12 Bullets Page 3

  The email reads:

  $5,000 to stop the vandals

  I will be in touch

  Greasy Cat

  “Your officers took reports on the vandalisms but were unable to locate any witnesses or find any evidence like fingerprints. We have also checked around and found no witnesses.”

  Juanita asks if the churches have surveillance cameras.

  “Only three do but none of the cameras were pointed in the correct direction.”

  Beau jots down – get reports. check any area surveillance videos.

  “We thought it was neighborhood hoodlums or juveniles until we received the email.”

  The other bishop, Eskinde, adds, “We realize the amount of damage is not significant. Misdemeanors. But we consider this a serious matter.”

  “Extortion is a felony,” Juanita says.

  The chief adds, “We’ll start on this right away with our best people.”

  The archbishop nods to her, says, “Like you, I am a native New Orleanian. A search of ‘Greasy Cat’ on the internet would be futile, however, those of us who are New Orleans history buffs will recall a man known as ‘Greasy Cat’.” He pauses for effect most likely.

  “Christo ‘Greasy Cat’ Maggio,” says the archbishop.

  Beau closes his eyes, lets his chin fall to his chest.

  “I see our chief inspector has heard of Christo Maggio.”

  Beau looks up, says, “Christo Maggio and Alphonso Badalamente fought for control of the New Orleans Mafia in the Fifties. Christo was murdered and the New Orleans family became the Badalamente Family.

  Chief Féroce shakes her head, “La Cosa Nostra?”

  Beau asks, “Does the church have any union problems?”

  They both shakes their heads.

  “Union?” asks Eskinde.

  “Workmen. Construction. Gardeners. Are any of your workers part of a union?”

  “No.”

  “Any disgruntled former employees? Defrocked priests?”

  More head shaking.

  “How are y’all getting along with the protestants these days?”

  It takes the archbishop a moment to realize Beau’s lame joke.

  “The Thirty Years War was a long time ago.”

  “My suggestion,” goes Beau, “is you email back and say you’re considering it. See if you can establish communications and agree to pay. We’ll follow the money.”

  The archbishop takes in a deep breath.

  “I cannot put that in an email.”

  “You don’t. You pass it to an underling and let him do the negotiating.”

  Beau looks at Eskinde, says, “If greasycat1962 sets up a collection in the city, there’s no place we can’t find him.”

  “What if the money goes to a bank account, something off-shore?”

  Beau grins. “I have excellent connections in the banking industry. US and international.”

  Beau and Eskinde exchange office numbers and cell numbers as the archbishop stands.

  “We will get right on this,” is the chief’s final word and she leads them out. She waits until they are outside, putting on their sunglasses to ask Beau.

  “No luck at the fort or the Rigolets?” from the chief.

  “No one saw or heard anything.”

  “Someone taking pot shots at fishermen passing in boats and no one saw or heard anything.” The chief shakes her head.

  “I passed out a buncha business cards, told everyone we took this seriously and we’d shoot first if we come across the culprits.”

  “They’ll look your name up online and believe it.” The chief smirks. “How’d you know about Christo Maggio?”

  “LaStanza. He taught me everything I know about police work.”

  “God, I hope that’s not true.”

  JESSIE CARINI’S COUSIN Dino LaStanza preceded Beau as an NOPD homicide detective and also preceded Beau in shooting too many people. A former chief was so weary of LaStanza killing people, he transferred the fiery Sicilian-American detective to the record room, putting him on ice. LaStanza promptly resigned to start a private-operation on Mystery Street called Mystery, Inc. Jessie was an operative there when she met Beau. She still has her private investigator license and permit to carry a concealed weapon.

  Beau heads to work, thinking he’ll call LaStanza right away.

  Beau checks out the new sign outside his office, makes sure investigations is spelled correctly this time. This one reads CIU Critical Investigations Unit. Admin Assistant Aileen hands him three pink message slips on his way to his new private office. Before he makes it, the final member of his unit, ATF Special Agent Hillel Jordan comes out of the squad room, his dark face beaming.

  “What a fuckin’ gun!” Jordan pats his magnum in its holster on his hip.

