Casting Bones (24 page)

Garrett was quiet for a brief moment, as if collecting his thoughts. Was it the girl? Had she gone deep into his mind and seen that he and the Krewe were behind the killing? He believed and didn't believe. Maybe the voodoo lady was behind the information.

‘You're quite certain that this contact you have, the one who sets up everything, has no idea of our organization?' It was redundant but he had to ask one more time.

Gandal took a gulp of his cold coffee. ‘I can't emphasize this enough, Mr Garrett. What do you want me to say? None of the participants knows anything. They accepted a contract, did their job and were paid. I'm the only one who met with our primary contact and I feel certain he said nothing to the others. These people,' he paused, ‘they are scum of the earth. They make money any way they can. There is no concern about where it comes from. They simply accept a job and see it through completion. Contract killers. That's all they are.'

‘Who is the contact person?'

‘But you wanted to keep a distance from the start—'

‘Who is the contact person?' His voice was firm.

‘I don't know his real name. He works out of Shreveport and we found him after inquiring with Sam Campari. Campari has done some jobs for us in the past. Nothing like,' he paused, looking around the small restaurant, ‘killing someone, but Campari is connected and—'

‘What's the contact's name?'

‘They call him Loup-garou.'

Garrett gave him a puzzled look.

‘My understanding is that it means
Werewolf
in French.'

‘Campari knows where the man is?'

Gandal took a long, exasperated breath.

‘When I contacted Campari, he just told me that this contact—'

‘Loup-garou?'

‘Yes, that he would contact me. He did and we set up the Lerner incident. I called Campari a second time when it was decided we needed two accidents. The Werewolf visited me again.'

Garrett shook his head. ‘Jesus, another person to deal with. You don't think that this Campari character has figured out that every time he contacts this crazy wolf that a judge dies? Hell, this wolf guy sounds more dangerous than anyone.'

‘Sir, I don't know what else I could have done. Do it myself? Bypass the middle man.'

Sipping the cappuccino, Garrett closed his eyes, as if in a deep trance. Finally he opened them, reaching up and tightening his necktie.
Do your own dirty work.
Sounded like a mantra.

‘Yeah, do it yourself. Bypass the middle man. Maybe that's the way it should have been done.' He stared through Gandal. ‘That's brilliant, Gandal. Brilliant. You should have done it yourself.'

Richard Garrett was silent for a moment. For a long moment.

‘I've been seeing a …' he paused, weighing his words, ‘a therapist. Not really a therapist. Well, someone who walks me through situations. I can't explain it exactly but I've relied on this person for personal advice. Do you understand?'

Gandal shrugged his shoulders.

‘Anyway, I've had some good fortune with this person's advice. She, this lady, has given me some very good advice and made some things happen. I'm convinced of that. Pretty amazing. This last time I met with her I asked her for advice again. I asked her if I was on the right track.'

‘And?'

‘And I realized there are some decisions a person has to make on his own. There are times when you can't rely on others to solve your problems. So I left her, without ever hearing her advice. I didn't care anymore what other people thought. You have reinforced my feeling. At times it's better just to do it yourself.'

‘And your point is?'

‘I'm inclined to agree with you,' Garrett said.

‘I did that, sir. It's exactly what I did. I hired the right people who did the right job.'

‘So you take full responsibility for what happened?'

Gandal wrapped his hands around the coffee mug, squeezing tightly. He stared at the table then raised his head and gazed into Garrett's eyes.

‘I did what I thought I was being asked to do. I did what I felt was right. These judges were a threat. You know it, everyone knew it.'

‘The way you did the job, the consequences …'

‘I will not apologize,' Gandal said. ‘Won't do it, sir. It needed to happen, and it needed to happen now. There's no blueprint as to how these things work. You know what I mean? And I certainly wasn't going to do
that
by myself. That's asking a little too much, don't you think?'

Garrett nodded, pushing his chair back and standing up.

‘Thank you for understanding,' Gandal said.

‘You do understand,' Garrett said, ‘that this Sam Campari and Loup-garou do know who you are?'

