12 Bullets Read online

  Nick nods slowly, his face almost in a smile.

  “Ciao.”

  “Ciao.”

  THE CALL COMES from Bishop Eskine 8:32 a.m.

  “The archbishop wants your recommendation regarding the payment.”

  “Best way to end this is to catch him. We set up a trap. The area around the statue is congested, especially in the middle of a Friday but it’ll hide our people.”

  “Should we use fake money?”

  “Your call. If I were the extortionist, I wouldn’t be the one picking up the money. I’d send a cab driver or a kid on a bike. Someone to check to see if it’s real money. We need to follow whoever picks up the money to where it ends up. If it’s the extortionist, he’ll lead us to his digs. If it’s a pick-up person, he’ll lead us to the extortionist. We’ll put a GPS device in the envelope when your bank records the serial number of the bills. The FBI has a GPS device looks like a paper-clip.”

  “You could lose him and the money.”

  “That’s right. It’s your call.”

  After a moment, Eskine goes, “Archbishop Peeyabo is anathema to paying extortion. I recommended we pay and see if the extortionist keeps his word and goes away. Naive on my part, I’m sure. I’ll consult with the archbishop again and call you back.”

  “Extortionists rarely stop until they are stopped. He’ll come back for more. Give us more chances to catch him. If you use fake money he’ll get mad and may do worse damage. Molotovs into the cathedral.”

  The bishop says goodbye and hangs up.

  “Hey,” Beau calls out, “We get any fingerprints from the Molotov debris from Archangel High?”

  “Nope.”

  Beau goes into their office, catches Juanita’s eye.

  “Y’all wanna come along?”

  “Where we going?”

  “Canvass. The Quarter and Archangel High.”

  Jordan looks up from his computer and Beau tells him, “Keep working on the IP address.”

  The second email had come from a different IP address.

  Before they make it out the door, the Temptations start up Ain’t Too Proud to Beg and Jordan doesn’t bother with his earbuds.

  JUANITA PUTS ON a pink Safariland tactical shirt over her white undershirt that’s sheer enough to show the lacy outline of her bra. Up close now, Beau realizes why Jordan’s been staring at her. The pink shirt covers her weapon and handcuffs as Beau’s dark green tactical shirt covers his weapons – magnum on his right hip, obsidian knife in its scabbard worn cross-draw at the small of his back. He wears khaki RipStop trousers while she wears a slimming khaki skirt, both in Skechers tennis shoes, him in black, hers white.

  “I can’t figure out Jordan,” Juanita says, pulling down her skirt, buckling her seat belt.

  “Why try?” Beau starts up his SUV.

  “With the pussy affluenza out there, he tells me he can’t get a date. He’s not bad looking.”

  Don’t say anything – Beau tells himself.

  “You’re not going to talk right?”

  Beau nods.

  “What’d I say? Pussy affluenza? There’s always been a dick affluenza – always a dick out there to hump any receptive female. But these days there’s a pussy affluenza.”

  “The fuck you talking about? Pussy influenza. Some kinda pussy flu?” Beau pulls out of the police garage.

  “No, Crazy Horse. Affluenza. It normally means pursuit of wealth but pussy affluenza means the unhealthy social and psychological effects of the affluence of pussy. Excess and indulgence. We live in a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah.”

  No. No. Didn’t I say – keep my mouth shut? I don’t want to hear this.

  “I’m part of it, so is Jessie. 21st Century women have casual sex like men did in the 1960s. No, like men have done forever. Didn’t you go to bed with every woman you dated?”

  Don’t say anything.

  “Everybody wants sex all the time. Everybody’s getting laid. Like women finally figured out it feels better for us than it does for men. But the problem is we’re just fuckholes now.”

  Don’t say anything.

  “The old saying,” goes Juanita. “Put your finger in your ear and move it around. What feels better? Your finger or your ear?”

  “Finger? Ear? You sure Jordan’s crazy and not you?”

  She said Jessie’s part of this didn’t she?

  Oh. She’s sweating our Half-Jewish, Half-Afro American AFT agent.

  She breaks the ensuing minutes of blessed silence with, “Jordan says he hasn’t dated anyone in a while.”

  “Maybe he’s just promoting your pussy.”

