Righteous Road

By Jimmie Martinez

Nearing death, the always pragmatic Glenn Smith is a dysfunctional baby boomer who believes the world is a sick place where love, friendship, and God are phony ideas created by greeting card companies, big business, and snake oil salesmen. But when his perverted old neighbor is suddenly murdered, Glenn is unwittingly propelled into the midst of the perplexing investigation. Glenn has no idea that what he is about to uncover will not only change his life, but also
the history of America.

Prompted to find out who killed Bobbie Bourgeois by a vision of his deceased mother, Glenn digs deep into the murder case and soon unveils the sinister mission of a shadowy organization determined to stop at nothing to defeat the countrys enemieseven if it means trampling on the United States Constitution, assassinating officials, or overthrowing governments. Through the people he meets and the relationships he develops, Glenn sets the stage for the creation of a potential life-changing perspective.

While in the midst of his unforgettable end-of-life journey,
Glenn attempts to solve a challenging murder caseall while
struggling to find his sanity amid a dangerous world full of
phonies and hypocrites.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462031917

Jimmie Martinez

JIMMIE MARTINEZ graduated from the University of New Orleans and served on the New Orleans Police Department for eleven years. The former Chief Administrative Officer of the city of Kenner, Louisiana, as well as the CEO of his own company, he is now semi-retired and lives with his wife in Louisiana and in Perdido Key, Alabama.

Book preview

Prologue: I Tried to Save the World and along the Twisted Road of Life

I Lost My Soul

Feeling half-dead, tired, and old, the former CIA operative sat alone in his house thinking of his past. Unfortunately that was about all a man of his age and rapidly declining health could do. There wasn’t much of a future for an old spy like him. Tears began to form in his eyes. He didn’t want to cry, but the older he got, the more emotional he became. Fifty years ago, he and his men were considered heroes by his countrymen. Today, he was thought to be a traitor by those same people. How could this have happened in such a short period?

He had dedicated his life and given much to a country that now vilified his kind. Sure, he had done things that he wasn’t proud of. He had killed and ordered people to be killed, all to keep America free. He had done the work that others couldn’t or wouldn’t do. Although he was near death, he had no regrets and would do it all over again. He had done and seen things that most people couldn’t imagine. He had dirt on his hands that couldn’t be washed off. That was the price one paid in the service of his country.

As a student of history, he wondered if this was how old generals, political leaders, kings, and warriors felt when they finally accepted that they were mere mortals. Power was an aphrodisiac that hid the deadly truth: time, not one’s adversaries, was man’s deadliest enemy. The old man closed his eyes. Remembering all the daring and heroic things he and his men had done, he pushed all thoughts of death out of his mind. In war, both hot and cold, his secret warriors had protected and served the American people.

The secret warriors he led changed the world and made it safer for American democracy. Sure, along the way some corners were cut, tough decisions made that cost lives. All this balanced the scales of power in favor of the United States. Most of the men who started the great adventure with the old man had retired or died in war or from old age. Since then, misfits, adventurers, and power seekers had joined the ranks. Like the US government intelligence agencies, his organization had grown too large and uncontrollable. Also like the US government agencies, dissention, mistrust, and partisan politics now paralyzed his organization.

Both organizations spent obscene amounts of money to fund a large bureaucracy, with high-tech gadgets, satellites, and computers to conduct its business. No longer were service, courage, bravery, honor, and a job well-done important to either. He had accepted this fact and moved on. What choice did he have? Now spying was a video game, controlled remotely by humans placing too much significance on technology. The old man thought to himself. The sixteen or more intelligence agencies in the US intelligence community should investment more in recruiting agents to work on the ground not in Star Wars technology.

Opening his eyes, he began to think. He first met President John F. Kennedy in 1961. The president had called a meeting at Camp David with his top intelligence strategist to discuss the invasion of Communist Cuba. He remembered when Kennedy walked into the room. He had stood, as had his boss, CIA Director George Heffker. Later he would learn that his boss had stood in respect of the office Kennedy held, not for the man who held the office.

Gentlemen, the president said, please sit down.

Bobby, recently appointed US Attorney, sat at his side. He could still see the sneer on the cocksucker’s face as he looked at the CIA director. The old man remembered how surprised he had been at the animosity between Bobby Kennedy and the director. After all, the young president had been in office less than three months. Since the election, their dislike for each other had been slowly festering over the invasion of Cuba.

I’m not very comfortable with the invasion plans. Explain why I should authorize the attack? the president said, as his brother stood next to him, smirking.

While the director made his case, the president stood passively, not reacting to the director’s arguments. Seeing little or no reaction in the president’s face, the director continued to press the points, his voice becoming strident. The president remained unconvinced.

I understand that you planned the invasion with the knowledge and consent of former President Eisenhower, he said.

Yes, the director replied, nodding.

