Mind Games

Chapter 7

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: Many thanks to Lilynette, who has been kind enough to offer to check my French. Merci beaucoup, Lilynette!

……………………………………………

Don found Ian across the street, lounging against a brick wall in the darkness. There was a fair amount of foot traffic there, and they walked until the found a quiet spot and talked over the upcoming meeting. Ian filled Don in on as much as he could about Montreaux's operations.

"I've been inside for weeks now," he said, "and brokering drug deals for several of them. He hasn't let me in on the supply side, though; I've only been working with product once it gets here, trying to find buyers for it. I have no idea at what point in the country it's coming in, or how he's getting it to that point. I know the spooks want Charlie to figure out the new export business that Montreaux is lining up, but the DEA would also like him to figure out the cocaine angle if he can. Montreaux has been playing all of it really close to the vest - I doubt many of his people, other than a trusted handful, really know how it works. Montreaux's Cajun, and so are his closest guys – they're a tight-knit bunch from some little town in the bayou; they go way back. You or I won't even get close to that one. The best we can hope for is to make Montreaux trust us enough to put Charlie in a position where he has access to the information." He glanced at his watch.

Don shook his head. "The more I hear of this, the less I like it. I think we're expecting too much of Charlie. Not the math part – I'm worried about his interaction with this crowd."

Ian's expression was unsympathetic. "What'd you take this assignment for, then?"

Don scowled. "Because Charlie was hell-bent on doing it, and I wasn't letting him go in without me."

Ian's face cleared. "Then I wouldn't worry about it. Charlie wanting to do this is half the battle – he'll do okay. You just worry about keeping your own head on straight. Come on, it's time to head out."

The rendezvous point was about twelve blocks away; they could have walked, but Ian drove. Don approved of that; he'd walked enough already that night, and more importantly, he felt better with a car close by in case anything went wrong. The thought fleetingly crossed his mind that he could screw up the meeting on purpose; if Montreaux didn't make Charlie an offer, the assignment would be over before it began, and they would head home. He had a deep-seated sense of duty, however, that made him throw out the idea as soon as it entered his mind, and he stowed the thought away among his doubts, and pushed them down into the recesses of his brain.

They parked halfway down the block on Conti, and walked to the corner. This section of town was dark and deserted at night, and as they approached the corner, they saw two men break away from a doorway across Chartres, and walk towards them. "That's them," said Ian. "Huh, this is interesting – he sent his top guys to meet you."

One of the men nodded as they drew near, and jerked his head toward a recessed entryway. They congregated there, in the dark shadows. Ian spoke first. "This is the guy I told you about – Don Archer."

"Jean Clemenceau," said one of the other men. "This is my brother, Guy." Both of them were dark, swarthy, thickset, of medium height. Jean's voice was laced with a Cajun accent. He lit a cigarette and took a drag, holding it cupped in his hand.

"I hear you guys want to expand your operations," Don said quietly.

Jean exhaled smoke, and it drifted out in a transparent silver plume against the darkness. "Yeah, we're interested. We got a good distribution goin' here in the South. We would like to expand northward, maybe east."

"My contacts are mainly in St. Louis, and cities north and east of there. Chicago, of course, Minneapolis, Indianapolis, Cleveland, Columbus, Pittsburgh, Buffalo. Got a few in Philly and New York, but that's a tough territory to break into, would require someone with a lot of money, balls, and time. The other cities would be much easier places to start."

"We got plenty of the first two. My boss is not so patient, though. Mebbe we start with one contact as a test, non? If we like what we see, we will ask you for more."

Don nodded. "Okay. I hook you up one time; and after that you're on your own – you deal directly with my contact. I won't come back and ask for a percentage – I charge a one-time fee for the connection."

"How much?"

Don shrugged. "It depends on how much you ask me to do to set it up. I can just give you a way to make contact and a recommendation that you're legit, or I can help set up the exchange, even recommend shipping methods and routes. I've got a partner – my brother – he's good at that. If you want the whole thing, it's four hundred grand. If you just want the contact, it's two hundred. Anything in between, we can negotiate."

