The Franchise (83 page)

“Not fair, not fair!” the boy screamed as Taylor tried to pull him away from the rain barrel edge. “Liar! Liar!”

Wendy slapped Taylor on the back of the head with a thick manila envelope. He turned the boy loose and she stuffed the envelope in his hands.

“Randall! You stop!” she said, swooping the boy up against her breast and taking him into the house.

At the back door she stopped and turned to Taylor.

“They found it in the wall next to Tommy’s desk. He had it hidden there, I guess.” Her face was drawn and white; she looked frightened.

Randall stuck his tongue out at Taylor.

Wendy carried him into the house and Taylor sat down by the rain barrel.

Inside the manila envelope was a file folder marked
Bobby Hendrix.

He sat with a towel around his neck and read through the file. It was one of Tommy McNamara’s that hadn’t been found that rainy, murderous night. There is always a secret.

Bobby Hendrix
had
uncovered one after all, and it had made him madder than anything the owners had ever done.

Mad enough to get him killed.

From the penthouse past the outhouse.

L
AMAR
J
EAN
L
UKAS
opened his eyes with a start, crouched in the corner of the living room in Taylor Rusk’s apartment. A rush of terror clutched his stomach; he felt the uncomfortable shiver of his skin tightening, quickly squeezing and compressing his entire body into a small size.

The instant panic was painful yet absolutely necessary, mainlining enough adrenaline to snap him to full consciousness.

He had been unconscious.

Not just resting the muscles and bones, not just asleep while dreaming a dream of pure reality—hearing, seeing, smelling—but
out.
Blackness. Remembering nothing. He tried to go back, to recall. But he had broken the chain of continually connected randomness that, since the highlands, was the life event known as Lamar Jean Lukas, and now he could not recall.

Lamar Jean Lukas had experienced a good night’s sleep.

It was the first of many to come.

N
OBODY WAS ON THE
street yet. The Lebanese man leaned forward, drawing the red velvet away from the tall eight-pane glass, and hung the heavy drape on the horns of the antique bronze Devil’s head. It was morning.

The rain thrashed. The Quarter was black. Water ran in the street; great falling pearls exploded against wood, brick, wrought iron, tin, glass, buildings, buses, cars, light poles and hydrants, filling the air with a rising mist that threatened to overwhelm the ancient city and sink New Orleans into the mire without a trace.

The hammering rain was a peaceful soothing sound to the Man, a furious rhythm that matched his internal pulsing drives, desires and needs. The Man was at one with the storm and the sodden morass of the Quarter.

Cisco knocked on the door but did not enter.

“The phone, sir. Charles Stillman calling from Texas about the Cobianco brothers.”

“That is none of our affair, a jurisdictional dispute. We are not involved. Kindly tell Mr. Stillman to stop bothering me.”

The janitor from Louie’s on Rampart Street walked up Royal after turning off Iberville. The Man checked his watch. The janitor was right on time. He would proceed up Royal past Bienville, Toulouse and the rest up to Esplanade Avenue to catch his bus. Every day for nineteen years he walked up Iberville, turned at Royal and walked to Esplanade. Six-thirty-four on the dot he turned the comer at Royal. Why did the black man never walk to Esplanade down Rampart Street?

“Sir,” Cisco explained through the door, “I have already explained that to him. This is the fourth time he’s called since midnight. He says there is a loose end you might be interested in hearing about.”

“Loose end?” The Man leaned forward and lifted the heavy red drape off the grinning demon’s horns. “We are always interested in life’s loose ends.” He dropped the velvet drape.

The storm slashed the Quarter with renewed fury.

T
HE
C
ADILLAC ARRIVED
outside the airport. The flight from New Orleans had just been announced. The driver was waiting on the two shooters.

It hadn’t been an easy deal to make. The driver was flying blind, grabbing his ass and hoping the wind kept up with him. Stillman had put him in touch with the Man from New Orleans.

Finally.

It had taken all night before Charlie Stillman handed him the phone.

“Care to dance?” the lawyer asked.

It was a long shot but his only shot, so he talked and he talked. He explained that the favor needed now was insignificant when considered against the gain of maintaining power and control.

