Deadly Lode (Trace Brandon Book 1) (45 page)

C
hapter
4
9

I
’
d just
finished giving my fifteen
-m
inute
PowerPoint
presentation
on the Sullivan Mine
. The conference room was jam
-
packed with investors
,
a
nd they gave me a nice hand. I knew many of them would gravitate to our booth for additional information and to get copies of the
PowerPoint
.

When I got to the booth, I saw my assumption was correct. Wally, Jim
,
and even Cyrus were answering questions and handing out copies of the
presentation
hand over fist.

“
Bloody hell,
”
Jim
said with a
huge grin
.
“
W
hat did you say in your presentation to stir up such a hornet
’
s nest?
”

“
I told them you were personally going to buy all my shares at ten bucks a pop.
”

Jim laughed
.
“
D
one deal.
”

“
Keep your knickers on
,
Jimbo
.
I
’
m
just kidding. All I did was show them our updated
PowerPoint.
When I got to the new gold intercepts, on top of the high
-
grade uranium, they sort of went nuts.
”

“
I guess so,
”
Jim replied.
“
H
ave you seen the stock price today?
”

I glanced over at Wally and Cyrus
,
who were both grinning like Cheshire cats
.

“
O
kay, so tell me.
”

“
Five
-
twenty Canadian,
”
Jim said.
“
Kind of kicks ol
’
Chang in the nuts, doesn
’
t it?
”

I laughed
.
“
Y
eah, I guess it does. I wonder what he
’
ll do now?
”

Cyrus laughed
.
“
I don
’
t know
, b
ut it
’
s fixin
’
to get real damn interesting.
”

Chang was in
his executive suit
e,
checking Montana Creek Mining
’
s share price
on
-
line
.
And h
e was not laughing. He called in
the two junior executives traveling with him. In Chinese he told them to get a list prepared of all the holders of
5
percent or more of Montana Creek Mining Corp
.
shares.
He
’
d find a weak link, someone who
’
d sell
his or her
shares.

C
hapter
50

I
t took Scotland Yard less than twenty
-
four hours to get back to the
FBI
query
and description of
a bomber with possible IRA ties.
Special
Agent Beau Monroe read the reply and looked at his small
,
but eager group
of
agents.

“
Okay, people, seems we may have hit a nerve
because the
Brits never
respond
this fast.
I
’
m guessing t
he
y
have
a real hard
-
on
for
our
bomber
. Get a copy of
this
photograph to our Houston office and have them show it to the fuel truck driver.
Let
’
s get a positive ID,
”
Agent Monroe said,
holding up
the photo of one Sean Flannigan, alias
Sean McDougall, alias Thomas Finnagan
.

Al and Pino
Pantelli
were having lunch at
a small
café,
in the French Quarter.

“
Al, I got a call from a guard we
’
ve got on the pad over at Pollack. H
e says the fed
’
s have been in to see a
small
-
time drug
dealer named Vince Bugati. Does the name ring a bell?
”

“
Yeah, he
’
s
a two
-
bit hustler. Sells a little crack for us
,
from time to time. Got busted for holding with intent to distribute.
He
’
s doing a nickel at Pollack. What are the feds talking to him about?
”

“
The guard heard him say something about a chemist.
”

Al
’
s face drained of color
.

“
T
hey
’
re
talking to
that little puke about the Chemist?
”

“
Yeah, that
’
s what our man said. Does Bugati know anything?
”

“
Could be. He may know the Chemist did
some work for
us.
”

“
Jesus, could
he
tie us to
Manetti
?
”

“
It
’
s possible.
”

“
Can we get to him?
”

“
Hell, yes. I could have him shank
e
d
tomorrow
, b
ut it might look suspicious
. One
day he
’
s talking to the
feds
about the Chemist
,
and maybe us
,
and the next day he
’
s dead. The hit would point right to us. No, we
’
ve got to find another way. See if
Bugati
’
s
got any family
,
anybody we can use to keep his trap shut
.
”

The fuel
-
truck driver confirmed the man in the Scotland Yard photo was the
same
man who
had
asked him about re
-
fueling Trueblood
’
s plane.

Special Agent Monroe went into hyper
-
drive
.

“
Okay, people, I want a
nation
-
wide
APB out on this Flannigan character. Includ
e
his
photo
and
all known aliases. I want this troll hauled in
—
now.
”

C
hapter
51

T
he mining convention
was winding down
,
and a
lot of the players had already left town. I was still manning our booth
,
hoping for the odd straggler
,
when Lei Chang walked up.

