KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set (5 page)

Her eyebrows shot up, and she slowly took the money.

“Listen ... do you mind if I call you
Smokey
?”

She was still staring at the money.

“I need to run,” I continued, “but my friends here will take care of any details.” I nodded to Beautiful and Booger.

They both nodded back.

“They’ll vouch for me, as well. Beautiful Johnson is an upstanding citizen of San Diego and a businessman in the highest regard in his community. He has lots of references.”

The huge man gave her his lady-killing smile. “And, if you let E Z park his boat here, we’ll even stick around a couple days to help you get this place ship-shape for your open house.”

Booger also grinned at her. He had several teeth missing.

“My friend Booker Ratcliff is a different story, but he’s a great guy.”

Then I remembered the marina’s tow truck my buddies had used to stop the patrol car.

“This is for the wrecker,” I said, pulling out the second stack of bills again.

Smokey steadied herself with one hand on the bar as she took the extra ten thousand.

She looked up at me. “The front end was shot, and the motor needed overhauled. I’m surprised it made it out of the parking lot. It isn’t worth half this much.”

I told her, “It was worth ten times that to me.”

Chapter
7

Popeye, the Killer
Man

Monday Morning

On the plane
, I looked at the photos Tamara had texted me. She’d received them from her son in the days before he went missing.

The first shot was of the
New Orleans Airport. Then there was the USMC recruiting office where Billy worked, a few of partying on Bourbon Street, several pictures of the shop called
Jazzy Brass
, as well as a couple of the fat old black man with a pregnant golden retriever.

I took a careful look at the last
image, the one Tamara had shown me at the hospital. In the photo, the old man seemed to be playing a trombone — and the lovely redhead standing next to him had a saxophone to her lips.

That was where I would start my investigation; track these two people down. After that, I hoped instinct and whatever I gleaned from them might drive me in the right direction.

After landing and plucking my bags off the carousel, I went for the car rental shuttle area outside.

The heat and humidity greeted me first — air as thick as paint. It wouldn’t take long to work up a sweat out here, even on this fine February morning.

I set my bags at the curb and loosened two buttons on my shirt as I scanned the cement grey sky. No rain clouds, but the atmosphere was gloomy to say the least.

As I waited for the next shuttle bus, a black limo pulled to the curb nearby and a large man in a dark-grey business suit got out. He opened the passenger door and approached me.

“Are you Mr. Knight?” He was smiling.

I frowned at him, wondering how he knew. Had Tamara or Harper called ahead? Then I noticed a large bulge in his sport coat on the left side.

“Who wants to know?”

His jaw clenched, but he was still smiling.

“John Poppy,” he said. “I’ve been asked to pick you up.” He took one of my bags that I’d laid beside me at the curb.

Strike one
. You don’t touch my stuff unless I say you can — and he didn’t even offer a handshake.

“Ms.
White Cloud wants me to take you wherever you need to go.” His accent was New Jersey or New York.

“Oh, yeah?” I said. “I’m fine on my own, thanks.”

“Come on, mac,” the guy said. Then he made the worst mistake of his life; he put a hand on my shoulder — the injured one.

Strike two.

“Hands off,” I said, and shoved his big bear paw away. “Don’t do it again.”

The big man frowned at me. Then he got that look in his eyes that always tells me someone is about to do something really stupid ... and he did—

*   *   *

His hand is coming up, this time with force to grab my shoulder.

Strike three
.

I take his fingers, collapse them into his palm like a fist, and force his wrist inward as far as it will possibly go. The big man is on his knees and in obvious pain in an instant.

His jacket is open, revealing a Mach 10 underneath.

I release his hand, step back and point my left finger like a gun at his weapon. “Don’t even
think about pulling that piece of shit on me unless you’d like to do the world a favor and be dead.”

Big man John Poppy is rubbing his wrist. He’s fuming — really pissed, his face stoplight red.

“Yeah? What are you going to kill me with, your finger?”

I tell him,
“Sure. If that’s your choice of weapons today.”

John Poppy
goes for his gun.

In a swift and precise move, I jab my left index finger into hi
s right eye and it pops out, partway onto his cheek. With my forefinger still in his eye socket, I think about shoving it farther, through the optic nerve canal and into his brain. But a body lying here might be hard to explain and get me caught up in trouble I can ill afford. Besides, he might know something.

Several bystanders stop along the curb by the waiting taxis. I’m glad none are cops or security. John Poppy is moaning and groaning.

Smiling at them, I say, “Not to worry folks! This’s my doctor, and he’s going to drive me to the hospital. He’s assured me that my finger will be fine.”

A few of them move along.

“Okay, Popeye,” I tell him, hooking my finger into the sinus canal just above his cheek bone for a good hold. “You say you want to take me where I need to go?”

After leading him to the open passenger side door of his car, I
force him inside.

In a low voice, I say, “Scoot behind the wheel, asshole — before I kill you.”

Pulling my finger from his face makes a mud sucking sound, a bit grosser than I’d expected.

Popeye groans in pain.

While wiping the moisture from my left hand on the arm of his suit coat, I grab his Mach 10 machine pistol with my right and drop the automatic weapon onto the floor of the passenger side. I turn back and quickly snatch up my bags, throw them into the back seat and jump in beside my new chauffer.

As I recover the Mach 10 from the floor, Popeye i
s trying to set his eyeball back into its socket.

“No. Don’t screw around with it,” I tell him and slap his hands away. “Your hands are dirty,” I mock with my perception of what his mother would have said. “You might get it infected and make it worse.” My voice is stern now, “
Drive
.”

