Authors: Eric Pete

Frostbite (11 page)

BOOK: Frostbite

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I flew into Louis Armstrong International Airport posing as a Texas gambler, in town for some high stakes poker at Harrah’s and checked into the W Hotel in as visible a way as possible. On a more low-key note, I then checked into the Holiday Inn on Loyola by the Superdome under a completely different alias. This would be my real base of operations as I went about figuring what I was going to do about the unfortunate district attorney.

I was reading
NOLA.com
online while listening to WWL radio to get back up to speed on the vibe of the city where I grew up.

His name was Rodney Roy, a Creole brother from New Orleans’s Seventh Ward who was a good Catholic boy and graduate of St. Augustine High School. Law degree was from Southern University over in Baton Rouge. Had originally clerked in the Civil District Court of Orleans Parish before transitioning over to the criminal side of things and his career in the prosecutor’s office. After serving as assistant DA, he’d won overwhelmingly in election to the top spot in the months after Hurricane Katrina on a platform of a no-nonsense approach to dealing with criminals who’d slipped through the “gaping cracks in our system.” Cracks he promised to seal shut even if it took his last breath.

Breathe, Rodney. Breathe.

I was munching on a still-warm beignet from Café du Monde when I found an article on Rodney ... and his family. Shit.

Had a wife and daughter.

Of course he couldn’t be a hedonistic, egotistical bachelor.

Had to be a family man.

I took a deep breath and exhaled while the information on the monitor before me set in. On the outside, he seemed like a good person. But I’d learned that people have two sides, sometimes more. What was his relationship with Mr. Smith? Under ordinary circumstances, I would’ve turned down the job.

Murder.

I was in town to commit murder.

And not being paid for it either.

Despite my being a less-than-admirable person, my aims were to make you wish you were dead. Not straight take you out.

Well ... not most times.

Not going to lie, hands weren’t clean.

Shot and killed two people in my life. Other times, I either missed or they were shooting at me. First one was a rapper. Loup Garou the Haitian Werewolf they called him. Was first lieutenant of rapper, actor, and businessman Penny Antnee, a guy whose secret I’d uncovered. In that instance, Loup Garou had tried bodying me first ... and failed. Feet still ache when I think back to the New Mexico desert. Also led me to believe he’d murdered Collette, so felt I was her avenging angel when I put a round in his skull.

Other person to die by my hand was Jason North. Despite my being of his blood, that one had it coming. Maybe more so because I was of his blood. The mythology of the son slaying the father being perpetuated in today’s world.

Somebody could justify those, but I was damned from birth, so fuck it. Had to own ’em.

Tired of being cooped up and feeling sorry for myself, I left my hotel room to hit the streets and do some physical reconnaissance.

Being out and about in the 504 brought back many memories. During my time here, On-Phire Records grew from a wannabe to worldwide powerhouse with Jason North as the public face and later totally at the helm. On these very streets, On-Phire was everywhere. As much a part of the scene as Cash Money, No Limit, and Big Boy Records in those days. Release parties, public appearances, concerts, giveaways, and radio appearances from Uptown to Hollygrove; from Mid-City to Tremé; from Gert Town to Gretna; from Ninth Ward to Marrero; from New Orleans East to Gentilly. But below the surface, On-Phire was a heavy-handed organization funded by illegal drug money, promising young up-and-comers the stars while screwing them over with shady contracts and intimidation.

That was my expertise. Finding weaknesses and exploiting them on behalf of Jason North. Through blackmail, shaping the truth or creating our own truth to suit our needs.

God bless America.

So there would be no paper trail, I borrowed a crack rental for a few dollars over off St. Claude Avenue. They wouldn’t remember or be able describe me anyway. Drove the musty Ford pickup across the Crescent City Connection over to Algiers where the DA lived in the gated English Turn neighborhood. As I needed to restock some equipment discretely, I stopped at an off-brand computer and electronics store on General DeGaulle Drive for a few pieces.

“My man, I got a list from my boss, but tryin’ ta save some money. Ya heard me?” I said through a distinct local mumble as I entered. Rocking baggy jeans, Jordans, and a freshly starched XXL white tee, I handed a handwritten list to the brother behind the counter. Looked familiar, but I’d picked the West Bank for this stop so as to avoid people who might know me.

He scanned items on the list, intentionally written in my worst handwriting. “A lot of surveillance equipment. Is your boss a PI?” he asked.