So, you believe the invasion should begin several days from now and you need my permission to proceed. Not waiting for a response, the president quickly added. I want to abort all actions pertaining to the operations. Is that understood?

The director’s face glowed red with anger. Before he could argue his point, the president added, I want to give diplomacy a chance. I don’t feel that war is inevitable between the Communist world and our country.

The president’s words hung like poisonous gas in the air, dispersing throughout the room and nauseating the young aide. Apparently, his boss was also choking on the president’s toxic words, as he appeared unable to speak. So he decided to confront the president.

I also believe that in order to maintain a lasting peace, we must muster the will to defeat the Communists before they destroy our nation, the aide said, now standing.

Young man, we have a difference of opinion. America is the most powerful country on earth, and, like you, I’m dedicated to keeping it that way. However, my government will be one that tries diplomacy first, not simply relying on military or subversive actions, the president said, pounding his fist on the table.

As the two politicians stormed out of the meeting, the president’s brother growled at the two CIA agents, Your kind is good at waging war with our adversaries. In my brother’s administration, we will learn how to live and accept political diversity.

The director was not willing to simply take no without a fight—even if it meant exchanging blows with the president of the United States. He too had power, and he knew where all the bodies were buried on Capitol Hill. He called in every favor he had—with senators, congressmen, and lobbyists, anyone who had influence over the president. With his mob friends, the director found a strong ally that had great influence with the president. The mob wanted to overthrow the Communist government so they could take back their lucrative gambling casinos in Cuba, only ninety miles from Florida. Apparently, the young president had a weakness for women, which the mob threatened to expose if he didn’t assist the director.

The pressure worked. The call came several days later, when the aide was in the director’s office. The red telephone on the director’s desk rang. The president spoke first.

George, it is understood that if you resign, the US Air Force will provide support for the Cuban exiles, led by your men. Also, there will be no American military ground forces assisting the Cuban invaders, except for your agents.

Yes, I will gladly resign. With that air cover, we can overthrow Castro. We plan to attack in two days, the director said excitedly.

You got what you asked for. God bless you and your men, the president said and then hung up the phone.

The director smiled and looked at his aide. The Eagle will fly, and I would like you to lead the invasion.

The aide was pleased that the operation had been authorized but sad that the director had agreed to quit.

Is it true you are going to resign? the aide asked.

The director shook his head yes. I am moving on to a new job with less oversight from weak-willed politicians. I can’t stand by as they let political polls decide how to make our national security decisions. If the government can’t protect the country, then I will create an organization that will, the director said.

Unfortunately, the president was not a man of his word. The air support never materialized, and the invaders were left exposed to Castro’s thugs on the beaches of Cuba at the Bay of Pigs. The Cuban invasion was a total disaster for the intelligence community. Soon after the military embarrassment, the president said in a major policy address, We cannot, as a free nation, compete with our adversaries in tactics of terror, assassination, false promises, counterfeit mobs, and crisis.

After resigning, the director founded Kryptos. It was named for the Greek word hidden. It would later be given the nickname Crypt and for the next forty years be led by his then-young aide. In those years, the private clandestine organization and government intelligence agencies would, from time to time, share manpower and other resources when conducting sanctioned secrete covert operation. On many of those missions, Crypt operated so seamless with the public intelligence agencies that it was sometimes difficult to tell who was private or public. But Crypts chief job was to conduct operations that the governmental intelligence agencies were prohibited to perform by law, unsanctioned black ops.

Agents working for the government, who got tired of fighting the country enemies by rules and laws imposed by congress or the administration, were welcomed into Crypt and many joined. Now Crypt was the most powerful and influential secret intelligence organizations in the world.

The old man and former aide to the director knew that his organization would always be at risk to be destroyed by its many enemies. Problems had to be eliminated. He and his men had a lifetime of secrets to hide, and a petty criminal scumbag like Bobbie Bourgeois threatening to blackmail members of the Crypt had to be dealt with and eliminated.

Chapter 1:

I’m a Sick Old Bastard

Hoping to Die

Father was a Catholic priest, my mother a Hopi Indian, and I was born a bastard child. After reading an old journal I wrote as a child, I discovered these crucial facts about myself. Most people could recall who their mother and Father were, but regrettably I’m not one of them. Looking at the pictures in a family album, memories flooded my mind. It’s funny when I hear songs, see a place, read something, or look at a picture, old memories pop in my mind. It’s as if somewhere deep in my brain, where memories are stored, something is blocking them from rising up to my consciousness. The dam is springing small leaks of memory, but it’s still holding back most of my past.

Who I am?

