5 Crime Czar (9 page)

There was polite applause around the table. DINERO (Dollars Invested in New Orleans Region Only), as everyone knew, was one of the largest grassroots organizations in the parish— fully capable of flooding the streets with campaign workers on election day who could wave signs at motorists, stuff leaflets into mailboxes and under windshield wipers, and drive old ladies and drunkards too weak to walk to the polls.

“What’s the cost?” Deon asked.

“The organization is requesting a contribution of ten thousand dollars,” Nesterverne said solemnly.

Tubby whistled, and everybody looked at him.

“That’s a lot of money for one poor judge to raise,” Hughes said woefully. “I could see that much if I were running for district attorney or sheriff, but not for judge.”

“The expected contribution for the sheriff’s race is twenty thousand dollars,” Nesterverne said, sticking to his guns, sculpting feather pillows with his hands.

“What do you say?” The judge looked at Deon.

“Eighty-five hundred would be more like it,” his campaign manager said sourly.

“Amadee,” the mayor’s representative spoke up for the first time, “you guys are getting too expensive. See if DINERO won’t come onboard, and I mean full stroke, for eighty-five hundred. If not, get your chairman to call me, and we’ll see what can be worked out with my discretionary fund.”

“Glad we’re all on the same team,” Tubby said. “How much do I get?” There were a few chuckles around the table, but not from the mayor’s man.

“Your job is the giving, not the getting,” Deon said. “Here’s a list of all the members of the Bar the judge wants to tap for support. Most were with him the last time around. You can add as many more names as you can think of. All will be contacted by mail, and some by phone, to solicit their endorsements and plan receptions, etcetera.”

“I could put on a crawfish boil in my yard,” Tubby suggested.

“Swell idea,” Deon responded.

“We’d have lots of beer, and corn on the cob, and boiled potatoes and mushrooms. I could grill some smoked sausage and maybe even some oysters.”

“I believe I’ll attend that party,” the Reverend Weems boomed.

“I project a media budget of two hundred seventy-five thousand dollars,” Kathy Jeansonne broke in, deflating the conversation.

“Holy smokes!” Judge Hughes exclaimed. He rocked back so far in his chair that he nearly tipped over.

“Want to break that down for me, Kathy?” Deon interjected.

“Sure. I recommend emphasis in three areas. First is yard signs. Five thousand signs at three dollars apiece is fifteen thousand dollars. Second is black radio. A ten-second spot and a thirty-second spot played with increasing frequency on gospel, soultrain, and rap programs on the five radio stations that target the African-American audience equals thirty-five thousand dollars. Third is television. A thirty-second ‘positive’ ad, which we begin three weeks before the election, and a thirty-second ‘response’ ad to smear dirt on our opponent, in response to whatever attack he makes on us, which we will blanket the airwaves with during the final four days. Cost— two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“Damn, ’scuse my French, pastor, but I’m not running for governor.”

“With all due respect, Judge, the last governor’s race cost the major candidates over four million dollars. What I’m projecting is the minimum amount needed to win at the parish level. You can bet Benny Bloom is seeing these same figures. And look at it this way, it’s only about five dollars for each vote you’ll need to get elected.”

“You might get better results just handing out five dollar bills,” Tubby suggested.

“You can’t hardly get ’em for five dollars anymore, Mr. Dubonnet,” the mayor’s man said sadly.

“And that’s not legal,” Kathy fumed.

“Of course,” Tubby said quickly, “I was just kidding.”

The gentlemen from COMP and DINERO were both studying the ceiling.

“What makes you think Benny Bloom is going to be attacking me, anyway?” Judge Hughes asked, a doleful expression on his round face.

“Because you’re the incumbent, and that’s how it’s done,” Jeansonne said in a tone sometimes used to send five-year-olds to the corner. “And in this case his media consultant is Bridges and Madison. They’re famous for attack ads.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” the mayoral representative said. “They worked for us in the last election. They’re nasty guys.”

“Better be prepared then,” Deon said. “Part of Miss Jeansonne’s job is research, and she has already begun digging up the, let’s say, unpleasant facts about Mr. Bloom’s career.”

“Yes, according to his ex-wife…”

“Please,” said Judge Hughes. “I’d rather discuss this somewhere else.”

“Right,” said Jeansonne and snapped her notebook shut.