Jean Clemenceau pursed his lips. "Shit. That's pretty high."

Don shrugged. "It's nothing compared to what you guys'll get for your shipment – or every shipment after that.

Guy Clemenceau spoke up, his voice a low growl. "Where's your brother?"

"He doesn't get involved in the deals," Don replied smoothly. "I only bring him in if we need routes planned. He does legit consulting work on the side – he's pretty busy on his own. He's down here, though, if we need him."

"Okay," said Jean. He looked at Ian. "I take it you got Archer's phone number, Crocker."

Ian had been lounging against the building, dark eyes watching the street. "Yeah, I got it."

Jean looked at Don. "I'll go back and talk to my boss. You figure on a deal for a contact in Columbus – we'll want the whole thing – the routes and all. We use produce trucks to ship – have your brother figure that in. We'll look at your proposal and decide if we want it."

Don felt a nasty twinge in his gut. They wanted Charlie in this, already. "No way," he said. "We don't hand you anything without the money. You can't handle that, I'll go elsewhere." He saw Ian's eyes flicker toward him. He knew his unyielding position was a little risky, but he was betting on them needing a consultant badly enough to accept his conditions. It had nothing to do with his secret hope that they'd reject the offer. At least, that's what he told himself.

Jean Clemenceau shrugged. "I will tell the man. He may not like it. We will let you know." He jerked his head at Guy, said, "Allons-y;" then flicked his cigarette on the sidewalk. He pointedly ground it out with his heel as he turned and walked away, Guy behind him.

Don and Ian turned and headed back for the car, and they were almost there before Ian said, "You took a pretty hard line on the terms."

Don's face was impassive. "They would have been suspicious if I caved too easily. We would have been handing them all of Charlie's route planning work for nothing if we did it that way, and they decided not to pay."

Ian grunted, whether in disagreement or confirmation, Don couldn't tell. They drove back to the hotel in silence.

"I'll let you know as soon as I hear," said Ian, as he stopped at the entrance.

Don gave him a nod and got out. It was around midnight; and even though it was a Sunday night, there were still people out and about, bar crawling. He entered the hotel, walked quietly down the hallway and let himself into the room. It was so quiet, for a moment he thought that Charlie was gone and had an attack of anxiety, but then his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he could see his brother, sprawled in bed, oblivious to the world.

He went into the bathroom, turned on the light, and washed his face. The fluorescent bulb over the sink illuminated his features, accentuating shadows and lines. He looked tired, and stunk of cigarette smoke from the bars. He was reminded sharply of his life during his fugitive recovery days – nights spent in nondescript hotel rooms, too much booze, too much seediness, too much darkness. He didn't want to be here – he thought longingly of home, and of Robin, wishing he was curled up by her side. This city – the dark side of it that they were dealing with – was no place for him, and especially not for Charlie. Charlie had never been a part of that world, and Don didn't belong there anymore, either. He shut off the light, and trudged toward his bed.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Jack Montreaux sat back in his chair, and studied the men around him. "Well?" He looked at his cousin, Pierre Montreaux, who cleared his throat.

"Their background checks out. Records indicate that they were born in Michigan, but grew up in Chicago. They both have apartments there. No police records – the only thing we found was a speeding ticket on the younger one about two years ago in Cook County, Illinois." Pierre's voice was nasal, with a Canadian twang; he was from a branch of the Montreaux family that had settled near Toronto. He was a thin man with a hatchet face, and a prominent Adam's apple.

"So they're careful," said Montreaux, with approval. "Good."

"I followed 'em tonight. The older brother, Don, was checking things out, scoping out dealer territories around the quarter – carefully, though. They went barhopping, and Crocker met them along the way. I think the younger one's a little bit of a party-boy, looked a little wasted when he came out of the last bar."

