The Prodigal Son Page 6

  Good, he thought. Locked. Everything’s secure. He reached for the handle again, to check it once more, to be absolutely certain, but forced himself to stop. He knew going through with it, checking it again, would only reinforce what that army shrink also wrote in that damn report of his years ago. Jack had memorized the report, word for word, and what he focused on now was the part he hated.

  . . .Furthermore, Specialist 4 John Thomas Brantley exhibits a condition known as obsessive-compulsive disorder. From my interviews, observations, and assessment of Specialist Brantley, I have concluded that, while this condition would be unlikely to be detrimental to him and others in his company, his condition could lead to further complications and problems. . . Blah, blah, blah.

  He went so far as to consider removing the sign from the door. There was no real need for it, as room service was through for the day and no one else would enter the room. He chastised himself. Quit being so careful and so paranoid, Jack. Then he thought of one of his rules, and he left the sign in place.

  “Better to err on the side of caution,” he said aloud as he walked toward the elevator.

  * * *

  Jack stood outside the front entrance of the Monteleone, waiting patiently for the young valet to retrieve his rental car from the hotel’s parking deck. While he waited he struck up a conversation with the doorman.

  “I hope you’ve been enjoying your stay with us, Mr. Pittman,” the doorman said. “Have you had a chance to spend any time in the Quarter yet?”

  “I hope to be able to do just that this evening, my friend,” Jack replied. “This is only my second time visiting your wonderful city. I didn’t have much time when I was here last, so I’m going to make up for the missed opportunities. I hope to find a great restaurant tonight. I hear there are so many to choose from. After I wrap up all these darn meetings this afternoon, I’ve got the evening to myself. Got any recommendations?”

  Jack was lying, of course. He had a nearly encyclopedic knowledge of the French Quarter and its restaurants, its bars, and its lounges. But he was here under the name of Richard Pittman of Houston, Texas. A mid-level executive who worked for the Shell Oil Company. In town for a couple of days, he was passing himself off as a very busy man with important meetings to attend each afternoon. He was using this guise for only the second time; this hit involved a much more public figure in the city, not some obscure resident of Nowhere, Alabama, as was the last job. He made the decision to be very cautious. Another rule to operate by came to mind. Something he carried over from his school days. Better safe than sorry, he thought. There was always the danger of his cover being blown, of some misstep occurring. Not that it should happen, but it could. He had other covers for future jobs, such as Robert Tilton. But Tilton was from New Orleans, so he chose not to use that cover here. Too risky. He would save it and use it again somewhere else. If a newer, fresher cover was required, he knew he could count on Eddie Trask to come up with one, along with the necessary, carefully crafted documents. But for now, he would pose as Richard Pittman, and he’d let the doorman and the young valet remain under the impression that he was from out of town and, as someone unfamiliar with New Orleans, a guy who could really use the recommendations.

  From his casual observations, Jack knew the valet was pretty young, and therefore probably inexperienced in the subtleties and nuances of the Quarter. He thought the doorman was much older, probably as old, if not older, than himself. The valet probably hadn’t hit his twenty-first birthday in stride yet. If he surpassed the mark, then good for him; if not, Jack wished him Godspeed.

  He turned his attention to the older fellow standing beside him. Why not strike up a conversation? Pick his brain about the Quarter. At the very least, kill a few minutes while waiting for the car to arrive. His previous encounters with the doorman so far—last night, and again this morning—were positive ones for Jack. He certainly seems enthusiastic about the job, Jack thought. One of those eager-to-please types, I’ll bet. Jack hoped the man did have some good experiences in the Quarter to talk about. It’ll be my luck the guy’s a teetotaler. He was looking for something different tonight, someplace he hadn’t been before, and could use a local’s take on it. A great recommendation was what was required. Let’s fish for one.

  Jack had already made his decision where he wanted to eat tonight—there was no better place than Galatoire’s. If there were, he didn’t know about it. He planned to dine alone there, to savor the meal and the ambience. To enjoy the whole experience of the place again, without the added burden of carrying on a conversation with someone he really didn’t want to be with in the first place. It was okay to be alone; not always, of course, but he chose to be alone often.

