Chapter 12 - Blood in the French Quarter
Rain began to fall over the French Quarter by late afternoon, slicking the ancient cobblestones of Bourbon and Bienville streets until they shone like wet slate.
Inside the private back parlor of the historic Old Absinthe House, heavy cigar smoke hung thick beneath the cypress-beamed ceiling.
At the center of a massive round table sat Reginald Vanderpool.
He was a man in his late fifties, with slicked-back silver hair, cold blue eyes, and an expensive bespoke suit that could not conceal the furious tension radiating from his posture.
Flanking him were Dominic Moretti, the brutal boss of the North Shore gambling rackets, and Henri Lafleur, who controlled the bayou smuggling routes.
A dozen armed bodyguards lined the wood-paneled walls, their hands resting inside their coats.
"Cain has disgraced all of us!" Reginald slammed his fist onto the mahogany table, rattling the crystal tumblers.
"He threw my daughter into the street like a common thief!
He broke a formal treaty over a catering maid he dragged out of the gutter!
If we allow a man to govern the docks based on the whim of a skirt, none of our shipments are safe."
Dominic Moretti took a slow drag from his cigar, blowing a thick ring of gray smoke toward the chandelier.
"Rafferty Cain is not a man to cross lightly, Reginald.
He controls the harbormaster.
He controls the police union.
If we move against him, there will be bodies floating in Lake Pontchartrain from here to Slidell."
"He is distracted!" Reginald hissed, leaning forward.
"My daughter said he took the maid to a rat-infested flat in the Bywater.
He has his guards posted at an apartment building instead of the waterfront.
We hit his warehouse at Pier Nine tonight.
We burn his inventory and seize the manifests.
By sunrise, the port belongs to us."
The heavy iron-reinforced doors of the parlor swung open with a resounding, violent crash.
The armed guards along the walls reached for their weapons, but they froze mid-motion.
Silvano stepped through the doorway, holding a submachine gun leveled at chest height.
Behind him filed eight of the Cain family’s most lethal enforcers, their weapons drawn, their faces completely devoid of mercy.
And behind them walked Rafferty Cain.
He wore a long black wool overcoat, damp with river rain.
His silver-flecked hair was combed back, his cold gray eyes sweeping across the room with terrifying, absolute authority.
He carried no visible weapon.
He didn't need one.
His presence alone sucked all the oxygen out of the parlor.
"Good evening, gentlemen," Rafferty said, his voice quiet, calm, and chillingly polite.
He walked directly to the table, completely ignoring the armed men, and pulled out an empty leather armchair directly opposite Reginald Vanderpool.
He sat down, crossing one long leg over the other.
Reginald’s face drained of color, but he forced a sneer onto his lips.
"You think you can intimidate me in front of the council, Cain?
We were just discussing your recent...
loss of judgment."
Rafferty tilted his head, resting his chin on his steepled fingers.
"You were discussing an armed raid on Pier Nine, Reginald.
Allow me to save you the gasoline."
Rafferty nodded toward Silvano.
The lieutenant tossed a thick stack of glossy photographs onto the center of the table.
The photographs scattered across the polished wood.
Reginald looked down, and his breath hitched violently in his throat.
The photos showed federal agents in windbreakers carrying boxes of files out of the Vanderpool corporate headquarters on Poydras Street.
Other photos showed Coast Guard cutters surrounding two of Vanderpool’s primary cargo vessels anchored in the Gulf.
"At two o'clock this afternoon," Rafferty explained, his tone conversational, "an anonymous tip was delivered to the Department of Homeland Security regarding forty tons of undeclared munitions hidden in the double-bottom hulls of your container ships."
Reginald jumped to his feet, knocking his chair backward.
"You bastard!
You called the feds on my fleet?"
"I didn't call anyone," Rafferty replied with a cold, predatory smile.
"I simply stopped paying the customs inspectors to look the other way.
Without my protection, Reginald, you are not an underworld king.
You are just a corrupt shipping clerk facing thirty years in a federal penitentiary for arms trafficking."
Rafferty shifted his gaze toward Dominic Moretti and Henri Lafleur.
The two bosses sat completely still, their cigars extinguished, their expressions tense and guarded.
"Does anyone else at this table wish to discuss Pier Nine?" Rafferty asked softly.
Moretti immediately raised both hands in a placating gesture.
"We have no quarrel with you, Rafferty.
Reginald invited us here under false pretenses.
Our agreements with the Cain family stand as they always have."
Lafleur nodded in hasty agreement.
"The bayou routes are yours, Rafferty.
Always have been."
Rafferty stood up slowly.
He buttoned his overcoat, towering over the trembling, ruined patriarch of the Vanderpool family.
"Take your daughter and get out of New Orleans, Reginald," Rafferty commanded, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper that shook the room.
"If I see either of your faces in this city by sunrise, the feds will be the least of your concerns.
May you like
You will answer to me."
Rafferty turned and walked out of the parlor, his heavy trench coat swirling behind him, leaving a room of broken men in his wake.