  Can’t believe I’m having this conversation.

  “Jessie was tearing up the playing field before she settled down with you.”

  “Why are you bringing her into this?”

  “It’s no criticism. She’s a living doll and sexy as hell. Just like you.”

  Oh, Lord. Help me.

  THE TWO KIDS on bikes circling Archangel High School stop on their third go around to watch Juanita cross the Esplanade neutral ground back to the school. She and Beau had removed their cover shirts so their badges and weapons are in plain view.

  “You here about the dead squirrels?”

  “Cars speed through here like it’s a race track.”

  They stand now on the banquette in front of the high school, Juanita asking about the firebombing.

  “I heard about it,” says the older boy, kid around twelve.

  “Me too,” goes the one about 10-years old.

  “Did you see anything?”

  “Like did we see what happened?”

  “Or anything before or after. Maybe someone on bikes.”

  They look at each other, shake their heads.

  “Have you seen any adults riding bikes around here?”

  “Today?” asks the 10-year old.

  “Anytime.”

  The boys look at each other and they say it together, “The old guy.”

  Juanita writes in her notes: WM, 60s, beard, wearing dark clothes and a black baseball cap, riding a black Huffy Cruiser. Seen here twice before firebombing. Did not get a good enough look at his face to ID. Will call if they see him again.

  She lists the kids’ names, addresses and phone numbers.

  “What do you mean by ‘seen here’?”

  The older one says, “Driving around the school.”

  “He was alone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the boys ride away, Brother Isaac comes out to tell them he hasn’t heard anything from anyone about the firebombing.

  Isaac adds, “I wonder if it was from a rival school like Holy Cross or Archbishop Rummel which has a lot of East Jefferson toughs. I don’t think any Jesuit boys would do this, too prim and effeminate. Sallies as well.”

  “Sallies?”

  “De La Salle Cavaliers. Uptowners.”

  Juanita tells him it’s the extortionist, explains about the ‘C’ with the cat ears signature.

  A SIGN OUTSIDE the narrow brick building across from Saint Anthony’s Garden reads FAULKNER HOUSE BOOKS where William Faulkner wrote his first novel Soldier’s Pay in 1925. Beau goes into a narrow room with two walls of bookcases filled to the ceiling and two long tables covered with books. A young woman with dark red hair steps into the room from a side room and smiles. She’s in a sundress, white with pale green stripes. Beau pulls up the side of his shirt to show his badge.

  “Police,” he says. “We’re following up on the vandalism of the cathedral. Do you know about it?”

  She steps closer. “I heard about it. You know who did it?”

  “Not yet. What do you know about it?” Beau opens his Moleskine notebook, clicks his ball point.”

  “I just heard it was graffitied. Owners live upstairs and they said they didn’t see or hear anything.” She stares up at him. She prettier up close. Looks to be maybe twenty years old.

  Hope nothing’s sticking out my nose.

  “Anyo
ne you speak to say they saw anything or think they know who did it?”

  She shakes her head, her jaw slowing opening.

  “Oh, my God. It’s you. The Great Beau. I don’t believe it. Right here.” She gets close enough to put her hand against his chest, pulls it away. “We’re facebook friends. I’m Kaylee Galloway.”

  Jesus H. Christ.

  Beau writes her name beneath Faulkner House Books, 624 Pirate Alley.

  “What’s the phone number here?”

  She gives it to him and her cell number, adding, “Call me anytime.”

  Beau pulls out a business card, hands it to her.

  “Can you autograph the back?”

  “It’s against department policy,” Beau lies.

  She lifts the front of her dress. “Can you autograph my panties? I have a sharpie. My BFFs will know I showed you my panties.”

  The Cajun in Beau looks at her panties.

  What good is life if you can’t autograph a pretty girl’s panties?

  She hands Beau the sharpie pen and Beau goes down on one knee as she lifts the sundress to show white panties so sheer he can see the Hitler-moustache trim of her dark red pubic hair.

  Pussy Affluenza. If Juanita comes in right now, I’m doomed.

  He signs the panties, stands and gives the sharpie back to a beaming Kaylee Galloway.

  Beau backs away, tells her if she learns anything about the vandalism, call the number on the card.

  “Is it your cell number?”

