KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set Read online

  She was indeed a knockout. But I was sure some of my jubilation and affection was an aftereffect of the drugs I’d ingested.

  For the moment, I didn’t care.

  Jazz music emanated from every doorway, and nearly everyone carried some sort of alcohol in a plastic drink cup.

  My drugged up psyche went on overload: the bright colors, the lights, the blaring music, the laughter, the smiles, the breasts, the smells of all manner of Cajun, Italian and seafood.

  And yes, even though I am a man of superhuman composure, incredible moral restraint, and great fortitude, the beautiful women were making parts of my body come alive that wouldn’t normally be aroused from their quiet dormancy while making my way through a crowd. It didn’t help that a number of the women were flashing their breasts for the colorful Mardi Gras beaded necklaces. I wanted to buy a few strings of the magical little purple, green and gold balls, myself — but Bob Dylan had eaten my wallet back at Legba’s cabin.

  Poodoo backed into me and offered compensation. She shielded her mouth and had to shout to be heard over the crowd, “I’ll show you mine, later.”

  I liked the way we fit together like two spoons.

  “Beads?” I asked, over her shoulder.

  She tilted her head back and kissed me. “Boobs.”

  As she grinded her tail against me, I accepted her offer as a more than suitable substitution, with an idiot chuckle that put Goofy’s to shame.

  During our merriment, Black Zack became noticeably distracted, worry covering his face.

  “You okay, buddy?” I asked him.

  He said, “Jus’ thinkin’ ‘bout Ella Fitzgerald an’ them little yippers tha’s a’comin’.”

  Poodoo handed him the keys to her SUV. “Go check on them, honey,” she said in her Texas accent. “But watch out and call us as soon as you can. Legba’s people are liable to be after you.”

  Zack returned a grin, did a quick about face, and trotted back through the crowd of partiers.

  I felt a buzzing vibration from Poodoo’s back pocket as we spooned.

  She reached back, did a little extra digging for my benefit, and pulled out her cell phone.

  “Thank God,” I told her. “I thought you’d brought Big Bad John.”

  After a brief conversation, she turned to me. “We need to hook up with a couple of my people.”

  I didn’t think I needed to remind her that FBI agents and I didn’t typically mix well. I’d been surprised that she’d been so easy on me, knowing she’d surely read my criminal record.

  We went into a packed bar called the Green Fairy Absinthe and Cigar Lounge. Goofy stayed outside, posting himself beside the doorway to watch out for the bare-chested, masked woman. Goofy’s job sounded much more fun to me, and I wanted to change places. But Poodoo insisted I accompany her.

  Even the name of the place made me uncomfortable, let alone having to meet who I suspected would be somewhat hostile FBI agents.

  With a name like Green Fairy, I expected Van Gogh and Hemingway to be drinking Absinthe at a dark table in the back. Instead, through the crowd, I saw a couple of suits at that dark table in the back.

  We made our way through and stepped up to the suited morons. Poodoo introduced me to her boss. “This is Supervisory Special Agent Robert Crank,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the rowdy crowd. “And this is Special Agent Richard Moranus.”

  Although they stood from the table in what I initially perceived to be courtesy, I could soon tell both of these stiffs knew all about me and my criminal record — about my killing of two of their fellow agents. I could see that it didn’t matter to them that the two I killed were dirty.

  They didn’t shake my hand. They’d stood to be at the ready.

  That was strike one for them.

  “This is priceless,” I said. “Bob Crank and Dick More Anus?”

  They sat down glaring back at me, and we joined them.

  “Listen, Knight,” Crank said, “you’re lucky to be alive. You’ll be even luckier if Special Agent Dooley can convince me not to arrest you for interfering with an FBI investigation. That charge alone is in violation of your parole and will send you back to prison.”

  “Strike two,” I said aloud.

  They all looked at me curiously.

  “Shut up and listen, Smallwood,” I said.

  His underling corrected me. “Crank.”

  I stared at him. “Dick weed.”

  “I didn’t mean you, Knight,” the agent said. “You’re addressing Supervisory Special Agent Crank.”

