrugged. He was sure the threat was well deserved. Boudreau was too emotional. It was a stupid move, and bad business. But 50 grand was 50 grand.
“It’s your money.�
�
There was the crack of a bat and some cheering from the crowd. Neither Vocce nor Boudreau bothered to look out at the field.
“Then,” Boudreau said, in a calmer, even deadlier, tone, “I want you to find that scumbag, Longstreet. Him, I’m gonna do myself. My old man died in prison.”
Boudreau bared his teeth and slammed his fist on the arm of his seat.
“And Longstreet still has our fucking dough!”
CHAPTER 12 - HOME
Sudden, who lived in Southport, just inland from Fairfield, picked his car up in the station lot and took the long way home, traveling along the shoreline. He stopped at a marina for a seafood lunch and also at a public beach. Pulling off his shoes and socks he walked down to the water to test it. It was ankle-numbing. He might still need a wetsuit for one of his five-mile swims. Then he drove to downtown Southport to pick up some groceries. On the way he passed some of the many exclusive properties that dotted the shore, including the one owned by Don Imus, the acerbic, but funny, radio host that ruled the morning airwaves. Sudden knew the man slightly, a fact that he regretted telling his agent.
Cristina now wanted him to try to get on the show to pump his books. A radio interview might have been possible, Sudden knew, but the Imus show was also broadcast on some cable channels. For obvious reasons, Sudden, or Swift, didn’t even allow a photo on his books. He’d done a few newspaper and magazine interviews, but always insisted on not being photographed. Most editors were happy just to use the covers from his books, or a representation of his hero or story. Sudden did occasionally allow pre-approved caricatures, none of which ever turned out looking like him. He never expected to be so famous that prime-time TV interviews would be a potential problem. In the meantime, his apparent reluctance to reveal much about himself added to a sense of mystery that, he believed, didn’t hurt sales. When Cristina pressed him on the issue, he pointed out that Ed McBain, who before his death was possibly the most prolific crime writer in American history, had been born Salvatore Albert Lombino, and sold millions of additional books writing as Evan Hunter, Hunt Collins, Richard Marsten, Curt Cannon, Edgar Hannon and John Abbott. Only late in his career did anyone know what he looked like.
Sudden lived in a 1950’s house off Cedar Plank Road in a hilly section of Southport. The split-level design adapted nicely to the sloping one-acre property, which was surrounded by a low rock wall of the kind Minutemen sniping Redcoats would have appreciated. Because of its owner’s frequent travels, the inside of the home was kept up by weekly visits from a cleaning lady, a Polish woman of indefatigable energy that Sudden cherished and gratefully overpaid. The exterior was maintained by a slew of local tradesmen kept busy by the age of most of the houses in the town and the ravages of New England winters.
After unpacking, Sudden changed and went for a run. Pounding along the hilly and narrow winding roadways of rural Connecticut, he believed, was possibly the most dangerous part of his existence. On more than one occasion he’d almost been smashed flat by SUVs or vans driven by soccer moms, blinded by turns and trees, hurrying to wherever they hurried. Half the time the drivers were on their cell phones, or leaning over to stuff an Oreo or some other cracker into the mouth of a wailing child in a car seat.
After surviving his run, Sudden showered, put on a pot of coffee and then opened up his desktop computer.
First, he checked his financial statements, spread over a dozen bank and brokerage accounts all over the world. A conservative investor, who liked to pick his own stocks, Sudden stuck mainly to real estate and the equities of so-called infrastructure companies, especially those that, in addition to having a secure footprint in the U.S., also had operations in emerging markets, particularly China and South America. Infrastructure companies fixed what needed fixing and built what needed building. They were a play on population growth, which, in his estimation, never went out of style.
He was also fond of companies that made things that wore out. During his extensive travels, he often came across small companies that flew under Wall Street’s radar, which was increasingly attuned to high-tech and financial companies that he believed were overpriced and too volatile.
He’d discovered one such gem (he hoped!) in Indiana while he had some time to kill during a preliminary investigation of a potential target. The company, called Braxton Industries, manufactured non-discretionary replacement parts for earth movers and other heavy construction equipment used worldwide. That meant that when one of the big machines broke down, Braxton got a call. In normal times, it was a high-margin but low-volume business. But times weren’t normal, and Sudden was confident that Braxton would play an increasing role in his infrastructure investment strategy. Revenues were already up 30% over the prior year, and the company was having a hard time keeping up with the demand for the precision-forged powdered metal parts used in engines, transmissions, and the ball and roller bearings in steering and suspension units.