  “Told you.”

  The three new .357 magnums arrived last week with a note from ATF firearms supervisor Linda Pickett. Beau and this honey-haired honey had a brief fling after Katrina when the feds came to New Orleans to help the decimated NOPD. These were experimental precision firearms, Suisse-Armes Model DX1 .357 magnums. A charcoal gray Kevlar-ceramic handgun with a stainless-steel interior barrel, pre-sighted by experts with recoil dampening so it barely kicks, illuminated night sights and ergonomic Kevlar grips coated with pinion resin to always feel tacky. Won’t slip in a damp hand in the heat and humidity of New Orleans.

  Linda Pickett signed the note, Love ya’ – Linda, adding the new weapons needed practical use, figuring if anyone she knew would use the weapon in an urban gunfight, it would be Beau and his gang.

  Jordan follows Beau into his office.

  “Gotta be the silkiest smooth trigger pull on Earth.”

  Beau knows this. He’d taken his magnum to the pistol range right away and blew out the center of close-range targets before running through the POST course three times, scoring perfect 120s each time. Not using the usual .38 plus-p target rounds, he used the 125-gram crown-mushroom hollow point .357 magnum ammunition sent by Linda.

  “I think this 5-inch barrel adds accuracy at a greater distance,” Jordan sits in one of the chairs in front of Beau’s desk.

  “Figured that out all by yourself? And take that earplug out when we’re talking, OK?”

  “But my soundtrack.”

  Beau gives him the plains warrior look. The goofy bastard had to have music in the background of his life, his soundtrack. ATF Special Agent Hillel Jordan came with the new funding from Washington for CIU, which included a separate budget, a pair of GMC SUVs, Secret Service models, high tech radios and the most sophisticated iPhones with batteries that don’t seem to run down. The one defective piece was Jordan.

  Jordan is quick to describe himself as half-black, half-Jewish, a man wound too tightly for ATF but seems to fit in here in New Orleans. Especially in a special unit away from the constrains of federal employment. Lives in a French Quarter apartment. Has a motorcycle he can park in the rear patio of the old apartment house.

  Beau hears Juanita outside his office, calls her in.

  “Both of you take out your notebooks.”

  He nods to Juanita, “Pull the reports on these church cases and call the districts to see if any of these were sent to follow-up.”

  He passes the email to Jordan, tells him to run down the IP address. See where it came from.

  “IP address?”

  Beau waves them away, tells Juanita to tell Jordan about their new case.

  He glances at the messages.

  “Wait.” He holds up the messages. “See what these are about.”

  Juanita looks at Jordan who comes back to get them.

  “Close my door on your way out.”

  Juanita calls back, “You’re calling him?”

  Beau nods and Jordan stops, he’s gotta know.

  “I’m calling a guy who knows a guy.”

  “Come on,” Juanita tells Jordan. “I’ll tell you about Jessie’s cousin.”

  LASTANZA ANSWERS HIS cell with the old NOPD
greeting, “What it is?”

  “It’s Beau.”

  “No fuckin’ kiddin’. You know these new-fangled iPhones have caller ID.”

  “You’re in a fuckin’ mood.”

  “One of my fuckin’ greyhounds chewed up my wife’s clutchy pillow.”

  “The fuck’s a clutchy pillow?”

  “Pillow my wife picked up in London. Silk cover. Keeps cool when you clutch it at night.”

  “Why doesn’t she clutch you?”

  “I’m a hot Italian. Jessie hug you all night?”

  “No.”

  “So, What you want, Mister Hero of the French Republic?”

  Jesus.

  “Need a meeting with Nick Cataldo. Not at a church.”

  Last time Beau needed to talk with the new boss of the Badalamente Family he made a point to run into Cataldo and his bodyguards at Immaculate Conception Church on Baronne where Cataldo goes every Sunday to hear the mass in Latin.

  “What about?”

  “Some fuckhead’s trying to extort money from the archdiocese. Strong arm, protection scam and using the moniker ‘Greasy Cat’.”

  “As in Greasy Cat Maggio?”

  “Maybe.”