  He shakes his head and gets out before she lifts her dress again, finds Juanita with four kids on bikes at the front of the alley at Jackson Square, boys maybe 10-years old. She asks about the vandalism, the two white boys shake their heads, never heard about it. The black kid says the same thing, the Latino looks down.

  Juanita speaks to him in Spanish, gets a, “No.”

  She collects their names and addresses and passes out cards and the kids pedal off in a hurry.

  “Think the Latino boys knows something?” Beau asks.

  She nods. “I’ll follow up on him. Talk to his mother.”

  “Come on.” Beau leads the way to the square. “Let’s talk to the homeless guys around the square.”

  BEAU PICKS UP SUPPER – soft chicken tacos and spicy pork tamales, washed down by sweet tea.

  “Where did you get this?” says Jessie as she finishes off a taco.

  “Little place off Magazine called Ramon DeLeon. Claims to be authentic Mexican food from Sonora.”

  Stella peeks over the tabletop at Beau.

  “You never rewarded her for that spider, did you?”

  “I did. I let her smooch me.”

  Beau points to the corner.

  “You got sliced tuna in salmon gravy in that little bowl.”

  Stella ignores him.

  Jessie watches her man’s eyes, has never seen that look before.

  Anger? No. Frustration.

  He tells her, “I’m thinking this fuckin’ extortion might have nothing to do with the Mafia. Could be some fuckhead who hates cats and the Catholic church. This greasycat1962 may have nothing to do with Greasy Cat Maggio.”

  “You have a lead.”

  “One lead. He’s wants a payoff at the Joan of Arc statue.”

  “Right. Where we caught those Racconto assholes.”

  “We could have jammed them up anywhere.”

  Jessie narrows an eye.

  “I have an idea. Why don’t you call Lucy Incanto? Pump her for information. She likes you, doesn’t she?”

  “I’m her type. Male.”

  “She may let something slip.”

  “This isn’t one of those bad TV shows. Lucy Incanto will never let ‘something slip’ and if the Mafia’s not extorting the church …”

  “They followed me.”

  “Doesn’t link to the extortion.”

  “How do you know?”

  He looks at her a moment. “You jealous of this Mafia Aphrodite?”

  “Aphrodite?”

  “That’s what she calls herself. A Mafia Aphrodite.”

  “Goddess of beauty, love and desire,” Jessie says. “She’s more dangerous than I thought.”

  Beau nods. “If we need to talk to her, we’ll let LaStanza. Sicilian to Sicilian.”

  Beau takes a large bite of tamale and Stella puts her front paws on top the table and slashes the nearest taco, tumbling it on the table. Before Beau can react, she claws a large slice of chicken, pulls it off the table and she’s a blue-gray flash out of the kitchen.

  “Guess she told you,” goes Jessie.

  “Any word from your Time Traveler?”

  “You mean my good-looking, blue-eyed admirer?” She sticks out her tongue. “Heard nothing yet.”

  As they finish eating, Beau adds, “This is one fucked up time in our lives, isn’t it?”

  THE LIGHT BREEZE brushes the leaves and Beau sits on the edge of the rear deck letting his eyes adjust to the darkness in the back yard. Bright moonlight fills the black corners and he is sure he is alone. Even Melbourne hasn’t shown.

  He leans back on his hands, thinks of the wampum belt, imagining a long-haired Lenape maiden weaving shells to form the belt, maybe humming under her breath as she sits next to a slow-moving creek of bright blue water. She looks a little like the pictures he’s seen of Jessie when she was a young teenager. To Beau, Blue Swan is young, a maiden. Not yet married and wrapped in child bearing.

  She lives in a small village in a primeval forest untouched by the upcoming European invasion. A peaceful village where the people grow corn and red beans, hunt birds and rabbits, squirrels and deer, fish from streams and rivers.

  Beau hears Blue Swan go quiet as the breeze softens in the trees in the backyard. Blue Swan does not talk in words to Beau, she speaks in emotions, feelings, touching him through the long centuries. Not speaking directly to him, of course, but to anyone who listens carefully.

  He won’t think of her growing older. He will leave her next to the creek, humming and smiling at her work. From that scene, he will let the peace all people seek come over him, soften the harsh world.