“Yeah, that’s what he call himself,” I said, toothpick dangling from my mouth, as I showed him a private investigator’s license number that belonged to a firm in Kenner.

“You look familiar. Where you from?” he asked as he rolled his chair over to a computer to check his stock.

“The east,” I replied from beneath my fitted New Orleans Saints hat as I peered into the glass showcase, pretending to be interested in the cell phones he also sold. I’d even added fake gold fronts and a water-soluble tattoo of a woman’s name on my neck. Pretty memorable if somebody ever had to identify me. “Moved to Texas after Katrina,
mane.
Was in Katy with my auntie ’n’ em. Jus’ gettin’ back now that my money right. You?”

“Out that Nine originally, but been on the West Bank for a minute. Me, my wife Val evacuated with our kids for Katrina. Went up to Atlanta for about three weeks. But we came back. Just some wind damage to the house. Things are still slow even after all these years, but this business is my life. Want to leave a legacy for my kids, y’know. Too many coming up the wrong way. Like I did at first,” he admitted as he left his chair and went about gathering the mini cams, cables, wireless nodes, and microphones in an orderly fashion.

“I feel ya,” I said as he rang me up. Paid him in cash and motioned to keep the change.

“Thanks, bro. Appreciate your business,” he said as he shook my hand. “Lance,” he offered.

“Carlos,” I responded, with a flash of gold from my mouth.

As I was leaving, I remembered him. Was years ago, but I remembered him. Dude was the straight-laced best friend of one of On-Phire’s first true stars, a rapper named AK. Dude was one of Jason’s major screw jobs, until he fell to the violence, sending ripples throughout the organization. I was more in the background in those times, but couldn’t risk someone else out here finding me vaguely familiar like that Lance dude. Was going to need a sacrificial lamb to finish this job.

Continuing down General DeGaulle, I pulled into a convenience store parking lot across the street from Our Lady of Holy Cross College. Changed my shirt and shoes then affixed magnetic signs to the truck’s doors to match the cargo in the bed. Then as I pressed on, I contemplated what this job was really about.

Mr. Smith didn’t want Rodney Roy discredited or framed, he wanted him dead. ASAP. Meant it was either something personal or a business issue. Or both. Mr. Smith’s desperation was evident in Oklahoma, so he was using me for cleanup. A cleanup he didn’t want his bosses to know about. Or connect him to. Was getting somewhere ... piece by piece.

I crossed the Intracoastal Waterway that brought me by the Orleans-Plaquemines Parish line then took LA406 over to the English Turn Golf & Country Club. Talked my way past the guardhouse easy enough with a few kind words and some careful name dropping. But when I rolled up to the Roy residence on Island Club Drive, two NOPD patrol cars were parked out front. Security extra tight. Of course, Mr. Smith wouldn’t give me an easy job ... if murder ever could be called easy.

Glad this was just recon, but he wasn’t giving me much time before I was made public enemy number one without the Chuck D or Flavor Flav. I drove by and parked the truck on the shoulder, drawing the attention of the NOPD officers closest to me. Gave them a clear view of the borrowed lawn mowers in the back of my crack rental truck as I exited, dripping fresh sweat courtesy of driving without the A/C.

“They don’t need no lawn work. Move along,” the officer on the passenger said, lowering his window as I approached. No problems with the air conditioning in their car. Had a half-eaten shrimp po-boy resting in his lap. I came closer, ignoring his statement with a big grin.

“Oh. I just finished up some yards ova dere on Pinehurst Drive. That reporter that be on WDSU. Wanted to see if anybody else around here needed anythang before I went home,” I offered, shifting to a more disarming accent as I wiped my brow. “My man, what’s up? Somebody been shot or somthin’?”

“Nah. You ain’t been watchin’ the news, bro?” the one behind the wheel chided. “This the DA’s house. Keepin’ nosey people a safe distance away because of the trial.”

“Oooh. Right, right. Wish I had y’all deep like that at my crib. Got a couple old ladies y’all could help me run off,” I teased, analyzing the new bit of info about a high-profile trial from behind an amiable grin.

As I carried on with the jokes, the garage door to the DA’s house rose. Stole a glance of the garage interior as a white Mercedes GLK emerged. From behind the tint, could make out at least two people inside the SUV as it backed down the driveway toward us.