  “Stay out of it, Agent Butt Bugger,” I told him. Turning to Crank, I said, “I’m doing you pricks a big favor — ”

  The underling interrupted again, “Moranus.”

  “Quit calling me names, bung licker,” I told him. “And if you interrupt me again, I’m going to put your lights out.”

  That got them both on the edge of their seats.

  Poodoo said, “Wait a minute, boys. There’s way too much testosterone in the air. Let’s everybody settle down.”

  “Good idea,” I said, scooting close to my side of the table with both hands underneath and out of sight. “Because if you don’t relax, yourselves, I’ll relax you.”

  “He’s got a gun,” Moranus said.

  Crank’s eyes narrowed, and he reached under his jacket.

  “Uh-uh, uh-uh.” I said staring at Poodoo’s boss.

  He eased a bit and laid both hands on the table. He nodded to his idiot partner, and Moranus did the same.

  I asked, “So was this the only reason you wanted to see me — to threaten me, or to help us?”

  “Threaten?” Crank said. “You’ve got to be kidding. After pulling a gun on two FBI agents, you think we’re just going to threaten you? As soon as you drop your guard, you’ll either be dead or heading back to prison, asshole.”

  I raised both hands above the table, my left index finger pointing at them like I’d done with Popeye. “You sure you want to kill me when my finger isn’t even loaded, Smallwood?”

  Poodoo held her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

  “Crank!” the underling insisted.

  “Wanker spanker,” I replied to Moranus, then continued to Crank, “I would have thought you boys learned your lessons at Ruby Ridge.”

  That one got them out of their seats, their chairs falling over as they shot up.

  I came around the table, my finger still pointing at them, and they backed up, giving themselves room. I was glad they didn’t go for their guns, but figured they wouldn’t, anyway — especially against an unarmed man in a crowded bar. They thought they were going to show Poodoo how macho they were. Two on one, they figured they were about to kick my ass.

  “I’ve used this once, today,” I told them, glancing at my finger. “It would be a shame to have to use it on you two pickle pullers, as well.”

  “We’re really scared,” Moranus said.

  I pointed at him. “You want a piece of this, Big Anus?”

  “Mor-anus!” he shouted.

  That got a few around the nearby tables to stare and then laugh.

  “Okay, okay, sausage smoker,” I told him. I nodded to the waiter. “I think he got your order.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Crank said. “Let’s go. Mano-a-mano. A fair, bare-knuckle fight.”

  “Your choice,” I said and stepped in closer to both of them.

  Crank’s right eye twitched at the same time Moranus bit his lip.

  I knew they were a split second away from letting fists fly. But these guys were the you-swing-first kind of pugilists. Against the average Joe, they were probably quite good. The US Marines teach FBI candidates hand-to-hand combat at the FBI academy in Quantico. That made these two think they were hot shit. They obviously didn’t read my jacket very well. They weren’t used to someone like me — they had no idea. I’m not the average Joe: for six months, I taught the US Marine trainers themselves hand-to-hand combat at Quantico.

  One s
tep closer, nose to nose with Crank, and I brought my fist straight up under his jaw; a quick snap-punch that sent a shock wave to his brain and literally did put his lights out.

  It wasn’t hard for me to step sideways and give Special Underling Agent Moranus the same knock-out jab. It put him down in an instant, as well. As his knees buckled, I quickly slipped my other hand under his jacket and extracted the compact Glock 23 .40 caliber from its shoulder holster.

  They were both laid out on the floor within the same second.

  Poodoo came to my side. “What happened?”

  “I think they fainted.”

  “You punched them out, didn’t you?”

  “It was probably all the heat and the noise. You know, after a couple of drinks — if you aren’t in good shape — all this,” I motioned around us, “can be too much.”

  “Jeez, you’re fast,” she said. “I didn’t even see you move. I mean, I saw you sidestep, but I didn’t even see you throw hands.”

  “It was the alcohol,” I insisted, turning away from the two agents. “They can’t hold their Shirley Temples.”

  Poodoo followed me back through the crowd. “You’re kinda crazy, aren’t you?”