“What we need to buy here, sir, is just a little time.”

“Do you know a more precious commodity,” the Man replied, “especially for a man in your predicament?”

“It gets less valuable as it passes, my friend,” he replied. Then, covering the mouthpiece, he whispered to Charlie Stillman, “The fucking greaseball sounds like dialogue from
Casablanca.
”

“I’ll tell him you said that.” Stillman stared coldly. “I’m sure he’ll think you quite droll. The Lebanese have an intriguing sense of humor.”

Returning Stillman’s stare, he spoke into the phone. “Be certain of one thing: I’ve spent years pursuing this particular prize and have grown strong with adversity.”

“That is brave, defiant talk. I like that in a man—if that precious commodity time does not prove him a fool.” Suddenly heavy raindrops hammered the green roof of the Royal Street house. A squall was blowing through the Quarter, cheering the Man up, making him generous. He took the rain as an omen, advice from his lover. “What is it you want from me?”

“I let Donald Cobianco have twenty-five million dollars worth of bonds to secure a sixteen-million-dollar loan from you. It was to be a short-term loan and then they were to be returned to me.

The Cobiancos were to use the sixteen million to secure control of the Franchise.”

“The Franchise?” The Man played dull. “What kind of franchise? I’m not aware of any loan or any bonds. Are you certain of your information?”

“Look, let’s just pass on the
Tom and Jerry
routine. You wouldn’t have taken the call if you didn’t know about the bonds. Now, hear me out. I don’t want the bonds back.”

“If I had the bonds—which I don’t”—the man signaled for Cisco to pull the drapes so he could watch the rain—“you would not get them back until the debt was paid. Sixteen million dollars at twenty-five percent interest.”

“I told you, I don’t need them back yet. I just need a little more cash to stretch this thing out through probate. If you cash those bonds, you’ll never get the sixteen million, and if I can’t keep my end together, you won’t ever recover your losses.”

“Why? Have you done something illegal? Did you give away bonds that weren’t yours to give? The government frowns on that.”

“No. It’s all legal. I have the right to assign the bonds, but the people who gave me the right assumed if I did it, it would be right and proper. If it was to become public that ...”

“It all sounds right and proper to me.” The rain pounded harder and the sky turned black. Cabs and cars splashed and honked and roared along the street. Everything was shiny, wet, renewed. “Why are you so worried about public exposure?”

“Because the Cobianco brothers are dead and so’s Suzy Chandler, and by the time this is all dragged through probate ... a man in my position ...”

“Ah, yes. A man in your position can’t be seen associating with people like the Cobiancos. But you can call me for a favor.”

“This is not just
my
problem. The interest on the bonds was assigned to you for the loan, and in the meantime I was to receive a onetime payment
today
of three million dollars from the Cobiancos.”

“And they are dead.”

“Precisely.”

“And you need the three million and hope that I might be persuaded to lend it to you?”

“Exactly. I have to replace that interest income from the bonds in order to cover normal costs and two very expensive, troublesome, extraordinary expenses.”

“Why don’t you just eliminate the costs. And the trouble.”

“Some of the cost is
because
somebody tried to eliminate the trouble.”

“What am I to gain?”

“You’ll get your sixteen million and interest, for starters.” He was sweating, just as the Man from New Orleans wanted. “But we have to wait and let the probate take its long, long process of inventory and disbursement, let the banks enter our claims quietly. If we do that, we’ll all come out of this with as much, maybe even more, than before. Now, do you want to help me or not?” He was beginning to panic and his tactic became bluff and threat.

The Man from New Orleans grinned. He could sense the blood and fear through the telephone.

“Three million dollars is what you have to have. How will you explain where it came from?”

“I’ll only have to explain if it doesn’t arrive to meet expenses. That’s why I have to have the cash
now.
”

“Three million is more than the quarterly income from the bonds.”

“I have large expenses,” he replied. “I’m a big tipper.”

“I can see that.” The Man paused. “Well,
if I
had the bonds, which I emphasize I do not, and
if
I were to lend you the three million to protect the sixteen million that I supposedly loaned against the bonds, I would have to have a man of mine watching the books and cutting down on your tips to yourself and your cronies.”