‘I'm not certain that—'

‘Oh, they know. You've talked with them, met with them. And chances are they know you work for me.'

‘I'm not certain that—'

‘They're not stupid people, Gandal.'

‘And I am?'

‘Maybe I'm the one who's stupid,' Garrett said. ‘I turned this over to you and let this get way out of hand.'

Gandal glowered and said nothing.

‘I am beginning to believe very strongly that you made a good point.' He took a deep breath and let it out. ‘I'll walk you out.' Garrett put down a twenty on the table and walked out of the restaurant, Gandal by his side.

M
ike wiped down the bar. Maybe a hundred times a day, five days a week for the past fifteen years. Three hundred ninety thousand times he'd cleaned the bar end to end. Damn. That was a lot of cleaning. But different people, different drinks, different dishes at each station, different personalities. That's what kept the job fresh.

‘Hey, Mike.'

‘Hey, beautiful lady. What brings you in today?' He'd never seen her before. He was sure of it.

‘Mike, how fresh are the crawfish?'

Smiling at her, he kept wiping the bar. ‘They were swimming this morning.'

‘Mr Mike, you are involved in the unexpected death of the judge? The judges?'

He pulled up short. ‘Involved? No. Interested, yes. Do you have information?'

The girl was about twenty-two and her brown hair fell below her eyebrows.

‘Are you willing to pay?'

Mike smiled weakly. ‘A free meal, a drink or two. I'm not a cash-for-info guy.'

She shrugged. Glancing to her right and left, she leaned forward and said, ‘Krewe Charbonnerie. They had a hand in the killings. I was told to report this to you.'

Mike looked into her green eyes, her soul.

‘Is there a name of a member of that Krewe?'

‘Garrett. Richard. Now, I understand there is at least a drink and meal involved? Am I correct?'

The bartender swallowed his response. Richard Garrett was headline news. A capitalist among capitalists. An entrepreneur among entrepreneurs.

‘There's a chance you could have gotten the name wrong?'

She smiled at him, blinking her eyes.

‘No. There is no chance. Can I please have my drink and crawfish?'

G
andal's car was half a block down the street and they walked quietly for a minute, Garrett keeping his head bowed low.

‘Can you drop me off at an address on Canal?' Garrett asked.

‘Certainly.' Gandal opened the driver's door. Garrett opened the rear door of the Lincoln Navigator and got in.

‘I like the back seat,' he said to Gandal.

‘Yes, sir.'

The maroon leather upholstery still smelled new and the heavily tinted windows kept the hot sun at bay.

As Gandal put the key in the ignition Garrett slipped off his tie and with a quick flip of his wrist looped the blue silk over Gandal's head. Pulling back as the tie reached the man's throat he jerked it, tightening and pulling with all his strength. The driver's head was flat against the headrest as Garrett kept pulling, harder and harder. As the tie collapsed the man's trachea, Garrett heard Gandal let out a strangled cry, reaching back with his hands, trying in vain to pull the tie from his neck to relieve the pressure. His weak effort gave Garrett more hope.

Richard Garrett pulled even harder, surprised at his own strength, his knuckles turning white. Gandal kicked his legs, almost as a reflex, furtively, then not as strong. His body convulsed, tremors running through his frame. Garrett could see Gandal's face in the rear-view mirror, swelling from the pressure, turning a shade of purple.

Finally, Gandal's clawing hands dropped to his sides and Garrett kept up the pressure for another thirty seconds. His victim needed to be dead. Only when Gandal's last breath was exhaled did Garrett release his grip.

When you want something done right, do it yourself.
He'd heard it dozens of times and never really understood how true the statement was.
Do it yourself. Get rid of the middle man.
And it hadn't been that hard. Garrett was shaking, just slightly, the tremor mostly in his hands, but he'd learned something about himself today, and it felt good to know he could kill someone when the moment called for it. A man needed to know his potential and know his limitations. Another barrier had been breached and he was stronger because of it.