“
Mr. Chang, I was just thinking about calling you.
”

“
With good news, I hope?
”

“
I
’
m afraid not, Mr. Chang. I
’
ve decided to hang on to my shares. And as you no doubt know
, our current share price is above your proposed tender offer.
”

“
Yes, I am aware of th
at fact. However, share prices
go up and down. Sometimes quite rapidly
,
as yours have this week. But next week
,
when the frenzy of
the mining convention
is over, will
your
shares maintain this level
?
”

“
I am sure we
’
ll have peaks and valleys
,
b
ut I have a feeling each valley will be a bit higher than the last. I think we could hit ten dollars once our
engineering report
is published.
”

“
I see. Let me ask you this
,
Mr. Brandon
. A
t what price would you tender your shares to us?
”

“
As I said, I think the stock will go to ten dollars a share. But if I were to sell, I would be more inclined to sell to Jim Lee
’
s
company
.
IUC
believed in our project, invested early
,
and stuck with us through good days
,
and bad.
”

“
I doubt IUC could pay you what we could for your shares.
”

“
Agreed
, b
ut sometimes relationships are more important than money.
”

Mr. Chang smiled
.
“
A
re they?
”

He held my gaze for a moment
,
then bowed his head slightly, turned
,
and disappeared into the crowd.

Cyrus came up a moment after Chang left.

“
Hey, Trace. Any word from our communist friend?
”

“
Oh, yeah.
Chang
was just here
, a
nd
he
wasn
’
t a happy camper when he left. I sense we haven
’
t heard the last of
him
.
”

“
Well, to hell with him and his red buddies. Have you seen our stock price this morning?
”

“
Yep, we
’
re getting close to six bucks a share. I told Chang I thought we might go to ten
dollars
.
”

“
I
’
ll bet that fried his wontons.
”

I laughed
.
“
Yeah, I think it probably did.
”

Chang returned to his suite and told one of his assistants to book a flight to New Orleans
,
a
nd set up an appointment with a Mr. Al
Pantelli
.

C
hapter
5
2

F
lannigan left Houston as soon as he
’
d confirmed Trueblood
’
s plane
was
splattered over the Gulf of Mexico
. Everybody has a weakness
,
and Flannigan
’
s was whores
, and
his favorite hunting ground was the French Quarter. He
’
d driven his old Ford F-150 pick
up
from Houston to New Orleans
,
where he kept a small apartment
on the edge of the
Quarter.

He parked his truck in the small garage adjoining the two
-
story pink stucco apartment building. His second
-
story apartment overlooked a small courtyard on the opposite side from the garage.
The location was convenient to
Bourbon Street and
the skin joints he
frequented
, b
ut
far enough from the
action
s
o a person could get some sleep.

Flannigan took a
nap
,
then showered
,
went on
-
line
,
and
checked his bank account balance. One thing about the
Pantelli
s
,
they paid well
,
and they paid on time. He smiled when his balance showed two recent wire
-
transfer deposits. He
’
d have a hell of a good time tonight.

S
pecial Agent Beau Monroe played a hunch. Everything pointed to the
Pantelli
s being behind the hit on Malcolm Trueblood.
And
he was betting they
hadn’t
stray
ed
too far from the reservation looking for a mechanic. It was human nature
;
people look for the easiest solution
to a problem
.

Monroe was betting the
bomber
was from the New Orleans area.
H
e
made sure every police and sheriff
’
s department with
in
fifty miles of New Orleans got the information on Mr. Flannigan.

Dressed in his best
Tony Manero
outfit, Sean Flannigan set out in search of a little action.
He pulled up his right pant leg and slipped a
.25 caliber
automatic
in
to an
ankle
holster. Sometimes a little action could
turn in
to a lot of action
, and
Sean Flannigan always came prepared.
He
walked out of his apartment and hailed a passing cab.

“
Club Le Bon Temps
,
on Bourbon
Street
,
”
he said
,
to the cabbie. Flannigan never drove
into
the Quarter. Too many cops looking to bust a drunk driver
, an
d no damn place to park.

The cab dumpe
d
Flannigan off in front of
Roddy Kincaid
’
s
Club Le Bon Temps
.
The doorman
recognized
him from past visits and smiled.

“
Good
evening,
sir
. Good
to see you back
.
”

“
Top of the evening to you, Mike,
”
Flannigan said, extend
ing
his
right
hand
,
in which he
’
d
folded
a twenty.
“
How
’
s the action tonight?
”

“
It was slow earlier
, b
ut it
’
s kicking into high gear now. You should have a good time
tonight
,
”
Mike replied, expertly palming the twenty.