  LaStanza goes, “Hum. Interesting. Maybe someone’s gone rogue. Yeah, we gotta talk to Cataldo. I can’t see him involved in such petty shit, but whoever’s trying to get you to focus on Nick, they’ll wind up in the river and your case will go away.”

  “You never know.”

  “OK. I’ll get a hold of Mister Big-shot-mobster-turned-legitimate-business-man as he describes himself now. I’ll get a sit down. He owes me a cup of coffee. I bought last time.”

  “I can do this alone.”

  “No, you can’t. Cataldo can look you in the eyes and lie to you. Can’t do that with me. He tries his cold, Sicilian stare but it never works with me.”

  There’s barking over the phone. LaStanza goes, “Flash just copped out on Thompson. One dog blaming the other. I already know it was Thompson. Stupid bastard had a small swatch of red silk between his teeth. Almost bit me when I pulled it out. Got it in an evidence bag.”

  “All right,” goes Beau. “Call me.”

  “How’s the maneater?”

  More barking and LaStanza tells them to shut the fuck up.

  “Your little cousin Jessie just gobbled up a buncha bankers.”

  “I don’t mean Jessie the executive. I mean Jessie the wench.”

  “She’s following you wife’s lead becoming an expert flasher.”

  “Told you she was trouble.”

  JUANITA CREATES A spreadsheet of the nine incidents and they sit in the squad room, Juanita at her desk, Jordan at his, Beau in a chair between the desks. She goes over each incident in minute detail and Beau starts snoring.

  “You bored or something?”

  Beau turns to Jordan.

  “Anything on that IP address?”

  “The IP address is at the main branch of the New Orleans Public Library. Loyola Avenue.” Jordan waves to Juanita. “We’re heading over there as soon as she finishes whatever she’s doing.”

  “Whatever I’m doing?” Juanita glares at Jordan. “I’ve been calling priests while you’ve been listening to your soundtrack. You can go to the library by yourself. You carry a gun, don’t you?”

  Jordan pulls the earbuds from his ears.

  “I can drive the SUV by myself? What if I get lost again?”

  Beau leans back in the chair, closes his eyes.

  Juanita says, “You keep getting lost because you don’t pay attention to the streets.”

  “That’s because I keep hawking you out. You look damn good when you drive.”

  “Do you hear this?”

  Beau realizes Juanita’s addressing him.

  “You accusing him of sexual harassment?”

  “No. Who said anything about sexual harassment? What makes you think I don’t like him hawking me out?”

  They’re both fuckin’ crazy.

  “When y’all get a minute. Go to the library will ya’?”

  “Sure, Chief,” goes Jordan.

  Beau keeps his eyes closed until he hears them leave.

  CIU. When he was a homicide detective there was a violent theme, something to keep you awake.

  AS JESSIE ROUNDS the corner toward her office building, the blustery wind raises her light-weight blue skirt almost to her waist. The high-rise buildings of the central business district create a tunnel effect and when the wind blows and today it blows hard. Jessie keeps walking, refusing to try to shove down the skirt, look like a spastic contortionist. She wears white panties beneath her pantyhose today. She knows two men walk behind her are getting a nice view. A man across the street gawks at her. He wears an old-fashioned gray pin stripped suit with a black derby.

  A derby?

  By the time she reaches the front door of the old U.S. Bank of Louisiana building at the corner of Saint Charles and Phillip Street, the building more commonly called the Old Bank of Louisiana Building, now housing Louvier, LLC, she’s given the gawkers a twenty second view of her underwear. She turns into the three-story, red brick Greek Revival building built in 1830 and her skirt falls as she crosses the vast marble room with its 30-foot ceiling. She passes the long line of teller windows with their brass and cut-glass stations, preserved now like a museum.

  She feels the security guards at either of the room watching her. She smiles at both and presses her left index finger on the touchpad next to the elevator up to the private hall to her penthouse office. She drops her lunch and purse on her desk, goes to the wall of windows overlooking Saint Charles and looks down at the people buffeted by the wind. The man across the street holds on to his derby. She eases to the Phillip Street side of the building and the tunnel effect is exaggerated along the narrow street. The old windows shiver.