I recall growing up in the 60s. Father, a Catholic priest, didn’t approve of the hippie movement, the Age of Aquarius, or the sexual revolution. Although he eventually gave up the collar and ended up marrying mom, his pious attitude about life didn’t change. Since I didn’t share his belief in God or the church, we fought a lot. He thought everything I did was evil, and I thought he was a stupid hypocrite. It was hard to take seriously a man who had willfully impregnated an innocent, unmarried young woman seeking moral guidance from her parish priest.

I picked up a picture of our family, taken in front of the Saint Louis Cathedral in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Dressed in a dark suit and looking self-righteous, Father seemed dull, while Mother looked radiant. Standing next to both of them, age ten, I looked small and lost. I was a confused child, unwanted by my father but adored by my mother. For a short time before she died, I did see happiness in my mother’s eyes and felt it in her touch. On the other hand, Father had sinned by having me. It showed on his face and the way he treated me.

Putting down the pictures, I picked up the first journal I wrote right after we took the picture and began to read. Throughout my diary and life, I addressed the priest who impregnated my mother by his church title, Father. I guess I never felt he was my dad. Dads played catch with their sons, went to movies, and fished. Not him. He believed that if his family prayed together, that would somehow atone for his mortal sin of having me. We prayed a lot together. Mostly I prayed for him to leave home, and I’m sure he prayed that I had never been born.

In the journal, I wrote about an incident where I had asked him questions to understand his faith.

What happened to all those good Catholics who ate meat on Friday? Did they go to hell?

What do you mean? he replied.

If they ate meat on Friday before the church changed the rules and they died, are they now in hell because they sinned? I asked innocently.

You will go to hell thinking like that, Father said, storming out of the house.

Father didn’t like such questions. He preferred to believe that the church was perfect and that we should all think so too. On the other hand, I had always believed that when all men thought alike, no one was really thinking.

Like the hundred or more million other Catholics, he believed the church to be infallible. Tell that to the thousands of Muslims who centuries ago died in the Crusades, the innocent people persecuted during the Spanish Inquisition, or the young altar boys molested by pedophile priests. One must not forget the Irish Catholics killing the English Christian Protestants in Ireland. What did that Christian say in Belfast right before he pressed the trigger to kill his Christian brother? My Jesus is perfect and yours is not?

I remembered that as a young man I had more doubts about God. Not wanting to antagonize Father with another question, I asked my eighth-grade Catechism teacher, Do you really believe that the unleavened bread given at Holy Communion is the body of Christ?

Why, yes, my son. Don’t you?

Not really. I got the recipe from a baker around the corner. You want to see it? Needless to say I was sent home and punished.

Maybe there is a God. Wouldn’t that be great? I have no real opposition to such a ludicrous idea. If someone wants to believe in myths and ghosts, that’s fine with me. What makes me mad is when men believe that their invisible God gives them the divine right to kill, steal, molest, hang, rape, behead, stone to death, and persecute others who fail to believe exactly what they do.

Being raised by a priest who thought my birth was a sin he had to endure didn’t exactly make me feel welcome in this world. Father seemed to live a life of remorse, trying to repent for and correct his one mortal sin by raising me to become a Catholic priest. I guess you can see, we never agreed on much.

When I was in my late teens, my mother died. What can I say about my mother? Her name was Ella Mae. She was beautiful, funny, a full-blooded Hopi Indian, and the most important person in my life. She was life itself. The air I breathed and my reason to live. My life was empty without her. Except for Father, I was alone. Come to think of it, I have always been on my own.

My mother was also a very religious person. She embraced the great powers of Mother Nature and the natural world. She incorporated Mother Sky, Father Earth, the moon, fire, and rain into her Christian beliefs. She looked at the beauty of nature all around her and saw the splendor of God.

I, on the other hand, was indifferent to God, the church, and Mother Nature, but not to human nature. In fact, I studied human nature and spent a lot of time using that knowledge to manipulate others into doing my bidding. As a result, I made a fortune as an adult.

When she died, all I could think of was what I had done to deserve such a loss. Dealing with her death was difficult. At my mother’s funeral, standing by her coffin, Father put his hand on my shoulder and told me, If you believe in Jesus, you will find comfort knowing that God promoted your mother to live with him in heaven for eternity and that’s a good thing. He then quoted John 11:25–26: I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die.

I pulled his hand off my shoulder and looked at him. How can you say that my mother dying was a good thing? Are you delusional? I then ran away crying. After crying a lifetime of tears and at the age of eighteen, I never cried again.

Six months after my mother’s death, Father rejoined the church. I guess there was no statute of limitations prohibiting a former fornicator from rejoining the church. I felt no emotions about him becoming a celebrant. To me, he always belonged to the Jesus bunch.

I never wanted to offend him or what he believed in. But I loathed men like him and the religious organizations that they belonged to, who preached that they were the only vehicle to a God that didn’t exist. He and his kind sold fairy tales about invisible beings for charitable donations.