“Thank you,” Deon said. “We may have to tweak that media budget somewhat and see if we can trim some fat. But it gives us all a target to work toward. Mr. Papaya, can you give us any kind words from the Mayor?”

“The judge has the mayor’s blessings, and he will be on the mayor’s ticket. Barring unforeseen circumstances, our people will be out there in force on election day, pushing the ticket.”

“What unforeseen circumstances?” Tubby asked.

“If I knew, they wouldn’t be unforeseen,” Papaya said.

Good answer, Tubby thought.

Judge Hughes let out a belly laugh. “No comeback for that one,” he said. “Does that about wrap it up? I’ve got a banquet to go to.”

“I believe we’ve got it,” Deon said. “Reverend Weems, will you give us the benediction?”

Daisy began her search for the nameless killer with the hooded eyes by connecting up with the mob. It was easy. An acquaintance of hers from the Tomcat Inn, who was in the same line of work, knew the telephone number of a guy named Courtney, whom she described as a white pimp. He collected cash from the girls twice a week as a licensing fee for being permitted to stand out on Airline Highway with their dresses hoisted up to their panty lines. Daisy went to the pay phone outside of the Taco Bell and tried the number. She got voice mail.

“Hello. My name is Daisy. I’m trying to reach Courtney. I want to start work tonight. Call me at this number right away.” She recited the number on the pay phone.

She was halfway through her Tostado Supreme, sitting on the grass, when the phone rang.

“This is Daisy,” she said to the smoke-scented handset.

“Do I know you?” It was a man’s voice, husky.

“Yeah. I’m the Daisy stays at the Tomcat Inn. Where do I sign up?”

“You the Daisy that was there a week or so ago? There was an incident.”

She almost choked. “Yes. That’s me,” she whispered. She knew the voice now. It belonged to the man who had put the arm on her, who had acted surprised when his partner blew Charlie away.

“What are you up to, lady?”

“I ain’t up to nothing. I need to work, don’t I? You don’t want to talk to me, fine, but don’t give me no more trouble either.”

“I’ll talk to you. Be at your room at nine o’clock.”

“I’ll be outside my room. We can talk in the fresh air.”

“Okay, but don’t pull no shit.”

“Same to you,” she said and hung up.

* * *

Daisy was sitting on the curb outside Room 119 at the Tomcat Inn, swatting mosquitoes, when Courtney drove up in his Cadillac Seville. She felt herself starting to flip out when she saw the car, but she pinched her thighs hard to stay in control. Courtney was alone, and he sat by himself in the big car for a minute, looking around.

Apparently satisfied, he climbed out and sniffed the air. He was a big man with broad shoulders, and his tan blazer threatened to pop a seam. He had on jeans and penny loafers and a heavy gold bracelet on his wrist.

Daisy did not get up when he sauntered over, just watched him steadily and blew cigarette smoke in the air.

“Hey, Daisy,” he said, thumbs in his belt. He took off his sunglasses to polish them on the sleeve of his jacket, and she saw that his eyes were like crowder peas with woolly caterpillars crawling over them.

“Hello,” she replied and snuffed her cigarette out in a crack in the concrete.

“You wanna talk inside?” he asked.

“No. Here.”

He breathed loudly but then sat down beside her, his knees at a level with her nose.

“You called me,” he pointed out.

“Your name is Courtney?”

He shrugged.

“Never mind. I need to go back to work, and I don’t want any more trouble.”

“If you want to stay out of trouble,” Courtney explained, “you’ve got to be part of the organization. The whole city is that way now. You can’t be a independent anymore, not around here.”

“Okay, so what do I have to do?”

“Somebody will come by every day at a time I tell you and collect a hundred dollars. You’ve got to pay it. If you want to do extra work, like a private party, you can call me on a phone number I’ll give you, and I’ll tell you what the deal is. If somebody places a special order and you fit the bill, or if we need an extra girl, we’ll call you. In that case, you drop what you’re doing— or who you’re doing— and get ready. The pay is good for special jobs. If you want to get on the A list, you have to get tested for AIDS. You can go down to the blood bank and try to give blood. They’ll test you. Some like a girl to be clean. Some don’t give a shit.”

“What if I don’t have a hundred dollars a day?”

Courtney put his glasses back on.

