12 Bullets Read online

  Beau’s iPhone reads 9:11 a.m. Mass is over. Should be here any minute.

  “Used to be called Stella’s Ristorante.” LaStanza nods at Rienzi’s. “Famous hit here in 1938. Mafia gangster Frank Longo shot in the back of the head by a young busboy. Didn’t take long for La Cosa Nostra to discover the youngster’s name. Turned out that the killer’s mother had been shot to death in a drive-by shooting. An innocent bystander. Shooting ordered by Longo.

  “Took LCN about seven years to track down the killer. Turns out the busboy died a war hero in France in WWII. Buried in Paris. Was with the OSS and French resistance. Lizette’s got the book at home. Called Angels of Death. No, Death Angels. Good read.”

  The restaurant door opens and a thick-bodied man steps out, approaches. About 6’5”, wearing a black suit with a thick mop of black hair slicked back with styling gel, the man smiles, calls out, “Dino. We’re inside.”

  “First name basis?” Beau whispers.

  “Never met the man.” LaStanza leads the way. “Cataldo’s trying to be friendly. The new 21st Century La Cosa Nostra.”

  The tomato gravy scent is stronger as they step into a dark restaurant. Two tables up front are occupied by couples, a lone man sits at a corner table in back. He faces the room, watches them approach. Nick Cataldo wears a black suit, his prematurely silvering hair cropped short today. Beau hadn’t noticed but Cataldo’s olive-skin is slightly darker than LaStanza’s. The two men have green eyes, Cataldo’s darker than the pale green eyes LaStanza and his cousins Jessie and Stefi share.

  The two sit across from Cataldo as the big bodyguard joins another behind Cataldo who doesn’t seem as stiff as he’d been when Beau first met him outside Immaculate Conception.

  “It was this table,” LaStanza begins.

  Cataldo nods, says, “Took a while to figure who did it because Longo had a lot of enemies. Man was an animal.”

  A short, stocky waiter brings a tray with a silver coffee carafe, fresh cream and sugar, refills Cataldo’s cup, fills their cups and steps away.

  Cataldo focuses on Beau. Waits.

  Beau takes a sip – good coffee – Cataldo’s face is filling out now he’s the boss. No longer the thin, Boris Karloff Frankenstein face.

  Beau tells them, “Met with the archbishop. Some fuckhead’s been vandalizing churches, including the cathedral. Sent emails.”

  Beau pulls out his iPhone slowly, with his left hand, brings up his notes so he’ll get it right.

  “5K a week to keep the vandals away. We can protect you. We will be in touch. Greasy Cat.” He looks up. “Fuckhead spray painted both sides of the cathedral with ‘5 K a week. GC’. He tossed a dead cat into Saint Anthony’s Garden.”

  Cataldo gives Beau a deadpan stare.

  Beau raises his cup. “Just wanted you to know someone might be shoving y’all under a bus.”

  The three take another sip of coffee.

  Beau reaches into a top shirt pocket, pulls out a business card and a ball point, puts his iPhone number on the back of the card, puts it on the table. They finish their coffee and LaStanza stands and Beau follows him out.

  “We’ll see what happens,” goes LaStanza.

  “No reaction to ‘Greasy Cat’.”

  “Which means there was a reaction. Inside.”

  “Is it the Cataldo Family now Alphonso Badalamente’s dead?”

  “It will be eventually. When John Gotti came to power, he became the boss of the Gambino Family. They still called it the Gambino Family. Didn’t expect Nick to say much. They all seen The Godfather. ‘Never let anyone outside the family know what you’re thinking.’.”

  “I thought you were part of the family.”

  “Real fuckin’ funny.”

  JESSIE HAS BEAU wait on the sofa, eight o’clock Sunday night after a supper of spaghetti and meat balls, her mother’s recipe. He hears her shuffling in the hall and Stella races in, jumps up on the sofa with him.

  “OK,” Jessie calls out, “start the camera.”

  He stands, moves to the tripod where their Sony digital video camera sits and pushes the record button.

  “You back on the sofa?”

  “Yep.”

