And they would have to have been, Kunkle thought as he picked up a small box of hair-bleach and dropped it in his basket. What other possible explanation could there be for publicly humiliating themselves like that?
The New Orleans detective grabbed a small tube of hairdressing gel and added it to his other items. He paused in front of a bin piled high with plastic bags bearing elastic hair bands. A new thought as to how he might change his appearance entered his head, and he picked up one of the bags.
As he started toward the front of the store and the cash register, Kunkle’s mind raced back to the man he had talked to right after the revival meeting. He had never gotten his name, but he remembered that the man said he was a deacon in one of the local churches. And he had invited Kunkle to that church the next Sunday. Kunkle had gone, and once again he had found himself walking down the aisle at the end of the service. Not to announce his salvation publicly—he’d already done that—but to rededicate his life to the service of Jesus Christ. He would become an honest cop, even if that meant being arrested and jailed himself for his past crimes. Regardless of what came his way, he intended to serve the Lord as best he could for the rest of his life.
A rush of joy came over Kunkle, covering the guilt for a moment as he neared the cash register. He had talked to other Christians after that service, and learned that he would probably feel some guilt for a while, if not from then on. But he had been saved from eternal damnation, and just knowing that was worth any amount of guilt that came with it.
A smile broke out on the detective’s face as he stopped at the cash register. It had to have been catching because the teenage girl behind the counter gave him a big smile back. As she rang up his items, Kunkle realized suddenly that he had not checked out her breasts, posterior, or any other parts of her body. The automatic lust he had always felt when meeting a new female simply wasn’t there. Not that he didn’t know she was attractive—he did. But in the place of lust he found that he was filled with love. Not a romantic or sexual love, but just a simple love for a fellow human being.
Kunkle came close to asking the girl if she knew Jesus. But he hadn’t quite reached that point yet, and he paid her with the money Matt Cooper had given him, took the plastic bag she handed him, then simply smiled again as he left the drugstore.
A Goodwill store was adjacent to the drugstore, and Kunkle entered quickly, grabbing two used pairs of denim jeans and a handful of T-shirts in his size. He paid for them and left.
The Hotel Lafitte was only a block-and-a-half away, and Kunkle breathed in the humid air of New Orleans as he passed the other stores in the small shopping center that were just opening for business. He noticed that many of the people he passed on the sidewalk were smiling, and realized that was because he, himself, wore a big broad grin. It was a new experience for him, and one he liked. A wave of guilt rolled over him but passed. He remembered what the preacher had said at the revival.
He couldn’t change his past. But he could certainly change his future.
Kunkle pushed through the door to the hotel office and walked to the front desk. The place had a greasy feel to it and gave him the urge to take a shower. The Lafitte was widely known in the NOPD as a hangout for crack addicts, other drug abusers and prostitutes. But strangely enough, Kunkle had never worked a case that brought him there before.
Was that just luck? he wondered. Or had there been something else at work? Something that saw a bigger picture than he ever could? Something that had kept his face from being known at the Hotel Lafitte so he could check in at this moment in anonymity?
Was it God at work?
Kunkle didn’t know, but he knew that two weeks ago, such a thought would have never crossed his mind.
An emaciated man with needle tracks on both arms appeared from a door behind the desk. Kunkle caught himself thinking, there but for the grace of God go I. Instead of the usual revulsion he would have expected to feel, he found himself sympathizing with the man and wondering what life had thrown his way that caused him to turn to drugs as an escape. It was a new and strange reaction for the hardened New Orleans detective, and it perplexed him.
As he moved toward the pitiful man at the check-in counter, he heard a mumbled voice ask, “You want it by the hour, day, or week?” Kunkle noted that the man’s eyes were glazed over as if his mind were somewhere far away. No crackhead here, he thought. The skinny remembrance of a man was on heroin. “I’ll take a week,” he replied, then handed over a hundred-dollar bill and got a twenty back in change.