  During his tenure with the CIA, Jack Brantley had been branded as a “lone wolf” and, unlike others who had been stamped the same, he didn’t mind that label at all. After all, it was true. He needed people only to fulfill his purposes. A woman was, as far as he was concerned, designed to satisfy a particular need. It wasn’t for conversation. More than one woman tried to get close to him, but he maintained his distance and chose to live and work alone.

  Jack knew he’d have plenty of time, once the job was finished, to satisfy his palate at Galatoire’s. What he was looking for was a new place to pick up a woman to satisfy another need. Someplace that was a little different or unusual had to exist in the Quarter; he just had to find it or be made aware of its existence. He needed to keep from getting completely bored playing the same tiresome game. He knew how to play it, of course, and picking up a woman at a bar was far more challenging, and ultimately more satisfying, than paying for a hooker. He had plenty of money for them, and he found some of them to be true professionals plying their trade. Paying for a woman was the last option for him, and he was hoping it would not end up that way in the Quarter tonight.

  He decided to see what places the doorman knew of and would recommend. He was even willing to wager on the outcome. It’s up to you, bud, he thought. Point me in the direction of some wild women. Your tip’s riding on the outcome.

  He thought back to a previous interaction he’d had with a doorman at a hotel in downtown Jacksonville. He remembered he knew little of the city’s nightlife, and the doorman there came through admirably. Let’s see how this one does. He set the scale for judging today’s recommendation. Average and predictable, just a five, Jack thought. Above average, but still predictable, a ten. Superior, someplace I’ve never been or just have to check out the babes, a twenty. He was curious to see how it would play out with this man.

  “Well, sir, you can’t go wrong if you were to choose to dine at Galatoire’s,” the doorman answered when asked which restaurant to eat at. “Their Oysters Rockefeller and Shrimp Amandine come highly recommended.”

  Agreeable. So far so good, Jack thought. At least a ten coming your way.

  “And then afterward, there’s no better place than Pat O’Brien’s. The Hurricane they serve there is a must for anyone visiting New Orleans. . .”

  Oops, you’re slipping, Jack thought. Been there. Done that. Minus five for the faux pas.

  “. . .and if you’re into Jazz, then there’s no better place to hear it than at the Preservation Hall. I’ll be glad to give you directions to any of them, if you’d like.”

  So far, just average, Jack thought. Come on, man, you can do better than that. Earn your money, for God’s sake!

  Jack assumed the doorman, like so many doormen and concierges and valets, was well-trained by his supervisor or some other staff member of the Monteleone to recommend the usual tourist stops. Maybe they have a special training session for it, he thought. Titled something like “Places of Interest to Tell Visitors When They Bother to Ask.” He wanted to see how much this guy really knew about the Big Easy. Jack had been to all of them on numerous occasions, and though they were fine, greater places beckoned.

  Jack looked at the name tag he was wearing. “Well, Andrew, I have heard of Galatoire’s, and because you’re recommen
ding it, then Galatoire’s it is,” he said. “For the food, of course. But what I need is something more than Pat O’Brien’s. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. It’s just that I was there the last time I visited the city. I need a bar or lounge with a little more local flavor to it.” Jack looked at the name again. “So tell me, Andrew. What’s another place I could go to?”

  “Then you’ve gotta go to Donna’s, over on Rampart Street,” Andrew replied. “Too bad you’re gonna eat at Galatoire’s, Mr. Pittman. The barbeque and the red beans and rice Donna’s serves is as good as you can get, both for the flavor of New Orleans and for the money. The drinks are okay, kinda average. But you gotta check out the brass bands that play there. Their music is first rate.”

  Better, Jack thought. You’re up to a ten again, bubba. Let’s see if you’ve got an ace up your sleeve. “Come on, Andrew,” he said aloud. “Between you and me—I know we just met and don’t know one another—but level with me. In your personal opinion, where’s the real action? I’m looking for a good time tonight. A real good time, if you know what I mean.”