One of the investment advisors he befriended at the Union League had taught Sudden an easy, and surprisingly accurate, way to evaluate stocks, especially those of companies in what he called “basic” industries, where things were actually made. It involved measuring a stock price against three criteria: cash flow per share, book value per share and net profit margin. At first, Sudden, who had a good head for math, had done the calculations, which involved plugging in such variables as interest rates on current Treasury bills and money supply figures, by hand. Now, he used an App on his iPad specifically designed by another Union League friend. Within minutes he was able to estimate that Braxton’s stock, currently selling for 24, was actually worth more than 40.
It wasn’t foolproof. The stock market was a crap shoot. Sudden had suffered through several crashes. His conservative stocks had usually fared better than the bubble stocks that precipitated the downturns, but the reverses had been painful. But, to Sudden, they were temporary paper losses. It was a stable and, admittedly, boring approach. Sudden was constantly fending off ideas from brokers who wanted him to “diversify” into high-tech stocks and derivatives. His discipline wasn’t sexy in the short term, but despite the apparent contradiction implied by his primary avocation, he believed in the long haul.
Besides, Sudden wasn’t starving. In addition to his earnings from his writing, his Government salary was near the top of ladder.
CHAPTER 13 – NAVY GUYS
New York’s Westchester County Airport in White Plains was only a 20-minute drive from Sudden’s house and he flew out of it frequently. The small terminal was usually crowded and a shortage of gates sometimes led to delays, but the field was served by several major airlines and saved him the long and often agonizing drives to La Guardia, Newark or JFK.
Today, however, Sudden wasn’t concerned about delays. He parked his car in a reserved spot next to a General Aviation hanger and boarded the unmarked but familiar Citation II that Nigel Buss had sent. It was waiting for him with engines running and wing lights blinking. There was another passenger already sitting in the jet, a tough-looking black man wearing military fatigues. They nodded to each other and Sudden dropped his briefcase on an empty seat. A familiar voice called to him from the cockpit and he went up to say hello to the flight crew, passing an attractive young women working in the small galley. They exchanged smiles and he noticed the Glock in a holster under her suit jacket.
The pilot and co-pilot were both Texans and the three men debated the chances of the Rangers against the Yankees in an upcoming series. The crew chided Sudden into a $100 bet and then told him that they had to make a stop in Boston to drop the other passenger off before heading down to Philadelphia.
When he finally buckled himself into his comfortable leather swivel seat, the woman from the galley brought him a breakfast tray wrapped in plastic and coffee in a covered container. She asked him if he wanted orange juice. After his recent trip to the Sunshine State, Sudden didn’t want to look at anything orange.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
She t
urned to the other passenger and asked if he wanted anything.
“Just coffee, please. Black.”
She brought the coffee and then went to the front of the plane and sat down. Sudden unwrapped the tray: scrambled eggs, sausage, toast and several miniature pastries. He drank some coffee and started eating. He looked over at his flying companion.
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“Ate on the way down from Montreal. They do treat you nice.”
The plane taxied out to the runway and took off without a pause. As he was pushed back into his seat as the powerful jet accelerated, Sudden could see Manhattan in the distance. The Citation wheeled over Long Island Sound and headed toward Massachusetts.
He went back to his meal. It was far superior to normal airline food. But, then, the C.I.A. did have a certain style.
***
Two hours later, the black SUV that had been waiting for Sudden at the Philadelphia International Airport pulled into the Philadelphia Naval Business Center, formerly known as the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard.
At its height, during World War II, the shipyard, which dated from 1776, employed 40,000 workers and built 53 ships, including the battleships New Jersey and Wisconsin. It repaired another 574 in its massive facilities on an island at the confluence of the Delaware and Schuylkill Rivers. At one point the yard had the largest cranes in the world. It had its high-tech side, too. The Naval Laboratory developed the liquid thermal diffusion process for separating U-235 for use in the development of the first atom bomb in the Manhattan Project. After the war, the yard’s Government shipbuilding function contracted and it was finally closed in 1995. Private companies, including a Norwegian tanker builder, and various distribution hubs for clothiers and drug companies, now occupied much of the site.
There was also a huge production facility run by CinneKakes, the national bakery chain that produced breakfast pastries and snack treats. When the wind was blowing in the right direction, the former navy yard smelled less of diesel fuel and more of cinnamon bun. The only remaining military facilities onsite included the Naval Surface Warfare Ship Systems Engineering Station (NSWSSES), the Naval Facilities Engineering Command (NFED), the Mid-Atlantic Public Works Department Pennsylvania (MAPPA) and the Naval Inactive Ship Maintenance Facility (NISMF), which stored and maintained mothballed ships.
TWO SUDDEN!: A Pair of Cole Sudden C.I.A. Thrillers Page 5