Hidden Talents

by Edward Branley

CHAPTER TWO
Coffee and Donuts

“I don’t like doing business in such a public place, any casual observer of this conversation would conclude that you’re from out of town. Locals don’t wear dark clothes when they eat beignets at Café du Monde. Most ladies don’t like powdered sugar all over an expensive suit,” sniffed the twenty-something man to the woman seated across from him.
William Ryan was talking to Anita Delatorre, who had arrived in New Orleans the night before.
“I seriously doubt you have to worry about being seen in public with me at a coffee stand. Besides, my reputation would be in greater jeopardy if I were to be seen in your usual haunts in this city.” Her blonde hair was pulled back severely and her navy-blue business suit was conservative even by old New Orleans’ standards.
“Hmm…I dare say, under those outrageously simple clothes you have on, that there is a body which would fit right in with my preferred sort of establishment.”
Even though he had lived in America for the past ten years, Ryan’s voice still maintained a hint of his Belfast origins. “So, what is important enough to draw you away from Dallas?”
“We’ve come across some obstacles in our long-range marketing plan for a Christian preacher, right here in town, out by the lake. The guy’s written some trade books for us and his show does well in Christian outlets, but we see him moving to a more mainstream market. He’s great on the end-times stuff, and we want to move him into the homeschooling resources. There’s a solid base for homeschooling resources here in Louisiana, and we can build on that nationally.”
Her features took on a harsh expression, yet one totally in keeping with her demeanor. “The problem is, his divorce from his first wife was messy. The records were sealed but an Internet-based skeptic group has acquired them. He also has a challenge keeping his dick in his pants.”
“And you need this group handled?” The young man sipped his strong café-au-lait with an eerie calmness. “Internet, huh? Sounds like you need a 15-year-old hacker, not me.”
Anita smiled inwardly. Ryan was 22 and looked like he could pass for 15. “No, we’ve got that angle covered. I need to get down to the root of the problem. Can we do business?” Her smile was so sweet that the couple in the next table might have thought she had just propositioned the young man.
“How many?”
“Five definite. Possibly three others.” Anita wiped the sugar from her fingers and pulled a small envelope from her jacket. “They are to be handled in order. It’s possible that the activist group will ease up after the first one or two. Your fee is for all five in any case.”
Ryan looked concerned. “I don’t like contact with a client in the middle of a job.”
“I’ll get word to you indirectly. The details are on the second note. You will proceed after the first two depending on the photo placed on the website listed here. You stop when the ‘no-go’ photo is displayed. I have total control of that site, so there will be no possibility of miscommunication.”
Ryan nodded. “I’ll let you know tomorrow. Are you going back to Dallas immediately or can I tempt you into coming out with me later?”
Anita smiled. “I’d love to go dancing but if I was spotted at The Bourbon Pub, it would be my ass at work. Maybe if I ever switch to a mainstream publisher.”
“If you do, then you won’t be doing business with me, that’s for sure. Mainstream publishers don’t have the need for damage control that you Christian types do.” Ryan’s grin was totally mirthless.
Anita maintained her sugar-sweet grin. “This is quite true. But the pay is darned good. For both of us.”
Ryan’s gaze turned serious.
“Doesn’t it bother you to work for people who so completely hate what you are?”
She smiled.
“Well dear, I could ask you the same question, since you are taking their money. But I’ll answer you. These people pay well, and the best way to keep tabs on your enemies is to keep them within arm’s length.”
“What are these people to you personally? You could use your Talents for so many other purposes than this. Your interest in these people just doesn’t make any sense.”
Anita’s smile turned serious again. “You see, sugar, it isn’t merely my own personal interest. I have acquaintances that take an interest in these people and I report their movements to those acquaintances.”
Ryan became startled: “You mean someone with Talents has some kind of authority over you?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard of such things, of course. But I have never encountered them before.” His eyes had widened during this last exchange. Anita put her hand on his for a few seconds, and then looked directly in his eyes.
“Will, you are good at what you do. You are well-trained in the use of your Talents. But you’re young and there are many things you have yet to learn about those Talents. Always remember that, as you go about your business.”
Ryan nodded, as one would expect from a young man aware of his immortality. Anita smiled backed at him and patted his hand as she stood to leave.
“There’s a phone number in there that goes to a voicemail which will page me when a message is left. I know your rules, but this is a just-in-case thing.” She left and continued on her way without looking back.
Ryan sat silent for some time. Eventually, he opened the packet Anita had left for him. Inside, was a set of bio-sheets, one for each of his targets: Three on the north shore, one in the city, and one over on the Gulf Coast. His instincts told him to do two of the north shore targets first, head over to Bay St. Louis for the one on the coast, back to Mandeville for the third north shore guy, finally heading back to the city to finish the job. Anita’s instructions were specific as to their order, however; he would have to do the targets on the north shore first, then back to the city for the third, and out to the coast and then finishing in Mandeville.
Will sighed. New Orleans is a city full of possibilities for a young man who likes other men, but Anita’s job meant he’d be going into the suburbs. As much as New Orleans the city lived by the motto of “let the good times roll”, its suburbs were extremely conservative. There was no way he could drive the thirty miles back to the French Quarter and back, while maintaining the low profile required to complete the job. Ah well, the sacrifices we make for our careers. He waved to the waiter for another coffee, then he went back to studying the bio-sheets.