“Room 307,” the heroin addict mumbled and pointed toward the ceiling. “Top floor.”
Kunkle jammed the twenty-dollar bill into his pants pocket and started toward the elevator. He stopped when he saw the scrawled Out of Order sign taped to the doors. It was curling at the edges and looked like it had been there for weeks.
Turning toward the stairs, the reborn New Orleans detective started up the steps. He had work to do. God’s work. And the sooner he finished changing his looks the sooner he could get back with Cooper and get it done.
When he reached the third floor, he found room 307, then unknotted his necktie and looped it over the doorknob so Cooper would know which room he was in.
Then he opened the door, and with the shaving cream, razor and other items he’d bought at the drugstore in hand, Kunkle headed into the bathroom.
10
Bolan pulled the Cadillac Escalade into the parking lot of the Hotel Lafitte, stopping it at the other end of the lot from the front office. A rear entrance to the building was right in front of him. But before he took it, he had one more security duty to perform.
He had heard McFarley order O’Banion to make sure no one tailed him this time. But he couldn’t be sure that hadn’t been said just to throw him off guard. The transplanted Irish crime boss could have always reversed that order as soon as he was out of earshot, and while the Irishman had as much as told Bolan that he now trusted him, the assignment he had been given hinted otherwise. Compared to the other irons McFarley had in the fire, the mission he’d sent Bolan on seemed like mere child’s play.
The soldier killed the engine and withdrew the key. It was a strange situation in which he found himself. McFarley was still testing him for trustworthiness. At the same time, he was testing Kunkle. And neither Bolan nor McFarley was completely convinced yet.
Bolan started in the front seat, searching every nook and cranny of the Escalade, but he found no tracking device of any kind. When he had finished with the front, he climbed over the seat and searched the back. Again, nothing.
Getting out of the Escalade, he walked to the back bumper. Nothing was hidden below it. Just to make sure, he dropped to the ground and began scooting beneath the vehicle, holding a small ASP flashlight in his teeth as he checked the under-side of the Caddie.
Yet again, he found no devices to assist anyone trying to follow him.
Emerging from below the front bumper, Bolan stood up and brushed himself off. A moment later, he entered the Hotel Lafitte through the rear entrance and began circling the first floor, looking for a necktie on the doorknobs. The smell of marijuana was strong in the hall air, emanating from several of the rooms. But he saw no necktie.
Bolan climbed the steps to the second floor, the odor of marijuana being replaced by the wretched smell of vomit on the stairs. Again, he circled the floor. But again, he saw no tie.
Room 307 was just to the right of the staircase and Bolan spotted the tie the moment he set foot on the hotel’s top floor. He knocked three times, then unwound the tie from the doorknob. A moment later, he saw the peephole darken, and then the door began to swing back open.
Kunkle stepped back from the door to let him enter.
“I wouldn’t have recognized you if I didn’t already know you,” Bolan said as he walked past the man into the shabby room. “On the other hand, the old saying, ‘Even your mother wouldn’t recognize you’ doesn’t apply.” He stopped to scrutinize Kunkle more closely. “W
e can’t ever forget that that goes for everyone else who knows you, too. We still need to keep you out of sight around anyone associated with McFarley. Or at least at a safe distance.” Bolan handed the necktie to the detective.
The soldier walked on past the man and grabbed a rickety chair in front of an equally worn-out desk. Turning it backward, he rested his arms on the back of the chair and waited while Kunkle took a seat on the edge of the frayed bedspread. The detective really had changed his appearance to the maximum. He had shaved the top of his head to the skull but left the hair on the sides and back hanging straight and long. Instead of the full beard he had formerly worn, he now had long mutton-chop sideburns that extended well below his ears. And his beard had been trimmed into a short, neat goatee and mustache. All of the hair that was left—both head and face—had been bleached blond from its former dark brown, and the back had been long enough to be tied into a short ponytail.
Instead of the crumpled suit he had worn earlier, Kunkle now had on a plain white T-shirt, faded blue jeans and well-worn blue-and-white athletic shoes.