He had always loved the church more than my mom or me. I was incapable of feeling anything for him or anyone else. People got sick, died, and then decayed. Once I realized that certainty, I knew that caring for others was the recipe for heartache and pain. I had become emotionally dead and lacked basic human feelings. Faking my way through life, I cared for little. It is a powerful thing to not care. I always had the upper hand in relationships, and it was my way or the highway. People love to be shit on. Tell someone you don’t want him or her and that person will do anything to convince you that you should want him or her. It’s human nature.

I closed my eyes. I was tired of reading about my sad life and seeing pictures of my childhood that stirred up bad memories. There had to be something in my early life, besides my mother, that made me happy. It suddenly came to me. My mother had one brother. I strained to think, and then I saw his face. He was also an Indian. Like me, he had lost his mother early in his life. His sister, my mother, had attempted to raise him when they were both young. He was wild, unpredictable, and nothing like Father professed to be. He saw my father for the hypocrite he was. Uncle Jimmie, on the other hand, was not a fraud. He embraced his immoral behavior. He gambled, drank, chased women, and lived a life that the priest sermonized against but failed to follow. Preaching once in church didn’t make Father a good man any more than standing in a garage made him a car. My uncle Jimmie was no hypocrite. He taught me that everyday life in New Orleans could be a party and that sex was not the answer. Sex was the question and yes was the answer.

New Orleans gave a young man the opportunity to live a happy, hedonistic life. Great food, great drinks, and dreamy women could be found everywhere. The Big Sleazy was and still is Disney World for sinners. As a young man growing up in the French Quarter, I heard all kinds of music floating on the soft, warm breeze blowing from the river. I had it all in a city that asks few questions and where love was for sale twenty-four hours a day on most street corners. My uncle showed me how to enjoy the soul and spirit of a poor city where people who had survived hurricanes, floods, wars, and yellow fever partied daily, not just on weekends or special occasions.

The old saying that Indians shouldn’t drink because it makes them crazy is true. My Uncle Jimmie lived a life proving the adage. Back then he was in his thirties, divorced, with young children of his own. Naturally, I wanted to get to know him better and embrace his lifestyle, so I became his shadow and apprentice. To say that the good Father objected to my newfound relationship with my uncle was an understatement. But who listens to the advice of priests anyway? How could I refuse a lifestyle where there was no invisible hand of God prohibiting me from enjoying life’s pleasures? Uncle Jimmie taught me how to drive fast cars, drink, play cards, throw dice, and get laid. You know—all the important things in life. When he turned forty-three, he finally slowed down. It was a beautiful funeral.

The last thing he told me before he died: Boy if you really want something and you can’t get it, don’t give up. Just take it. You see this new convertible we riding in?

Yeah, I said with the wind blowing my hair.

If I asked your Father’s God for this car, we would both be walking. His God would never grant such a worldly possession to sinners like us. So I stole it, and if I find out later there’s a God, then I’ll ask for forgiveness. I loved the man for being so practical and wise. After my uncle died, I kept the car.

Growing up on the streets of New Orleans made me one of the coolest kids at General Francis T. Nicholls High School. The school was named after a Southern Civil War general (Go Rebels). Remember, it was the 1960s and segregation was the law of the land. Come to think of it, not much has changed, except now the school’s mascot is no longer Johnny Reb but a bobcat. The school’s name is Thurmond Marshall High. It was once all white and it’s now all black, and the drug of choice is probably no longer marijuana.

I remember seeing Elvis at the Municipal Auditorium in New Orleans, and I had many impure thoughts about Ann Margaret in the movie Bye Bye, Birdie. I acted on most of my carnal impulses, but I never did drugs.

My uncle also taught me that life is cruel and the world is a violent place. To survive, you have to rely on yourself and not some nonexistent God.

Have you ever seen a baby being born? he once asked.

Why would I want to see that? It sounds gross with all the blood and other stuff.

You are right—being born is messy and violent. Babies are brutally ripped from the bloody womb of a mother and the infant comes into the world traumatized. As newborn babies, we scream and holler wanting to return to the comfort and safety of our mothers’ bodies.

I don’t understand.

The point is from the first day of life to the last, we experience the brutality of the world alone, without the help of a fictitious God.

Then why do so many people believe in a God, even though he lets cruel and horrible things happen to people?

People are fools; they believe what self-proclaimed wise men tell them. They are told that God and the devil are real and they are fighting for our soul. One can give us back the safety and comfort we lost when we entered this cold world, while the other will torture us for eternity when we leave it. Since I don’t believe in either, I’m not sure which does which. One thing that I’m sure of is that the rich man with clout who lives in a large house doesn’t need anybody and has the real power over life and death, not God.

I saw the wisdom of my uncle’s words. From that day on, my goal in life was to protect myself from the cruel world by becoming independently rich and not count on God or anyone else.

