The Gimlet Plan

The Gimlet Plan

Royal G. Bouschor II

Copyright ©2015 by Royal G. Bouschor II

Smashwords Edition

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Acknowledgment Page;

Arch Fulton; My reader and commender.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Prologue

The man they called Ricky slowly lifted the cold, longneck beer bottle to his mouth and, through blurry eyes, watched the sweat-gleaming naked girl gyrate to the music’s heavy pulse under the rotating lights. It was his eighth beer tonight, but he didn’t care. His thin, wiry body was clad in jeans and a blue T-shirt as he leaned against the dance stage from his regular front-row seat. He was a fixture now, and he loved every minute of it. The beers were free, and the girls were friendly. He couldn’t ask for more. He’d made a deal with The Man. He wasn’t too sure just whom The Man really was, but he knew that he had to be well connected. Hell, he owned this place, didn’t he? he thought as he chuckled. Hell, it was one of the hottest spots in the Latin Quarter.

He thought about the Man while he watched the woman, Bambi, pump her crotch at the men in the front-row seats around the dance floor. They called it pumping for dollars. None of the girls did that to him anymore during his nightly vigils—after they found out he didn’t really have any money and was on the dole to the boss. He was in the club every day now, and almost family with the girls. Bambi was a tired woman who showed the signs of a hard life. She was on the far end of her career as an exotic dancer, getting heavier and slower, and the sparse dollar bills on the stage and stuck in her G-string attested to her flagging appeal. Ricky smiled as he leaned back in his chair, thinking about the woman as he watched her. I bet at one time she was probably a dynamite-looking woman, he thought. Probably had great tits, too, but the years of swinging and bouncing them around had been hard on her chest. The tits were heavy now, and her chest had that Bassett Hound look about it, but he liked her anyway. She was kind and talked to him easily, and they got along great.

He was only half paying attention to the perspiring body glistening on the stage when Bambi looked at him and gave him a quick heads-up nod that there was someone behind him.

He turned to find two men who looked to be in their early thirties pulling chairs up on either side of him at the stage bar. They both wore identical camouflage T-shirts, well-worn blue jeans, and heavy boots, and sported crew-cut hair.

Hey, Ricky. How ya doin’, pal? said the tall, skinny one as he eased into a chair alongside Ricky at the stage bar.

They had that familiar look, but he just couldn’t place them. Maybe it was the beer. They weren’t from around New Orleans, that’s for damn sure.

I’m OK, guys, he slurred. How’d ya know my name? Do I know you guys?

Hey, we’re your pals from Bear Wallow over in Arizona, remember?

Ricky instinctively knew there was something wrong here. Bear Wallow was one of the dissident paramilitary groups in northern Arizona, where he once thought he could belong. He’d pulled out of there six months ago—and not under friendly circumstances.

No, I don’t remember you guys. Were you regular or what?

Well, actually, man, we kind of came in about the time you left. The colonel wasn’t real happy that you pulled out on him, you know. After all, you promised him and all, he responded in a conspiratorial tone as he watched the girl on the dance floor with a leer in his hot eyes.

I promised him nothin’! Ricky said loudly.

The two men looked around the dimly lit room to see if anyone was listening, and then the heavyset one spoke for the first time. He was a no-nonsense type, and he had a kind of dull look in his eyes, like he really wasn’t too sure what was going on. He packed well over two hundred pounds of muscle onto a frame of over six feet. Ricky felt like a mouse being stared down by a big tomcat.

Look, hold it down, Ricky, he said. Everyone else in the room was busy watching the girl except for the few guys in dark booths in the back sitting with over priced bottles of cheap champagne and table dancers snuggled up to them. The guys were desperately trying to grope and make out with the girls before the champagne ran out.

We have some things we want to talk to you about. The colonel wants you back on the team, man. Where can we go and talk? We went over to your pad, but of course you weren’t there. That black guy who lives across the hall from you said this is where you hang out.

He said that black guy with contempt, and Ricky remembered that Bear Wallow was for the brotherhood—for dissidents only. They were against everyone—them versus us. He was only accepted because the colonel thought he had access to money, and his Spanish-Mexican blood didn’t put him in very good standing at Bear Wallow. They had some strange relationships with some foreigners that sure as hell weren’t part of the Bear Wallow bunch. Their agenda was shaky at best. They were just terrorist wannabes.

Yeah, well, this is where I hang out some, that’s for sure. I really don’t have anything to say to you guys—hell, I don’t even know you.

The heavy music was very loud, so the big man leaned into Ricky and snarled at him. Look, I think we should go to your place and have a talk where it’s quiet. If we don’t, you could get hurt real bad. You understand? he drawled in a menacing tone.