“I’d love to keep chattin’ it up with ya, my man, but all the cold air is getting out and I wanna finish my po-boy,” the one closest to me admitted.

“Right, right. You got me wantin’ one o’ those now. Guess I’ll be on my way then,” I responded with a nod as I strolled back to my truck.

Despite how good that would be right now, fuck a po-boy.

I had someone to follow.

I followed the Benz as it wove its way through Algiers traffic then back across the Crescent City Connection to the East Bank of New Orleans. Had to literally mash the accelerator to the floor just to get the truck up the incline of the bridge and to maintain visual contact. Just in case I lost the SUV, I quickly stored its license plate number and description on my iPhone. On the Pontchartrain Expressway, I closed the distance, staying four cars back as the Benz took the O’Keefe Avenue exit. As we travelled down Howard Avenue, I recognized the Clear Channel Communications building on my left, home to Q93 and WYLD who spun most of New Orleans’s hip hop and R&B hits. Music such an important element of the town. Up ahead, my quarry slowed at Lee Circle, the statue of the confederate general still standing watch at its center as he’s done since way before my time. I dropped back another car length in case the SUV decided to take the circle all the way around. Instead, a quarter ways around, it made a right turn onto St. Charles Avenue.

As I sped up and merged onto Lee Circle in pursuit, my phone rang in my hand.

“Yes,” I answered immediately.

“He just copped something. Took back to the apartment,” my eyes back in Stockton, California, said. Still had Sophia’s place being watched, but told them to shift their focus to her beau and his comings and goings. Knew that fucker Ivan was still using when I’d met him. He was weak. And not just because he was a former model either.

“Is she home?” I asked. Another white GLK had turned onto St. Charles. Had to be careful I was still tailing the right one, but my attention was split. Between a job I was being forced to do here in New Orleans and a job I’d taken upon myself because ... sometimes I can be a pure sucker.

“Yeah. She ain’t left today,” he said.

“She ever been with him when he copped that shit?”

“Uh ...”

“Talk. Be truthful. Because I’ll know if you’re lying,” I said as I crossed Louisiana Avenue, a Rite Aid pharmacy on my right while the streetcar passed me on the left, en route to the CBD with its human cargo.

“She’s scored for him before.”

I slapped my hand on the steering wheel just as I struck a pothole. Made the truck swerve badly before I quickly corrected.

“Thinks she’s using too?” I asked, clenching the wheel tighter than before.

An unnerving pause filled the airwaves, until he replied, “Can’t say ...”

“All right,” I responded sharply.

“Want me to do anything about it?”

“No. Eyes only,” I answered. “I’ll handle it. Just keep me posted.”

Ivan was a full-blown crackhead by the time he went to prison, career and life in shambles. Sophia was his puppy dog then, faithful and devoted to a near fatal fault. Nothing in her records indicated she’d fallen as far as him with the drugs, but ...

Fuck.

I’d gotten too close.

On both accounts.

The Benz made an abrupt U-turn, doubling back to Nashville Avenue where it made a quick right. Thought it might be trying to shake me, so I continued down St. Charles Avenue and took a left on State Street instead, speeding to intercept it on Magazine Street. Got there in time to stop at the red light in front of Reginelli’s Pizzeria just as it crossed directly in front of me. But after it passed, I watched it come to a stop in front of a business on Magazine that shared the structure with Reginelli’s.

When my light turned green, I continued straight in the pickup that was now shuddering and sputtering, but quickly turned into the parking lot of WOW Wingery. I drove through, coming around the other side to where I was now facing the place on Magazine Street where the GLK was stopped. Truck was overheating, so this was probably where I was going to abandon it along with the lawn mowers in its bed. I pulled into an open parking spot, going about removing the gold fronts from my teeth and wiping the false tattoo from my neck since I no longer needed the disguise. As I exited, I quickly removed the magnetic landscaping signs off both doors, throwing them in the Wingery’s Dumpster along with my discarded clothes. Stowed my electronic surveillance equipment in my backpack and walked away, keeping my baseball hat pulled low.

As I exited onto Magazine Street, I looked up to see where my pursuit had taken me. Across the street, directly in front of me, the pale yellow building read C
RESCENT
C
ITY
D
ANCE
C
OMPANY.
A thin young girl dressed like a ballerina, who looked to be about fourteen, was exiting the SUV. The driver was a woman, her mom who came around to give her daughter a kiss and to share some words with her. I’d been following the DA’s family, but didn’t know it until now. From my research, remembered his wife’s name was Taralynn and the daughter’s name was Sasha. Without staring directly in their direction, I snapped a photo of them with my phone as I walked by, planning on catching a cab somewhere down the block. So I could get back to planning the removal of a husband and father from their lives.