  “I tell you, Mr. Pittman, I really don’t hit the bars like I used to,” Andrew replied. “Don’t play the field much anymore, either, not since I met up with a special lady. Her name’s Belinda, and she don’t like to go out much. We stay in a lot during the week. Go out Friday or Saturday nights, depending on which one I get as my night off. That’s about it. So I guess I’m not much good to you, for that kind of advice, I mean.”

  “Ah, that’s all right, Andrew,” Jack said. “I’ll just stumble my way around the Quarter tonight. Maybe I’ll get lucky anyway.”

  Jack turned his attention back to the activity on the street, watching for the arrival of his rented Oldsmobile Cutlass. This part of Royal Street was designated one way, east to west. He looked to the right and spotted the silver car rolling slowly toward the front of the hotel. When it pulled alongside the front, the doorman turned to Jack and spoke again.

  “Mr. Pittman, if I may say so, I think I know who may have an answer for you. Bobby’s about to get out of your car and maybe he can point you in the right direction.”

  “Who, him? The one who went to get my car? He’s just a kid,” Jack said.

  “You’d be surprised,” Andrew said. “I know he looks like he’s fresh outta high school and all. But he’s actually twenty-two, about to turn twenty-three this summer.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Jack replied.

  “As a heart attack, Mr. Pittman,” Andrew said. “Go ahead and ask him. Lots of folks don’t believe it, either. Ask him to show you his driver’s license. He won’t mind if you do. He’s used to people not believing how old he is, so when push comes to shove, if they still don’t believe him, he pulls out the license without them even asking. Just to prove it. He has a bit of a chip on his shoulder, I think.”

  “I just may take you up on that, Andrew,” Jack said as he pulled out a ten-dollar bill from his pants pocket and handed it to the doorman. “See ya’ around.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pittman,” Andrew said. “Don’t know if I did much to deserve it, but thank you very much.”

  “You suggested Galatoire’s to me, and Donna’s,” Jack stated. “And I enjoyed talkin’ to you.”

  Jack walked over to the rental. Bobby was standing beside the left front door and held it open for him. Jack handed him the briefcase, and Bobby leaned into the car and placed it on the front passenger seat. He stood up, and stepped aside so that Jack could gain access to the vehicle.

  “Young man,” Jack began, “Andrew over there tells me your name is Bobby, and from what I’m told you may have some experience in the Quarter. That you might be able to point me in the direction of someplace unusual. I already know about O’Brien’s and Donna’s, the Preservation Hall, all the usual tourist stops. So what’s someplace you’d recommend? A personal favorite?”

  Jack decided he’d use the same criteria he applied to Andrew. Come on, kid, your tip’s riding on this, he thought.

  “You ain’t gonna be like them others, Mr. Pittman, and think I’m too young for the Quarter?” Bobby asked. “I get so tired of people thinkin’ I ain’t even out of high school yet.”

  “No, Bobby,” Jack replied. “No need to go there. I have to admit you do look young, but Andrew over there vouches for you. Says you’ve been around some. What I’m hoping is you’ve found a place where the locals hang out. I know I’m from out of town but I do like to catch some of the local flavor. A place with good drinks and music, but more importantly with good-looking women who are looking for a good time.”

  “Mr. Pittman, since you asked, I’ll be glad to tell you. There ain’t nothing in the Quarter quite like the Famous Door over on Bourbon Street,” Andrew replied. “It totally rocks, if you know what I mean. And the women there! Ain’t none easier to pick up, in my opinion and experience.” He seemed embarrassed when he said it, and then added, “If that’s what you have in mind, Mr. Pittman.”

  Bingo, kid! Jack thought. You just earned yourself a twenty. “I just may take you up on your advice, Bobby. Andrew has recommended Galatoire’s for my dinner and I think I’ll stick with that. Afterward, I may just wander on over to Bourbon Street and pay a visit to this Famous Door place that you so highly recommend. Thanks again. Here’s a little something, just for leveling with me,” he said aloud as he winked and handed Bobby a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Thank you,” Bobby said as he examined it. “Man, that’s awesome. I hope you have a good afternoon, Mr. Pittman. And an even better evening, wherever it takes you. If it’s to the Famous Door, I just may see you there.”