“What are you talking about, man?” The big guy is whining like a small child. “You poked my eye out.”

“Do you want to die? Play it cool, and I’ll let you go to the doctor and get
all-all
better
. You get me the hell away from this airport right now, and don’t you dare touch your damn eye until you do.”

“You’re a real bastard, man. I can’t see.” Pink tears are streaming down his right cheek.

“That’s me; a ‘real bastard’ — and you still have one eye, Popeye. So quit crying, and go.” I move my foot over to the accelerator and stomp it to the floor.

Ahh!
Now Popeye is screaming like a little girl.

His head is swinging around wildly, trying to watch out for cars and shuttles with his good eye as he steers into the busy airport traffic.

“Slow down, damn it!” he says. “I can’t see the cars!”

He starts to brake.

I thump his protruding eye with my finger.

“Ouch! Stop!” The eyeball swings on his cheek momentarily.

“Get your damn foot off the brake, or I’ll do it again.”

He can’t see me or my finger. I’m on his blind side. I surprise him when he doesn’t do as told quickly enough.

Thump!

“Ouch! Damn you! Okay, okay.” He obeys, and I slow down a little.

We’re away from the front of the airport terminal now, and we turn into the exit lane.

“Who hired you?” I ask.

“Shit, man — you know I can’t tell you that.”

I open the glove compartment and find two aerosol cans of car air freshener.

“Hmm,” I say, “which do you prefer, Maui Breeze or Cool Stream?”

“What?” He asks, and he tries to look at what I have. That has to be difficult with only one good eye while attempting to negotiate traffic with a crazy man operating your foot-feed.

“Better tell me,” I insist, “or I’ll have to pick for myself. Maui Breeze or Cool Stream?”

I can tell he’s afraid I’m going to thump his right eyeball again.

“I don’t know ... Cool Stream, I guess.”

“Good choice,” I tell him. “It matches your eye. A pretty blue, isn’t it?”

“I suppose —
ahh
!”

I spray him with the Cool Stream. I’m sure it doesn’t feel so
cool
on his bare eyeball.

“O-o-oh!
Ouch, ouch, ouch, damn!”
His head is swinging in all directions. He’s writhing in pain.

I decide I’d better take it a little easier or we’re going to end up in a hell of an accident — but I don’t let him in on that decision.

“Tell me.”

“Oh, God, oh, God! Tell you what?”

“Who hired you?”

“
Papa Legba!”

“Papa Legbutt? Who the hell is that?”

He’s able to calm himself some. “He’s a real mean black dude — some kinda Voodoo King or something. He’s underworld, you know. Not just into a lot of illegal shit, but
really
un-der-world,
if you know what I mean.”

“Superstitious? You believe in the supernatural?”

“No, I just stay away from it so it doesn’t screw with me.”

I’m impressed with the quick results of my new interrogation technique. He’s spouting off like
Old Faithful
.

“Believe in the afterlife?”

He twists slightly to be able to see me and his gun pointed back at him. “I got a feeling I’m going to find out about it soon.”

“What did Legba want you to do with me?” I knew this one, but I had to ask.

“Look man, nothing personal.”

I spray his eyeball again.

“Oh, shit! Oh, damn!”

“Maui Breeze, this time,” I tell him. “Which do you prefer? Or would you rather I just do this?” I thump his eye with my finger.

“Shit! Okay — he wanted me to take you out to the swamp and
off
you, not necessarily in that order.”

“All right,” I told him. “You’re doing good. Now listen very carefully. The way you answer me from now on is going to determine whether or not I kill you. You must answer politely, quickly and honestly. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” he says.

I like the respect — and I hadn’t even asked for it. I smile at him even though he can’t see me.

“Good. Now, you can tell what kind of a guy I am, can’t you?” I wait a couple of seconds. “Well, can’t you?”

He’s still hesitant. “Yeah.”

“And what kind is that? Come on, you said it earlier.”

He hesitates. “A …
bastard
?”

“Good, good. Honesty, how refreshing. But I’m not just any old bastard, I’m a really bad bastard who’s killed more men than you have blackheads on your big rummy nose.” I reach up and turn the rearview mirror so that he can see me. “See? I’m looking at your big red nose, now. And, my-my look at all those blackheads.”

He’s not commenting. The skin around his good eye has darkened and looks slightly sunken from the trauma I’ve caused on the other side of his face.

“So, here we go — and you’ll get extra points for answering quickly. Have you done this kind of thing before — murdering people, I mean?”

Without hesitation, “Yes.”

“How many times?”

“Maybe a dozen.”

“Hmm, not an exact answer, but I’ll take it — I’d bet you really don’t know, do you? I mean, you don’t count how many people you’ve killed, right?”

“No.”

“Their ghosts don’t haunt you at night?”

“No.”

“They haunt me — the spirits of the people I’ve killed.” I sigh. “How about women and children?”

“Yeah. A few.”

I cluck my tongue. “How many for this ‘Papa Lagbutt’?”

“Legba,” he corrects. “Maybe ten or twelve. Seven or eight women. Probably half a dozen kids.”

“That’s more than a dozen in women and children alone.”

“Yeah…,” he hesitates again, obviously reconsidering a more honest answer, “…I guess maybe closer to three dozen or so jobs for Legba, altogether.”

“Why?”

“He pays good. A couple thousand for the women and five hundred for kids. As much as five thousand a whack for guys like you.”

“Oh, but you’re wrong. There aren’t
guys like me
.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right about that. There sure as hell aren’t guys like you!”

“Anyway, 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.