Jean Clemenceau grunted. "That's probably why he wasn't there when we met tonight."

Montreaux's gaze shifted to Jean, who had already told him about the meeting. "So what do you think?"

Jean shrugged, glanced at Guy. "If Crocker recommended them, they are probably all right. We know Crocker's okay - if he was a plant, the cops would have had us weeks ago, pas vrai? Fuckin' Archer has balls; I'll say that – he's askin' enough for their services."

Montreaux nodded. "Oui. Here is the thing; if we want to use the brother for our export job, we don't have much time. We take their offer; have the younger one – what was his name? – Charlie - do the programming for the drug route; see how good he is. Under no circumstances do we ever talk drugs to them – we are shipping produce. That way, we can run the stuff all the way up to Columbus, even make contact with Archer's dealer before we make up our mind to take the final step. If we smell something fishy, we don't go through with it. If we do it and it goes well, we offer Charlie the export programming job, and we can also try out some more of Don Archer's contacts. In the meantime, we observe them; maybe give Don some local jobs while his brother works on the program. I know they look okay, but there is much at stake, non? We must be careful."

The other men nodded, and Montreaux rose and retrieved a bottle, pouring them a round of shots. He lifted his glass, and his lips curved in a smile. "To new business partners. Et à vôtre santé. "

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Charlie stirred as light flooded the room along with the dry rattle of draperies being pulled on a metal rod, and groaned. He opened his eyes a crack; wincing at the light streaming through the sheers. From the window, his brother regarded him. Don was already dressed, and holding a cup of coffee from the hotel lobby. "We need to get moving, Chuck."

Charlie's face contorted into a frown, and he pushed himself up into a sitting position, leaning on one arm, rubbing his free hand over his face. "The last thing I remember was lying down for a nap." His head jerked up suddenly, a startled look coming over his face. The sudden movement made him wince a little. "What about the meeting?"

"We had it," said Don. "Come on, get dressed. I've got the perfect remedy for your hangover – the Café du Monde – we'll talk as we walk."

"We have to walk?" groaned Charlie, but he pulled himself out of bed and into the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, he was showered and dressed. His curly hair was only half-dry, and Charlie hadn't bothered to shave, which left him with a significant amount of dark stubble, but it suited his cover, Don thought to himself. At a glance, a stranger would think Charlie more street-wise than Don; an illusion that would vanish as soon as they observed Charlie's facial expressions and heard him talk. Still, every little bit of illusion helped.

It was about eight in the morning, and the traffic on the streets had transitioned from partiers to working people, on their way to jobs in the shops and restaurants. The sidewalks were more sparsely populated, and Don took advantage of breaks in the stream of pedestrians to tell Charlie what had happened the evening before. He'd slipped back into character, Charlie noticed, as soon as he exited the hotel. The bland look of indifference made his real emotions hard to read.

"Ian and I met with two of Montreaux's guys last night – last name of Clemenceau, first names Jean and Guy. Ian tells me that Montreaux's from some little town in the bayou, and he has a small close group of Cajun buddies, and Montreaux doesn't disclose too much to anyone outside of them. The Clemenceau brothers are part of that group. They said they were interested in trying out a contact in the Columbus area."

Charlie's eyes widened. "So you're in."

"On a trial basis, yes." They crossed a street, and turned down Decatur, and Don waited until they navigated past another group of pedestrians before continuing. "So are you."

Charlie stared at him. "What? Already?"

"They want you to develop a shipping plan for them. At least that was their initial request – they balked at the price I gave them, said they were going to have to take it back to Montreaux. We're still waiting to hear from them. I called Joe Bishop this morning, told him that we were possibly going to need to set up a transaction in Columbus. He was going to get that word to our people."

Charlie had fallen silent, and Don glanced at him. His younger brother looked pale, somber. "It's not too late to back out, Charlie," he said softly.