***

Ren did not care for driving on the Causeway. Twenty-four miles of nothing but flat water and the thump-thump, thump-thump of the tires as they hit the expansion joints on the bridge. It was enough to drive a sane man to distraction. Still, there were tons of opportunities for photography jobs in Mandeville and Covington, given the suburban migration that took place in the 80s and early 90s from the city and the south shore suburbs. Besides, two of his best resources for the JHM website lived across the lake, so he could easily dovetail business with a little Internet fun.
Well, he thought, it used to be two of his best resources. Nick Thibodeaux was a former Coast Guardsman who listened to Talk Live! every day like clockwork. He was a smoker, and Nick and Ren certainly shared more than one pitcher of beer on Ren’s adventures across Lake Pontchartrain. Still, the news that Nick had dropped dead from a heart attack in the middle of lunch the previous day had come as a shock to Ren. He decided to go to the Thibodeaux house after the photo shoot to give Margie a hug and what little comfort he could offer. Ren had not planned on seeing Nick’s grave this trip over, however; his first stop when he finally got off the Causeway would be a coffee shop in Covington to see his other blogging resource.
“Annie’s Attic” was no name for a coffee house, thought Ren. Its Highway-190 location made it a busy place every morning, though, so the name didn’t hurt. Commuters heading towards the city stopped-by in droves for their premium coffees, which is why Ren usually tried to schedule his meetings with his north shore buddies for a little after the morning rush.
Anybody still on the north shore after nine o’clock would not be getting into the city until lunchtime anyway, so Covington traffic was a little lighter by then. Ren pulled his car into the parking lot, locked it, and headed into Annie’s with a spring in his step.
James Michael Kahn III, “Trip” to his friends, waved Ren straight to the table. “I got yours right here. You are so predictable on Wednesday mornings that I can even have your coffee waiting for you, still steaming.” Kahn’s smile was infectious, and he was good at charming anyone from the most obnoxious police juror to the most conservative Rabbi back on St. Charles Avenue.
Trip was just a year older than Ren and was the cultural opposite of his late north shore partner, Nick Thibodeaux, in Internet religious mayhem. A lawyer by profession, Trip Kahn had given up most of his active practice several years earlier to join his father’s real estate development business. The rapid growth of St. Tammany Parish meant that more north shore residents need fast-food restaurants and drug stores, and Trip’s father was the man to see when you wanted either in your neighborhood. The elder Kahn no longer ventured out of uptown New Orleans, leaving Trip to supervise operations on the north shore. Trip was not one for a coat, a tie, and an office; he preferred to do his mornings’ business from Annie’s, stop by his house to change batteries on his cell-phone, then head to a coffee-shop in Mandeville for his afternoons.
“Well, Trip, you seem to have managed to make the transition to a Mandeville country gentleman, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to cope with living anywhere but within the city. Even when I come up here for a shoot or to see you guys, I feel like I’ve left a piece of me behind. I just don’t feel right.”
Trip laughed at his friend. “It’s just you artsy-fartsy types. Harder for you to leave what you’re used to.” His expression turned serious: “I’m going over to see Margie this afternoon. It’s still hard to believe, Ren.”
“Yeah, I’m still numb about it.”
Trip’s face brightened immediately. “Well. I’m not Irish, but I do know it’s our time to celebrate his memory by going forward. What’s our next fun project on the blog?”
“As usual, you have managed to say just the right thing at the right time.” The spark in Ren’s eyes had returned.
“I’ve got a line inside the ministry, Trip.” Ren handed over hard copies of the messages from his mystery contact.
Trip read through the manuscript, reviewed the documents, and then repeated the process. After the second reading, he looked up at Ren and asked, “Have you considered the possibility that this is disinformation? Or, at worse, a set-up?”