“Now, hold on. I didn’t put all this together to hand over to you.”

“You would still have your title and position, but I’d have my man handle the money. I will not find myself in the squeeze you are in. Your other choice is to watch it all fall down. On you. It would be a shame, but I have much more money than time. You have too much time and no money. I will think about it and have my man advise you. Now, would you put Mr. Stillman back on the line, please?”

“Wait
, who is your man?”

“You are supposed to be handing the phone to Mr. Stillman. Please do. We will have no further need of contact. Good-bye.”

Charlie Stillman took the phone and listened for several moments, then hung up.

“You got a deal,” Stillman said. “He takes half of your half of the Franchise when you get it. I’m to be immediately hired as counsel and chief financial officer and you don’t spend one dime I don’t approve.”

“Is that all?” he said sarcastically.

“No. You got some wet work to do,” Stillman said.

“Wet work?”

“Yeah, asshole. Wet work. The Man is sending in a couple of shooters. One is a guy named Hymie that Mr. C. used every now and then after Lennie the Leech got clipped.”

“You mean they’re going to kill someone?”

“Don’t act like I busted your cherry. It was you that got Bobby Hendrix his flying lesson in Mexico and sent Tiny and Lennie out after Tommy McNamara.”

“I just figured all of that was over now.”

Charlie Stillman laughed. “Over? It ain’t
ever
over. You got to pick these guys up at the airport this afternoon. Two shooters from New Orleans.”

“I have to? Why me?”

“Because you are going to help eliminate some problems and the people that go with them.”

“I’m not killing people for him.”

“You got it backward. These people are
your
problems and you have to get the shooters up close.” Stillman shook his head. “Why do you need the three million?”

“Expenses—you heard me. The bond income may not cover operating expenses, and if Taylor Rusk keeps forcing the issue ...” He stopped and looked at Stillman.

“Bingo.”

“But why? If he gives me the three million, that ought to ...”

“Ought to
ain’t good enough,” Stillman said. “Besides, it removes potential opposition down the road.”

“What? How?”

“Simple. You kill Taylor Rusk, Wendy Chandler and the boy.”

“Why? In God’s name, why?”

“The same reason you asked for Hendrix and McNamara.”

“I didn’t ask you guys to kill them. I just wanted to know if there was any sort of file on me. I began to get suspicious of Hendrix. I thought maybe he and McNamara were up to something they weren’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw the documents.”

“You saw
some
documents. There could be more. What if there
is
a file on you?” Stillman’s voice was cold, his eyes slits. “You do what you’re told. Pick the shooters up, drive them out to Doc Webster’s ranch and help them with the killing.
Then
you get your three million dollars.” Stillman clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, write out that executive order making me counsel and chief financial officer. I’ve got to go look over the books. You seem like the kind of fellow that can’t be trusted with other people’s money.”

Stillman read and folded the letter when it was finished. He started to leave.

“You know”—he stopped and turned back—“I asked Wendy Chandler for a little work once, right after her daddy died. She said, ‘You’ll get work from me when Br’er Rabbit goes to a dollar a sop.’ ”

Stillman laughed and shoved the letter into his coat.

T
HE DRIVER SAT OUSTIDE
the baggage claim, waiting for the two shooters from New Orleans. It wasn’t an easy thing to do, but it was his problem. There was no one else.

“Every problem presents opportunity,” Stillman had said. “The tragic deaths at the Pistol Dome could be a golden opportunity to increase power. It seems to me that Taylor Rusk, the woman and the child are the only problems left. Their removal will leave the trust fund without purpose or direction.”

The woman and the child.
He had not expected that.

“What if there is a file?” Stillman had said. “If you clip him and she’s seen it, she’s not likely to back off and let us screw the trust set up for her kid or the Franchise her daddy built. Don’t leave witnesses. Little kids are smart. Can’t trust ’em. Got six of my own. You do as you’re told or we don’t have a deal. The Man doesn’t need you to pick up the pieces. Make it too tough, I cut you loose.” Stillman warned. “The Man in New Orleans doesn’t need this deal, so shut up and do what you are told.”