Bayou Brigade (10 page)

Slayton cast his eyes on the lewd images littering the walls. Then Howard sprung on him full force from a kneeling stance.
A bony fist struck the T-man’s gut, pushing oxygen out his lungs and bringing a slight tear to his eyes. Bambi screamed, but
couldn’t aim the Magnum properly; when she fired, it was a complete miss—the bullet penetrated the rear wall ten feet off-target.
The recoil sent her sprawling on the carpet, feet up.

Howard climbed all over Slayton, pulling at his hair and kicking his chest, shoving the tin of Crisco into his face. Slayton
regained leverage, caught Howard in the stomach with both feet, and sent him flying in an uncoordinated somersault.

The Magnum pulled into Howard’s line of sight, its barrel entering his mouth and tickling his molars. Slayton didn’t shoot,
but Howard was prepared to meet his maker.

“Tell me, boy,” Slayton wheezed. His chest ached. “Where are the guns going?”

“No one in Louisiana needs that kind of machinery,” Howard gasped.

That was the second time Slayton had heard that line. “Why not?”

“Because Workman has all those contracts! I never handle the merchandise,” Howard sobbed. Slayton released the trigger, removing
the gun.

Bambi screamed, “The door!” Slayton caught only a glimpse of what hit him. Two full-bodied blacks laid into him with chains;
Slayton went down, dazed, his head swimming. Bambi stopped hollering, but her first. yell echoed in Ben’s mind at different
pitches, like a record playing at three variable speeds, one sound overlapping another.

Fists with brass knuckles rained blows onto Slayton’s head, arms, shoulders, and stomach, already bruised from Howard’s attack.

He came to in the cellar filled with rubbish.

The stairs he was lying on were lacquered with filth, the bulk of which spread out on the floor before him. This was where
the garbage collectors wouldn’t dare go pick up the trash, he laughed to himself.
Oh, it’s not funny —pain
rippled up his spine. No broken bones, luckily, but countless bruises turned into slow torture each time he moved.

What he could see was bathed in an eerie low-wattage pallor. A single bulb hung suspended on a flimsy cord, revealing several
split bags of aging refuse. The stench alarmed him into a fuller awareness with each whiff. Mason jars, some broken, were
scattered throughout the area; newspapers, bundled and tied, lay yellowing in one corner.

He pulled himself up the stairs. Once on his feet, he hobbled achingly through a narrow hallway and into Howard’s living area.

A human arm, clutching in its death grip a piece of broken glass, was draped across the floor in his path. It was Bambi, thrown
clumsily behind the refrigerator, her lower stomach and sexual organs horribly mutilated. Her throat was slit from ear to
ear and the eyes torn from .their sockets.

Howard sat in a small chair facing a picture of Adolph Hitler. Blood was smeared over the walls. He raised his head as Slayton
approached.

“Why did you do it, Howard?”

The man in the chair turned, facing Slayton. His face was cut a dozen times and continued to bleed. Holding up hands that
were nothing more than bloody ribbons, Howard said, “Look what she did to my face.”

“Sonofabitch.” Slayton kicked the chair out from under him, jabbering obscenities and looking around the room for a gun.
I ought to kill you right now, prick,
he thought. But Slayton fought that urge—he would not descend to Howard’s level of cruelty.

Slayton booted him in the spine as he lolled on the carpet. The downed man whimpered, beyond pain, light-years beyond emotion.
Slayton felt a slight tinge of pity for Howard. How could anyone kill the way Howard had destroyed Bambi?

“Why did you do it?” Slayton repeated.

“Look at my face,” came the answer. Howard revolved onto his back. His mouth was an opening surrounded by torn, distorted
flesh.

Slayton felt ill and looked at the ceiling. Dead moths were silhouetted inside the translucent light fixture.

“She wouldn’t play with me,” Howard cried, “and then she cut me.”

“You pathetic bastard,” was Slayton’s only comment. “And you don’t even have the weapons here.” Howard shook his head.

Staggering from the apartment, Slayton reasoned that the lugs responsible for beating him senseless probably didn’t stick
around long. What time was it? Entering the car, he saw the clock blaze a minute past one. Parks must be having a shit fit.
Slayton laughed, and a dull pain ran through his innards.

