by Larry Enmon
Phil gave him that condescending look he hated.
“And just your good fortune that you’ll be the recipient of most of his business?”
“I didn’t do the guy! Yeah, I’ll get a share of his business, but so will others!”
Phil ran his hand over the tablecloth smoothing out a crease. “The Voodoo doll thing wasn’t particularly wise either. Whacking a guy for business is one thing. Leaving a calling card like that—stupid.”
Levern wanted to bitch slap him. He leaped to his feet. “I didn’t do it! Are you freaking deaf?”
He realized his mistake immediately. The muscle guarding the door let his hand drift a little closer to his piece. Phil stayed cool, but his expression had darkened. The cold gray eyes took on an appearance Levern hadn’t seen before—a dead glare. Phil turned to the second muscle in the corner and motioned for him. Phil nodded toward Levern. “The hand.”
The muscle screwed a pistol into Levern’s left ear and dropped his meaty grip on Levern’s wrist, locking his hand in place on the table.
Levern struggled a couple of seconds before Phil whispered, “Don’t move, Antoine.”
In slow motion, Phil flicked the ash off his cigarette and lowered the hot tip onto the red dot in the middle of Levern’s new tattoo. A burning flesh stench and sizzling sound followed. It felt like someone drilling a hole into the back of his hand. Levern gritted his teeth and shook with pain, but didn’t let out a cry. The pistol stayed pressed against his ear.
Phil removed the cigarette and dropped the smoldering butt into the ashtray. “Well done, Antoine. Shall we start again?”
Levern had forgotten the cardinal rule when dealing with Phil. Always respect the man. Never raise your voice and never question what he said or threaten him.
“Now, sit back and relax,” Phil said. He spoke just above a whisper and motioned to the muscle to release Levern.
Levern gawked at his hand. A throbbing black smudge was all that remained of his bull’s eye. He flexed his fingers a couple of times and slid the injured hand under the table into his lap.
Phil picked off a piece of lent from his trouser leg and locked eyes with Levern. “If that’s the answer you want me to take back to Chicago, of course I will. But if it’s true, it sounds to me like you have someone who’s trying to implicate you in something that could prove dangerous in the long run.”
Phil opened the thick envelope lying on the table. He thumbed through the stack of hundreds and passed it to Levern.
“A little token of our appreciation. Use some of that to buy information on who’s behind the Ricardo killing. If you’re being set up, that could affect us all. You understand—bad for business. Especially if you get killed. Huh?”
Levern stood, but didn’t answer. Tabor waited outside, leaning against the hall wall. Levern slipped his burned hand into his coat pocket as he marched past. “Let’s go.”
What Phil said echoed in Levern’s ears. The truth hung out there like a dead guy at a dinner table. If this had been a setup, they’d done it right. He might just make some inquiries. As with all things criminal—someone, somewhere, knew something.
* * *
“Jesus H. Christ.” Rob stumbled behind Frank into the rubble of the trailer house. Why hadn’t it caught fire? Blood stains marred the carpet in a Picasso splatter near the scorch mark of the explosion. A familiar odor wafted past Rob’s nostrils—burned phosphates. That stench always brought back bad memories of dark days in Iraq. Days when someone got hurt, or worse.
Paul Sims, who had called them to the scene, stood outside talking to Kelly from the forensics team.
“What do you make of it?” Frank asked. He squatted and poked something on the floor with a coat hanger.
“Some kind of explosive device. Maybe homemade. Pipe bomb, I’d guess,” Rob answered.
Frank stood and dusted his hands. They made their way out the front door and strolled beside Sims, who’d just finished a phone call. Kelly scribbled something in his notebook. Streaks of smut and dirt covered his white Tyvek suit, and his dust mask sat perched on his forehead. He’d drawn a large, red set of lips on the front.
“How many killed?” Frank asked.
Sims popped another M&M into his mouth. “Only Arne. He’d just got home, according to witnesses.”
Arne Weaver headed up the local chapter of the Aryan Brotherhood.
“Anybody see anything?” Rob asked.