  He sees a hand reach in with a remote and she turns on the CD player atop a small table. A couple seconds of hiss, a bass guitar sounds, drums start beating, a light horn, a sax followed by a familiar tune as Jessie comes in, moving like a jaguar in slow motion, shoulders rolling, hips rocking as she moves past him, not looking at him.

  Her little black dress is so short it barely covers her ass, the tops of her thigh-high stockings exposed. The dress is full, flyaway and there’s a flash of white panties when she turns and heads back to cross in front of Beau a second time as the song begins – telling how she only comes out at night. Lean and hungry type.

  Hall and Oats. Maneater.

  Jessie’s hair lies straight and long down to mid-back. She took time with her makeup, her lips glistening a deep crimson, her light eyes alluring and sharp like a hunting feline. She stops in front of Beau, close but out of reach and starts unbuttoning her dress. Her hips still rolling with the beat.

  Hall sings how she’s a wild woman, purring like a jaguar.

  The buttons are open and Jessie works the dress off her shoulders and tosses it over Beau’s head. He rescues it as Stella swats at it.

  Hall says she will chew you up.

  She can rip your world apart.

  The bra is next, also tossed over Beau’s head. She runs fingers through her hair, breasts rising, nipples pointed already, Hall singing about the beauty there and a beast in her heart. Jessie turns her back to him, shakes out her long hair, starts working down the sheer white panties, leaning forward the fine, round ass pointing at him.

  It was LaStanza who warned Beau about getting involved with his cousin, calling her a Maneater.

  Hall tells him to watch out boy. Says she will chew you up.

  She bends all the way over to step out of her panties, tosses them over her shoulder, hitting Beau’s head again and Stella leaps for them.

  Goofy cat. He pulls the panties away.

  Jessie turns, faces him and dances to the left, dances to the right and moves in front of him. She leans forward, brings her lips to his, almost kisses them, pulls back. She moves her feet apart and moves her bush to his face and he kisses the soft hair. Jessie pulls away and keeps dancing while Beau yanks off his clothes, throws them on Stella who decides it’s safer to watch from across the room. The song ends and they are both naked and the song starts up again.

  Jessie comes at him, shoves him back on the sofa and climbs atop, growling now and he almost loses it laughing. She twists her neck, slapping him with her long hair and he does lose it. She nibbles his neck and he grabs her ass and it’s on. Kissing now and licking and sucking and more kissing and slowing down to let it rise within.

  Once on the sofa, once upstairs – Beau has to lug the tripod and camera upstairs – Jessie carries the CD player. After long seconds, they lie belly up beneath the ceiling fan.

  “Why are we filming this again?”

  She runs fingernails over his chest.

  “So, when we’re old we can look back and see how hot we were when we were young.”

  “You’re not putting a clip up on HANDA?”

  “What’s HANDA?”

  He tells her.

  She giggles. “Lizette and me?”

  “You’re wearing masks but those are your boobs.”

  “I remember. The Mardi Gras just before you and I met. Lizette and I have been Mardi Gras flashing since I was sixteen.”

  She rubs her fingers over his limp dick and feels it stir.

  Later – after thirds – they lie again on their backs. Stella senses the bucking bed is quiet now and climbs up on the foot of the bed, her long fur against Beau’s left foot. She purrs.

  Damn, what a good exhaustion.

  Jessie’s voice comes as a soft whisper.

  “First time we kissed
. You remember?”

  “At the Coliseum in Rome, right?”

  She pokes his ribs, pulls herself to him and he wraps his arm around her.

  “First time we kissed, my heart beat so fast. It pounded in my chest and I knew you were the one.”

  Beau feels his heartbeat now.

  “Just thought you might want to know that.”

  “Says the maneater.”

  “Wild. Deadly. Purring like a jaguar.”

  Jessie purrs loudly and Stella stops purring.

  “A Sioux warrior would declare this is a good way to die.”

  Jessie and Stella settle down and Beau breathes deeply to bring on sleep. In the quiet, the sound of trees rustling floats through the transoms atop the tall windows, half-opened to let out the hot air during the day and let in the cool night air.

  Goodnight, Blue Swam.

