The Perfect Crime (24 page)

“Now,” Castro was saying, “Octavio and our friend here. What shall we do?” To answer his own question, he walked over, put his hand inside one of his men’s jackets and pulled out a gun. Weapon in hand, he walked up to Octavio and shot him three times in the stomach, his hand on the man’s shoulder almost in a friendly manner. As Octavio slumped to the floor, Eddie jumped up. In his hand was the gun he’d hidden in his boot.

“Now, greaser,” he said to Castro, bringing the gun up to the Cuban’s head. “I’m walking out of here. You and me, cowboy.”

Castro’s response was to bring his own gun around to bear on Eddie’s face. Toe-to-toe, they stood in a classic Mexican standoff.

Eddie’s face went white, but he said, “You shoot me and I’ll still have time to--”

Kabam! Castro’s gun erupted and Eddie stood there, his gun arm slumping a split second before he did, surprise in his already dead eyes.

“Shoot me?” Castro finished for him. “Maybe. If you don’t take so much time talking about it, macaroon.” He turned to his men and laughed aloud. “This cucaracha has seen too many movies, I think. That’s the trouble with Mexicans and their famous standoffs. All you need to do is just shoot the fucker. Nobody’s reflexes are that good. A Cubano just shoots, my friends. Remember that.”

His demeanor changed to all business. “Juan, you bring the limo around. The money’s already onboard.” He ordered the other men to put the cocaine in the trunk.

Grady waited until they had gone out the front door and then he swiftly raced to the same door and watched them pull away. In seconds, he was starting his own car, the limo still within sight.

We’ll see how slick you are now, Reader,
he whispered fiercely to himself, keeping behind the limo just enough not to be spotted.
I got your ass now.
He picked up the cell phone on the seat next to him and dialed a number. Two rings later, he was delighted to hear Sally’s gravelly voice.

“Got something here you might be interested in,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“You’re gonna be a hero. Call your boys and tell them if they get to...” he shuffled through papers on the dashboard and found his notebook. “...to 27123 Parks Road in Chalmette, they can be on the eleven o’clock news.”

“Something big?” Sally said.

“I’d say so,” said Grady, chuckling. “The DEA’s gonna be mad your guys made this find.”

“And what’s that?”

“Castro’s warehouse. There’s no coke here now, but I saw a safe that I’ll bet money has some interesting contents. There’s also some dead bodies here. I think if your friends arrest Castro you’ll find the gun he’s carrying is the one who killed them. They should get enough evidence to nail a murder charge on him. Castro and his boys are gone, but they may be back. One way or the other, they’re going to be in a bad way, if what I think happens does.”

“Gotcha. It’s happening the way you thought?” Sally said. Grady could hear the smile in his voice when he replied in the affirmative. “This ought to buy me a lot of favors.”

“That’s kinda what I thought,” Grady replied, and disconnected Sally and dialed another number.

“It’s happening,” he said. “Get in your car and start driving. I’m pretty sure they’re headed across the lake, where I said. Just head that way and I’ll keep you up-to-date. Stay away from the place until I call you. I don’t want you hurt, but I may need your help. Just keep the line open.”

“Okay, Grady,” Whitney said. “You’re the boss.”

Damn!
Grady thought, tossing the phone on the seat.
That’s one sexy voice!

“Hell,” he said aloud, his adrenaline pumping as he followed the limo which he could see was definitely heading to the lake. “That’s one sexy woman! Yeow!” He screamed the last into the night as the car ahead of him approached the Pontchartrain toll booth.

This one’s for you, Jack,
he thought.
Payback.

CHAPTER 30

A BLOCK FROM THE Pontchartrain bridge, the worst possible thing happened. Grady’s car got sideswiped by a drunk leaving a bar on Causeway Boulevard.

The damage to the car itself wasn’t much, a scrape along the front passengere. Grady would have liked to chase down the asshole who’d hit him, some middle-aged slob who gave one sobering glance at what he’d done and put the hammer down, leaving the scene like he had nitro in the gas tank. Only he couldn’t. All he could do was shake his fist at the fleeing miscreant and deliver a few choice cuss words. The right front tire was punctured and settling to the pavement, flatter than a soufflé after a California earthquake. People walking by, mostly drunks stumbling out of the bars that lined the streets on both sides, kept on going, after staring briefly.

