Life Struggles (Life Stories Book 1) (8 page)

“Danny, it's me checking in. I know I'm fifteen minutes late and I'm sorry. I have a huge favor to ask. Can your folks locate a specific truck in the Quarter?” Who knew, maybe the NSA had trackers on every vehicle in the country. Wouldn't surprise me.

“Give me a minute.” Danny put me on mute, and I hoped this wouldn't take too long.

“It's on Governor Nicholls approaching Chartres. Mounted patrol report. I don't want to ask why, do I?” I think Danny was hoping I'd tell him.

“Tell you later, Danny. Thanks, I've got to run.” I had three blocks to go. If I ran, I'd draw attention. If I walked, I might miss it. I walked and hoped.

The truck had just turned onto Chartres when I got there, and it was headed for me. Thank God, I just might make this. It pulled into a small store's loading area and stopped. Two guys got out. They off-loaded about six boxes, all of which appeared well-sealed. One guy stood on the sidewalk looking around while the other took the boxes into the store.

I've got to get them to stop and talk to me. What do I do? I can't walk up and tell them they were delivering drugs, would you mind answering a few questions? I was running out of ideas when I saw them.

A half dozen guys wearing what looked like three square inches of material among them were lazily walking down the street. Decadence revelers getting an early start, no doubt. Without thinking I stripped off my shirt and pants and joined them. I'm a bit old for this kind of nonsense, but it turned out I wasn't the oldest one in the group. Just the one most out of shape.

I carried my clothes with me and weaved about a little, trying to act unsteady. It wasn't difficult – I was walking down the street in my boxer-briefs a hundred feet from a drug delivery truck while following a bunch of gay men looking for a good time. I heard the truck coming from behind me, and darted in front of it.

The truck hit me. Shit, that really hurt! I went to the ground and dug in my pants pocket for the panic button, then covered it in my hand with my shirt. As expected, the two guys jumped out of the truck.

“Holy shit! You jumped right out in front of me, you faggot! What are you trying to do?” The guy might have been trying to establish who was at fault for the accident, but I didn't care. I already knew I was at fault.

The other guy was a bit more solicitous. “Buddy, are you all right? Is anything broken? Can you talk?” He seemed a bit jittery, and the asshole was starting to look concerned.

“Yes, I can talk. I want to talk to you.” I pointed at the asshole. “I can call the police before you can stop me and they'll be here in seconds. If they search your truck, not to mention the cargo you just delivered, what are they going to find?”

Asshole actually broke immediately. Jittery was the one still thinking, so I ignored him.

“While I get dressed you're going to get your boss on the radio and report the accident, and that the police are on their way. You can't deal with the pedestrian for reasons you'll explain later. Tell him I must see him immediately.” I was a whole lot braver than I felt.

“Look, dickhead, I don't know what your game is, but” I interrupted him. The him in this case was Jittery, not Asshole.

“I wasn't talking to you, I was talking to your boss.” I finally had my pants on and just threw the shirt away. Explaining the blood stains wasn't on my bucket list. I still had my cash, car keys, panic button and two burners in my pants pockets.

“Now, boss, you and I are going to walk to the truck and you're going to get on the radio. Not the phone, the radio. Understand?” God, this was right out of a straight-to-video low-budget gangster film. I hoped the boss hadn't seen me trying to catch my breath.

“He's bluffing,” said Jittery. He approached me, but the group of inebriated (and probably horny) nearly-naked guys were headed our way.

“Need any help?” The guy talking was not quite sprinting, but not exactly walking either. I let him get within teen feet before telling him that it all seemed to be OK. The only problem was (I gestured at Jittery) that this guy is trying to pin the whole thing on me.

By then the whole bare-skin crowd had surrounded the three of us. “The boss is going to take me to the truck so we can call for some help, OK?” I looked at the group and hoped enough of them were sufficiently sober, and insufficiently horny, to stay back.

Asshole and I walked to the truck. “Skinny for Stiletto, over. Skinny for Stiletto, over.” Christ, if I wrote the way this thing was going down I'd be fucking fired.

“This is Stiletto, what do you need?” The man's voice sounded bored. I reached for the mic.

“Your truck's contents and what they just delivered can be in police hands in thirty seconds, so work with me here.” Dialog still sucked.