Now I’m in my mid-60s, dying of brain cancer. You’re probably thinking that explains a lot about my rambling and lack of memory. Now that I’m facing death, I know I should be sad and repentant, but I am not. It is not because of what my priest Father said: that death is a promotion we should welcome. No, it’s just that I am bored and tired of living. I have been in the game of life too long, and I am looking forward to the nothingness of eternity.

I have taken all the chemo treatments I can stand. When I asked the doctor what’s next, he smiled that all-knowing smile and said I should get my things in order. So I am in pain, waiting to die. The sad part is I have neither goals nor desires left. My body is worn out, and my mind is mush. I’m always bone tired and haven’t slept well in months. Thinking of my death makes me happy. Ironically, although my body has worn out and I am dreamless, I don’t feel old inside. My mind now wanders. The doctor says the chemo has prolonged my life, but at the cost of losing some of my mind. Now my memory is so bad that sometimes I can’t remember my name and people have to finish my sentences. My chemo brain locks up, and I just look up into space.

In the morning, as I picked up my first hot cup of instant Community Coffee, I marveled at the chemical concoction. The caffeine laden brew with artificial sweetener shocked my brain like the chemo treatments never could. Science is truly great, I thought as I continued to pour the hot liquid down my throat.

I heard a rumor that there was a prostitute who lived in the French Quarter who got up every morning and ground up coffee beans to make fresh coffee for her customers. The woman was black and weighed over three hundred pounds. She enticed her clients not with thoughts of wild, passionate sex with a hefty black woman but with the knowledge that they had earned a fresh cup of strong black coffee by sleeping with her.

Like most citizens of New Orleans, I too like a great cup of brew in the morning. I sat holding the paper, wondering if I could go to bed with anyone of her proportions. Suddenly the very same woman appeared in front of me. I gasped at the large, very black woman, dressed in spandex tights, spiked heel shoes, and brightly colored red sequin top as she stood in my kitchen.

Are you real? I asked, staring at her in amazement.

As real as rain and just as wet, she said with a laugh that shook her enormous body. If you knows what I mean, sucker.

I’m too sick. I can’t have sex, I said pathetically. Can we skip the sex and just have the coffee? I asked.

Although I got a fine McMuffin, I ain’t any McDonald’s restaurant. I sell sex and give the other shit away to my customers as lagniappe. You got to does the deed first. Do you wanna?

Being the degenerate I was, I concluded that if this was real, I would try to fake an orgasm to get a real cup of coffee. In the past, I had known many women who faked orgasms while I was faking a relationship. Faking a relationship was hard work. How hard could it be to fake a climax? Before I could answer yes, I was alone again in my kitchen. The woman had disappeared, along with any chance that I would have a good cup of coffee today. I must explain how her appearance, followed by her sudden departure, didn’t blow my feeble mind. I have been seeing things for months that were never there. With the medication I’m taking, the doctor told me to expect hallucinations.

Waiting to die can be depressing, but most people have to do it at least once in their lifetime. It’s simply my turn. I know you think your turn may never come, but as far as I know, you are probably wrong. So, I’m committed to live each day like it’s my last, because it probably is.

To tell my story with my defective brain puts both me and the listener at a disadvantage. I feel like a mosquito in a nudist camp. I don’t know where to begin. So I guess I will start my story at the beginning, when I met my neighbor Bobbie Bourgeois, the pervert, and his beautiful call-girl friend, Sugar.

Chapter 2:

The Handler Assigns the Killer

In the penthouse suite of the Monteleone Hotel, located in the middle of the historical French Quarter in New Orleans, the killer waited for his mobile phone to ring. That was the signal for him to open his door.

The phone rang. Expecting the call, he walked toward the door and opened it. Standing in the hall, the tall, well-dressed man in the expensive dark-blue Armani suit glanced both ways to see if he was being watched. Satisfied that he wasn’t, he stepped into the room. Closing the door behind him, the man handed the killer an address and a name.

That’s the target.

Sitting on the bed and looking at the suit, the man, who now called himself Ben Heick, said, You should have given me the assignment first and you would have the video.

I’m not interested in your opinion, only that you handle the job.

Gazing at the picture he said, I can kill this old man with my hands tied behind my back.

The killer was right. He should have waited for the assassin to complete his last assignment instead of giving the job to an inept asset. Although Ben was arrogant, he was as tough as nails and the best killer the organization had.

Look, the other guy fucked up the robbery and now we have to permanently clean up the mess. Is that a problem? Can you do it before you leave town?

The assassin nodded his head yes.

Kill some guy and find a video? Hell, Ben would have done it for the joy of killing alone, but his employer didn’t need to know that. Ben Heick was a sick puppy, and killing his country’s enemies made him happy—getting paid this well was just gravy. The suit stood and said his good-byes and then disappeared out of the room as fast as he had arrived.