  “Thanks for letting me play with your friends,” I told her. “It was fun.”

  “You’re incredible, you know that?”

  “Sweetheart,” I told her. “I can only hope to show you.”

  We left the Green Fairy Absinthe and Cigar Lounge expeditiously, being a little anxious to get lost in the crowd before the two FBI agents I just punched out woke up.

  But when we got outside, Goofy was nowhere to be seen.

  Poodoo noticed it first and grabbed my arm hard. I followed her eyes to the sidewalk, busy with feet.

  A blood trail.

  CHAPTER 18

  Gone Goofy

  “No!” Poodoo said. “Not Goofy! He’s such a sweet man. I shoulda never gotten him into this.”

  I examined the blood on the sidewalk and then found where it led. “Let’s go!” I pulled her by the arm with Special Underling Agent Moranus’ handgun held low in the other hand.

  We followed the fresh blood, glad there was enough to follow in spite of the hundreds of dancing and scuffing shoes that passed over it. At the same time, we were frightened by the sheer volume of life leaking from Goofy’s body.

  I caught myself hoping to hear his comical laughter, wishing we would find him somehow alive and well. But the constant trail of now smeared blood wasn’t a good sign.

  After a couple of minutes, Poodoo checked the street signs at the intersection we came upon. She said, “I think I know where Goof’s headed. He was parked near here when I picked him up to go find you and Zack this morning.”

  She led now, pulling me by the wrist. After another two-and-a-half blocks, the trail took an alley, lit only by the lights on the intersecting streets at each end. Parked about two hundred feet in was a small pickup.

  “It’s Goofy’s!” Poodoo said.

  I grabbed her arm before she could run into the alley, blindly. She tried to jerk away.

  “No!” I told her. “It could be a trap.”

  She came to her senses, reached under her dress and pulled out her DoubleTap .45.

  We moved quickly but tactically up the shadowed alley toward the pickup, noticing the cab light on and driver side door open.

  At fifty feet, I saw movement — a body on the roughly paved alley beside the open pickup door.

  Poodoo couldn’t hold back any longer, running to Goofy’s side. I followed and stood on guard over them with the Glock.

  “Goofy, sweetie — I’m here! Ol’ Poodoo’s here, and I’ll get help!”

  She pulled out her cell phone and called 911.

  I took a quick glance. He was bleeding from his gut. “Who did this, Goof?”

  He chuckled. “That bare chested bitch with the white mask. She saw me first. Musta known I was with you. She tapped me on the back, and when I turned she stuck a damn dagger in me.”

  “Did you see her face — did she say anything?”

  “Yeah ... you better hurry,” he told me. “She said ‘Black Zack’s next’!”

  Poodoo took the phone from her ear. “What?”

  “Yeah, that’s what she said. I followed her until she got into the back of a big Caddy about two blocks away. I was gonna get in ol’ blue here an’ try an’ track them down, but I passed out.”

  “A late model Cadillac? What color?”

  “Yeah, looked brand new. Black. I tossed a beer bottle at it as it took off. But it only bounced off the trunk and back window.” He grimaced in pain. “Wish it’d been one of those Molotov cocktails and blowed the thing up!”

  “Help’s on its way, Goof,” she said. “They’re just around the corner.”

  “Then go! Get the hell outa here and keep that bitch from getting to Zack!” He opened his hand to show me the key to the little ‘82 Ford Ranger pickup, and I took it.

  At that instant, an ambulance siren broke through the crowd noise. In another five seconds it’d turned into the alley.

  Poodoo waved to the EMTs, and they drove up to within thirty feet and got out.

  She flashed her badge. “Knife wound in the abdomen. He’s lost a lot of blood but he’s conscious.” She stood up while one of the ambulance attendants knelt beside Goofy. “You take good care of this little man. We’re taking the vehicle. If anyone asks, tell them we’re FBI, and we left in pursuit of the unsub.”

  She stood, and looked down at him. “You don’t die on me, Goof! You hear me?”

  “I ain’t gonna die. Just take care of Zack.”