The street was deserted save for a drunk passed out in the gutter, snoring loudly. The engine roared. Sepia-tone city lights
cast an other-worldly hue on Division Street as he drove across the Chicago River bridge and into the financial section. He
had already passed two public phones with sliced cords. Shit!—another one was gutted, completely.

The car sped into an all-night gas station. The resident, pay phone was operative.

“Parks, it’s Ben Slayton.”

“We thought you were dead. Where are you?”

“Three blocks from your office. I’m a’ little worse for wear, but I’ll live.”

“Wait there. I’ll be right over.”

When the police found Howard, he had slashed his wrists with the same knife he had used on Bambi. Photographs of both corpses
were featured in the morning papers, although reporters were asked not to reveal the name of the Treasury Department officer
involved in leading the cops to the scene.

“It was amazing you survived,” said Parks, as he entered the Bureau office. Slayton had slept the rest of the night in a back
room on a cot, despite his wounds causing severe discomfort.

Parks handed him a cup of coffee. “Damn lucky,” Slayton remarked for emphasis.

“The guys who stomped on you were Charlemagne’s boogies.” Parks returned the coffee pot to its burner. “When they confessed,
though, it turns out Charlemagne was not well liked by his underlings. You were punched out, so they would look good to their
next employer. That’s why they didn’t waste you.”

“I should send them a thank-you card,” said Slayton, poking a tenderized stomach muscle.

“When will you leave for New Orleans?”

“Flight’s at two.” Slayton looked out the third-story window. A blanket of gray smog hovered above the city; factories spewed
out polluted, ashen clouds.

“The whore had a family in Indianapolis,” said Parks. “Kentucky, actually.” The word
whore
abruptly stung. “It’s too bad for her.”

Slayton sighed, “Just another casualty of war, I guess.” He finished the coffee, grimacing at its bitter taste.

The Secret Service agent led Hamilton Winship through a myriad of corridors, past innumerable expensive
objects d’art
lining the walls. The White House had been redecorated when the new President took office, and his taste was impeccable.
Several ancient stone plates were on display in a glass case as they entered the executive study.

“Wait here,” said the agent.

Winship strolled down two aisles of classical literature in the small personal library built into one wall of the study. Shakespeare,
Melville, Hemingway, Voltaire, even Jean-Paul Sartre’s finest works were on display.

“Good morning, Ham.” The President walked briskly across the room and shook Winship’s hand, pumping it vigorously. “Glad you
could stop by.”

“Anytime,” Winship said, unsure of why he had been called there in the first place.

They sat side by side on a tan naugahyde couch. “Ham,” began the President, slapping his right hand down on his leg, “I understand
there’s been a break in, this Washington Monument-bombing case.”

“Not exactly a break, sir. Our man Slayton discovered who was aiding the terrorists in supplying weapons.”

“Then we don’t have the bastards responsible for the bombing?”

“Not yet. Should be any day.”

The President’s face grew hollow, grim. “We cannot let animals push this country around. These barbarians must be punished.”

“I’m aware, and in total agreement with you, Mr. President.”

“Hamilton, I’ve decided
not
to cancel my televised address to the people. I know the Secretary of State, and even you, warned me that an assassination
attempt may be the next project for these politicial ruffians. But this Administration must show that political blackmail
and terrorism are hopelessly futile endeavors. The American public must be shown that this Administration will not be intimidated.”

“I agree entirely, but in my briefing I described that this is no ordinary subversive group. They have technology above Sand
beyond anything we have dealt with. To put it bluntly, Mr. President, unless we can stop them before the next assault, your
life is in grave danger.”

The President, torn between personal risk and an obligation to reassure the public, clasped his hands as if in prayer. “I
understand the threat, and all security precautions are being taken, but I must make you awar of the situation as it is now.
This country is faced wit the same sort of upheaval that Europe has been wallowing in for years. Terrorism must not be allowed
to under mine the American way of life. I can’t ignore my swo obligation to this nation’s citizens to speak to them about
terrorism in the most honest of terms.”