Cold, I know.

As Mrs. Roy pulled away from the dance studio, an old Suburban overtook her then cut her off. Thought it was just a typical New Orleans bad driver in a hurry until it slammed on its brakes, her honking at it alerting me to look back once again.

I’d staged enough set-ups to see the markings of one.

Could’ve walked away.

Just turn my head and keep on rolling.
I see nothing
like a motherfucker.

But this might be a hit.

And Rodney Roy’s wife getting killed might ramp up his security to where I could never get to him.

That’s it. Stay cold, Truth. Analytical. Objective.

“Bollocks,” I blurted out, figuring American English just didn’t do for how annoyed with myself I felt right now. In mid-step, I pivoted around and began heading back toward the scene. The driver remained obscured inside the Suburban as Mrs. Roy steadily honked for it to move, waving his hands as if it had stalled or something. It was too close for her to go around.

Then someone exited out one of the rear doors as I walked along the sidewalk, parallel to them. Still feigned ignorance while witnessing it all from the storefront window reflection. A massive brother who seemed impossible to have fit inside hustled toward the Benz. Was too warm for the jacket he was wearing, which could be used to hide something.

As he came around the front of Mrs. Roy’s ride, I darted into the street behind him. Mindful that a hail of gunfire from within the Suburban could erupt at me at any time, I was sure to move in as non-threatening a manner as possible.

“Say, bruh! Y’all need a jump?” I asked, smiling widely as I caught up before he’d made it to her driver’s door. The fuckin’ bear looked to weigh at least twice as much as me. Why was I always running up against monsters like this?

“Nah. Nah. We good,” he said, frowning as he tried to make out my face from beneath my pulled-down cap. I kept tilting and angling my head away from him and any of his friends in the Suburban that might be watching.

“Okay, cause I got some cables in my bag right here,” I uttered, still smiling as I slipped my backpack around from off my shoulder then stuck my right hand inside. I got closer to him. Too close for sanity. Then standing on my tiptoes to get in his face, grunted in not as friendly a manner as before, “Because if nothing’s wrong with your ride, then you and your boys need to move on. Now.”

Without removing my hand, I pushed my backpack against his profound gut. Let him feel the protruding electronics inside, his mind painting a picture of what it might be my hand rested on inside.

“Is something wrong?” Mrs. Roy asked, getting out of her car at the wrong fucking time. I kept my eyes on my new friend.

“No, ma’am. He’s just about to move out your way,” I replied, pushing my backpack against him a little more firmly now.

“You don’t know who you fuckin’ with, li’l nigga,” he said low enough for only me to hear.

“Just leave. Before this gets real messy real quick. Starting with your big ass. And don’t think I’m alone,” I stressed. Took great joy in watching his squinty eyes jet from side to side, suddenly wary of all the cars parked along the sidewalk. Wondering what kind of threat they posed.

I backed off, positioning myself between him and a still complaining Mrs. Roy. His move now.

An equally false smile broke on his face as he made the prudent choice and began heading back to the Suburban. But not without a parting shot of his own.

“Mrs. Roy, tell your husband we said, ‘Hi,’” he mouthed before somehow fitting himself back inside the SUV.

I was right. This was to have been a message for her husband. Had Mr. Smith hired somebody else, hoping the best one succeeded? Or was this a wild card?

I didn’t move until the SUV drove off. Felt a hand come to rest on my shoulder, but still didn’t turn around.

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

“You’re welcome, ma’am. What was that about?” I asked, playing the naïve Good Samaritan who happened along.

“Just some thugs. Trying to intimidate my husband through me. But I won’t let them win. He’s got more important things to worry about,” she replied. Tough one. Voice was sexy, too.

“I’m Taralynn. Pleased to meet you,” she said. Just waiting for me to turn and face her. Shit. More of a big deal if I didn’t.

I turned around, quickly responding with, “Hi. I’m—”

“Truth?” she called out before I could make up a name, leaving me speechless.

I’d dared to turn around.

And I knew her.

I knew the DA’s wife.

But, worse yet, she knew me.

This fuckin’ town.

BOOK: Frostbite

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