“It’s a new look for a new life,” Kunkle said. He paused, and Bolan could almost feel his stare as he waited for a reaction. When the Executioner didn’t give him one, he went on. “I know you still aren’t convinced that I’m sincere, Cooper, and I don’t blame you. I’ll just have to keep proving it to you until you believe me.”
“I’m getting closer,” Bolan said simply.
Kunkle nodded. “Before we go on, I’ve got a couple of questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Hit me with them,” Bolan said.
“I know you’re one of the ‘good guys,’” the detective said. “Probably a Fed. But can you tell me what branch you’re with?”
“No,” Bolan said. “Let me just tell you that I’ve got an unusual arrangement with the government, that I’m on the side of justice, and we’ll leave it at that.”
Kunkle nodded again. “Okay. But I also get the feeling that you don’t mind working outside the law for a greater purpose. Am I right there?”
“You are,” the soldier said. “I don’t mind breaking little laws to catch big bad guys.” He paused a moment, then added, “And when I’ve caught them, I don’t mind breaking big laws to stop them.”
“Then here’s the big question, I guess,” Kunkle said. “You’ve already got access to McFarley. Why not just kill him right now and get it over with?”
Bolan uncrossed his arms, held them out to his side to stretch the muscles, then crossed them again. “I’ve considered that,” he said. “But McFarley has operations in a lot of different areas. Drug smuggling, gunrunning, fixing boxing matches, and others. I need to disrupt at least a few of these activities before McFarley goes down. If I don’t, someone else will just step in and take his place.”
Kunkle shrugged. “Makes sense to me.”
“Make no mistake,” the Executioner said. “I plan to rid this planet of Tommy McFarley, but I’ve got to save him for later.”
Silence fell over the room for a few seconds while Kunkle let the information sink into his brain. Then Bolan broke that silence, changing the subject with, “You ever hear of a guy named Bill Dill?”
Kunkle laughed out loud. “Are you kidding?” he said. “Next to McFarley himself, Dill is the biggest racketeer in New Orleans.” He paused for a moment, and Bolan saw the question in his eyes before he put it into one simple word.
“Why?” the detective asked.
“Because I’ve just been assigned to burglarize his place,” Bolan said. “And you’re coming with me on the job.”
Kunkle’s laugh became more of a snort. “That’s not surprising. Bill Dill and McFarley hate each other’s guts. They’re in direct competition.” He stopped talking for a moment, then said, “Let me go out on a limb here and guess what McFarley wants. Dill’s New York Jets collection.”
Bolan was slightly surprised. “Right on the money,” he said. “But how could you have known that?”
Kunkle’s laugh faded to a low chuckle. “It’s pretty much common knowledge within the criminal circles of New Orleans that Dill’s a big Jets fan. In fact, he’s probably the only man in Louisiana who doesn’t root for the Saints.” He stopped talking for a moment and scratched his face where he’d shaved it between one mutton-chop sideburn and his goatee. “You see, Dill was born and raised in New York. I’ve never seen it, but it’s reputed that he’s got this collection of Jets paraphernalia that dates back to Super Bowl III. Supposed to be worth over two million in autographed pictures and other things.”
“That’s pretty much what McFarley told me,” Bolan said. “And there’s a rumor that he has Joe Namath’s Super Bowl ring.”
Kunkle shook his new ponytail and let it flap back and forth behind his head like a horse swatting flies. “That rumor’s been around for years,” he said. “Dill supposedly hired some top-notch New York burglar to break into Namath’s apartment. I don’t doubt that. What I doubt is that he actually got the ring.”
“Why’s that?” Bolan asked.
“Because it would have made the news if he had,” Kunkle came back. “That’s not something Broadway Joe would have taken sitting down. Besides, if I had a Super Bowl ring, I’d even wear it when I slept, wouldn’t you?”
Bolan didn’t respond.