“Dipstick, you're supposed to say ‘Over.’ And who is this?” Stiletto was engaged, which was all I needed.

“Stiletto, this is Little Dick.” It was the only name I could bring to mind. “You're going to meet me at the – wait a minute –“ I stopped pressing transmit and asked Skinny for the name of the drug retailer to which he had just delivered. “At the Quarter Glass and Silver Extravaganza, and do it in five minutes. I don't care what you have to do to get here. At five minutes the police show up and Skinny and Blowjob are toast. As is the whole transport business.” Jittery was mightily offended at the nickname Blowjob. Well, fuck him.

“Put Skinny back on.” I didn't know what was going through Stiletto's mind, but I hope he thought quickly.

“Is this shit real?” Stiletto actually sounded concerned. Well, good for him.

“Yeah.” That was Skinny. Jittery/Blowjob started towards me and a couple of waaaay underdressed young men got between us.

“Is your name really Blowjob?” That came from one of the Decadence revelers. Jittery/Blowjob looked worried.

“OK, Stiletto on his way. Out.”

I grabbed the mic one last time. “The five minutes started almost a minute ago. I can call NOPD before anyone can stop me. Be on time.”

One of the gay carousers put his hand on Blowjob's chest. “You
are
kinda cute, sweetness.” A second one joined him and also put his hand on Blowjob's chest.

“What's the fun in wearing all those clothes? Here, let me help you out of them.” I doubt that the banter was serious, but Blowjob looked scared out of his mind. Good.

Skinny just looked at me while Blowjob looked at the surrounding party animals with abject fear. A third guy walked up and undid one of Blowjob's shirt buttons. I was afraid Blowjob was going to faint.

Four minutes and three seconds after I first talked to Stiletto, two Vespas made their way through the crowded streets. One carried a three-hundred pounder with the biggest tits I'd ever seen on a man. The other carried a guy of about forty who had his hand in the pocket of his leather jacket. A very full pocket.

“What do you want, dipstick?” Stiletto was being practical. His companion was being threatening. At least until two of the merrymakers went up to him and began complimenting him on his leather. His eyes darted around like a young housewife in a kitchen full of mice.

“I want to talk to someone who knows the whole drug business that you're running. I need some information. Cooperate and I say nothing to anybody. Don't cooperate and I don't care if I live or die. My son is missing and I need to know if you goons have him.” Goons? Where did that come from? Oh, well.

The most sober of the partygoers had a pen and paper out. Where he had that hidden was something I didn't want to know.

“OK, I got all three license plates.” Stiletto looked like he wanted to shit his pants.

“Stiletto, get in the back of the truck. Leather Boy, you lead. And Blowjob, go do your stuff with Stiletto. I'm riding up front with Skinny.” I knew if this went on much longer I was going to be the one shitting my pants.

The only comment was from Stiletto, and directed at Blowjob. “If you touch my dick I'll kill you. Hear?”

We left the second Vespa behind. Leather Boy led us toward the docks. I had a burner phone out and called Danny. “Headed toward the docks. I may be dead in a few minutes. Don't anybody crash the party, just letting you know where to find the body.” I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt. I hung up before Danny could answer.

We arrived at a nondescript small building just outside the dock gate. I demanded Leather Boy's gun. He was incredulous and obviously was going to refuse.

“Give him the fucking gun. You're expendable, Sarge. If he shoots you he knows we're going to kill him.” That was Stiletto. He handed it over. I sure wish I had even a clue how to use one of these.

I pointed the gun at Sarge in what I hoped was a threatening manner. “Take off your coat, shirt, pants and underwear.” He looked at Stiletto, who nodded his head.

“Tiny, or Blowjob, or whatever your name is today, if you come near me I'll break your fucking neck. I ain't no queer like you.” Sarge was desperate to prove his manhood. I can recognize denial when I hear it.

Soon Sarge was dressed only in shoes and Mickey Mouse boxers. I gestured at the boxers and he dropped then. No other weapons. Then I told him to open the door and walk ahead of me. I was counting on the sight of a completely naked thug to distract them enough to ruin their aim.

There were nine men inside the building, eight of them with handguns. Every gun was pointed at me. Talk about overkill. Oops, how about over-supply? That kill thing sounded too likely.