  That’s a possibility, Jack thought. Kid, if I score while I’m there, I’ll buy you a drink. If she’s hot, I’ll pick up your tab for the whole night.

  * * *

  Jack left the Monteleone, headed west on Royal, and quickly came to the intersection at Canal Street. It was early afternoon, and the traffic on Canal in both directions was thick and slow moving. He had expected it to be and was not disappointed in his prediction. He heard it said—more than a few times—that Canal was arguably the most heavily used north-and-south route in the downtown area, and it was true. It certainly was at this time of the day. In his opinion, it was always busy, no matter what time it was.

  Jack waited patiently for the light to turn green and the traffic to clear the intersection before he chanced crossing the busy street. Once through the intersection the road became St. Charles Avenue, and Jack continued driving west on the crowded street, alongside the street’s infamous green-colored streetcars. He glanced over as they passed by, each one heavily laden with tourists and locals alike. The cars ran on tracks in the middle of the street and were headed west out of the Business District to pass through the Warehouse/Arts District and into the western end of the city with its fine homes in the Garden District.

  Jack inched the Cutlass along the busy confines of St. Charles; several minutes later he passed through the intersection at Poydras Street. Not as familiar with the cross streets as wished he were, he began looking for Julia Street. After a couple of blocks he found it and turned right onto it and followed Julia northward; two blocks later he saw the street sign indicating he was at the intersection of Julia and Baronne. He made a left turn onto Baronne and saw the building housing the Catholic Charities office, just ahead and on his right. He drove slowly along Baronne, and stopped in front of the building. He glanced out the right front window and read the sign that stood between the sidewalk and the front of the building.

  CATHOLIC CHARITIES OFFICE

  ARCHDIOCESE OF NEW ORLEANS

  825 BARONNE STREET

  According to the information provided to him from his client, Jack should find his intended target here this afternoon. He drove a little farther along the street until he spotted an empty parking space on the right side at the end of the block. He pulled into the space, leaving the engine running. He reached over and opened the briefcase he had placed on the f
ront seat next to him. He pulled out the intel report and read it again:

  Father Edward Brennan. Age forty-five. Height: six-one. Weight: one seventy-five to one eighty. Thin, light-brown hair, receding hairline. No visible scars. Assigned to the Catholic Charities Office, 825 Baronne Street, New Orleans (Warehouse/Arts District), Monday through Friday, 1 p.m. to 5 p.m. Otherwise, subject can be found at various times performing his duties as associate parish priest at the Sacred Heart of Jesus Catholic Church, 7067 St. Charles Ave., New Orleans (Garden District, near Loyola University). Subject resides at the rectory behind the church building. Subject says Mass at the church every Saturday at 5 p.m. and every Sunday at 8 a.m. Extremely busy area. Unless absolutely necessary, I suggest making no contact with subject at the church, its adjacent office, or the residence building. Recommend contact be made with subject at the Catholic Charities Office on Baronne St. Tuesday or Wednesday. Thursday if necessary. Fewer clientele has been observed those afternoons. Definitely avoid contact Monday and Friday. Streets around office are extremely busy then with vehicular traffic, and foot traffic going into and exiting the office is heavy those afternoons.

  Jack had read the intel report a couple of times prior to this, and now for the third time, sitting in the Cutlass at the end of the block. The surveillance man was obviously a pro and, from what Jack could tell just by reading the report, appeared to have his act together. However, what Jack found most interesting each time he read the report was a handwritten note the surveillance man enclosed with the report. Jack heard his client had objected, but the man insisted on its inclusion.

  Personal notes and observations:

  Subject is rarely seen by himself. Subject is very engaging and appears to enjoy having lots of people around him. It may be difficult to find him alone during normal business hours. After hours may be the best approach. I did approach the subject once at the church, on the pretense of being lost and needing directions. Subject invited me into his office and asked me about my family, church attendance, other things of a personal nature. Said he was from St. Louis, that his mother had been sick. Asked if he could pray for me and my family. I declined, but he was persistent, and he prayed anyway. Unusual man, to say the least. Hope this helps when the time comes.