“But there’s another rumor about that whole incident,” Kunkle said. “And it’s just possible that it’s true. The way it goes is that Dill’s man did get Namath’s ring, but Joe kept the whole thing quiet. Why is anybody’s guess. But in this story, Namath just had a duplicate made.” The detective snorted. “The man’s certainly got the money for it,” he finished.
Bolan nodded, then said, “According to McFarley, there’s yet one more version of this legend. McFarley’s convinced that Dill did hire the burglar, but the guy wasn’t as good as he’d thought. According to Tommy, he got caught, pled out for a deal with the District Attorney’s Office up there, and Namath got the ring back.”
“Is it the ring McFarley is after?” Kunkle asked. “For a Jets fan, it would be like the Holy Grail. And it sounds like something McFarley would want just to sort of spit in Dill’s face.”
“He specified the ring, if it’s there,” Bolan said. “He isn’t sure Dill has it, either, but he wants as much of the other Jets paraphernalia as we can carry out, too. It’s not the monetary worth of the fan gear that McFarley’s looking for. You were right—it’s just to spit in Dill’s face. He wants to take the Jets fan’s favorite toys away from him and make sure the man, and everyone else in New Orleans, knows where they went.”
“There are aspects of all this that sound fishy to me,” Kunkle said, frowning as he stood up from the bed and walked toward the bathroom “It sounds like McFarley is still trying to decide if he can trust you just like you’re trying to decide if you can trust me.”
“That’s exactly what it is,” Bolan said as the other man turned and paced back toward him. “There have been too many ‘explanations’ that went with your supposed murder. Like killing Jake and Razor Westbrook. And the fact that those two had told McFarley the ice chest came off a boat. But I think we’ve caught a bit of luck on this one.”
“How’s that?” Kunkle asked as he sat back down on the edge of the bed.
“This is a simple burglary,” Bolan said. “If we pull it off right, we can go through with the whole thing exactly as ordered with no ‘surprises’ to explain.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a thin cardboard paper folded into fourths. “I’m not sure how McFarley got this,” he told Kunkle. “He must have somebody on the inside of Dill’s operation. But, whatever the situation, he gave me this hand-drawn map of Dill’s house.” He stood up and walked to the table next to the sliding glass door that led to the third-floor porch. Then, unfolding the cardboard, he spread it out on the table.
“McFarley’s undoubtedly got snitches inside city and county government,” the detective said. “He
might have someone in the county assessor’s office.”
“Maybe,” Bolan said. “But this thing is obviously amateurish. And whoever drew it for him has written on it, naming the rooms.” He turned the thick paper sideways so both he and Kunkle could read it. “Here’s what Dill calls the Family Room. And the Conservatory. There’s a star up here on the second floor of the Study. That’s where McFarley believes the Jets collection is.”
Kunkle frowned at the plans. “McFarley’s had somebody inside the house,” he finally said. “Probably somebody who’s on Dill’s payroll but getting a little extra cash from McFarley.”
“Yeah,” Bolan said. “But that’s not our concern at the moment. What we need to do is figure out the safest way in and out of the house. To get to the Study, we’ve got to go right through Dill’s bedroom. With him and his wife sleeping not two feet away from the short hall that leads to it.” He glanced at Kunkle’s face and saw the indecision on it. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
Kunkle’s frown deepened. “I’m not sure how I feel about stealing an honest collection,” he said. “After all, I’m trying to turn over a new leaf.”
“The collection may be honest,” Bolan said. “But the man who owns it isn’t. If he was, I wouldn’t feel right about stealing from him, either. But Bill Dill is a criminal who’s just as bad as McFarley. Just not quite as successful. So I don’t feel bad about ripping off two million dollars’ worth of autographs and pennants from him.”
“It’s still stealing,” Kunkle said softly.
Bolan stared deep into the man’s eyes. Behind them, he saw a soul in turmoil, a man going through a transformation from the evil life he’d been leading into a more moral existence. And the process was confusing the detective.
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