The Prodigal Son Page 5

  “Randy, I think it’s best if you turn around and go back inside. Billy’s right, you know. There are some people in this world you just don’t mess with. I’m one of them.”

  Billy came out of the lobby of the Burger King, grabbed Randy, and pulled him toward him and the lobby door. “You stupid fool!” he said. “What would I go and tell Mama if that man blowed a hole in you? Randy, that’s a Colt .45 he pulled on you! Like the one Daddy carried with him in Korea. He coulda killed you!” Billy paused, then added, “Maybe I shoulda let him just kick your rear end all over this parkin’ lot, but that woulda done no good. You woulda kept on anyway until you got him to pull that gun on you, even after he kicked your butt good. Man, little brother! When you ever gonna learn?”

  Jack continued to watch Billy yell at Randy and waited for him to pull his little brother back into the restaurant. He placed the .45 back on his lap, shifted back into Drive, and pulled around the building to the exit sign. He made a right turn, back onto the highway, crossed back under the interstate, and turned left onto the westbound entrance ramp. He pulled to the right shoulder of the ramp, opened the glove compartment, and placed the .45 back in it and closed the door. He let off the brake and pressed the accelerator and the Camaro lurched forward once again, gathering speed along the ramp to merge with the flow of traffic headed west on the interstate.

  Jack soon spotted the first of the two green Biloxi exit signs and had just driven past it when he saw another green sign ahead and to the right shoulder of the interstate. He read the information he was most interested in: “New Orleans 90.” He calculated it would take just under an hour and a half to reach the eastern edge of the city. He began to think about the rest of the plan. Another half hour or so to negotiate his way through the downtown streets. Pay and leave the Camaro at a parking deck on St. Charles. Walk over to Canal Street and hail a taxi to the Hertz location at the airport. Pick up a rental there under one of his assumed identities and drive to the Monteleone on Royal Street in the French Quarter. It would be a late evening, but that would be okay. The Carousel Bar would be open, and a couple of drinks would be a good way to end the day. Plus, he knew he’d have had a very comfortable bed waiting for him at the hotel. If the demons stayed away he might get a good night’s sleep tonight. All part of the plan. He thought of a familiar phrase: If you fail to plan, you plan to fail. He hadn’t failed yet. He wasn’t about to start now.

  * * *

  The adrenaline that had kicked in back in the Burger King parking lot had subsided now, and the pang of hunger returned. He reached over and picked up the two carry-out bags and placed them on the passenger seat next to him. He opened the food bag, found the fry container, and pulled it out and ate all of the fries before he extracted the Whopper. He unwrapped it and held it in his left hand. He quickly finished it and then reached into the drink bag and pulled out the Coke first. Three long sips and it was gone. Now for the chocolate shake, he thought. He removed the wrapper on another straw, inserted it into the lid of the shake, and took a long sip. The shake had warmed a little and was slightly melted, but there was no harm in that in Jack’s mind. It was a darn good chocolate shake. He pictured the little boy and his father in his mind and smiled. Dad was just like him, Jack thought. Hovering over us, smiling in delight at the little things we did. Man, I sure do miss him.

  He set the empty bags on the front floorboard, intending to dispose of them when he stopped and found a trash can. He often watched people throw their trash out the window on the highway, but he wasn’t one of them. Just one of those pet peeves of his, seeing people do that; it made him want to chase them down, pull his gun out, and shoot at them.

  At least shake them up, he thought. Can’t shoot everybody, even though some of them deserve it. Like Randy back there. I could have, maybe should have, but there was nothing to be gained by it. “Let it go, Jack,” he told himself aloud. “Let it go.”

  He gently eased down on the accelerator and watched the needle on the speedometer rise to sixty, and he held it there. He pressed the ZZ Top cassette back into the player on the dash and found “LaGrange” for the umpteenth time. He cranked up the volume, made himself a little more comfortable in his seat, and began bobbing to the beat of the music. The sun was sinking quickly in the western sky, painting the adjacent low-lying clouds purple and pink and red. He watched the orange ball drop lower and lower in the sky, and knew he’d be in the Big Easy not long after dark. That was fine with him. Entering the city at night listening to ZZ Top. Life is good, he concluded. It just doesn’t get any better than this.

  CHAPTER 4

  The next morning Jack sat at one of the outer tables at the Café du Monde while he waited for his order of café au lait and beignets to arrive. It was only ten o’clock, and already the temperature had climbed to 80. It was headed higher. Earlier that morning, he had turned on the television set in his hotel room to catch the local news and the weather report.

  “Sunny, with a high today of 92,” the meteorologist on the news show had reported. “The humidity level will be in the double digits, up around eighty percent,” he also added.

  Jack agreed with the rest of the forecaster’s comments on Channel 2’s morning show; both the temperature and the humidity were running higher than usual for this time of year. This late-April morning was beginning to feel more like an early summer one due to the combination of these two factors. He’d often heard it said they were the city’s only real faults.

