what I meant was, why does he want all these folks dead ?”
“His business. He traffics people. You know, hookers, sweat-shop labor, field hands like migrant workers — I think they call it dentured labor.”
I correct him. “Indentured.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
I hate it when people tell me “ whatever ”.
I decide I’d better give him a quick once over so my Bluto-sized Popeye doesn’t surprise me. After pulling back his jacket, opposite the side he’d holstered the Mach 10, I make an interesting find.
“You should be glad you didn’t try to pull this on me,” I tell him, sticking a World War One era trench knife into the plastic center of the steering wheel.
The action honks the horn and literally scares the pee-water out of Popeye.
He glances at the thing with his good eye. “Yeah, I was just thinking that. You probably would of stuck it up my ass.”
I smile. “You’re really getting to know and love me, aren’t you?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Now, if you try anything stupid,” I say, pulling the seatbelt shoulder strap across my body and snapping it, “especially while not wearing your seatbelt, you might just kill yourself.”
The vintage trench knife is actually a set of brass knuckles with a small blade on one end and a long blade on the other. I’ve jammed the small blade into the steering wheel, making the razor sharp, seven-inch end point to the center of Popeye’s chest.
I sniff the air. “Popeye, did you wet yourself?”
“Yeah, yeah — I guess I did.”
I cluck my tongue again. “I’ll bet some of the folks you murdered wet themselves, as well.”
He nods. “And shit themselves, too.”
I frown. “Well, we don’t want that, now do we?”
“No, sir — we don’t.”
“Okay then. Papa Legba? What’s his real name?”
“Don’t know — that’s his real name as far as I know.” He glances at me in the rearview mirror, wide-eyed, obviously wondering if he’s going to get a thump or sprayed for his poor answer.
I smile back. “What about Lance Corporal Billy White Cloud — did you kill him?”
“No, I don’t think so ... I mean, I don’t always know their names.”
I reach across with my cell phone, and he flinches until he realizes I’m not going to thump him. On the cell’s screen, I show him the boy’s photo taken in front of the horn shop.
“The kid with the buzz cut and the guitar,” I tell him.
“No. I didn’t do him. I know the old man and the girl, though. I think they’re going to get popped.”
“Oh yeah, tell me more.”
“The old black dude’s name’s Black Zack. That’s his horn shop Jazzy Brass in the picture. The girl’s name is Poodoo, or something like that. They’ve both been nosing around, and Papa Legba doesn’t like it.”
I nod. “So Billy’s still alive?”
“Who?”
“United States Marine Lance Corporal Billy White Cloud — the young man in the picture.”
“Oh, yeah ... uh, I don’t know. I just know I didn’t do him. I’m Legba’s top contractor, but he uses a couple of other locals, too.” Popeye frowns as best he can with one eye popped out. “White Cloud? That name does sound familiar.”
“No shit,” I tell him. With what I’ve put him through so far, I decide to forgive him for his momentary amnesia. “You told me ‘Ms. White Cloud’ asked you to pick me up. That’s Billy’s mother, Tamara. She lives in LA.”
“Yeah, that’s it. I heard Legba on the phone talking to some California boys about doin’ her. She’s probably dead by now. Those Baumgartner brothers are pretty dependable.”
He catches my smile in the mirror. It doesn’t matter what I tell the dumb creep. He isn’t going to set foot out of this car alive.
“Baumgartner brothers, huh? No, actually, she’s just fine.”
“You got ‘em, didn’t you — the contractors?”
“I took care of the Baumgartner boys with both hands tied behind my back,” I tell him.
“I believe you.”
“You should,” I
“His business. He traffics people. You know, hookers, sweat-shop labor, field hands like migrant workers — I think they call it dentured labor.”
I correct him. “Indentured.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
I hate it when people tell me “ whatever ”.
I decide I’d better give him a quick once over so my Bluto-sized Popeye doesn’t surprise me. After pulling back his jacket, opposite the side he’d holstered the Mach 10, I make an interesting find.
“You should be glad you didn’t try to pull this on me,” I tell him, sticking a World War One era trench knife into the plastic center of the steering wheel.
The action honks the horn and literally scares the pee-water out of Popeye.
He glances at the thing with his good eye. “Yeah, I was just thinking that. You probably would of stuck it up my ass.”
I smile. “You’re really getting to know and love me, aren’t you?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Now, if you try anything stupid,” I say, pulling the seatbelt shoulder strap across my body and snapping it, “especially while not wearing your seatbelt, you might just kill yourself.”
The vintage trench knife is actually a set of brass knuckles with a small blade on one end and a long blade on the other. I’ve jammed the small blade into the steering wheel, making the razor sharp, seven-inch end point to the center of Popeye’s chest.
I sniff the air. “Popeye, did you wet yourself?”
“Yeah, yeah — I guess I did.”
I cluck my tongue again. “I’ll bet some of the folks you murdered wet themselves, as well.”
He nods. “And shit themselves, too.”
I frown. “Well, we don’t want that, now do we?”
“No, sir — we don’t.”
“Okay then. Papa Legba? What’s his real name?”
“Don’t know — that’s his real name as far as I know.” He glances at me in the rearview mirror, wide-eyed, obviously wondering if he’s going to get a thump or sprayed for his poor answer.
I smile back. “What about Lance Corporal Billy White Cloud — did you kill him?”
“No, I don’t think so ... I mean, I don’t always know their names.”
I reach across with my cell phone, and he flinches until he realizes I’m not going to thump him. On the cell’s screen, I show him the boy’s photo taken in front of the horn shop.
“The kid with the buzz cut and the guitar,” I tell him.
“No. I didn’t do him. I know the old man and the girl, though. I think they’re going to get popped.”
“Oh yeah, tell me more.”
“The old black dude’s name’s Black Zack. That’s his horn shop Jazzy Brass in the picture. The girl’s name is Poodoo, or something like that. They’ve both been nosing around, and Papa Legba doesn’t like it.”
I nod. “So Billy’s still alive?”
“Who?”
“United States Marine Lance Corporal Billy White Cloud — the young man in the picture.”
“Oh, yeah ... uh, I don’t know. I just know I didn’t do him. I’m Legba’s top contractor, but he uses a couple of other locals, too.” Popeye frowns as best he can with one eye popped out. “White Cloud? That name does sound familiar.”
“No shit,” I tell him. With what I’ve put him through so far, I decide to forgive him for his momentary amnesia. “You told me ‘Ms. White Cloud’ asked you to pick me up. That’s Billy’s mother, Tamara. She lives in LA.”
“Yeah, that’s it. I heard Legba on the phone talking to some California boys about doin’ her. She’s probably dead by now. Those Baumgartner brothers are pretty dependable.”
He catches my smile in the mirror. It doesn’t matter what I tell the dumb creep. He isn’t going to set foot out of this car alive.
“Baumgartner brothers, huh? No, actually, she’s just fine.”
“You got ‘em, didn’t you — the contractors?”
“I took care of the Baumgartner boys with both hands tied behind my back,” I tell him.
“I believe you.”
“You should,” I
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