“Yeah, I have. But I’m inclined to believe it’s genuine. It’s just instinct though, so I wanted you to have a look. Us artsy-fartsy types aren’t as suspicious as you lawyer types,” said Ren, grinning.
Trip laughed as he stood up to order another coffee.
“Well, my initial instinct is that they’re genuine, too. Is she serious about pictures?”
“I think so. Remember Jimmy Swaggart? Some of these guys are pretty kinky.”
“OK then. Well, you did a good job of sanitizing the first installment of this, so you should work the rest of this material into the blog on a staggered basis. You obviously shook the shit out of Hadley with that first bit, since he did an exorcism the next day.”
“You think the two were related?” Ren was puzzled.
“You bet! Either God really is on his side or he’s got a helluva system for putting those together quickly. Think about it Ren. There’s no better way to deflect all criticism of the Ministry in general or Hadley in particular than by a troubled soul in need of Jay’s specific brand of assistance. And that makes for awesome radio. One of these days we are going to find out how he pulls those off. It’s got to be paid actors, but the system is what I’m interested in. It’s not rehearsed–not with Hadley at least. I’m sure of that. His reactions, his on-air confusion, that sort of thing. It’s not forced; he really doesn’t seem to know what’s coming next. Thing is, the rest of the show is too controlled, which means someone there knows what’s coming next, and keeps the lid on it.”
Ren was just nodding as he absorbed his friend’s comments. “Well, perhaps my mystery friend can help us in that department.”
“She just might be able to.”
“How do you know it’s a she?”
“Think about what we know of the staff, Ren. The only men there are Jay and his CFO.”
“That’s true.”
“Besides, you were contacted initially via a mobile chat program. You know as well as I do that guys don’t message guys using those things.”
“Well, no, not usually. At least not straight guys.” Ren was smiling broadly.
“You got it sport. I take it you tried to back-track the source of the messages?”
“Yes, but she’s good at anonymity.”
“Well you’re more of a computer geek than I’ll ever be, Ren. I do have a guy that comes to work on the office computers that might know something you and I don’t. Lives in Metairie, so maybe we can involve him if we want to pursue that.”
Ren looked thoughtful as he nodded again.
“No, let’s keep this one close. If this is genuine, which I believe it is, we’re going to want to keep a tight lid on the source. Even to the extent of people who have no interest in JHM. After all, the best way to keep a secret is not to tell anyone.”
“Definitely.” Trip raised his hand momentarily as his cell-phone chimed.
“Let me take this one, OK?”
Ren got up to order a regular coffee as his friend listened intently to the voice on his phone. He took the long way back to the table, stopping to check out some of the photography on the walls.
“That’s a new photo of the Cathedral,” he thought.
Looking at the little card attached to it, he noticed that a Mandeville lady he had heard of had shot the photo. She was your basic empty-nest housewife who was trying her hand at a new career. Judging by the quality of the composition, she was on her way to at least having fun with it.
Ren’s leisurely stroll around Annie’s wound him back to their table just as Trip hit the “end” button on his phone.
“Ren, I’ve got to run. All hell is breaking loose with a Slidell project. That was a friend of mine who works at a church over there. It’s amazing what she picks up just by keeping her door open as parishioners come in and out of the office.” Trip grinned, and then stood and gathered up his coffee with his phone.
“Let’s take a steady pace on this stuff, Ren, and see where it leads you. What you’ve shown me could be a significant break; you should start writing a journal of what happens from now on. If this gal comes through with some good information you could write a book about the experience of how you brought down a ministry! Take care, my friend. Email me later, when you have worked up the next installment.”
Trip Kahn strolled out of Annie’s without looking back, as was his style. He walked over to his luxury SUV and climbed in, not noticing the young man sitting in the rented sedan on the other side of the parking lot.

