Leon, Noah, and I were on the street until after three this morning. We weren’t alone. I had my troops out in force. As of now, one of the two gangs in question had new leadership, Jaxon Cormier, a tough kid with potential. The former leaders of both gangs were either gator bait or gator shit. I hadn’t put that much time or research into the digestive process of an alligator when digesting two six-foot-plus motherfuckers who had pushed me too far.
One of the gangs with about twenty to twenty-five in number was served an eviction notice.
Get the fuck out of New Orleans and don’t come back.
This realignment of hierarchy wasn’t only for the two gangs or Jaxon. It was a message broadcast loud and clear to any leader or want-to-be leader in the parishes of greater New Orleans.
If it was discovered that you’d aligned yourself and your men with Isaiah Boudreau II, you would go down. If you didn’t learn from the first reprimand, you were out of the city. Your turf was reassigned, and you were left without Ramses support.
As for Jaxon and the gang that received my endorsement, there would be a period of probation. He wasn’t new to the area or the fight, just to leadership. Nevertheless, Jaxon came into power with my support and that of elders around the parishes. It took a fucking village or in this case, ten parishes or seventeen wards. When leaders weren’t respected by other leaders, they became targets.
Every now and then, my gaze met the new young leader’s. It was obvious that Jaxon was more than a bit unnerved by my command presence in my office. If things progressed as I planned, it would be a meeting he wouldn’t soon forget.
I wouldn’t tolerate insubordination.
Any contact with Boudreau needed to be reported to me; evidence of noncompliance would result in termination—not of the job but of life.
Last night it was discovered that Cole had received reports that hadn’t been relayed to me. It was more than reports. Cole had been in personal contact with Boudreau and some of his top men. At this moment, Cole was doing his best to explain why Noah and I were left in the dark until fucking World War III had been declared.
As his statement became repetitive in nature, my mind began to wander. While I could think of better things, or a person, to fill my thoughts, it was time to declare this testimony complete.
Court was to be adjourned by the judge and jury—me.
Cole Kensington had been flapping his gums for nearly forty-five minutes, and that was three quarters of an hour longer than I cared to listen. The phone in my pocket vibrated as my computer dinged. My eye twitched with displeasure. I’d given strict do-not-disturb orders; someone would be read the riot act.
Between not seeing Emma last night and a maximum of three hours’ sleep, any patience I’d previously held was not only worn, it was gone.
Pushing off from the edge of my desk, my chair moved backward, and I stood. My movement silenced Mr. Cole Kensington. His complexion paled as silence prevailed.
“When were you first contacted by Isaiah Boudreau II?” I asked.
Perspiration glistened on Cole’s brow as he swallowed and readjusted his footing. “Boss, I’m not sure of the first time.”
“Yesterday?” Noah asked.
“A week ago,” I offered.
“It was...well, at first I didn’t believe it was him. I mean,” Cole rambled, “it ain’t like I knew what he looked like. I first met his friend, some guy named Ingalls. He and his brother were taking bets.”
Greyson Ingalls was no longer alive. His brother William, a year older, still was. Both had a history that included Kyle O’Brien. With William, his history wasn’t limited to Kyle. That was the matter I mentioned to Emma that one day we’d revisit.
“Bets in my city?” I asked.
Cole nodded. “Yeah, that’s why I was checking it out. While I was watching what was going down, this guy came up, real casual like, in Fahy’s and started talking.” Cole shook his head. “He didn’t say his name, just some friend of the Ingalls brothers.” His words and phrases came faster. “The next time I saw him, he challenged me to a game of pool.”
Fahy’s was a hole-in-the-wall on the outskirts of the French Quarter, a local hangout with delicious jambalaya and an array of illegal slots. It sounded like there was also some under-the-table betting going on. The only part of Cole’s story I believed involved pool. There were two tables back by the slots.
Noah stood. “When was this, Cole?”
“About two months ago.”
“Two months?” I asked.
Cole shook his head. “I think it was three. Yeah. Three.”
Jaxon remained silent, watching each speaker as if he was watching a tennis match.
“Do we pay you enough?” I asked.