12 Bullets Page 2

  Beau hands the driver’s license of the cyclist to Jeffers.

  “If y’all can write an initial report just forward it to me. CIU will handle the follow-up.”

  Jeffers nods. His follow-up officer won’t have to work this. “We took a statement already.”

  “It was the blood that scared me,” from the cyclist as Lieutenant Jeffers handed him his license.

  “He was cleaning a deer he killed. You wanna take a look?”

  “Not in there.”

  “Well, we’re not dragging it out.”

  Professor Isaac Gustav, in his cute yellow outfit, takes his driver’s license, picks up his bicycle and peddles away.

  Jeffers to Beau – “You didn’t find the guy, did you?”

  Beau shakes his head, twists his back to roll out the kinks.

  Antoine to Beau – “You got a helluva bruise on your chin.”

  Beau touches his chin, winces.

  “Had to shoot a razorback.”

  “We didn’t hear a thing.”

  “The swamp swallows noise. Swallows people too. I don’t recommend going in there unless you like cottonmouths, rattlesnakes and gators. Beau holds up his left hand. “Spiders as big as my hand.”

  Jeffers grins. “Unless you kicked in a 108 (officer needs assistance) this is as far as we were going.”

  The patrol officers leave with their rank right behind. Beau climbs in the SUV, takes in another look, one more whiff of the swamp, rolls up his window and heads west again. A couple minutes later the new ringtone on his iPhone goes off – a drumbeat followed by deep voices chanting a Sioux war song.

  “Hello.”

  “You finished playing in the swamp?” The voice of Superintendent of Police Janet Féroce.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Can you get cleaned up by morning? I need you and Inspector Cruz to meet me at the Office of the Archbishop on Walmsley.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Wear a suit.”

  “You got it.”

  Is she snickering at me?

  “How’d it go at the fort? Anyone shooting rifles?”

  “NTI.”

  She snickers this time.

  “Nothing to it. You testing my knowledge of cop abbreviations?”

  “10-4.”

  “See you in the morning.” She disconnects.

  THE LONG COOL woman Jessie Carini steps into the conference room in a fitted black dress with a hemline 6-inches above her knees. Not as short as some of her minidresses, this is one of her power outfits. Around the long mahogany table stand four men, two sipping coffee.

  “Gentlemen,” she says as she eases around to sit at the head of the table. She’s 5’4” but taller in heels, her long dark brown hair parted in the center, hangs straight down nearly to the small of her back. She’s a 1960s teeny bopper dream. Her jittery stomach settles as she sits. This is her meeting, after all. The men take seats.

  Mrs. Soffon, who married Father Time and outlived him, steps in wearing a black dress from the 19th Century. She carries five portfolios, depositing one in front of each man and Jessie who thanks her and the elderly woman exits, leaving the strong scent of Avon perfume. Jessie’s thankful her own Parisian perfume is far subtler.

  Everyone opens their portfolio and Jessie watches the men read the top page of the document, each document individual to the reader, a year of negotiating among these bankers to the final agreement in front of them. She taps the portfolio in front of her, the same portfolio in front of each man.

  “The final draft, gentlemen. Simple and direct.” Jessie pulls her hair behind her shoulders as she sits, straight up like the sisters taught her at Ursuline Academy. She’d taken extra time with her makeup this morning, highlighting her light green eyes with pale icy-blue eyeshadow and painting her lips a deep carmine. A strand of her dark brown hair sticks to her lipstick and she guides it away.

  She knows these middle-aged men pride themselves on not being affected by a pretty woman, sleek legs, a tight dress, but Jessie knows every interaction between opposite sexes, no matter how professional, has sexual tension. One at a time, the men pull out Mont Blanc fountain pens and sign their documents. All except the man she expected would balk at the last minute.

  Francois Gunter, CEO of the largest of the banks – Stein am Rhein Bank of Switzerland – places his Mont Blanc next to his portfolio.

  “I am sorry to say we are not prepared to sign at the moment.” He shows his small teeth through a cold smile.

  A big man, maybe 6’4”, at least 250’, he’s balding with a thin moustache and sallow complexion.

  She’d expected this.

