Free Bayou Brigade by Buck Sanders Page A

telling me what you’re gonna do?”
    “I’ll call in three times a day to update my progress. Otherwise, we won’t be in touch. I want to be able to move around without
     suspicion. Have you been briefed on my mission?”
    “Yeah, but how will I know if you’re in a tight squeeze, to send in the cavalry?”
    “If I’m overdue calling in, let’s say by an hour, then send in the search team. I’ll be checking out the list of warehouses
     one at a time, undercover.”
    Parks weaved through the traffic like a true Chicagoan, missing fenders by inches, slamming on the brakes at the last second
     if an accident appeared imminent.
    “Hey, slow down,” yelled Slayton, grasping the dashboard. “Let’s make it there without having to take a side trip to the emergency
     room.”
    At Parks’s office, the computer terminal printed out a six-page compilation of addresses for buildings where arrests for gun-smuggling
     were common. Slayton moved into a moderately unkempt hotel on South Clark Street, investigating twelve warehouses in six hours,
     casing the neighborhood in hopes of uprooting information. If gun racketeering was happening in that town, Slayton would weed
     it out.
    Adopting the clothes and mannerisms of a pimp from the South gone to “de Windeh City for Easter Vacation,” Slayton made contacts,
     flashed his wad of century bills, and mingled with the street freaks. His name was “Lisle from
Looseeanna,”
and he wanted some action.
    “What kind of action?” boomed one uncompromisingly, rough black dude in white alligator shoes, who sported a lisp.
    “Pop guns,” said Slayton, laying on a heavy Southern accent. “I’m lookin’ to spend a lotta bread and bring home a lotta goods.”
    The dude, called Tiger, moved a bit closer. “What’s your name, man?”
    “Lisle Beaudin, from Natchitoches.”
    “Natzi-what?”
    “Louisiana, brother.”
    “I ain’t your fuckin’ brother, white man. You into the opium?”
    “Yeah, I feed it to my sister.”
    “I know where there’s some good shit for sale. Interested?”
    “No, no, I’m into pop guns, man-rifles, hardware.”
    “I know what you mean.” Tiger removed his mirror-reflective sunglasses and looked around nervously. “Hey, follow me to where
     there’s some
real
score, y’know what I mean?”
    They entered a dirty, infested tenement building through an alley door. Inside, past a set of doors with holes punched through
     them where two whores were arguing loudly, the lisping black man introduced Slayton to a crude movie set and a pornographic
     film in the making. A balding, middle-aged white man shook hands with Tiger.
    “Who’s your friend?” The effiminate director looked Slayton over.
    “Ah, this is Mr. Lisle from the Deep South,” replied Tiger, grinning an expanse of pearly whites. “He’s in the market for
     heaters.”
    The director raised his hand in a faggoty flourish. “Oh, boom-boom.” He laughed.
    Slayton forced a mild chuckle. “I’m a serious customer,” he said.
    The black dude looked at the action proceeding on a mattress—two acne-faced gigolos doing nasty things to a bleached-blond
     actress—and commented, “Man, where’s the dog?”
    “His big scene is next,” said the director. “You want to wait around? It’ll be far out.”
    “Forget it, Jack. Uh, where can I find Charlemagne?”
    “Second floor.”
    The black dude and Slayton circled around the mini-orgy in the center of the room, passing through another set of doors and
     up a carpeted set of stairs. A drunk was sitting halfway up, bending forward and vomiting. With each step the atmosphere grew
     more menacing; Slayton could barely visualize the end of a hallway, with two useless whores propped up near the fire escape.
    One of them touched Slayton, slurring her words. “Ten dollars ’n’ you can fuck me in the ass, sugar.”
    The black dude slapped her aside, splitting her lip and drawing blood. “Move over, scumbag!”
    The last room on