Sims thumbed through his notes. “Nope. A little girl said the sound of a car accelerating down the street preceded the explosion. She was riding her bike past the trailer when it exploded. Got showered with flying glass. Few cuts and bruises. Nothing serious.”
“Why was a kid riding a bike? Shouldn’t she be in school?” Rob asked.
Sims grunted. “Home schooled. Mother said the kid was out playing while she fixed lunch.”
Frank stuck his hands in his pockets and craned his neck, taking in the denizens of the trailer park as they gawked at them. Rob had worked with Frank so long he could read his partner’s thoughts as he stared back at the group. A collection of white trash, working poor, and highly uneducated. Rob never told Frank that most of his relatives lived in places this bad or worst. Growing up, Rob had been lucky. His parents at least had a small house.
Sims dropped his pen in his jacket. “Oh, I almost forgot. About the Salazar case. They finally finished forensics on the bullets they picked out of Ricardo’s bedroom wall. All fired by the .45 found beside him.” Sims popped another M&M. “Don’t know what in the hell he thought he was shooting at, but he didn’t hit anything but a wall.”
Rob strolled around the trailer with his hands in his pockets. He bent down and looked underneath the trailer a couple of times, but saw nothing interesting. When he came back, Frank had his trademark I’m bored expression glued on tight. He looked at Rob. “Ready to go?”
On the way downtown, Rob thought out loud. “I don’t get it. Three gang leaders in as many days. Is this a war?”
Frank brooded in the passenger seat. He hadn’t said a word since leaving the trailer. He glanced at Rob. “Yup, Edna was right, but what kind of war?”
“Huh?”
“A gang war, or a war on gangs?”
“I don’t follow.”
“It all depends on who’s killing who. This kind of random violence doesn’t make any sense. There’s no common dominator among these losers, and honestly, the world’s better off without them. We don’t have a real pattern yet.”
“So you think someone’s killing off gangsters for fun?” Rob asked.
“Not enough information to say that. Probably just killing off each other. But if some vigilante is doing it, he’s playing in a rough league.”
“So you were telling me about the interview with Dr. Hawkins before Sims called,” Rob said. “How did it go?”
Frank slouched a little lower in the seat and yawned. “We talked over dinner. I don’t believe she’s involved.”
Rob perked up. “Dinner, huh. Where did you go?”
“I cooked.”
Rob shot him a look. “She spent the night?”
Frank showed the face he reserved for dullards. “Of course not.” He extended to the full slouch riding position, resting his knees on the dash. “Only dinner.”
Had Frank just gone weird again? Rob couldn’t tell. Frank taking an interest in some woman wasn’t unusual. Taking an interest in a woman who was a professor was. Was it a business or pleasure thing with Frank? “Talk about the Voodoo doll?”
“Yeah, she said it was unusual for a Voodoo doll to be left at the scene of a death. Said they were used for helping people, not hurting them.”
Rob changed the subject. “Want to have some lunch?”
Frank shrugged. “Okay, but fried chicken today.”
Frank’s phone rang.
“This is Pierce.” He looked over at Rob, “Yeah, we were just discussing it. Okay, we’ll meet you there.” He disconnected.
; “Who was that?”
“Ford.”
“What’s up?”
“Has some info he doesn’t want to share on the phone. We’re meeting him at the Northwest Highway Humperdinks for lunch.”
Rob laughed. “Humperdinks—big surprise.”
* * *
As they pulled into the parking lot, Ford stood near the entrance and waved. Frank liked him. They’d worked a case together a few years ago. David Ford was an FBI agent assigned to the Dallas Division—organized crime squad. Athletic build, black hair combed straight back, and dark blue eyes. Every straight woman in Dallas wanted a piece of him.
They greeted each other and ambled inside. If it wasn’t for Ford, this Humperdink’s location would have closed years ago. It was close to the FBI office and had better than average chow. Ford ate there almost every day. Always ordered the same thing—a big green salad with grilled chicken strips on top. After they were seated and placed their drink orders, Ford grabbed a menu off the table. This was perhaps the most ridiculous part about dining with him. A ritual he insisted on. Must provide him with a small amount of comfort in an ever-changing world. If Frank had to eat the same thing everyday he’d need to be fitted for a straightjacket.
