Upside Down

15

For two hours, Paulus Styer sat in his stolen Rover as motionless as a turtle on a log taking sun. He was parked so he could watch the Park View Guest House, a three-story yellow and white mansion located beside Audubon Park, diagonally across St. Charles Avenue from Tulane University. As he watched, he monitored the conversations around Hank. The rain that had begun at four had fallen without letting up.

According to conversations he had overheard, Styer knew that Hank and Millie had stayed at the guesthouse on a prior visit to the city. Millie loved its tall ceilings, its ornate moldings, and the rooms decorated with antiques.

Nicky Green had brought the two Trammels there directly from the airport, and for half an hour he and Hank had sat outside on the front porch talking about old times and mutual acquaintances, but for reasons of his own Styer found it all of interest. Styer used his pocket telescope to watch them. Nicky wore the brim of his cowboy hat down to where his eyebrows should have been. He kept chewing up the tips of toothpicks then spitting them into the yard and putting in fresh ones.

Styer was listening to the conversation when Nicky said, “I couldn't help but notice that you're packing a handgun, Hank. You think that's smart?”

“I feel naked without it. You know. New Orleans can be a dangerous place.”

The mention of a gun had Styer paying closer attention. He hadn't imagined that Trammel would be armed, and he figured the old guy must have had the weapon in his stowed bags. Styer would have to take that into consideration. He knew that Hank was a highly decorated Green Beret veteran who spent two tours in Vietnam. Styer was prepared for whatever opportunity presented itself that evening. He wore a double-edged dagger in an ankle holster, a. 40-caliber Glock under his left armpit, and he carried a shortened, quick-snap noise suppressor in his jacket pocket.

Nicky continued, “Well, strictly speaking, toting a hog leg isn't legal. You're not badged up anymore, and I doubt you have a Louisiana concealed-carry permit. How'd you get it past security?”

“I had it in pieces in two suitcases. Let me worry about that. You've got a P.I. license. Tell the cops I'm your gun caddy.”

“You don't need it. You know what I can do with this cane, and I don't have to dig under my clothes for it. Hell, I could knock a mugger out before he could stick out his tongue. This here cane's got a lead core and the knob's solid brass. I'd sooner explain konking some jerk upside the noggin than blowing a hole through him.”

“If I need to shoot my gun, I won't mind explaining that to a cop, prosecutor, judge, or jury.”

“Better judged by twelve peers than carried by six friends,” Nicky pitched in. It took Styer a second to understand the reference to six friends. Pallbearers.

Millie stepped out onto the porch. “Hank, you need to come rest a little while before dinner.”

“I'll meet you at the bar across from the restaurant at seven-thirty sharp for a pre-dinner cocktail.” Nicky stood and he leaned over and spit into the flower bed. “I have a client coming by my hotel for a short meeting and I'll call a cab and meet you at the bar. We'll have a drink and go over to the restaurant, where I have us reserved up for eight sharp.”

For most of the time before the Trammels left for their evening out, Hank's Stetson had been placed too near the room's television set for Styer to hear anything much but the programs and, when they were close to the cabinet, the sounds of them talking as they dressed. Styer had perfected his plan for the evening. He knew exactly how he would attain the prize beyond that-another checkmate.

He watched the Trammels get inside the black and white taxicab, which because it was headed the wrong way on St. Charles, would turn around to head uptown. Styer had the Rover started, the lights on, and was watching the cab in his side mirror. As the cab made the U and came back up the street, he pulled out into traffic to lead the way. Styer caught a flash of yellow in his headlights, and he had to brake hard to keep from hitting a young boy in a rain slicker who had come off the sidewalk and was riding his bike, hell-bent for leather, across St. Charles. The taxi bearing his targets shot past him. Lifting his cell phone, Styer called his helpers to tell them the time had come for them to earn their fee. One of them was in the Lexus, the other was playing taxicab driver.