“About this training program?”
“Your feedback sounded rehearsed.”
“It was.”
“And I sensed a silentbutat the end of it.”
Mitch folded his arms and looked down at the floor. “It’s a noble endeavor. The superintendent doesn’t want Auclair put on the map with a school shooting. Nobody wants that. But there are obstacles to this training program.”
“Let’s hear them.”
Mitch absently pulled on his earlobe, trying to think of a way to explain his reservations. “Manners. Trust. Naivety. Those are obstacles.” He brought his gaze back up. “Please don’t get me wrong here, John. I’m not putting these school guards down, but they’re not looking for… They’re… too…”
He grimaced, thought about it, then started over. “Maybe this’ll illustrate what I’m talking about. In one of the workshops I conducted myself, I mixed up photos of actual school shooters with some of the worst of the worst criminals serving time in Angola, and asked the class to pick out the shooters.”
John must have gathered what was coming. He dragged his hand down his face. “How bad was it?”
“Eighty percent in favor of the badasses. The guards wouldhave missed anyone in the twenty percent bracket, whether he had walked in off the street or was a student at the school.
“So what I see as a problem is that, as passionate as these people are about protecting school kids, we’re asking them to act instinctually on an instinct they don’t have. You and I were born with it. That’s why we do what we do and why we’re good at it.” He spread his arms at his sides in a helpless gesture. “I don’t think you can teach or instill the instinct to look past what’s obvious and detect whatisn’t.”
Roland Malone tore a chunk of garlic bread off the loaf and dipped it into the buttery shrimp scampi, one of his restaurant’s specialties and a personal favorite of his.
Ristorante Italiano remained dark and atmospheric even in daytime. He had designed it to be conducive to clandestine business meetings and illicit romantic trysts, and he’d engaged in both over the years. But he preferred to eat alone, and he usually took his main meal during the lull between lunch and dinner when there were few other diners.
Blocks away, the noisy streets of the French Quarter teemed with sweaty tourists. Neon signs flashed enticements to wickedness. Saxophone-heavy jazz blared from the open doorways of murky bars.
But in Ristorante Italiano, the tables were occupied mostly by regulars, candlelight flickered on snow white tablecloths, and the playlist that was softly piped through speakers in the ceiling was exclusively Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett.
Almost forty years ago, when he’d escaped the Bronx with fresh blood on his hands, his Irish father was lying dead on the kitchen floor, and his Italian mother was weeping and wailingin her native tongue over the catastrophic turn her son’s fate had taken.
His uncles on his mother’s side, who’d considered the murder of the abusive drunk a blessing, had impressed upon Roland that this was farewell, that he could never return to New York.
He never had. He’d never seen his mother again.
But when he fled, he’d brought with him not only her rosary beads and fear of hellfire, but also her recipes. After making a name for himself in New Orleans’s underworld by doing “favors” for the criminal elite, he’d asked one grateful client to bankroll a restaurant.
“A nice place where people with taste and discretion can meet, eat, drink wine, talk business. You know.” The concept that the “you know” implied had appealed to the investor, who was a lecherous and corrupt city councilman.
There was only one succulent shrimp remaining in his dish when Roland’s cell phone vibrated near his glass of excellent Brunello. Knowing it was the awaited return call from Oz, he picked up immediately.
Oz said, “I couldn’t talk when you called. I was in a heated meeting.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Not really. A nuisance, a gnat. Now tell me some good news.”
“The skimmer and his bitch are done and done,” Roland said. “I did the girl first and made him watch.”
“Did he beg for her life?”
“Hell, no. He begged for his.”
Oz laughed and asked for gory details, which Roland provided. Oz wanted to know if the bodies had been discovered.
“Yes, but the cops are scrambling to identify them. Watch thenews tonight. It’s sure to be the lead story.” Roland waggled his right-hand fingers near the flame of the candle, admiring how it turned the red stone in his ring the same color as the Tuscan vintage he was drinking.
“What about the stockpile he stole from me?” Oz asked.