“What have you guys been up to?” Ford asked as he scanned the menu he’d memorized three years earlier.
“Trying to keep a lid on this gang war,” Rob replied. “Another one got hit today.”
Ford tossed the menu back on the table and laid his forearms on it. “Yeah, I heard. Got something that might interest you.” He glanced around, dropped his voice, and leaned forward. “A possible contract on one of your gangsters.”
“Who?” Frank asked. For heaven’s sake, don’t let it be Levern.
“Antoine Levern.”
“Where did this come from?” Rob whispered.
The waiter brought the drinks and smiled. “Be right back and get your orders,” he said.
Ford allowed him to get halfway across the room before saying, “Federal wiretap. Can’t tell you who the target is, but we found out about it from a call Tony Palazzo made last night.”
“Who’s Palazzo?” Frank asked.
“Underboss to the Gambizi crime family. Heir apparent when old man Joe Gambizi kicks the bucket.”
“So it’s definitely a hit?” Rob asked.
“Sounds like it,” Ford said. “They didn’t go into a lot of detail on a line they figured might be tapped. Palazzo only said they had a problem in Dallas. Sending someone down to handle it.”
No one needed to tell Frank this was the game changer they’d all dreaded. Sending down an enforcer was a power play. New York was serious and willing to put all their chips on the table with a hit man to back it up. “Did they say who?” Frank asked.
“Jesse.”
“Who’s that?” Rob said.
“Didn’t give a last name, just Jesse,” Ford answered. “We checked the family roster. No one by that name is an enforcer for them.” Ford shrugged. “For that matter, nobody by that name in the whole organization.”
“What do you figure? An outside contract?” Rob asked.
“Either that or a new player.”
“I know you’ve probably already checked,” Frank said, “but are there any contract killers named Jesse in the bureau’s system?”
Ford grinned. “Yeah, two. One’s doing thirty to life in Joliet for a double homicide, and the other’s in a Mississippi hospice, dying of prostate cancer.”
“Plan on warning Levern?” Rob asked.
Ford shook his head. “Nope. If they play in that street, they should expect to get hit sooner or later. Won’t compromise a good tap for a crook.”
The rules were clear, but that didn’t stop Frank from feeling sorry for Levern. “Any time frame?” Frank asked.
Ford raised his eyebrows. “The hit’s on. Could be any time. Only Jesse knows when.”
“Hey, Frank, you’re losing your Band-Aid,” Rob said.
Crap, not that again. It sagged, about to fall off. Frank saved it the trouble and peeled it back. He stared at his wrist so long Rob asked, “What’s wrong?”
Frank didn’t answer immediately. A small quiver in his stomach—this wasn’t possible. His mind whirled for an answer. The cut had closed up—no more bleeding and oozing. Still a little swelling and redness, but at least 50 percent better than yesterday.
“So you got a stitch?” Rob asked.
“No.”
Ford bent forward, trying to see.
Rob pointed at Frank’s wrist. “Got a nasty gash the other night—needed a stitch. Looks better. I can’t even see where they stitched it.”
Frank continued staring at his wrist and mumbled, “Didn’t get a stitch.”
The waiter took their orders and Ford and Rob shot the bull until the food arrived, but Frank didn’t join in. His mind drifted back to last night. The conversation over his kitchen sink with Alma. “Carry a little in my purse all the time. Best thing in the world.”
* * *
Levern dipped his garlic bread in the shrimp étouffée and scooped a mouthful of soup. He seldom ate downstairs at the restaurant. Took most of his meals in his third floor digs, away from the crowd. Today he hadn’t felt like eating alone. Sometimes he enjoyed watching others dine, listening to the voices blend together into one contentious conversation, getting louder and louder until it became a subtle roar. Place was getting more popular. Already a line at the door for lunch. The buzz about his star chef had grown since the restaurant won the Best Cajun Cooking award from D Magazine last year. Maurice Sontau had also left New Orleans after Katrina. When Levern opened the place, he cut Maurice in on the action and never regretted his decision. A head chef could make or break a joint. Besides it was a great cover for what went on upstairs. Easier to launder drug money when you had a legitimate business on the side.