“Fucking drunk!” Grady screamed after the departing hit-and-runner. “Fucking New Orleans drivers!” That, plus a kick at the useless tire got some of the mad out of his system and he tried to figure out what to do. Briefly, he considered calling Sally again and more briefly, the NOPD, but he dismissed both ideas as soon as they occurred. Sally wouldn’t get there in time, not from clear out on Jefferson and the cops?...well, there’d be too much explaining to do and by the time he’d convinced someone what was going down, it’d be too late to do anything. Besides, the idea he was considering wouldn’t work with the cops or anyone else involved.

He changed the flat as fast as he could, cursing the heat and the mosquitoes that descended on him in droves. Finished in under ten minutes, he headed for the bridge and drove over it as fast as he thought he dared without getting a ticket.

“Whitney,” he said, as soon as she answered. “Something’s happened.”

He explained the situation to her.

“I’m already in Covington,” she said.

“Watch for the limo,” he said. “It should be coming by any time.”

“Should I follow it?”

“No!” He almost yelled. He lowered his voice. “No, sweetheart. It’s too dangerous. These are bad folks here. No. I know where they’re going. I just hope I don’t get there too late. Wait for me and be ready to roll. I don’t know this area at all and in the dark it’s going to be hard to find the place, I think.”

“I know this area pretty well,” she said.

“That’s what I’m counting on. When I get to you, we’ll leave my car and take yours.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she said.

He was quiet for a second or two. “I hope so, Whitney. I hope I haven’t blown it. Timing’s everything on this.”

“Grady!” Her voice whistled in the phone. “They’re here! They just went by.”

“Hang on,” he said grimly, pressing down harder on the gas pedal. “I’m coming.”

“Damn it,” he bellowed and hit the steering wheel with the open palm of his hand. “Dammit all to hell anyway!”

He might have lost.

***

Out in the middle of the Mississippi, a coolish breeze that had blown up didn’t prevent C.J. from sweating like a whore in church. In the seat behind him, sat Felipe and Orlando. After Reader had phoned with directions and he’d driven to the river and found the boat, the two had jumped him.

He’d tried the breaking the cable bluff again but it hadn’t worked. They’d jumped in the boat with him.

After an argument.

“The boss said to shoot him,” Orlando said.

“The boss didn’t know he was going in a boat,” Felipe said, sneering. “How you think we’re going to shoot him if he’s across the river? We’ll go with him, do it when Reader shows up. Just before we get there,’ll jump out. It’ll be all right.”

C.J. didn’t know what to do. He was fucked whatever he did. The best he could do was go along, try and figure out something along the way.

Hope for a miracle.

***

“You’re not Reader!”

“Me? No, I’m Frenchie. You got something for me?”

Felipe did. Frenchie saw the tiny burst of fire from Felipe’s gun just before the bullet smote his brain.

“Nice shot!” Orlando said, wading in with his boss. “Now what?” he said, looking at the banker who was standing up in the boat a few feet away.

“Now, we show Mr. St. Ives what’s in his suitcases.” He couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Open one up, senòr,” he said to the man in the boat. “Surprise!”

C.J. looked at the two men and down at the suitcases and then he bent over and unlatched one of the suitcases. When it fell open, he stared at the contents.

He looked back up at the men, knowing in that instant there was only one possibility left. For a brief second, he thought of Amanda.
I’ll see you soon, sweetheart,
he whispered, and then he began to rip the cable off.

“No!” screamed Felipe, trying to scramble back.

CHAPTER 31

FIDEL CASTRO REALLY ENJOYED rum. Especially Cuban rum, not that gasoline you bought in most liquor stores. For him,
Methusalem
was the only label he’d deign to let pass his lips. It was from a bottle of that Cuban nectar that he was pouring a healthy portion into a crystal goblet at that precise moment.

Life was good. Life was particularly good this evening. He’d disposed of a nettlesome problem and enjoyed doing it. He’d never liked St. Ives from the first time he’d met him. The man had money, dressed well, talked in a cultivated manner, but from the start Castro had seen through all that, seen the man for what he really was. A pig. A pig all prettied up, but still a pig.

A dead pig.

He leaned back his head and laughed heartily. The two employees that were riding with him in the back of his limousine glanced at each other and smiled.
El patron
laughed much of the time like that. Whenever he did, they usually benefited, for he was a generous man with those who labored for him, and when he was in a good mood, there were usually bonuses and other gifts. For instance, he was sharing his good Cuban elixir with them, filling their own glasses whenever they got low.