"Look, I’ve got nothin’ to say to you guys. I just didn’t like that Colonel Jensen guy. He was a real asshole, and he hit me with that damn whip of his, so I left.

When those crazy guys from New York who sneaked across the border showed up, things really got bad. They were supposed to be some big-time American fighters in Afghanistan or Syria or whatever, he said, remembering the three men who just walked into Bear Wallow.

They were some type of American jihadist fighters that slipped across the Mexican border into the United States because they didn’t want to have to show their passports. They knew their names would pop up, and they would be questioned about where they’d been, what they did, or where they came from. They knew they would be hassled constantly and didn’t want to be followed around and spied on in the United States.

They had an agenda of their own that was financed by the people they fought with somewhere in the Middle East. Their grand plan was already in place and moving forward. They’d heard about Jensen and his radical thinking and wanted to team up with him, as they thought it would lower their profile. Jensen got excited right away, as he now had seasoned fighters, and he liked their ideas and plans. These men knew their way around, and he knew they would hold up in the field. They were battle-tested, and he loved it.

When they started talking about financing for really big plans, Jensen leaned on Ricky for information, and he had known the three new guys were going to get into questioning him sooner or later, which would be really bad. They were lean men—not tall, but wiry, dark skinned, and with black hair and beards. It was the wild look in their black eyes that had scared him. These guys were bad news, and maybe just a little crazy. Ricky had made the decision to leave during the next field exercise, when he would be alone.

Look, you and the colonel were going to do some business, and you up and left. He’s been looking for you. He wants to complete what you promised him, the thin man said, taking over the conversation.

I promised him nothin’. All I ever got was a letter that was given to me by my momma on her deathbed. Jensen said he thought it was all bullcrap anyway. Besides, I made a deal with The Man here.

Well, it seems that the colonel did a little research himself, and what you told him could maybe be true; maybe it’s not all BS after all. He wants to see you and work something out.

So, if we’re all buddy-buddy and all, why are you guys going to hurt me if I don’t go with you? I told you—I already made a deal with The Man here.

George here gets a little excited, see, said the thin man. No one’s going to hurt you, Ricky. That’s for sure. We’ve come a long way looking for you, and we need to talk to you real bad. Don’t worry about George. He’s OK. We don’t care what kind of a deal you made with this guy. We just want to talk about it—you know, maybe show us what this is all about. He grasped Ricky’s arm, pulling him out of his chair, and looked around the room and said, Let’s go! while steering him toward the door.

Ricardo Benito Martinez carried the name his mother had given him. She wanted him to always remember his holy Spanish bloodline, even though she was married to a Mexican. His Spanish name meant blessed powerful ruler. Somehow he just never lived up to that heritage. It seemed he was always falling in with the wrong people. He was a champion at picking losers. He dropped out of school in tenth grade and never had a job that lasted for more than a couple of months at a time. After his third DUI, he lost his driver’s license forever. He was headed nowhere and everywhere at the same time. He was totally adrift when his mother gave him the small wooden box just before she died, telling him it had been passed down through the family for ages. She made him promise that he would keep it safe within the family.

It’s a family secret, and of great value and great disgrace, she told him, gasping from her deathbed.

He’d broken that promise after he opened the box and found the contents was a very old fragile letter apparently from a long lost relative.

The letter was a mixture of old Latin and Spanish. He knew enough Spanish and some Latin from what the nuns taught him in school to figure out that it was a declaration of a long-forgotten family member who was a priest and also part of a ring of holy thieves. Whatever the priests took must have been big, because they knew the pope and the king of Spain would hunt for them. Their fear was real, so maybe the prize was as well.

The two thugs from Bear Wallow each held one of Ricky’s arms as they pulled him out of his chair and pushed him out the door and worked their way down the crowded Bourbon street. They talked friendly while they ogled the girls on the streets, but they held tight to Ricky tonight. Their eyes darted around the milling evening crowd, and whenever they passed a policeman, the two men looked down at the ground, avoiding any eye contact.

Hey, I’ll get some beer. What do you say? said the thin man with a big smile as he opened the door to a small neighborhood market. We’ll take it up to your place and have a real good time. We’ll get to know one another.

The big man stood close to Ricky as they both watched the third man through the glass door As he pulled a twelve-pack out of the cooler.

Maybe it was going to be all right, Ricky thought. He didn’t have the letter anyway, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell them anything about it. Hell, he didn’t know anything about it, really. And a few beers might be OK.

They had just walked a couple of blocks away from Bourbon Street in the northwest sector of the Latin Quarter towards Ricky’s apartment when they realized they were in a different dimension. The thin man had kept up a steady stream of conversation about all the fun they were going to have. The streets were dark and the people were scarce. The shuttered doors and windows made it appear that the whole area was deserted by the time they reached their destination.