  But Jack loved New Orleans enough to overlook any of its faults. He knew the best time to come was between October and March, when it was milder and more pleasant. Occasionally it got downright cold in the middle of that stretch, but those months were certainly more bearable than the rest of the year. And Mardi Gras, a can’t-miss event if ever there was one, beckoned him during that time. The rest of the year, however hot and sticky it was bound to get, came with the territory. He and every other warm-weather visitor to the city had no choice but to grin and bear it when it came to the heat and humidity that just seemed to wrap itself around everything and everyone.

  Jack Brantley had long ago resolved to come to New Orleans as often as he could, whether for business or pleasure—or a combination of the two, such as now. He often wished he had the luxury of coming and going when he wanted, but he knew that was impossible. His clients’ wishes came first, and he was paid quite well for taking care of those wishes. They weren’t paying him to fulfill his needs and desires; they were paying him in cash—lots of it—to fulfill theirs. He was okay with that, as long as the price was right. And so he found himself here, on a gorgeous late-spring morning. Though it was getting a little too close to his discomfort level, he was grateful he wasn’t smack-dab in the middle of a hot New Orleans summer.

  The waiter arrived with Jack’s order and placed a steaming cup of café au lait and a plate laden with three beignets on the tiny table. He placed a glass of ice water, a spoon, and several napkins on the table along with the check. Jack reached for his wallet, pulled out a ten, and handed it to the waiter.

  “I’ll be right back with your change, sir,” the waiter said as he departed.

  Jack reached for one of the powder-covered doughnuts, picked it up, and bit into it. God, that tastes so good, he thought. He quickly finished it, then picked up the ceramic cup and took a sip of the hot, rich, dark coffee that had been mixed with scalded milk. The Café du Monde never failed to delight his palate. It was one of his favorite haunts in the Quarter, and he never failed to visit it each time he came to New Orleans.

  Jack was finishing the last of the beignets when the waiter returned and placed the change from the ten on the table.

  “Thank you, sir,” the waiter said. “My name is Rafael. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

  “Actually, there is, Rafael,” Jack replied. “Would you bring me another cup, a large one, please?”

  “Certainly, sir,” Rafael said. “Would you like another order of beignets, as well?” />
  “I’d like to, but I can’t. Those three were my limit. What I’d really love is that second cup of coffee, and I’d like to just sit here a while and drink it and enjoy the view. You don’t mind if I do that, do you? I have some time to kill.”

  “I have to say that I agree with you,” Rafael replied. “The café certainly has a unique vantage point for people watching,” he added. “We’re not terribly busy, so please take your time. I will return with your order momentarily.”

  Jack picked up the first cup of coffee and sipped from it, finishing it just as Rafael returned with the second cup and placed it on the table with the check. Jack handed Rafael another ten-dollar bill.

  “You have some change coming, sir. I’ll be back in a moment,” Rafael said.

  “That’s not necessary,” Jack replied. “That’s to cover the coffee. Whatever’s left is for you, my friend.”

  “Thank you very much sir,” Rafael said as he removed the cup and saucer from the first order and the empty beignet plate, as well. “Please enjoy. And take all the time you need. Shall I check back with you for anything else?”

  “No,” Jack replied. “This will be all, thank you.”

  “Then it has been a pleasure to have served you, sir,” Rafael said as he turned and walked away.

  Jack directed his attention to the street in front of him and began watching the growing parade of tourists and locals passing by. The crowd was beginning to swell on Decatur Street now; he knew that by noon, or shortly thereafter, the café would be filled, as well. But that was another hour and a half away. Plenty of time. He did not need to be in the Warehouse/Arts District until early afternoon, and he had the rest of the morning to do what he wanted. And what he wanted right now was to sit, relax, and enjoy the second cup and just watch who, and sometimes what, went by. It was a hobby of his, a way to unwind and de-stress, and he particularly enjoyed it here in the French Quarter. He read somewhere New Orleans had been labeled “America’s Most Interesting City.” It certainly was, based on the interesting characters parading by in front of him. His personal favorite was “the Big Easy.” So easy on the senses, he thought.

  Jack did take his time to finish the second cup of coffee. He was tempted to get Rafael’s attention once more, to throw caution to the wind and order a third cup, but he knew that would add far too much caffeine to his system and he’d pay for it later in the day. He reached for his wallet again, extracted a five-dollar bill, and laid it on the table. He knew from past observations when he dined here that far too many of the tourists flocking to the café left little or nothing for their waiters. It always appalled him when he saw it taking place and he tried to make up for the shortfall when he was here. He hoped the locals felt the same way and did likewise. A little something extra, Rafael. You guys work way too hard to get stiffed like that.

  He got up and crossed Decatur and entered Jackson Square to see the local artists and street performers at work. He wanted to stroll along its sidewalks and watch them, and then continue from there on the short walk back to his hotel on Royal Street. He had walked from the Monteleone to the Café du Monde this morning for the fresh air and exercise, and planned to walk back by the same route.