“Who's the boss?” I hope I didn't sound like the scared little boy I was feeling like.

The only guy in the room without a gun walked forward.

“You know, you're not getting out of here alive. Now, let Sarge go and give him back his gun.” The guy knew what he was doing. Except he was counting on me hoping to survive.

“Look, boss, I just want to find my son.” I dug in my wallet and pulled out his graduation picture. I walked over to The Boss nonchalantly (at least I hoped it was nonchalantly, but I was afraid there was a lot of chalant in my steps).

The Boss didn't look at the picture. “Never seen him.”

I pointed the gun at him. “You seem to have mistaken me for someone who cares if he lives. Look at the fucking picture. Now, where is he? He's my son and he disappeared yesterday morning.”

The Boss didn't look at the picture. And I had taken the gun off of Sarge, who clobbered me on the back of the head with something. I went down and was mobbed.

They searched me for weapons and found the panic alarm. “Fucker's with the police. What do we do now?” That was from one of the eight guys with guns.

The Boss put his hands on his hips. A vision of Alex doing the same thing yesterday morning went through my mind. I need to survive to find him.

The Boss nodded to one of the guys, no idea which one, who slugged me in the stomach. After I righted myself I was slugged again. Journalism just wasn't as glamorous as they talked about in school.

“Who are you and how did you find Stiletto?” That was from The Boss.

“My name is Ethan McQuade and my son is missing. He was kidnapped yesterday morning and I need to find him. You're going to have to shoot me before I stop looking for him. Now, look at the fucking picture.” I might have sounded brave, but it was all I could do to keep from pissing my pants.

Before The Boss could look at the picture his phone rang. “Yeah … No shit? … You're sure he's serious … Hold on.”

The Boss addressed me. “What do you know about Angola, dipshit?” I looked at him in complete bewilderment. Then it hit me.

“I was there this morning, Boss. You got somebody there you want me to talk to?” I was bluffing, of course. All I could hope for was that he would mistake my shaking body for something other than the abject fear it really was.

“You know my brother's in there.” That was a statement, not a question. I nodded.

“Anything happens to him I'll find you and kill you.” This was said without an ounce of emotion and I knew it was a promise he'd keep. I nodded again.

“What's goin' on, Boss? How ‘bout I just shoot his ass now?” That was one of the eight guys with guns.Boss, or whatever his name was, held up his hand and the guy stopped talking.

“I don't know what kind of juice you've got in Angola, but that was my brother. Davey says if anything happens to the guy lookin’ for his kid the same thing's gonna happen to him. Is that true?” The Boss's eyes were boring holes in my head.

“Ask Davey.” I figured that was the safest thing to say.

The Boss actually looked at the picture then. He passed it to a couple of the men still pointing their guns at me. They shook their heads.

“We ain't never seen him. I promise. We don't use little kids for anything these days. The publicity is just too bad, and the kids ain't trustworthy. They always want to sample the merchandise, you know. Is there anything else?” The Boss believed the meeting was over, and I agreed.

“Thanks guys, that will be all. I'll be on my way. And, if I don't call the police in seven minutes you'll all be far more than sorry.” I backed toward the door and asked for my shit back. The Boss nodded and they gave me back everything. I was surprised, but I guess the threat of Davey being beaten and robbed in Angola was one his brother was taking seriously.

I continued backing out of the building, actually glad they had taken the gun from me. I had no idea how to use one. I mean, I had figured out which end the bullet came out of. Other than that, it was all a mystery to me.

“You can find the Vespa back where you met me. Bye.” I got on the Vespa and took off. In first gear, and it took me three blocks to figure out how to shift into second. But nobody was following me. Whew.

I ditched the Vespa a block from where the truck hit me and walked to Bourbon Street. I found a shop that sold shirts and bought one. It said “I'm with stupid” and had an arrow that pointed down. It should have pointed up.

I did my best to blend into a crowd of gay guys dressed just one side of indecent exposure. Actually, they were dressed both sides of indecent exposure. I looked to my left and saw an overweight guy of about fifty wearing some sort of leather and chains across his chest, and nothing else. A young guy was kneeling in front of him and examining his penis. I looked away and did my best to head back to the Triple Toe without fainting.