  As he drifts, Beau wonders what the Lenape looked like. The Sioux and their cousins the Cheyenne are tall, lean people, the women alluring with their long black hair and dark eyes, lovely faces. Were the Lenape as pretty or were they short and flat faced? It did not matter one bit. In his mind Blue Swan was lovely and smart, proud of her name. He will construct a picture of Blue Swan in his mind and let her roam there, whispering to him.

  HIS EYES BURN as Beau views the last of the surveillance videos taken around the cathedral. The best one was still the Pirate Alley video. Beau replayed it enough times to see the spray-painter favors his left leg.

  Beau’s the last one in the office and starts packing up. His iPhone starts up the Sioux war chant. He looks at the screen. The chief.

  “You still in the office?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Come see me.”

  She’s working late.

  Beau passes Curtis Edwards on his way in. Edwards waves and heads for the elevator. Superintendent Féroce sits behind her desk, looks up when Beau steps in.

  “Two things.” She keeps typing on her Macbook Pro computer keyboard.

  “A little weasel named Timothy Wonder, Director of the city’s Technical Services came in to file a complaint on your ATF agent and you.”

  “Me?”

  “Said he went to see you, saw you in the hall and thought you were a terrorist.”

  She looks at Beau as he’s about to sit in one of the chairs in front of her desk, says, “Unshaven, in a black T-shirt, black pants, boots.

  “I listened to him for three minutes before running him out of the office. Just got off the phone with the mayor. You’ll have your Jackson Square surveillance video by tomorrow.”

  She looks back at her Macbook, closes the screen.

  “Little shit starting calling Hillel Jordan a negro and you a guinea wop.”

  Beau laughs. “My girlfriend’s a Sicilian guinea wop. If he sees what she went to work in today, he’d have a cardiac.”

  “Second thing. About what you and your squad wear to work. You’re not a tactical unit. Not Green Berets or Seals. You’re inspectors. Investigators.”

  “No ties, please.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it but I want you to wear dress shirts. Button shirts. You know, oxford shirts with collars. No polo shirts. Inspector Cruz can obtain dress blouses. Most shirts today are meant to be worn untucked. It’ll cover your badges and weapons. Capiche?”

  Beau nods.

  “You need to shave regularly, Mister swamp-man. Keep your 511 trousers, the rip-stop ones that are dressy, always look ironed. No cotton pants or cargo trousers. Cruz’s 511 skirts are OK. When it cools, wear light jackets or sport coats. You have your own budget. Buy clothes for work with it for all of you.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “That’s it.”

  Féroce nods and Beau gets up.

  Before he makes it out the door, she says, “What was that about a cardiac?”

  “My girlfriend wore a see-through top today in solidarity with the two women arrested for flashing their breasts at that Greek festival in Metairie over the weekend.”

  The chief’s head tilts to the side.

  “Is this the same girlfriend on the HANDA website?”

  How the hell does she know this?

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Well, she has nice breasts. So does LaStanza’s wife.”

  Beau leaves shaking his head.

  New Orleans has few, if any, secrets. Even when you wear a mask.

  LATER – ON HIS way home.

  “106 – Headquarters!” an excited voice on the police radio. “Shots fired. Carrollton and Earhart. Front of Bontonomo’s.”

  Beau is a half block away on Carrollton, hits the blue lights, zips into the left lane. He spots a patrol car across the avenue, doors open, blue lights flashing, two cops pointing weapons, a big man with his hands up, a figure lying on the banquette ten feet from them.

  Beau taps his siren as he takes a hard left, zips through the neutral ground in front of an approaching streetcar whose conductor clangs his bell. He parks behind the patrol car, snatches his keys.

  “CIU 1, 10-97 Carrollton,” he tells Headquarters on his LFR and unholsters his weapon.

  The officers have the big man lying on his belly now, one cop pats him down, passes a blue steel semiautomatic to his partner, looks like a Beretta. The big man’s hand are cuffed behind his back by the time Beau steps up.

  Another big man steps outside the front door of Bontonomo’s Italian Restaurant. Both big men wear black suits. Sirens echo. Beau points his magnum at the second man.