The next morning, riding the elevator down to the lobby, the killer walked toward the hotel clerk. A talkative, red-faced young man with a strong southern accent asked the killer if he wished to check out.

Yes.

You all going back home? the clerk said, grinning at him like a Louisiana alligator, with sharp teeth and a strong jaw. The question seemed more like a statement of fact than an inquiry. After getting his assignment, he was moving to a hotel located near his next victim’s house, by the airport.

Sorry, Ben said to the chatty clerk, but my flight leaves in a couple of hours and I need to get to the airport.

Ben spent the next couple of days following his mark. As a CIA agent in Iraq, he had been trained to kill and had been awarded numerous medals by his government for performing his job. Soon he would again kill for his county, but he would be paid by a private organization called Crypt.

The CIA brass had fought to keep him in the service. Men whom he trusted and respected told him that he could better serve his country if he joined Crypt. Working for them, he wouldn’t have to worry about US laws and regulations. In Iraq, he learned that fighting a war with rules of engagement was like fucking a woman using a rubber and claiming afterward the girl was still a virgin. It just didn’t make sense; war had no rules. So he decided to join the private group of freelance operatives fighting the bad guys wherever they were in the world. However, he now fought the war to win using the enemy’s engagement techniques, not the rules imposed by Washington politicians. He was fighting for things that Americans took for granted like—life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

On the third day of his surveillance, he was ready to make his move. Bobbie Bourgeois lived in a large two-story mansion located in the upscale suburban neighborhood called Chateau Estates in the city of Kenner, Louisiana. In order to avoid suspicion, Ben stole a Cox Cable television van and wore a gray jumpsuit with the name Jose stenciled over the right pocket and the logo of the company on his back. Ben rang the front doorbell of his victim’s house. He liked to eyeball targets right before the kill and, more important, to plant a surveillance bug so he could see when it was safe to enter the kill zone.

Several seconds later, the mark answered.

Did you call to report your cable is out? Ben asked.

Fucking right it is out. I want to watch the fights tonight. I hope you can fix it, Bobbie said, agitated.

Ben was invited in, and he began to reconnect the cable that he had disconnected outside the house earlier. He was out of Bobbie’s residence in twenty minutes. Several hours later, Ben debriefed his handler.

I’m all set on my end. Do you want me to proceed?

The mission is a go.

The audio surveillance monitor is in place. By tonight I should know where the video is and I’ll make the move.

Once he was satisfied that the timing was right and it was safe to move on the target, Ben would strike, and Bobbie Bourgeois would no longer be a problem to the country.

Chapter 3:

My Meeting with Bobbie and Sugar

I can’t get the three-hundred-pound black hooker out of my mind—at least the part that’s still functioning. The thought of the prostitute making home-brewed coffee and giving it to her customers as lagniappe fascinates me. Could I franchise her sales gimmick and open a chain of coffee shops? A little sex with a cup of nonfat latte could put Starbucks out of business.

Attempting to get the hooker out of my mind, I again picked up the newspaper. On the front page of the New Orleans Times Picayune metro section, I read about an armed robbery. The holdup occurred several days ago in Kenner, Louisiana, just west of New Orleans. A man named Bobby Bourgeois was held up at gunpoint and slapped around a little at his business. Looking at his picture in the paper, I thought he looked unhappy. For some reason, the man’s depression pleased me. Startled, I realized he lived across the street from my house. We were not friends—remember, I had none—but whenever we saw each other coming or going from our houses, I would wave.

I never knew what he did for a living. The paper stated that he owned Mr. Bobbie’s Super Sex Store, which sold various marital aids. Knowing that a perverted old man lived across the street surprised me and brought me a sense of pleasure. I always thought I was the only sexual deviant living on the block. I must admit that even at my age, and with cancer, I still thought about sex, although my body had other ideas. Closing the paper, I thought of the large, spandex-clad black prostitute, coffee, and Bobbie’s Super Sex Shop. The thought almost gave me an erection. However, with the combination of the medicine I take, the chemo treatment, and my age, it’s been impossible to get a boner for years now.

I thought about approaching my neighbor with the idea of opening a string of sex coffee shops across the nation. What man wouldn’t want a pumpkin spice frappucino, everything bagel, and blowjob in the morning? I know I would.

Standing at my front room window, I saw a Kenner police car parked across the street. For some reason, the robbery and the possibility of a new business opportunity fascinated me. I wanted to be near the action. Had he been beaten and robbed by some old gay guy or an unsatisfied customer who had had his prostate removed and couldn’t get it up anymore? Did he know the overweight black hooker who gave a cup of coffee to every unsatisfied customer?