  The leaves stop rustling and the breeze fades.

  “Good night, Blue Swan.”

  A scratching turns Beau to see Melbourne sticking his head out from beneath the deck. Time to feed the raccoon.

  JUANITA COMES INTO Beau’s office holding up her iPhone.

  “Mother of the Latino boy from the canvass says I can come by and talk to her son. He has something to tell us.”

  “You wanna take me or Jordan?”

  Jordan steps in eating an ice-cream cone. Chocolate.

  “Where’d you get that?” Juanita asks.

  “Down the hall at the Chief’s office. There’s a party going on.”

  Juanita looks back at Beau. “I’m going alone. The boy’s afraid of you two. He thinks you’re a giant and Jordan looks like that mean Saint linebacker.”

  “What mean Saints linebacker?” goes Jordan.

  Juanita shrugs so he turns to Beau who shrugs and Juanita leaves.

  Jordan raises his ice-cream to Beau. “You want me to get you some?”

  “No. What about that second IP address?”

  “Came back to a location in Uzbeckistan. I’m rechecking.”

  Beau kicks his feet up on his desk and leans back in his captain’s chair.

  “Close the door on your way out. I’m gonna rest my eyes.”

  When he doesn’t hear the door close, Beau opens his left eye, sees Jordan in the doorway. Jordan steps back in and closes the door.

  “You were supposed to remind me to tell you about Adolpha Danz, the mannesser. Remember?

  “No.” Beau opens both eyes as Jordan comes over to sit.

  “I looked up the word mannesser and it means ‘man eater’ in German. Isn’t that what Jessie’s cousin calls her?

  Beau gives him a black look.

  “Anyway, spotted Adolpha crossing in front of the cathedral on the canvas
s right after the cathedral thing. She was wearing this see-through top she wears at work and she has a rack on her. Works at The Tit-Tee Bar, spelled T…I…T dash T…E…E. On Toulouse Street, just off Bourbon.

  “We started talking about blow jobs and hit it off right away. We almost broke my bed.”

  Beau rubs his eyes. “You just started talking about blow jobs?”

  “Yeah. With hussies it’s best to get right to it. Sex talk. I mean, I could see her boobs and her standing in front of the cathedral. She’s not Catholic. She’s Lutheran.”

  The fuck does that have to do with anything?

  “I tell you, this is the fuckin’ greatest city in the world. I went to the Tit-Tee Bar. Makes the girls at Hooters look like Clydesdales. You know. The big horses.”

  Beau closes his eyes.

  After a minute, Jordan says, “Don’t tell Juanita I’m dating a girl with big jugs.”

  Don’t answer.

  “She’ll give me that look.”

  Don’t say a fuckin’ thing.

  “You know what look I mean. The ‘you’re such a moron look’.”

  Three seconds go by.

  “You’re just gonna sit there.”

  Two seconds this time.

  “OK. Just don’t tell Juanita.”

  After a half minute, Jordan leaves. Beau keeps his eyes closed until the laugh starts up as he relives the conversation – ‘started talking about blow jobs’ … ‘with hussies it’s best to get right to it’.

  The phone call from the chief comes an hour later.

  “State Senator Sam Bonvillion from Ville Platte was shot at by a couple juveniles yesterday morning. He was in a fishing boat in the lake this side of south point. White boys using .22 rifles. He thinks they went into Bayou Sauvage. He moved closer in and saw a man with a bow and arrow.

  “I told the governor when he called about the first incidents I had my Critical Investigation Unit working on it. I notified the 7th District Commander already. You think you can check this out for me?”

  Jesus A. Christ.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Beau goes home first, climbs into swamp gear – older khaki RipStops and white tee-shirt with PANO in blue across the chest. He grabs an orange hunting vest and wading boots lined with Kevlar. Snakebite proof.

  TWO NATIONAL PARK rangers wearing gray uniform shirts with cute little gold badges, olive green trousers and khaki Smokey-the-bear Mountie hats stand in the cabin next to the clam-shell parking area along the raised walkway leading into the Bayou Sauvage Reserve. They check out their .9 mm Glocks as Beau introduces himself. The older of the two men, both about 6’ tall and heavy-set tells Beau they have superseding authority and he can wait here for them to locate the shooters.