  “OK. If you do not wish to join the Lynette Trust, we have two other Swiss banks waiting.

  The two bankers from Liechtenstein and Luxembourg do not hide their snide grins. The other Swiss banker nods.

  “Without the largest Swiss bank, without Stein am Rhein Bank, will the trust achieve its goals?” Gunter asks.

  “As President of Louvier, LLC,” says Jessie. “I assure you we shall exceed all expectations.”

  Gunter closes his portfolio. “I do not mean to offend, Miss Carini, but we prefer to conduct our final negation with Alexandre Louvier.”

  I know – thinks Jessie. I’m too young and a woman.

  She gives the big banker her best Sicilian stare, expressionless, dead-pan, penetrating through the man’s eyes to the back of his skull. A moment later, she brings a touch of feline predator into her eyes. He leans back in his chair.

  “Alexandre is on vacation in India. I speak for Louvier, LLC.”

  Jessie opens her portfolio and clicks her new Cross gel ink pen and signs both copies of each document as President of Louvier, LLC, and for the banks owned by the Louvier family in Switzerland, Liechtenstein, Luxembourg and the Netherlands.

  “If you gentlemen will leave one copy and take a copy with you.” Jessie stands. “I thank you for your hard work on this agreement.”

  Beneath the umbrella of the new Lynette Trust, these banks are now shielded from any currency fluctuation and the caprice of any government. A state unto itself.

  Jessie shakes hands with each, the youngest holds on to her hand.

  “We hope you will join us for celebratory dinner.” He is Michel de Ville, the other Swiss banker. She’d had dinner with these men last night when they arrived in New Orleans.

  “I have a date tonight.”

  “The police officer you mentioned last night?”

  Over the man’s shoulder she sees Francois Gunter has not risen.

  “Yes.”

  “I heard he is an investigator? Oui? Non?”

  Marcel Jeanfreau, CEO of the Royal Luxembourg Bank pats de Ville’s shoulder.

  “He’s the man who saved my life.”

  de Ville’s eyes grow wide, blinks at Jessie.

  “The man from the Chantal Building?”

  Jessie nods.

  “The Great Beau. How did I not realize this?”

  “Don’t fret Marcel. You can’t know everything.”

  The men step up and kiss Jessie on each cheek before leaving with their copies of the agreement.

  When the door closes behind them, Gunter says, “I knew your man is The Great Beau.”

  Gunter picks up his fountain pen.

  Jessie goes back to her chair, sits, pulls her hair back again.

  “Give me that look again.”

  “Which look?” As if Jessie does not know.

  “The cold one.”

  She smiles and laughs lightly.

  He shakes his head.

  “Oh, I dislike the 21st Century,” says Gunter as he signs the agreement. “Twenty years ago, I would have asked you to sit on my lap before I signed this. Might have asked you to show me what you have on under that dress, mademoiselle. But that look you gave me told me there is no further negotiating.” He sighs.

  “Eleven months of negotiations is more than enough.”

  Jessie knows there
is no way Stein am Rhein Bank would miss this opportunity. Money is the religion of Switzerland.

  He stands. “As for flirting. I do not know if your man is the jealous type, but I would never duel with a man who kills terrorists with a stone knife.”

  “Obsidian.”

  “One does not cross a man awarded the Legion of Honour.”

  Gunter picks up his copy of the agreement and stands, walks around the table to offer his hand and they shake hands and he leaves.

  A good ending to a long day’s work – Jessie thinks.

  Jessie moves to the row of windows overlooking the corner of Saint Charles Avenue and Phillip Street. For a moment, she’s back in Paris in that conference room in the Chantal Building when gunshots erupted and her John tumbling atop one of the attackers, his obsidian knife in the man’s neck, John grabbing a pistol and shooting it out with the second terrorist. She could almost smell the gunpowder, taste the pastry from the jelly donut splattered across her face when the bullets struck the conference table and took down two men.

  She pulls out her iPhone and texts Alexandre Louvier – It is done. All signed.

  Before she gets up to her office on the penthouse floor, her answer comes – Excellent.