Being half-Hopi, I could stand motionless for days in the window and not be detected by man, animal, or cop. Growing up on the streets of New Orleans, not out west, I had lost most of my ancestors’ Indian ways. Raised thousands of miles from the Hopi nation and never actually meeting another Indian—except my mother and Uncle Jimmie—I had become a poor tracker of animals and unable to speak Shoshonean. But like my Hopi ancestors, I am a peaceful person, unaffected by the turmoil and troubles of other white men. The word Hopi, I have read, means peaceful ones. Like most Hopis, I’m thin and dark, with thick black hair. Some women say I’m handsome. With age, I lost some of my good looks. On the other hand, my large bank account has more than made up for the loss of my youthful appearance.

Except for hunting, I never carried a weapon. Living in the city all my life, I never had the desire or opportunity to hunt. Not carrying a weapon, I think, says a lot about my character. Living in the murder capital of the United States, where everyone carries a gun, I’m an anomaly. I think carrying a gun would be a bad thing for me. If I did, it would probably dramatically increase the murder rate of the city. There are a number of BP oil executives, politicians, football coaches, fast-food employees, and other annoying people I would hunt down and shoot.

My interest in my neighbor, the perverted old man who owned a porno shop, grew as the day progressed. If I hadn’t been a banker who robbed and stole from the poor, I too would like to have been in the porno and coffee business. Sex and coffee sells. They are both addictive! I know because I have always had trouble living without either one of them.

Looking for adventure, love, or just trying to kill the boredom, I decided to pay my victim neighbor a visit. Dressed in blue jeans, a T-shirt that read, Man is dying, and brown moccasins, I rang Bob’s doorbell. As I stood on the man’s porch, not sure what I was going to say, I realized that it was really hot. The temperature in the New Orleans metro area in the summer can easily approach one hundred degrees, with 100 percent humidity. Today was one of those days.

A woman opened the door. She was beautiful. As she stood in the doorway—about five foot five, with short, snow-white hair and greenish-blue eyes that reminded me of Lake Tahoe—all she was wearing was a smile. I stared with heartfelt lust at her unblemished skin, ruby-red lips, and engaging smile. She had the face of an innocent young women and the body of a temptress. My heart started pounding. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. I knew before she spoke that I wanted her. Although if I got her, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to perform.

After what seemed like a long silence, I spoke. You don’t know me but I live across the street.

She smiled again, and I noticed she had all her teeth. I find that there are not many virgin girls in the New Orleans area, and even fewer ones with all their teeth. Hopefully, I had just found that one.

You come over to borrow a cup of sugar? she said in a soft whisper that sounded as if she were approaching a climax. My name is Sugar Cane. And as you can see, I am sweet and sexy.

Attempting to control my lust, I tilted my head in a coquettish manner and asked, Are you Bobbie’s significant other?

No, I’m a call girl that does house calls.

Surprised by her honesty, intelligence, purity of soul, as well as her very large breasts, I thought for a moment and replied, And a very beautiful one at that.

I’ve just given Bobbie a full-body therapeutic sexual message. Since you live across the street, how about you and I going to your house and I’ll give you one, she said. Taking my silence and open mouth as a no, she said, What’s the matter, you gay or something?

Hardly.

So you’ve never had sex with a call girl? she asked with a hint of agitation. Embarrassed, I looked down at my shoes. Is it like having sex with a normal woman? You know, one with a regular vagina?

Of course it is. Do you think my cha-cha is slanted sideways like a Chinese woman? Most women in my profession take their job very seriously, and that makes us good at what we do. I have raised Lazarus himself from the dead and performed miracles with men sicker than you, she said proudly.

No, I don’t believe that I’ve actually had sex with someone like you. But I would love to literally die trying, I said. Looking down at my pants and seeing no response below my belt, I stood, silently cursing myself. My thing was deader than a shrunken head stuck on a spear in the middle of the swamp.

After another awkward moment of silence I remembered the purpose of my visit. Is Mr. Bourgeois in?

Maybe, why do you want to know? the naked lady purred like a pussy cat, apparently still trying to make a sale.

Like I said, I’m a neighbor.

What do you want, mister? Seeing me drooling over her large, firm breasts, she added, I usually charge for what you are thinking right now.

Fear overtook me. What was I doing here? I felt stupid, unsure, and shaken. Seemingly from out of nowhere, Bobbie appeared at the door. He was wearing a black silk robe loosely tied around his large belly. He looked tired and washed out. He was short, fat, bald, and old, and he seemed to be sweating profusely. Standing next to the beautiful girl, he looked even uglier. It was truly beauty and the beast. I hoped his robe, barely covering his huge belly, wouldn’t fly open and expose his privates. He smelled like a dirty ashtray. I choked at his odor and stepped back.

My name is Glenn. I’m your neighbor.