***

Not that he would have seen him anyway. William Ryan had taken a number of precautions well above and beyond those things a good cop does during a stake-out. Ryan had all but made himself invisible to those around him from the moment his car had left the Causeway that morning and had made its way a few houses down the street from Kahn’s home. Ryan’s success as an assassin was based on his ability to use his Talents two-fold: first was his ability to conceal his presence in the area almost completely; and second was his expertise in creating “accidents” so that his victims apparently suffered some tragic fluke of nature. No bullets, knives, or poisons from this hit man. His stock-in-trade was to create heart attacks, slip-and-falls, choking deaths and auto accidents. Ryan thought of himself rather as an artist in the composition of the perfect automobile accident. His last foster-father was a cop, and often the young man would proofread his auto-accident reports.
“Yes, accidents are an art form,” thought Ryan.
They were an art form he loved to develop and to perfect. As he watched Kahn pull his SUV out of the parking lot, Ryan’s mind moved quickly, taking in the surrounding traffic flow, road conditions, and the position of Kahn’s vehicle. He knew it would take a large vehicle at high speed to wreak significant damage to the navy-blue luxury SUV. And here came an 18-wheeler from the north to oblige him. Focusing his vision, both inner and peripheral, on the driver of the rig, he gave a mental shrug and the driver’s heart stopped beating. Another mental shrug and the rig accelerated, swerving across the two southbound lanes before sideswiping a car heading straight for the side of Kahn’s vehicle. The rig collided like a T-bone with the SUV and continued to plow forward, pushing the SUV in front of it. Ryan skillfully guided the rig mentally into a light pole on the other side of the street, crumpling the SUV like a tin can, with Kahn inside.
The sound of the impact startled everyone in every store in the little strip mall nearby. Ren and the barista in the coffee shop dashed outside to see what had happened. Ren was horrified to see his friend’s SUV pinned and crushed by the massive rig. He yelled out at the girl to call 911, and he darted over to the wreck to see if he could assist Trip. There was no hope; Trip’s head rolled sideways, his neck snapped by the impact. Ren checked on the truck driver but it was obvious he was dead also, but not from the force of the accident. He was slumped over the steering wheel, bleeding slightly, but the truck had not suffered enough physical damage to cause the driver’s death.
Emergency crews were on the scene within moments, but there was nothing for them to do but to clean up. Ren sat on the curb, trembling. The girl from Annie’s brought him a glass of iced water and occasionally walked out from the shop to make sure Ren was all right. The police spoke with them both, but neither he nor the girl could contribute anything to explain why the morning had gone so terribly wrong.
The one person who could explain things continued to sit all but motionless in the parking lot as everyone hustled and bustled around him. Ryan was stretched out low in his seat, not so much to hide from anyone, but for his need to release tension and relax after such an extensive and intense use of his Talents. He had not eaten anything since the previous night, so he could keep his mind sharp and focused on the task to come. His throat was parched; the last drink he had had was a cup of tea before driving over from the city early that morning. He had not wanted to cause a full bladder to distract him, either, so he had abstained from drinking anything else. Reaching over to the passenger seat he grabbed a bottle of spring water and guzzled it rapidly. He scanned the scene of the wreck and noticed a familiar face on the curb. Yes, that was indeed Renard Alciatore! His mind began racing with the possibilities but he checked himself mentally, remembering his instructions to wait until after the first two for a go-ahead signal.
“Damn it, I could cut down the timing of this job dramatically with this opportunity,” thought Will. He sighed, opened another bottle of water, and sipped slowly on this one while he waited for the emergency services to finishing clearing the carnage he had created.
Ren had to call his client and cancel the photo-shoot; he was entirely too shaken-up to be productive and there was no way he could face Rachel Kahn today, his horror of what he had seen earlier would be too obvious to her.
He considered checking into a motel on this side of the lake so he could avoid having to dwell on the accident all the way back to the city. But he decided just to jump into his car and get home. The 45-minute drive was terribly difficult for him, but he managed eventually to pull into his driveway, make his way to the kitchen, and knock back two large shots of whiskey before lying down on his bed until sleep finally overtook him.
Ryan decided to follow him back to his home in Faubourg St. John. Even though he had not checked-in to determine the future status of his current assignment, he decided to capitalize on knowing Alciatore’s whereabouts to begin formulating a plan. A photographer was likely to be more of a challenge in some ways, because a target of that profession has no set daily routine.
“But the lack of any routine was an opportunity in itself,” thought Will, as it would be easy to find just the right set of circumstances to chalk up another success.
When it was clear that Alciatore was not about to leave home anytime soon, Ryan returned to his suite at the Bourbon Orleans Hotel. He went over to the expensive notebook computer on his desk, and connected it to the hotel’s Wi-Fi to check the site that Anita had given him as their main contact point. He found the Evangelical Christian theme of the site a little repugnant, but he clicked his way to the specific page that contained the message for him. According to his instructions there would be either one of two photographs on the page: an illustration of a cross encircled by clouds would be the signal to stop and await further instructions; while an aerial photo of Old Jerusalem would be the signal to proceed to the next target.
The sight of the gleaming dome of the Al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem staring back at him from the computer screen caused Will’s pulse to race. Sure, he was being paid handsomely for the job no matter whether or not he continued. The fun was in the game, not the money.