“But realistically you can’t expect to stop terrorism by simply propagandizing against it.”

“Of course not, but the American people must be inspired to have faith in their government, to rest assured that I will not
kowtow to the demands of anarchists, no matter what kind of military strength they have. Ham, the latest popularity polls
show my support dropping. The Washington Monument incident has proved to the people that terrorism is a national threat, and
can strike anywhere. In the two days since the attack, the news media have overplayed the fact that no official statement
of policy on terrorism has been issued from the White House. I must proceed with the address, no matter what the cost.”

“Naturally, Mr. President, you have my full cooperation, and for my part I will try to step up Mr. Slayton’s progress. But
I can give you no guarantees.”

“None are asked,” said the President, touching Win-ship’s shoulder. “Just make damn sure that Slayton gets to these shit-heels
before any more innocent people are killed.”

“We’re on alert, sir.”

Winship shook the man’s hand, noticing in his face a great conflict of the heart. He did not wish to center himself in a bull’s
eye for sharpshooting radicals. His fear was far outweighed by disgust.

“I have faith,” Winship said reassuringly, “that Ben Slayton can stop them, if anybody can.”

Orial Telemacques washed the pots and pans in the swampy inlet which marked the border between their property and the neighbor’s
sugar cane field. She scrubbed mechanically, her thoughts unvaryingly focused on the dog she loved, her mongrel companion
Bep. The old boy hadn’t come home in two days, not since she and father returned from the city, from talking with the newspaper
people.

Standing with a load of clean dishes tucked under her arm, she faced the dense thicket of tules and cypress trees and called
out the animal’s name. Five minutes passed, and no Bep.

She was careful of how she appeared outdoors. Since the men with rifles built the fortress two miles away, there were times
when they’d spy on her from the trees as she sunbathed in the nude. Her father ordered that she wear a T-shirt or even the
green bathing suit he had bought for her fifteenth birthday. But the men still came around to watch.

It was nearly sundown. The weather had cooled off since the weekend hot spell, although confused mosquitoes continued to dance
in the air, convinced spring was here.

Her father was inside the very old wood frame home, sitting next to the stove, watching the fire glow. He was drinking again.

There was still an occasional sober moment at night, reminiscent of happier times, so long ago. His lovely wife, Willa, had
died in childbirth, leaving Orial in exchange. Now his daughter was fast becoming a delicate beauty, resembling her mother
in many ways. So obsessed with Willa was Jacques Telemacques that he quickly took to the bottle when Orial began flowering
into womanhood, a constant painful reminder of his graceful French-Canadian wife.

And there was the witchcraft. The old Acadians believed strongly in the power of ghosts who inhabited the swamps. Telemacques
was certain he could raise the spirit of his dead wife, to seal his passage to her side when he died. The liquor fueled his
fervor during the many nocturnal incantations—once he felt Willa’s “presence” in the room, but Orial saw nothing and dismissed
it as a hallucination induced by alcohol and grief.

“The Indian bastard,” said Baal, aware that Telemacques had violated their agreement by talking to the reporters in New Orleans.

Now he and two other men, Merriott and Crazy Laser Orange, were paddling a small boat through the bayou to pay the Indian
a visit.

Baal had personally seen to it that Telemacques was given anything he wanted to stay quiet. Three more cases of 150-proof
were delivered just last week, and Baal had made demands on the patrols that they stay clear of the old man’s house. But surveillance
was kept on Telemacques anyway; he was an irrational old fool, prone to vengeance, especially after discovering two of Baal’s
guards taunting his daughter while she bathed in a lagoon. That time he had opened fire on them, lodging some painful rock
salt in a man’s leg. Overall, The Brigade had pretty much left Telemacques alone, though. Besides, he had helped them out
when the arms shipments came in, meeting truckers at the main road and signing the bills of lading.

That was the arrangement. And Telemacques blew it.

Orial was undressing for bed when the terrorists invaded her father’s home. She screamed when one of them hurled a half-eaten
dog carcass into the middle of the room. It was Bep.

The men waved their guns, the slit-eyed Merriott speaking first. “We found this critter all tore up in the swamp. Thought
it might be yours.”