Come on in. Please don’t be so formal, Bobbie responded in a raspy voice, the result of years of smoking, I imagined. He pulled me into the house and slammed the front door behind us. This surprised me. After all, I had never met the man, nor could I stop ogling his naked girlfriend. Now, standing in his house, something seemed very familiar about him. Had I met him before? I couldn’t remember. It was like I was having amnesia and déjà vu at the same time. I think I had forgotten this one time before.

Why was he glad I was here? Hopefully, he didn’t think I was here for ménage à trois.

Now with all three of us in the house, Ms. Sugar seemed bored and disinterested. I got that a lot from young women lately. Walking several feet from us to a chair where her clothes hung, she turned and announced, My work is done here. She had a pout on her face, dimples on her cheeks and a twinkle in her eyes. I wanted to take her up on her offer and have sex right in front of her last customer.

Standing in the foyer of Bobbie’s house, I noticed that Bobbie had good taste in women but not in furniture. Every room had a lot of red, white, and blue velvet furniture, white shag carpet, and black suede pictures of nude women in various sexual poses hanging on the walls. I liked the pictures but little else in the overly lit rooms. The furniture looked cheap and used. The velvet white couch and chairs had large brown stains everywhere, the same color as Bobbie’s rotting teeth.

Bobbie turned to me. He seemed worried. Why are you here? You know my price.

What was he talking about? Was he negotiating Sugar’s payment for her sexual favors? I thought for a moment before answering. Why do you think I’m here?

Bobbie paused and looked at me quizzically. Are you here because of that video? I’m not negotiating. I want my money.

Okay.

Good, then let’s put the issue behind us. You or your men pay up or else.

What men? Pay what?

I see. You don’t want to talk in front of the girl.

I smiled at him, still baffled by what he was saying. Turning away so he couldn’t see my befuddlement, I watched Sugar dress.

Do you have a cigarette? Bobbie asked.

I don’t smoke.

Me neither, he said, still smelling like a dirty ashtray. They are bad for your health.

I might have a pack at my house, I said, giving myself a way out.

Looking at the fully dressed woman, who no longer looked like a call girl, Bobbie said, I feel like a smoke. What about you, Sugar? Sugar nodded her head yes. Do you mind going to get them? Bobbie asked.

I knew I didn’t have cigarettes at home, but I didn’t want to disappoint Sugar, so I agreed to go home and look for the smokes. I said my good-byes with no intention of returning, unless I found a pack of my nonexistent cigarettes in my house or I could get an erection. Having sex with Sugar and then puffing on a cigarette sounded pleasurable. The entire visit had been a little weird. However, I couldn’t wait to see Sugar again. Walking home from Bobbie’s house, the heat was oppressive. Closing my front door and locking out the outside world, I began to question my behavior. I had acted like a fool in front of the naked girl. I couldn’t remember why I had gone to visit my neighbor and Bobbie’s question about my men and owing money baffled me. I wanted to be alone for a while, but I was still thinking about Sugar lying beside me. I went to the window, thinking she might have followed me. After all, she did say she wanted me for a price. I tried to think, but nothing happened, so I went to bed and fell asleep.

Chapter 4:

Murder and Mayhem

Bobbie got tired of waiting for his neighbor to return with cigarettes. After telling Sugar good-bye, he poured himself a glass of Maker’s Mark and lit a joint. The warm brown smoky liquid with a hint of molasses and oak flowed down his throat as the marijuana smoke filled his lungs. He wasn’t intimidated by the visit of his neighbor. The guy looked weak and half-dead. He had the goods and wasn’t afraid to use them to blackmail the bastards. Fuck them all, he thought, and then contemplated how much money he should demand for the movie. He had the banker and his man by the balls, and he was not afraid to squeeze them.

Reaching for a large leather brief case by his feet, he took out the video disc and examined it. He smiled. Soon he was going to be a very rich man. Placing the disc back into the case, he reached for the remote and turned on the TV.

Settling in his large comfortable red velvet recliner with the dope and booze slowly mellowing his brain, he closed his eyes. The news was on, and the announcer was talking about the latest Louisiana politician caught cheating on his wife.

No kidding. Wait till you see the little movie I have, he said.

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In the rear yard, Ben scurried behind a large bush. Moving silently in the shadows, he hoped Bobbie still had the disc in his briefcase. The other agents had failed to get the movie when they confronted Bobbie. His boss wouldn’t tolerate another failure. However, unlike the others, Ben never failed to complete his assignment. On the surveillance audio, he had heard where Bobbie put the DVD and that he had given a copy to a girl name Sugar. He also heard an interesting but confusing conversation with someone named Glenn. He made a note to himself to tell his boss about the audio recording.

Approaching the rear door, he heard the TV on. He had deactivated the alarm system. Slowly, he used a pick to unlock the door. He knew the floor plan of the house from his earlier visit. He moved silently down the hallway toward the flickering TV. The pupils of his eyes ingested everything and recorded it like a camera. He listened, trying to