Ricky finally got the gate open between two tightly packed buildings and pushed his way into the one he lived in.

Look, guys, I don’t even think I know you, Ricky said as they pushed him up the dimly lit stairs to his room in the old apartment building.

Oh! Well, I’m Bill, and the big guy here is George, said the thin man. We’ll get a chance to know each other. We’ll have a good time.

They pushed Ricky up the well-worn wooden steps that hadn’t seen a broom in months. The cooking odors of a dozen nationalities assailed them from each cluttered hallway as they ascended to the third floor.

Ricky had some coordination problems, but on the third attempt, he finally pushed the key into slot in the old wooden door, cranked it vigorously, and shoved the door open.

They entered the small room, and George and Bill looked around the room and then at each other. The room was about ten by twelve feet, and the peeling paint was a dull-tan color. Two poorly painted pictures of the Latin Quarter hung at various angles on one of the walls. The bed wasn’t much more than a cot, with gray sheets strewn all over. Clothes cluttered the single plastic chair by a plastic table advertising beer. Empty beer bottles and cans littered the floor with a mess of fast-food wrappers that the two men kicked out of the way as they walked in. At the far end of the room a single tall open shutter French window faced a dark empty courtyard.

George immediately settled on the bed, which sank precariously from his weight, and he quickly moved to the edge before it collapsed entirely. Bill watched the effort with a grin and remained standing. Ricky tipped the chair forward, clearing off its contents, and sat down with a beer in his hand.

Shaking his head, George said, Look, Ricky, we know you got this letter, see, which the colonel thinks is the key to some kind of treasure that was stolen from a bunch of churches. He wants to make a deal with you for the letter. It will be better than anything you’ll get from anyone else, and that’s for sure. Just what kind of a deal do you think you have with the guy you call the Man? We know who he is. His name is LaGrange, we looked him up.

He’s going to split anything we find with me. He knows something about those early priests. We’re friends, he said proudly. I don’t have the letter. I told you that. I trust him; he’s my partner.

Oh. Well, OK. But when do you think you’re going to get your letter back from the Man? You have a copy, don’t you?

No, I don’t have a copy. Why should I? I trust him, Ricky said with a shoulder shrug. I don’t know when I’ll get it back. He said he was going to have it translated by some big-shot Catholic librarian that works for the diocese here. The Man’s in Washington now. I don’t know what he does there, but he’s some kind of a hotshot, for sure. He said he’d call me as soon as he had something. And in the meantime—hell, I’m getting a free ride. Give me another beer, huh? he said as he got up off the chair and walked toward George.

How’d you find this guy anyway, Ricky? George asked.

I was telling one of the guys at Bear Wallow that I always wanted to go to New Orleans—the Big Easy. He had a friend that was on the dole over there, and he said his friend could probably tell me where to get a job if I wanted one. When I left Arizona, I looked the guy up, and he sent me to the Kitty Klub. I washed dishes for a while, and when I met the boss, I told him about the letter. And well, hell—it just went from there.

We know who he is. He’s the Louisiana senator, you idiot, the thin man said, shaking his head."

Really? Wow, that’s somethin’, for sure. I knew he was somebody. Damn, now that’s for sure.

So, what kind of a deal do you have with him? Do you have a contract?

Nothing for sure. He just said he’d look into it. And in the meantime, I was to hang out at the club, which I guess he owns, and enjoy myself. I don’t have to work much now; I get free beer, some free eats, and some walking-around money. Look we’re partners. He said so and I believe him. Hell man he’s following through. I’ve got it made here and don’t want to mess it up.

Look, the colonel’s a desperate man, George said as he popped open three more beers. He’s got some big plans, and you’re going to be the key man. You’ll be important. You’ll be the guy who made it all happen. So we need that letter—and now—so quit screwing around. He had moved right into Ricky’s face as he handed him the beer, with a glance at Bill. Ricky knew this was not going the way he thought it would. This George guy is not a friendly guy at all. He’s a real asshole.

While he was drinking the third beer, Ricky suddenly knew something was terribly wrong, but it was only a fleeting thought. The almost-full cold beer can hit the floor, shooting foam in the air, only an instant before his body landed, as the chloral hydrate shut down his electrical system.

Christ, George! How much did you put in his beer? Bill snarled.

Well—the whole thing. Wasn’t I supposed to?

No, you idiot! You’ll kill him, for Christ’s sake. You’re one stupid son of a bitch, you know that? Bill hissed as he quickly went over to Ricky. He got on his knees and desperately put his fingers on Ricky’s neck, waiting and hoping for a pulse. He broke into a sweat and ran his hands through his hair in frustration as he turned to his