  STELLA – THE PURE-BRED Turkish Angora blue cat Beau found as a kitten – meets her man just inside the door. She jumps on the small umbrella-table and goes, “Meoow.”

  Beau undresses right there, leaving everything on the floor except his police gear and weapon and heads for the bathroom for a long, hot shower. Stella is wrapped in his trouser legs when he goes back to retrieve the filthy clothes to wash.

  “Strange smells, huh, Baby?”

  “Meoow. Meoow.”

  She won’t let go of his pants, digging her claws into the cuff of the left leg.

  Beau picks her up with the trousers and hugs her. She squirms.

  “Rowwl. Rowwl.”

  He nuzzles her nose with his and rubs his free hand against her coat, messing up her long hair and she squirms again. He puts her down and she runs out of reach, stops and starts putting her coat back in place.

  With the washer started, Beau goes into the kitchen to figure what’s for supper. Since moving into Jessie’s house, they take turns getting supper ready and he’s not sure whose turn it is. Stella comes in, ignores Beau and heads for the food dish. It’s nearly empty so she sits next to it and stares at him.

  “There’s still food there.”

  She stares.

  “You can see the bottom of the bowl, right?”

  She looks to her right and takes a couple steps that way and Beau hears keys rattling as Jessie comes into the kitchen carrying a brown bag.

  “That smells great,” goes Beau as he steps over to her as she puts the bag on the counter. He takes her waist and she turns and they kiss.

  “Chinese,” she says between kisses. “Egg Foo Young.” Another kiss. “Moo Goo.” Kiss. “Peking duck.”

  “No egg rolls?”

  “Egg rolls and spring rolls. What happened to your chin?”

  “I fell. I’ll tell you all about it.”

  They start unpacking and Beau winces from claws on his bare calf so he fills Stella’s bowl first.

  Jessie puts her long hair in a ponytail and they sit at the small kitchen table and Beau slows down eating. He’d skipped lunch.

  “So, how’d it go?” He asks.

  “One tried to stare me down, so I gave him my maneater look.”

  Jessie tries the same look on Beau only the predator in her eyes fades with his slow smile.

  “Later,” he says. “I have a date with those Brigitte Bardot lips. Upstairs.”

  She smiles wider now, the double curve of her upper like the bow of Cupid and that full, imminently-kissable bottom lip.

  Beau takes a bite of egg foo and a bite of succulent, crisp Peking duck while she gives up the look and takes a bite of egg roll.

  “Maneater.” Beau chuckles. What her cousin LaStanza said about Jessie when Beau started dating her – “Oh, no. No, no, no. You don’t wanna do that. I know she’s hot but Lord, Beau. Jessie’s a maneater.”

  “You ate him up?”

  “Devoured him with my eyes.” Big smile now from Jessie. “How’d it go at Fort Pike?”

  “There are no squatters living there.” Beau goes on to tell her about the decaying 19th Century fort perched at the Rigolets Pass and within the New Orleans city limits, an historic state park temporarily closed after the ravages of recent hurricanes. He describes the brick-and-masonry buildings.

  “Why’d the chief send you?”

  “She said I’m the only cop in the city who wouldn’t get bitten by a snake.”

  Beau doesn’t mention it was his suggestion, bored riding a desk.

  “I found one squatter but not at the fort. Found a wigwam-man living in Bayou Sauvage.”

  “A what man?”

  Beau starts to explain and Jessie goes, “What’s the difference between a wigwam and a tipi?”

  “A tipi’s temporary, skins wrapped around poles. Easy to assemble, disassemble and portable. A wigwam is a permanent structure built in a dome, wood frame, mud stuffed with grass, plants, palmetto fronds in Louisiana.

  “You gotta hear this story.” He starts with the man in yellow, makes sure to put in the part of him stumbling, banging his chin.

  “Had to shoot a razorback.”

  “What?”

  INSPECTOR JUANITA CRUZ pulls on the jacket of her dark blue skirt-suit and Beau puts on his charcoal gray suit coat. They climb up on the banquette – what sidewalks are called in New Orleans – and move up Walmsley Avenue to a brick building sandwiched between Dominican High School and Notre Dame Seminary. Juanita wears her dark brown hair loose, reaching almost to her shoulders now. She’s more than a half foot shorter than Beau whose darker brown hair needs a trimming. He skipped shaving this morning to allow his normal 5-o’clock shadow to deepen.