  “Let’s see your hands.”

  The man looks at Beau who aims center mass at the man’s massive chest.

  “Now!” Beau in the standard two-handed police grip position.

  The man folds his arms. Beau aims at the man’s face and the man’s hands slowly rise to shoulder level.

  “Turn around and assume the position. Hands against the wall.”

  The man glares at Beau. “I don’t do that.” He spreads his feet, getting set, hands move to his sides, clench in fists. One of the officers steps close aiming his weapon at the big man.

  Beau steps over and kicks the big man in the balls. Hard. The big man tries to keep standing, raises a huge fist and Beau kicks him again in the groin and the man goes down.

  Man never saw Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

  The big man starts to get up and Beau kicks him again in the balls and the man falls face forward and moans.

  Beau keeps him covered as an officer searches him, comes up with a .9 mm Beretta in a holster, pulls it out and slides it toward Beau before handcuffing this man as well. The man tries to kick Beau who slips his magnum back into its holster, reaches back and pulls out his obsidian knife. He steps around the man, presses the knife’s edge against the side of the man’s neck.

  “This is a Sioux warrior knife. Cuts through buffalo hide and throats.” He moves the knife to the man’s forehead. “Also for scalping.”

  The man freezes.

  “You gonna behave?”

  The man lets out a long breath, his chest deflating and Beau stands away from him.

  A man in a polo shirt and dress pants steps toward the man lying in a pool of blood on the banquette, a woman, a man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and another woman stand behind.

  “I’m a doctor. Can I attend the man who was shot?”

  “Go ahead,” Beau calls out.

  The patrol officers are from the First District, unfamiliar faces to Beau. Tall black one with the name tag EDDINGS, shorter white boy with the name tag DALY. They have the two Berettas in their left hands, their Glocks in their holsters now. Eddings calls Headquarters for EMTs.

  “We got one down. Two apprehensions.”

  “I’m Beau,” he tells them. “CIU.”

  He gets the usual look – eyes going wide a moment.

  Yeah. Yeah. It’s the Sioux warrior guy.

  The doctor checks for a pulse. Man who was shot is young, black, wearing jeans and a green T-shirt with three bullet holes in
the chest.

  The first big man calls out, “He pulled a gun. Tried to rob me.”

  “Where’s the gun?”

  “It’s right here,” the doctor calls out.

  Beau steps over, sees the barrel of a blue-steel semiautomatic sticking out from under the sprawled man. Looks like a Glock. Beau pulls it out and goes to the patrol car, puts it inside and takes the car keys, locks the car, passes the keys to Eddings.

  “Any pulse?”

  The doctor shakes his head, doing CPR now.

  Beau turns to the women and the man in the Hawaiian shirt.

  “Y’all see what happened?”

  They all nod. Beau tells Daly to get their driver’s licenses before they walk off.

  “Were these two big guys alone?”

  Hawaiian shirt man says, “They were with a woman in a red dress.”

  “She went in the restaurant,” says the younger woman. “She has dark brown hair.”

  Two police cars pull up and Beau spots a familiar face, Sergeant Adam Rosalie approach.

  Eddings has the wallets from the big men. Pulls out 2 Mississippi driver’s licenses, shows them to Beau. He points to the shooter.

  “Carlo Polina. He’s 32. 6’3” 250 pounds. From Pass Christian.”

  Rosalie steps up and Beau asks him to have someone canvass for more witnesses. He points across Carrollton at a crowd gathered outside Popeye’s Friend Chicken.

  “And have someone write down the license plate numbers of every car parked in a 3-block radius.”

  “You’re taking this call?”

  Beau turns to the doctor as an ambulance pulls up.

  “Any luck, doc?”

  The doctor shakes his head.

  Beau lifts his LFR, tells Headquarters they’re gonna need Homicide and the Crime Lab.

  “Watch that casing,” Beau tells Rosalie who notices the shell casing on the banquette.

  Eddings catches Beau’s eye.

  “Second man. One you kicked.” Eddings looks at a driver’s license in his hand. “Bruno Tortona. 39-years old, 6’4” 270 pounds from Bay Saint Louis.”