He stood from the car to his full six-feet-one and nodded as Floyd approached him.
"Mr. Ortíz?" said the man.
"Yes, William, I am Mr. Ortíz. It is an honor to finally meet you."
Pelly scowled at the small cook who had lingered at his private cabin after delivering a sandwich. The man scurried away like one of the many rats on the ship. He knew his appearance, when he didn't shave enough, terrified the superstitious sailors. That was their problem. He was no happier that Colonel Staub had sent him with this load than the sailors were that he was aboard.
He ate and then cleaned up in his small cabin. After shaving and changing into a clean white button-down shirt, he decided he'd see a little of New Orleans. He didn't need anyone's permission to leave.
Using a fake identification card in the name of Juan Rodríguez, with an immigration visa that listed him as a "deck worker," he walked right through security at the port and into the streets of New Orleans.
He took a cab to Jackson Square and wandered around the famous plaza. He smiled at the silly street performers, like the man who juggled bowling balls or the woman who swallowed swords, but kept his money to himself. He resisted the subtle nods of women he knew were there for business and not for meeting the man of their dreams.
He looked around at the nonstop festival that seemed to go on in New Orleans and had to admit he didn't mind this part of his boss's crazy plan.
As he reached a corner of the square with the Jax Brewery to one side, Pelly slowed and noticed a man leaning against the fence that separated the cement from the grassy inner square. The man stared straight ahead with hazy blue eyes. He wore several different shirts over one another and filthy cutoff blue jeans. But it was his face that Pelly stopped to study. While everyone else passed by without a glance or at least without trying to stare at the destitute man, Pelly saw the root of what might have caused this man's problems: He had an uncorrected cleft palette like none Pelly had ever seen. It virtually separated his face. He had a normal lower lip, but his upper disappeared up his face, causing his nose to be disfigured as well.
Pelly silently reached in his pocket, pulled out his wad of cash and, without counting it, dropped the entire bundle into the man's pouch around his neck.
The man's eyes flickered at Pelly's face and seemed to recognize someone who knew what physical appearance could mean.
Pelly patted the man on the shoulder and continued his walk through the square. He saved his energy because he knew that now that he had given away his money, it was a long walk back to the port.
"Call me Ike; everyone does."
"Fine, Ike. You have our package inside?"
"I do."
"Excellent. You will have to take it to Houston from here. I'll contact someone I know there who will get it ready for you."
"Great." His eyes darted back and forth over the deserted rest area parking lot.
"Is something wrong, Ike?"
"Well, there is one small complication."
"What's that?"
"I have to silence a witness."
"Here, in New Orleans?"
"Well, actually here, in this parking lot."
"I don't understand."
"There is a girl who saw me on the e-mail, and I'm afraid she knows too much. I got her locked in with the package."
"You mean she's still alive?"
Ike nodded as he looked down at the ground.
Staub didn't like the sound of this. Not only was it messy, but he was concerned Ike hadn't had the guts to kill her wherever they'd been before this.
"Let's talk to her, then. I need to see the package anyway."
Ike slowly slipped the key in the lock and then slid the door in one motion straight up. Before the door was all the way up, a young, well-built blond woman sprang from the truck, almost landing in Staub's arms. He didn't hesitate to wrap one arm around her chin and one around the back of her neck and twist with all his strength. It was a technique he had learned in the defense force, but he had practiced it on several prostitutes and informants.
The woman's head snapped to one side, and she went limp in his hands. Her legs and arms hung loose, and her eyes remained open and staring at Ike.
"Damn" was all Ike said.
"Any other problems I should know about now?"
19
AFTER LEAVING A CREOLE RESTAURANT THAT IMPRESSED STAUB but seemed expensive to Duarte, the four investigators without a case wandered down to a small bar and took a seat on the balcony because it was quieter than inside.
Félix had ordered too many beers for his thin frame and was starting to show the effects. He leaned into the balcony railing and yelled down to people passing by on Bourbon Street. Occasionally someone looked up.
Duarte tried to scoot his seat farther away, so they would think he was sitting at the next table.
Lina said, "Félix, cool it."
"Why? Does it embarrass you?"
"No, it's embarrassing you."
"I'll be heading back to the hotel. I'm tired of the company."
Duarte started to stand to help his friend, but Félix held up a hand and said, "Nope, I'm going alone." He careened through the small patio and disappeared down the stairs.
Duarte cleared his throat and said, "He's actually upset about Gastlin. He didn't mean any disrespect."
Staub nodded. "I understand it is hard to be responsible for someone else's death."
Duarte said, "I don't know how responsible he is, but he feels responsible."
"And I am afraid, with as many murders in my country, chances of solving the crime are not promising."
"We have a few ideas. We haven't given up yet."
Staub leaned forward. "What ideas?" He fidgeted with a cigarette, then realized he couldn't smoke inside.
Lina joined in. "With what jurisdiction?"
"With proper interest in finding out what happened to one of our sources. I admit it has a personal element, but who would be upset if we were able to find out if his death was tied to the load of pot?"
Staub said, "You are correct, Alex. No one can argue that."
Duarte noticed the colonel's English and accent had improved dramatically. It almost seemed familiar to him somehow. He watched as Staub's dark eyes shifted from him to the stairs, where Félix had left.
Pelly sat on a deck chair and watched the line of workers enter one of the big buildings that prepared containers for shipping. He had been down to the French Quarter twice, but Colonel Staub had told him to stay put tonight. He didn't want to risk the FBI, DEA or ATF agents seeing him. It didn't matter to Pelly; those tall, red drinks gave him a horrible hangover.
At least he didn't worry about how he looked tonight.
It was eleven o'clock when his cell phone rang. Colonel Staub said in Spanish, "I'm just outside the port. I don't want a record that I came in. Meet me at the coffee shop just down the street." The phone line went dead.
Pelly nodded to the ship's captain, not that the captain was his boss. That notion was put to rest the day some of Staub's associates took the man's ten-year-old son and cut off his left ear. Once he explained what could happen to one of the captain's three daughters, the man had been cooperative. For five years they had utilized the ship, which had a different name every year. The captain was paid and the ship made more money than most freighters, but it was prudent to keep it looking like a rundown garbage scow.