Flannigan smiled and nodded
.
“
Y
ou never know.
”

Inside the club the lights were dimmed
,
and the air was heavy with the
smell
of booze and cigarette smoke.
Kincaid
had done a nice job fitting the joint out. The chairs and couches were red velvet
sitting
on expensive wall
-
to
-
wall carpet. Sconces on the wall provided soft light for the patrons
,
while a spotlight lit up the topless dancers
’
stage
and pole.

Flannigan
took a seat at the
bar
and ordered a drink.

“
Glenlivet on the rocks,
if you
please
, Jake.
”

A statuesque blond
e
had just begun her routine. Flannigan was watching her with keen interest.

“
She
’
s new
,
Mr. McDougall,
”
th
e bartender said,
setting
Sean
’
s drink on a
glass
coaster.
“
Her name
’
s Misty Rowe
. A
t least that
’
s her stage name. I can introduce you to her when her set
’
s over
,
i
f you like
.
”

Flannigan
always used the alias of Sean McDougall at the club.

“
Hell yes,
Jake
. I
’
d love to meet her,
”
Sean
replied
,
push
ing
a twenty to
ward
the bartender
.
“
Keep the change
, and
thanks for the intro.
”

Jake smiled
as he pocketed the change from the twenty
,
until he noticed a big fellow in a suit coming into the club.
He leaned his head closer to Flannigan.

“
See the guy in the suit just coming in?
”
Jake asked
,
in a low voice.

“
Yeah, I see him.
Gotta be
a cop
.
”

“
You
’
ve got a good eye, Mr. McDougal
l
. H
is name
’
s
Detective
Frances
Hebert. Don
’
t let the Franc
e
s part fool you. He
’
s tougher than boot leather
, and
he
’
s
not on the
pad.
”

“
Thanks for the heads
-
up
, b
ut I
’
m on the right side of the law.
”

“
Ain
’
t we all, brother.
”

Detective Hebert walked over to the bar and pulled up a stool. He was two places down from Flannigan.
Flannigan
could see the bulge under the left
armpit of the detective
’
s suit. Whatever he was carrying in his shoulder holster
,
it
was big
.

Detective Hebert motioned to the bartender
.

“
Jake
. . .
gin and tonic
, b
ut leave out the gin. And a fresh slice of lime
, please.
”

“
Coming right up,
sir
,
”
Jake replied.

Hebert looked around the room
,
and then at Sean.

“
Evening
. H
ow
’
s it going?
”
Hebert asked.

“
So far, so good,
”
Sean replied, tipping his glass in the detective
’
s direction.

“
You sure look familiar to me
,
”
Hebert said.
“
Have we met before?
”

“
No,
sir
. I don
’
t believe so. I
’
m Sean McDougall
.
”

The detective pursed his lips and was obviously running the name through his on
-
board computer system
.

“
Y
ou
’
re right
. D
oesn
’
t ring a bell.
”

Flannigan knew immediately from the detective
’
s body language there was some kind of problem.

“
Watch my drink, will ya,
Jake
?
”
Sean asked
,
the bartender.
“
I
’
ve got to use the head.
”

Flannigan got up and walked over to the men
’
s room. Pushing the door open
,
he took a quick look around. It was empty. Every swinging dick in the joint was glued to the performance Misty was putting on.

Flannigan pulled up his right pant leg and pulled the .25
auto
from
his
ankle
holster.
As he walked to the f
a
rthest urinal, h
e
worked the action and jacked a shell into the chamber.
With his left hand he pretended to urinate. He let his right hand
,
holding the little automatic
,
hang limp
beside
his right
leg
. J
ust out of sight
.

It didn
’
t take long. The detective opened the door and looked at Flannigan. And then surveyed the rest of the unoccupied men
’
s room.

“
Sean McDougall, eh? You sure it
’
s not Sean Flannigan?
”

The detective moved his right hand toward the
hog leg
he had holstered under his suit coat. It was the last move he ever made. Flannigan spun and put two rounds in the detective
’
s chest and a third through the bridge of his nose.

Flannigan holstered the automatic and walked out of the men
’
s room. Misty Rowe
was
still on stage
in full
-
tilt bump and grind
,
backed up by
a pounding drum
-
beat. A few of the men were looking around like they
’
d heard something
, b
ut their attention quickly returned to Misty
’
s
bodacious
tatas
.

Flannigan went back to the bar and finished his Glenlivet. He was
d
amned if he
’
d
waste a drop of the single malt over
a
piece
-
of
-
shit
New Orleans
’
detective
.