  When the building was renovated after the bank relocated to the Monlezun Building, Alexandre Louvier made sure to keep the old, thick windows with waves rippled in the glass, blurring sections of the windows. Glass from the 19th Century.

  She takes a bottled water from the refrigerator, turns on her iMac and the televisions on the credenza as she eats her lunch – a chicken salad sandwich.

  CNN reports a suicide bombing in Algeria on one TV. More unrest in Armenia – reports CBS news. Sectarian killings in Albania reports NBC. She turns to her iMac, and goes to facebook, sees her boyfriend’s page has 120 more likes, thirty-seven new followers and nineteen messages, mostly from women who want to meet John. The page was set up by Jessie’s 14-year old sister Stefi after John Raven Beau received the Legion of Honour from the President of France for killing two political fanatics in Paris.

  Stefi had lifted a photo from le Monde for the facebook cover photo, picture with the caption: LE GRAND BEAU ‘The Great Beau’. She put a picture she’d taken of John with her iPhone as his profile picture. Not a bad shot, him managing a semi-scowl and semi-smile, a light beard on his face, looking like a rock star.

  “Miss Carini, he is here.” Mrs. Soffon’s ancient voice echoes through the intercom.

  “I’ll come get him.” Jessie stuffs the last bite of sandwich in her mouth, chews it on the way to the bathroom before washing it down with the rest of the bottled water. She brushes her teeth, goes to her office door to let in the elderly man. She moves behind her desk as the man sits in a chair in front of her desk and places a portfolio on the desk.

  Jefferson Madison Monroe, 90-year old Chief Financial Officer of Louvier, LLC, wears his usual black suit and black and white oxford shoes, horned rimmed glasses. Alexandre Louvier told Jessie the man went up San Juan Hill with Teddy Roosevelt.

  Yeah, as if. That was in 1898.

  Monroe slowly opens his portfolio. “I have the exact figure here – $1,122.00.

  Jessie waits for the man to look up.

  “Two independent computer experts agree with you and me. We do not have an internal theft problem.”

  “Two experts?”


  She sees he’s surprised she’s taken this to outside consultants.

  “We have a computer software problem. A minor glitch.”

  “In our business, no glitch is minor.”

  “That’s why three experts from Apple are coming next week. We’re switching everything to Apple Operating Systems.

  “If I have to learn a new OS, I think it’s time for me to retire.”

  “Alexandre and I feel it’s time for you to get an assistant to do the grunt work. You’re CFO. Let us do the heavy lifting. Anyway, you can’t retire. Remember your friends who retired.”

  A wan smile comes to the old face and he looks at the windows.

  “They all died within a year.”

  Jessie add, “I know you think I’m too young. Everyone does, including me. Everyone except Alexandre.” She waits for Monroe to look back at her. “I got this.”

  Monroe closes his portfolio.

  “You did handle Francois Gunter.”

  “Chewed him up and spit him out.”

  Monroe rises. “Alexandre is usually right. Maybe what we need here is more Sicilian blood.”

  JUANITA PULLS OUT her notebook and says, “There are forty-two computer terminals at the library for the public to use and thirty-three staff computers. Every terminal was occupied at the time the email was sent to the archdiocese. We have a list of the users, some have library cards and we can trace them easily, others logged in as guests, incluing our greasycat1962. Bottom line – we have ninety-seven names.”

  “Which doesn’t include anyone in a 3-block radius who can reach their WiFi signal.” Jordan says.

  “I was going to say that.”

  “I’m just helping.”

  “I don’t need your help.” She sticks her tongue out at Jordan.

  Beau thinks – 3rd graders.

  They look at Beau who shrugs, says, “Any luck getting anything from Yahoo.com?”

  Jordan shakes his head. “If we tell them it’s being used to commit a crime, they’ll shut it down. If we hit them with a subpoena, they’ll shut it down and we need to keep the line of communication open.”

  Beau goes, “Looks like we have some leg work. What, ninety-seven names?”

  “Most likely he was a guest using a phony name.”