And as he sat there, gathering himself, collecting his thoughts, catching his breath, he wondered about the Voodoo Queen. The sexy, attractive young woman who cast spells for him and made his life easier. Did he believe in black magic? Of course he did, as did his father before him. And if he believed that she knew secrets, could implore spirits to give her mystical powers, then he believed it was possible she knew more than she admitted. She was aware of his every move. He felt it. At their last meeting, when she was ready to throw the bones, she'd asked him if his purpose was a moral purpose, practically accused him of committing a crime. She knew. And her ex-husband, Joseph, heavily invested in the project, he wondered again if she knew how far he was involved. She had her suspicions, he knew that much.

And then he was sure. She knew all right.

Maybe she was someone who needed to be dealt with. The situation needed to be addressed. And now that
he
knew he couldn't trust anyone else from the outside to take care of his business, it was down to him. How many people needed to be dealt with? Some serious thought had to be given to how many more lives were to be taken. No lackeys this time. He needed to re-evaluate the people who were involved.

Garrett unbuttoned his right shirtsleeve, using the cuff to wipe down the parts of the car that he'd touched, and he glanced out the dark windows. It would be almost impossible for anyone to have seen the murder, and even if they'd looked directly into the windows of the car the tint job was enough to block any long-range view. He was buoyed up with confidence, a new awareness of himself.

He smoothed out his wrinkled tie, then, looking in the Lincoln's rear-view mirror, he placed it back around his neck and tied it in a perfect Windsor, the entire time looking at Gandal's pale face, eyes wide open, staring at the roof.

The oil magnate opened the door, exited on the sidewalk side and quickly walked away, his head bowed and his shoulders slightly raised, shielding his face. You never knew when a camera might be in the neighborhood. In this city of high crime they were everywhere.

A short black man stood at the entrance to an ally. He studied the slightly crouched figure leaving the fancy black Lincoln. As the hunched-over man walked toward him, Samuel Jackson considered the effort, wondering whether he should ignore him or go for the wallet. Guy got out of a rich-bitch Lincoln Navigator. Probably carried a couple hundreds on him at all times. He prepared himself, taking a quick hit from the flask in his jacket pocket. If you smelled of alcohol, people dismissed you. Just another drunk, they'd say.

He stumbled out of the alley, colliding with the man, almost knocking him down.

‘What the hell?' Garrett straightened up, glaring at Jackson.

‘Sorry, governor. Just stumbled, that's all. Got a couple of dollars so a man might find a drink?'

‘Go to hell,' Garrett said. He brushed at his shirt, shook his shoulders and walked quickly away.

Before he'd gone thirty feet Jackson had stripped a credit card and three hundred-dollar bills from the wallet. He tossed the fine leather billfold in the dumpster behind Joe Meany's Tavern, wondering what kind of rich white man would have a coiled snake tattooed on his wrist. Anyway, he'd had a good score and copped a credit card to boot. This had the makings of a pretty good day.

A
musky, pungent odor hung in the air, morning fog still lingering on the bayou. Rotting vegetation, an earthy smell of mud and waterlife flourished in the swampy land that surrounded the water.

Solange Cordray stepped carefully, avoiding hollow areas where the earth gave way to a watery pool, endangering the walker who might break a limb or, worse, fall deep into the murky depth of the swamp and never be able to pull themselves to safety. Every year there were people who went for a walk on the wild side and never returned. Solange Cordray vowed not to be one of those statistics.

Smoke rose in a thin spiral a quarter of a mile away and she knew that Matebo was cooking breakfast, roasting a fresh kill on the fire and browning the homemade sourdough bread that he did so well.

A three-foot milk snake slithered on the watery surface to her right, its bright bands of red, black and white zigzagging as it headed home after a night of foraging.

Damballa, Papa, creator of all life.

Solange respectfully looked away, keeping her eyes on the ground so she didn't stumble. Deftly stepping in her worn hiking shoes, she kept moving, thinking of the reunion with her mother's old friend. The old man had been old even when she was just a kid and her mother would take her into the swampland. He seemed permanently ancient, his weathered lined face breaking into wide-smiling joy whenever he saw her. She dealt with ancient souls most of her waking hours, praying to them, asking them for intervention, so she identified very well with the old man in the bayou. She'd known him her entire life.