  Poodoo got into the passenger side as I fired up the little stick-shift, four-cylinder. We headed for the end of the alley and into the crowd. The street was blocked off to through traffic.

  For the most part, the sidewalk seemed like the easiest going. I honked, used the flashers and flashed the headlights, while Poodoo held her badge out the window at the few police and security officers we came across. In the meantime, she was on the phone to the police to meet us at Zack’s — figuring her partners were probably still unconscious. Most likely they wouldn’t be willing help, anyway.

  Crazy busy with Mardi Gras going on, she was warned the police’s response time would be longer than normal. She called Zack’s number, but got no answer. With Zack only having a landline and without voicemail or answering machine, she could do nothing else but to continuously speed-dial his number.

  Within four blocks we made it to an open street, and we headed toward Zack’s horn shop about three miles away.

  As I drove, I told Poodoo, “I figured Goofy for a limo driver, being a pimp and all.”

  “Goof’s no pimp,” she said. “He’s an accountant. I got him into this — asked him to help. Wish I hadn’t, now.” She shook her head. “I looked him up when I transferred here. Needed someone to pose as a pimp for me. The guy’s a lot smarter and resourceful than he looks and sounds. He and my daddy were in the Army in Vietnam together. My daddy saved his life, jumped in front of a bouncing Betty booby trap, and got wounded bad in the bargain. Took nearly twenty years, but he finally died from the injuries soon after putting me in my momma’s belly.”

  Being a Marine, I was very familiar with the type of spring mine she was referring to. Set off by a trip line, the actual mine portion of the bouncing Betty would be ejected up from the ground and into the air about three to six feet before exploding. Not pretty.

  As I negotiated the traffic and a couple of turns, I had to ask something that I’d been curious about since I heard her name, “Your real name is Pooh?”

  “Daddy killed himself with a shotgun while Momma was in midterm. I said the injuries in Vietnam killed him — and they did. According to Momma, they killed him in the brain just as sure as that shotgun.”

  She paused and shook her head before continuing. “Anyway, Momma wanted a boy cause that’s what Daddy would’ve wanted. When I was born, the nurse brought me u
p to my mama’s chest and asked, ‘What you gonna name her?’ When Momma heard I was a girl and looked at me, she said, ‘Oh, pooh!’ And it stuck.

  “But I didn’t like being called Pooh all the time — kids called me Winnie, like I was some kind of a soft ol’ bear. When I was seven and saw Star Wars for the first time, I learned one of the rarest and most powerful and sought after energy sources in the Galaxy was a substance made from bantha poop called poodoo. I realized then I’d found my moniker.”

  She frowned into the night in front of us and pushed the send button on her phone again. “Damn, I sure hope Zack’s okay.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Hot Brass

  We saw the smoke first. I knew Poodoo’s heart was racing twice as fast as mine. As flames leapt from the Jazzy Brass horn shop, I parked Goofy’s old pickup across the street next to the broom that Zack had put in his shop’s doorway. The SUV that Poodoo had loaned Zack to drive was nowhere in sight, so I hoped our friend had somehow escaped. Or maybe he’d never arrived — which was also worrisome.

  I got to the door first. “See if he’s in the back,” I told her. “But be careful, and don’t go inside!”

  I was a bit surprised when she obeyed.

  With the windows blown out, I wasn’t so worried about causing an explosive backdraft when I opened the front door. The knob was hot, so I used my shirt to protect my hand when I grasped it. It was locked.

  Poodoo came up behind me. “My Jimmy is around back, shot full of holes and all four tires are flat. The back door’s locked and probably barred, too. No one’s around.”

  I broke through the door glass with my elbow, reached in and flipped the frying-pan-hot deadbolt latch to unlock, and I opened the door.

  With sirens in the background, Poodoo said, “Here comes the fire department.”

  “They’ll be too late,” I told her. “Stay back!”

  Flames licked the ceiling, and I smelled gasoline as I took two steps into the burning building. Brass instruments that had been hanging from the open rafters and joists cluttered the floor, as more of them dropped from their hangers with symbol-like clashes every few seconds. I shielded my face with my arm and stepped farther, searching the smoke and flames for our friend.