Tabor leaned closer and whispered, “Hey, boss. Someone’s making eyes at you.”
“Who’s that?”
Tabor motioned with his head. “Blonde by the window, eating alone.”
Levern scanned the room and found her in the corner. Short blonde hair, nice face, and no wedding band. Sort of an all-American girl look.
“Want me to ask her to join you?” Tabor asked.
Levern took the last bite, dabbed his lips, and dropped the napkin on the table. “I have a better idea.”
The blonde kept her eyes on him as he limped toward her with Tabor. She grinned and lowered her head demurely as he approached. She’d almost finished the oyster po’boy and fries.
Levern put on his best smile. “Enjoying your lunch?” Not a very original pickup line, but he’d had success with it in the past.
She giggled, blush rushing up her neck. “Sure am.”
“It’s on the house, baby.”
Her eyes pinched. “Seriously, you’re buying my meal? Why?”
“Like your looks, besides, I own the joint. Can give away all the meals I want.”
She raked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and bit her lip. “No kidding, you really own the place?”
“Sure do.” Levern stood a little taller. “Love to show you around sometime.” He leaned on the table and scribbled a date and his initials on one of his business cards. He called them his pickup cards. Best investment he ever made. He handed it to her.
When she took it, her soft finger brushed his. He got a rise.
“How about right now?” Levern asked. “It’s just upstairs.”
She frowned and the sweet lips formed a pout. “Oh, I wish I could, but”—she checked her watch—“I have to get back to work.”
“Well, you got a free lunch. Just show that to the waiter. You can have that tour anytime—just call.” He pointed over his shoulder. “If I’m not available ask for Tabor,” Levern showed his full teeth smile. “He’ll get the message to me.”
She grinned and lifted the card, reading the front. “Thank you … Mr. Levern.”
He held out hi
s hand and she shook it. “You can call me Antoine,” he said, “and what’s your name, my dear?”
She tilted her head and winked. “I’m Jesse.”
15
Jesse left the restaurant and drove to back to the Extended Stay America Hotel on Greenville Avenue. She’d just arrived this morning and hadn’t bothered to unpack. When a job required several days or longer, she always chose a place like this—more privacy, few kids, and a staff who treated you more like a long-term tenant than a guest. Just like her car, the Extended Stay America was plain. High class hotels and expensive cars drew attention. Harder to blend in. More easily remembered later if a cop asked around.
Jesse parked the ten-year-old white Toyota and unlocked the trunk. Removing the long cardboard tube, she scanned the parking lot. Tucking the tube under her arm, she unlocked her door and ducked inside.
Jesse lived by a few basic rules. Never fly—she drove everywhere. The tools of her trade didn’t mix well with TSA screenings. Never use a credit card—traveler’s checks or cash only. She kept a special bag for her dozen TracFones—burners she used once and then destroyed. Never use your own computer—the complimentary desktop at the business center in the hotel was good enough. In the digital age it was impossible to travel and remain completely invisible, but she didn’t make it easy to track her movements. For the most part, unless someone got lucky, she was invisible.
Jesse had wanted to meet Antoine Levern. Gauge him—see what he was like. Pretty much as she’d figured. Cocky, self-confident, and arrogant. All those things made him predictable. All those things made him vulnerable.
She opened the cardboard tube on one end and slid the M-24 sniper rifle onto the bed. She shucked her blouse, bra, and pants, slipped on an oversized tee shirt and sat on a chair to thumb through the briefing material she’d received on Levern and his outfit. Levern wasn’t a gang leader per se. More of an agent to the gangs, representing the Chicago mob.
She poured herself a little scotch over ice and considered Tony Palazzo’s words yesterday. “Gambizi wanted to make a statement—send a message.” She’d accepted contracts from the families before. They were business men, paid well, and in cash. This would be the biggest of her career. My career? She took a long swallow and let that sink in for a moment.