KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set (10 page)

Chapter
16

Hoodoo with Pood
oo

With a flare of whining aircraft engine and wind like a hurricane, an airboat hit a mud bar about fifteen yards in front of us, vaulted ten feet overhead and landed on harm’s side.

A fifty-caliber machine gun makes a distinctive, sharp hammering, a bit slower but louder than an M-60. It’s a big dog among Chihuahuas. The airboat’s machine gunner threw fiery Hell back at Legba’s men.

Zack moved me aside and looked. “It’s Poodoo!”

“What?”

“Poodoo! She done rescued us! I calt her when you was in LaLa Land on my shop floor. Checked you’s billfold. Seed who ya was. She’d been spectin’ ya. Tol’ her where we be headed. Poodoo’s the one calt the Feds to save that lady — Billy’s momma.”

In between us and Legba’s henchmen, the airboat made slow but noisy circles. In the operator’s seat, leaning against the rudder stick to make the loops, a redheaded woman was firing a squad assault weapon, a.k.a. SAW. Wearing a red leisure suit on the bow, a skinny black man held onto the big fifty-caliber machinegun with both hands, while throwing back eight, half-inch-diameter, full-metal-jacket slugs per second.

The redhead firing the SAW knew what she was doing, the assault weapon spitting out fifteen 5.56 mm rounds per second on its own, sounding much like its name, a Husqvarna
chainsaw
. The only time they let up was when the prop end of their boat moved into their line of fire while circling.

One of Legba’s ATVs exploded, throwing both driver and gunner into the swamp. The second vehicle rolled into the water smoking, its occupants’ bloodied bodies slipping into the alligator infested wetland. The third escaped, but with driver only and two flattened tires.

The redhead guided the airplane-propeller-driven boat around to the side of our stalled jeep and shouted, “Get in!”

She was beautiful. In the old days, my testosterone level may have been too high to admit being saved by a woman, but I had no problem now, especially after getting a good look at her.

Zack climbed in first. “This ‘ere’s Poodoo!” he said.

“Special Agent Pooh Dooley, FBI,” she told me with a mock finger salute. “At your service.”

Seeing her beautiful but wind-blown, long red hair, big green eyes, luscious full lips and wet t-shirt covering the clichéd
ample breasts
, all I could think of was
“I wish!”

The past twenty-four hours had been a nightmare, but the sight of this lovely lady put my brain back in the land of lollipops and cotton candy.

I shook my head with an ironic smile. “I’m E Z.”

“I can tell,” she said. “Goes along with what I’ve heard about you.”

I feared we were getting off on the wrong foot. That was
strike one
.

“This is Goofy.” She nodded to the thin black man wearing a bright floral shirt and red leisure suit. “He’s my pimp.”

“But of course he is.” I smiled.

The dark man’s thin face split open, exposing huge front teeth, and he laughed ... dare I say, like ...
Goofy
.

Chapter
17

Hot Child in the City

With Poodoo at the rudder and accelerator, the trip across Honey Island Swamp to her SUV was more exciting than a US Marine beach landing in a hovercraft. We covered five miles within about five, knuckle-whitening minutes.

I hadn’t known Zack long, but I’d seen him crazy high, I’d seen him happy, I’d seen him mad and I’d seen him sad. In all those times, I’d never seen his eyes get so big.

On the way back to New Orleans in her SUV, I told FBI SA Dooley, a.k.a. Poodoo, that I thought Billy White Cloud had been tied up and was being held with the children behind Legba’s cabin. We were both sure the whole mess of them had been cleared out by now, but she called in FBI SWAT to check it out and gather evidence.

There was more to report, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember. I racked my brains, but my mind was like shifting sands in a sirocco. I remembered only that it had something to do with Legba’s conversation with Sheriff DePue. Marie’s dust was sure to have contained some very potent drugs — probably pufferfish poison. Although it had yet to turn me into a zombie, it had already made pudding out of my memory.

By the time we got to within three blocks of
Bourbon Street, night had fallen and Mardi Gras was in full swing.

We went on foot, searching through the gyrating crowd for Poodoo’s contact, an anonymous woman who’d called in a tip. Given the code name “Call Girl,” she’d assured Poodoo that she would tell her who Legba really was. But the informant insisted on meeting her in person first, and to receive witness protection. Poodoo’s only clue to identify Call Girl was that she would be topless and wearing a white mask.

I couldn’t wait —
white masks
turn me on.

As we hit Interstate 59 South heading in, Poodoo’s cell phone rang. “Special Agent Dooley.”

After a couple seconds, she held her hand over the microphone and said to me, “It’s the SWAT team. They’ve confirmed our suspicions. No one’s left at Legba’s cabin — not even any bodies.”

She went back to her phone. Another couple of seconds of listening and she asked me, “You know anything about a fat, twenty-foot-long alligator?”

“Oops,” I said and looked at Zack in the back seat. His eyebrows were raised, as well. “Ol’ Bob Dylan’s grown,” I said knowing that I would have probably exaggerated its size had I run face to face into the big reptile, as well. “Anybody get hurt?”

“Bob Dylan?” she asked, frowned at
me
and returned to her phone call. With a few words of thanks, she hung up. “Nobody got hurt. I guess they filled that poet gator of yours full of holes when the first SWAT member stumbled over him in the dark. They said that if we needed them, they’d be cleaning up at the cabin and grilling the thing for supper. A couple of those SWAT boys are Cajun and love alligator tail.”

“They done finally kilt Ol’ Yellah,” Zack said. “An’ now they’s eatin’ ‘im.”

“How fitting,” I said, “Law eating law.”

“What?” Poodoo asked.

“Bob Dylan ate Sheriff DePue. He was probably fed as many of the dead bodies we left in our wake that he could stomach, as well.”

Zack began his Brennan laugh, accompanied by Goofy’s comic chuckle.

“Won’t tell ‘em a word,” Poodoo said to more of Zack and Goofy’s chortling.

I turned to Poodoo’s
pimp
in the back seat.  “I can’t imagine why they call you
Goofy
.” This time, they both busted out in even louder, wild guffaws.

*   *   *

I’d never been to
NOLA
during Mardi Gras — never thought it sounded that fun.

I hadn’t realized what I’d been missing all these years.

The street writhed with partiers, everyone going absolutely nuts. But they were all happy—even the plethora of cops who mingled within. A tangible feeling of joy and merriment hung in the air, and it began to rub off on me.

Men, young and old, hung out of balconies begging young women to bare their chests for strings of the purple, gold and green beads.

Women were hanging out of other balconies, many of them with several strands of beads around their necks and topless. Fireworks popped and whirled, topless girls screamed in merriment, painted girls danced, topless girls giggled wearing wild masks and beads — and ... did I mention: there were topless girls?

Within a few yards afoot on Bourbon Street, we were dancing and shouting along with the crowd. Poodoo and I made our way down the crowded street managing a sort of salsa dance in between all the writhing bodies that turned into the tango in the shoulder to shoulder throng, and we ended up doing a very sexy bump with some grinding for good measure. Every time she smiled at me, I felt my heart melt.

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 step 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
.