“Then you get off the street and don’t come back. It would be better for you to leave town.”

She nodded and watched the trucks roar past on Airline Highway.

“About the other time,” Courtney said. “Things got out of hand.”

Daisy couldn’t speak. A tear formed in her eye.

“Anyway, you won’t be seeing that guy again.”

“Why?” she asked sharply. “Has he gone somewheres?” Finding the guy who had pulled the trigger on Charlie was the whole point.

“No, he’s around. He’s just doing other things.”

“Okay.” She was relieved.

“Now, let’s go in your room and have a little toot and, uh, consummate our understanding.”

“Fuck off,” she said, standing up. “I’ve got to go to work.” She walked off toward the highway. She just wanted to be away from him.

Courtney laughed at her back.

“See you tomorrow,” he yelled after her.

An important meeting was taking place in the office of the Empress of Saigon Restaurant. The most influential men were present. Hung Phat, thin and dapper in sharply creased slacks, mustache like a sudden charcoal stroke above his lip; Nuong Cuoc, burly with sleeves rolled up tight over his oysterman’s biceps, and an eight-inch wisp of black hair growing out of his left sideburn; and Rolling Sam, the youngest of the group, barely in his twenties, who favored silk suits, sported a Rolex, and wore a fedora indoors. All were guests of the chairman of the board, in fact if not in name: Binh Minh, or “Bin Minny” as he was generally known.

Their host, whose restaurant this was, had provided cups of tea and something stronger, a glass of Scotch, to Rolling Sam.

Pleasantries had been exchanged in their native tongue but, in deference to Rolling Sam, who by virtue of his age and public school education was limited in that regard, the substantive meeting was progressing in English.

Nuong Cuoc was holding forth, eyes darting around the room.

“We can be sure no one from our community is responsible. No one here would shoot three men to death on the side of the road and shoot up Mr. Singh’s karaoke bar, not without me finding out who it was.”

“So violent,” Hung Phat observed.

“I beat up three, maybe four, boys, but they didn’t know anything,” Nuong said.

“How about Mr. Singh?” Rolling Sam asked. “What does he think?”

“He doesn’t know who did it. He’s overcome with grief. His son is dead. His girls, Bin Ho and Oyster Lady, ran away, so he can’t make much money. The police cleaned him out when they took over the bar. He expects us to see that justice is done. He is having visions of drifting souls who cannot find rest. He has laid this matter in our hands.”

“When we locate the men in that car, they will be killed in a way that will be remembered,” Hung Phat said quietly. “Then his visions will stop. The problem is to know where to strike.”

Bin Minny, who had not spoken until then, laid down his tea cup.

“I think I know why the girls ran away,” he said. The others waited respectfully. “I think there is an effort now beginning to consolidate all of the businesses under one general. I think that our days of being left alone to manage the affairs of our community are coming to an end. There are many signs of this. Those who supply my product have reported to me that they have been approached and threatened by some people who do not want them to sell to me. It would not surprise me if those boys who got killed, Xuan and the others, had not been likewise warned to get out of the prostitution business. They would have laughed at that, of course.”

“Anybody who gets in our way gets his nose cut off,” Rolling Sam volunteered.

“Yes, that’s right,” Bin Minny said affectionately. The young man reminded him of himself at that age, when he had been a lowly corporal in the Army of the Republic of Vietnam. Similar aptitudes for intrigue, loyalty, and violence had enabled Bin Minny to rise to the rank of colonel before the fall.

“Whose nose we gonna cut?” Hung Phat demanded.

“I have an idea about that, too,” Bin Minny said, “but there are still some doubts. I will need to talk to some people myself. Perhaps in a few days we can meet again and make a correct plan.”

The others nodded.

“Why don’t you eat now? My kitchen is yours.”

In a melodious language, punctuated by laughter, the assemblage discussed their meal and the issues of the world. Rolling Sam sipped his Scotch and grinned when it seemed appropriate.

* * *

No child should go nameless, but Tubby had to swallow his fist when he learned that Debbie was going to name her youngster Arnaldo after Marcos’s father. Seems there was some traditional imperative in the father’s family that required this honor. As a sop to the Dubonnet line, for a middle name the poor child got stuck with Bertrand, after Tubby’s father, whom everybody had called “Bat.”