Charlie looked back up at him, with a surprised expression. "No – I wouldn't consider that. I'm in. It's just – I don't feel so well." Truthfully, now that contact was imminent, he was getting an attack of butterflies, but he wasn't about to admit that.

Don paused at a glass-and-metal door. "I've got just the thing for that." He held the door open, ushering Charlie inside.

The Café du Monde was a New Orleans landmark, dating back to the 1800s. The décor was utilitarian, diner-style, no frills. Don directed Charlie to grab a table, and he went to the counter, returning with two large steaming mugs and two paper containers on a tray, each containing three powdered sugar-covered pastries.

Charlie raised an eyebrow as Don set a mug of caramel colored liquid in front of him. "What's this?"

"Café au lait," returned Don taking a sip from his mug. "Half dark roast, half hot milk. Those are beignets. They're kind of like square doughnuts, without the hole, only lighter. Sure-fire cure for a hangover."

Charlie took a sip of the warm liquid, and closed his eyes gratefully as it slid down his throat. He blinked, and eyed the pastries dubiously, but he picked one up and took a bite, licking the powdered sugar from his upper lip. It was warm, fresh; not too sweet – in fact, most of the sweetness was provided by the powdered sugar coating. After a couple more bites and half a mug of coffee, he could feel his headache residing, and his stomach starting to calm. He looked across the table at Don, who had wolfed down his dish of pastries, and was considering another. "Thanks – this was just what I needed. I don't know what happened last night – one minute I was fine, and the next, I was out of it."

Don smiled weakly. He was tempted to admit to Charlie what they'd done, but he reconsidered. The last thing he needed in their current situation was to erode Charlie's trust in him. Instead, he simply said, "Ian tells me those Hurricanes are pretty strong."

Charlie sighed and shook his head. "Yeah, it tasted strong, although there were a couple of college kids who were sucking them down, no problem. I must be out of practice." He grinned ruefully. "I guess it's been awhile since my college days."

Don took another drink from his mug to hide the guilt that he felt certain was on his face. "I have to admit, I never pictured you at a frat party."

Charlie's grin deepened. "Well, obviously I didn't do much during my undergrad years; I was underage. But eventually I made a keg party or two."

He took another sip of his coffee, and Don eyed him. His brother looked far more youthful than his 33 years, and could still pass for a grad student. He felt a sudden feeling of wistfulness – a sense of loss for all of the years they'd been out of touch, for all of the things they still didn't know about each other.

'That's gonna change,' Don told himself. 'When this is over, when we go back home, it'll be different.'

He had no inkling of how right he would be – and how horribly wrong.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

The call came an hour later. After breakfast, Charlie called Amita; then they had strolled down to the Mississippi, which at that point was a huge expanse of brown, rolling water; the flat surface belying the power of the currents that swirled through it as it passed the final confines of land on its way to the Gulf of Mexico. Don's phone vibrated, and he flipped it open. "Yeah."

Charlie made a mental note to himself – that was a good way to answer the phone. There would be no slip-up with a name, like he had made the day before with Amita, and it sounded so much more worldly than "hello."

He saw a flicker of tension in Don's face, and then his brother said, "When?" Another pause. "Are you sure Charlie needs to be there?"

Charlie felt his heart leap, twisting in mingled anticipation and anxiety; and he swallowed as Don's gaze met his.

"Okay," said Don. "We'll be there in twenty minutes." He flipped the phone shut, his jaw tight. "We need to get back to the hotel. Ian's gonna pick us up. Montreaux wants to meet us."

He turned and began walking. Charlie swallowed; his mouth suddenly dry, and for a panicked instant, wondered if it was too late to back out. He knew the answer to that already, he thought, shaking himself mentally. Like the flotsam on the river, they were caught in a current of events, and it was too late now to fight it. He shot one more glance at the cold brown moving mass of water behind him, rolling inexorably toward the Gulf, and hurried after his brother.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 7

Translations:

Allons-y: let's go

pas vrai? is that not so?

Et à vôtre santé: Cheers! (And to your health)