“Senòr Castro,” one of them, a small, pockmarked Cuban from Miami said to his employer. “You got that gringo good, eh?”

“Si, muy bueno!” They all laughed. “Vasta macoule,” he said, and pretended to spit and they burst out laughing even harder.

El patron
was about half in the bag. And as high as he could get. All the way from New Orleans he and his men had snorted thick lines on the solid silver serving tray he kept in the limo for just that purpose. This was the good stuff, the uncut product. As his driver turned up the lane, he wiped the last of the powder off and ran his finger with it inside his gums, smacking his lips in satisfaction.

“Ah,” he said, a big, fat, satisfied sigh. Life was indeed good.

And there was the Big Boss. The one who’d called him several days before to tell him their old arrangement was back in place, that C.J. St. Ives was no longer in charge of anything.t his bank, not his wife, not even his life. It was unsaid during their conversation, but Castro knew it was his duty to eliminate the man. That should be accomplished by right about now, he thought as the limo braked in the drive before the main house.

His driver ran around and held open the door and Castro swung his feet out. Ah, there was the good senòr now. He was trundling down the walk from the mansion in his wheelchair, his hand lifted in welcome.

Wait till he hears how I have performed,
Castro thought, standing and stepping forward to greet his long-time powerful friend and ally, Senòr Titus Fuller Derbigny.

If his brain hadn’t been slowed by the recent effects of at least a quarter-gram of top-grade cocaine...if the buzz born of swilling almost half a bottle of the best Cuban rum in less than an hour hadn’t obscured his thinking...or if the glow of self-satisfaction wasn’t clouding his vision, the sight of the crippled man in the wheelchair swiftly rising to stand might have registered on Fidel Castro’s consciousness a little bit sooner than it did. His reflexes and reaction time might have been sufficient to speed up the synapses and electrical connections slogging through his brain and he might have been able to make the movie that was unfolding in slow-motion before his redlined eyes speed up enough to bring his own gun up to answer the problem of the machine gun that magically appeared in the other man’s hands.

Or maybe not.

The Cuban drug lord’s last mortal act was to throw his hands up in front of his face and cry out a word so queer and out-of-place that it seemed to hang in the air long seconds after the last burst of .45-caliber bullets had torn through his and his associates’ bodies.

Mama!

Castro’s mouth froze forever in the last syllable of his cry and Reader Kincaid tore off the white wig that was beginning to itch, walked over and poured another fusillade of lead into the dead drug czar’s body, his teeth bared in what Eddie Delahousie had called his “Dr. Death” face.

CHAPTER 32

“SCOOT OVER,” GRADY SAID, urgency in his voice. He threw an armful of papers and other things into the back seat and handed her his cellular phone.

Whitney had scarcely moved over and let him behind the wheel before he tromped hard on the gas pedal, throwing crushed oyster shells behind him as he whipped her Taurus back out onto the highway.

“Those fucking new-fangled spares aren’t worth a shit. They’re not good for more than ten, fifteen miles,” he said, before she could ask why they were taking her car.

His face was grim. Whitney fumbled with the seat belt and tried to watch the road ahead.

“There!” she exclaimed. “Up there! Go left!”

She felt herself pulled hard to her own right and up against the door as the car slewed into the turn. The back right tire found the shallow ditch alongside the road and they heard the whistle of its spin before it caught pavement and they shot ahead.

“You’re going to kill us!” She straightened back up, brushed her mussed hair back out of her eyes and looked wild-eyed at the moonless black they were plunging through.

“Just get me there,” he said, hunching down to concentrate on the unfamiliar road, a two-lane blacktop.

“I’ll...I’ll try,” she said, in a shaky voice. She bent forward to study the piece of notepaper with the hand-drawn map in her hand.

“Whitney,” he said, his eyes briefly catching hers before he turned his attention back to the road. “We don’t get there in time, it’s all over. We
have
to get there.”

“There’s another turn coming up,” she said, breathily. She took a deep breath. “About two miles. Watch for it because it looks like it’s one of those small parish roads. Probably dirt. The house is a mile past that.”

“I won’t miss it,” he said, and then he reached over and put his hand on her arm. “I can’t.”