  “Where’s your tie?”

  “Ties are like wearing a garrote around your throat.”

  “You could wear a clip-on.”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  A passing car blows its horn, a dude in the car calls out, “Hey, Baby.”

  Juanita takes a few seconds before she looks at Beau.

  “Did I just get a ‘Hey, Baby’?”

  “Could have been for me.”

  She punches his shoulder. “I know you’re too Jessied-up to notice other women, but I’ve lost weight, Crazy Horse.”

  “I noticed. But a southerner never mentions a woman’s weight until she does and he better be ready to duck.”

  She slugs his shoulder harder.

  Beau leads the way into the brick building to an antiseptic foyer of aluminum padded chairs and a glass coffee table covered with religious magazines, crucifixes on the wall and a series of photos of Pope John Paul II in and around Saint Louis Cathedral, the only time a Pope visited New Orleans.

  Chief Féroce steps in behind them. A thin woman, she’s a couple inches taller than Juanita. Féroce wears a tan skirt-suit, her dark brown hair lies in waves to her shoulders, her dark brown eyes locking on Beau.

  “You could have shaved.”

  “You said a suit. Not clean-shaved.”

  “What happened to your chin?”

  “Fell in the swamp.”

  Féroce struggles to keep from smiling. Her assistant standing behind her tries to give Beau a disapproving look but can’t keep it and covers his mouth. Curtis Edwards, a smallish young man, is a cousin of former Governor Edwin Edwards, fast Eddie, who went to federal prison on bullshit charges.

  “We’re dealing with a signal 66 here,” the chief says.

  Extortion.

  “Who extorts the church?” goes Juanita.

  “Probably protestants,” goes Beau which draws an eye-roll from the chief.

  A door at the far end of the room opens and a priest peeks in.

  “Superintendent Féroce. This way please.”


  Archbishop Peter Peeyabo stands at a huge black oak conference table in a wide room with row of windows overlooking a rose garden. The priest who escorted them in steps aside as the chief moves around the table to kiss the archbishop’s ring. Peeyabo is in his sixties, stocky, maybe 5’2”, wears a black cassock with a purple silk sash and a purple silk skullcap. Juanita goes over to kiss the ring as well.

  The archbishop turns to Beau.

  “When you graduated from Holy Ghost, Mr. Beau, you were Catholic.

  “On my father’s side.”

  “Then you may kiss half the ring.” A slight smile crosses the archbishop’s lips.

  If it wasn’t for the Catholic Charities, Beau would have never gone to school. He remembers his father taking him into Abbeville to pick up groceries from the convent when the hunting and fishing weren’t enough to feed Beau and his parents.

  He steps over and kisses half the ring.

  The archbishop goes, “The Sioux and other tribes of the great plain believe in heaven.”

  “Yes.” Beau backs away. “The Twelve heavens.”

  The archbishop waves to the chairs, sits at the head of the table. On the wall behind is an 11x14 photo of Archbishop Peeyabo and Pope John Paul II, autographed by the pope. The chief sits to the left of the archbishop with Edwards. Peeyabo introduces the priest as Monsignor James Gannon, who wears a standard-issue priest black suit with collar and a third cleric as Bishop Andrew Eskinde who wears a cassock. They sit to his right. Juanita sits next to Edwards, before Beau sits. Juanita and Beau pull out Moleskine notebooks and pens, Edwards his iPad.

  Monsignor Gagnon opens a portfolio and passes sheets of paper to the Chief, Edwards, Juanita and Beau and reads from the list. Times, dates with the name and address Catholic churches and schools.

  “We have nine instances of vandalism. Broken windows, broken fuse boxes, slashed tires on church vehicles, doors kicked in. Two statues inside Saint Mary of the Angels were damaged.”

  Gagnon pulls out another set of sheets, passes them around.

  “The archdiocese email received this email yesterday from greasycat1962@yahoo.com. The IP address is on the bottom of the sheet.”