  It was getting hotter as it grew closer and closer to noon. Jack knew he could hail a taxi and return in its air-conditioned comfort, but he decided to endure the rising temperature and humidity level and finish the walk instead, and enjoy more of the Quarter.

  As he meandered through the crowded square he did a mental run-through of the general plans he had for the rest of the day. First, he would return to the hotel and have the valet retrieve his rental car from the hotel’s parking deck. From there he planned to drive into the Warehouse/Arts District of the city and locate the man he had been hired to kill. He had laid out his plans for the job quite carefully—he had examined the recent photos he requested, he was quite familiar with the major streets he’d need to negotiate, he had the address where the target could be found this afternoon, and he had familiarized himself with the routines and habits of the target.

  When he first learned of the name and occupation of the intended hit, he thought it was a bit unusual for his client to go to such lengths, and expense, to have the man taken out, but he dismissed it rather quickly. A job was a job, and this was no different from the others. A job to be done, and it paid well. He was obligated to his client to get it done, and it was none of his business why it was to be done. The fee for doing so went a long way in erasing any doubts or concerns he might have; fees had a special way of doing that.

  The final part of the day’s plan was where it got a little tricky, but he knew he’d manage through it. After the job was done, he would find a spot to ditch the rental—perhaps near the lakeshore—and hail a taxi to take him to the parking deck on St. Charles where he had left his Camaro. Leaving from there he would simply drive into the French Quarter, free and unencumbered to do what he wanted there. He had no other obligations, no assignments, no contracts, nothing on his schedule for the next few days, so he planned to enjoy the many pleasures the Vieux Carre had to offer.

  One of the things he looked forward to most was the downtime. Time to join in and do what the natives were doing: enjoying life. It was what he loved most about the city—their attitude about life. And about time. He loved the laid-back nature of the people who lived and worked in this city, and especially those in the Quarter. Schedules and agendas and deadlines didn’t matter so much to them. There seemed to be an endless supply of time for these people to enjoy the things life had to offer. He long ago adopted the city’s unofficial saying as his own when he came here. He still had trouble with his French, and he wished it would roll off his tongue as someone fluent in the language would say it. “Nous ne sommes pas presses,” he said aloud and as best he could but to no one in particular.

  He walked farther along the sidewalk, to the center of the park, and approached the statue that dominated its center. Andrew Jackson sat high, mounted on his horse, hat in hand, gazing off into the distance, as if he had something of importance on his mind and somewhere he had to be. Jack thought back to his American history class in high school and what he had learned in that class about the man. What he remembered most was that the general was a hot-tempered, impatient man who was obsessed with his future and his place in the country’s politics. Quite suitable for Washington, but not here in New Orleans. Not even back then. He’s probably looking for the nearest exit out of here, Jack thought.

  As he walked around the statue on his way out of the square, Jack gently chided the general for his impatience and preoccupation with matters other than New Orleans.

  “Remember what they say, General,” Jack whispered in passing, “nous ne sommes pas presses. No rush. No hurry.”

  CHAPTER 5

  After leaving Jackson Square on its north side, opposite the St. Louis Cathedral, Jack turned left and walked along Chartres Street. He took his time strolling down Chartres, and when he reached Bienville Street he turned right. He leisurely walked the next two blocks, window-shopping, people watching, and when he reached the intersection with Royal Street he turned left and arrived back at the Monteleone. The heat and humidity during the stroll to the Café du Monde and the return walk back to the hotel had made him sweat profusely; he felt clammy and in dire need of a shower and a new set of clothes. He entered the lobby and walked through the cool, softly lit interior of the hotel to an elevator, rode up to the third floor, quickly exited, and walked down the hall to his room.

  * * *

  After he toweled himself dry and finished in the bathroom he walked over to the closet. He pulled out a crisp white dress shirt, freshly ironed tan slacks, a dark-brown dress belt, a navy-blue blazer, and a green-and-navy-blue striped tie that were hanging in the closet. He picked up the dark-brown leather dress shoes from the floor of the closet, walked over to the bed, laid out the clothes on the bed and shoes on the floor, and stepped back to examine them. He glanced over at the clos
et, and looked at the three-hundred-dollar light-grey suit that hung there, but decided against wearing it after all. The suit would be too over the top for today.

  Sure would look good on me, though, he thought. He looked back at the clothing lying on the bed. This will have to do. He reassured himself, finally concluding, It’s all good. Still professional looking. More in line with what an insurance salesman or a legal assistant at a law firm could afford.

  When he had finished dressing, Jack walked over to the chest of drawers, opened the top drawer, and extracted the shoulder holster and the .45 automatic. He strapped on the shoulder harness, placed the .45 in the holster, and walked back over to the bed. He put on the jacket and turned to check himself in the full-length mirror hanging next to the closet door. He placed an extra clip for the .45 in the left outer pocket of the blazer, gathered his wallet and keys to the rental car from the top of the dresser, and placed them in his pant pockets. He went over to the bed, picked up the briefcase that sat on the floor next to the bed, and turned toward the door. He walked out of the hotel room and pulled the door behind him. He hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outer handle, and checked the door handle.