Free Bayou Brigade by Buck Sanders Page B

the left was painted bright pink, decorated with smears of paint on the wooden floor. Three hoods poured
     over some newspapers in one corner, their feet propped up on a rickety pine desk. One of them looked up as the two entered.
    “Tiger, man,” he said, “I told you never to bring no strangers up here.”
    Tiger’s voice
grew
patronizing. “I know, but this motherfucker’s wantin’ to see Charlemagne.”
    The other hoods looked up now, checking out the white man in the greasy duds. “What’s you want to see Charlemagne for, honky
     asshole?” one of them said.
    Slayton extended his right index finger and thumb into the impression of a pistol.
    The main hood laughed. “You buyin’?”
    Slayton nodded. The two goons on the end were wiry but dumb; the guy in the middle had Slayton worried. His hands were underneath
     the desk—he could be holding a weapon. Slayton walked to one side of the room to try to avoid the possible line of fire.
    The main hood spoke again, sarcastically. “Tiger get your ass back on the street and rustle up some business, man. Can’t keep
     our girls working if you ain’t hawk
    Tiger left the room, shutting the door behind him. The two men on the end walked to either side of the Treasury agent. They
     smacked of liquor and pot. Joey Case, the black man sitting at the desk, pulled a gun from inside his coat.
    “Man,” Case said, waving the pistol, “this is a secret office location. You are not s’posed to be within a thousand miles
     of here. Now get the fuck outta my sight ’fore I blow your motherfucking head off.”
    Slayton edged past, the two others, concentrating entirely on Case. Leaning over the desk, he slapped his right hand on the
     wood and with his left produced a roll of hundred-dollar bills from inside’ his checkered jacket. “Long as I have money, you’ll
     do business,” he said, soaking up the stench of alcohol on Case’s breath.
    Case snapped his fingers. The two goons took Slayton by the arms and led him to the rear of the office. Case fondled the bills
     and said, “We don’t know about no guns.”
    “But Charlemagne does,” replied Slayton, playing a hunch.
    “Maybe. Maybe not.” Case rocked in his chair. “I think you’re a Fed, Mr. Slick, and I’m gonna cut your balls off.” He stuffed
     the money in the desk drawer.
    Slayton didn’t move until he knew for sure the other two goons were standing next to him and within reach. Then he lashed
     out at them, mashing his fist into their teeth, sending them to opposite ends of the room. Case cocked the pistol and took
     aim, but Slayton was too fast for him. Wheeling into a karate stance, the white man broke Case’s hand in one kick. The gun
     flew into the corner.
    One of the goons tried jumping on Slayton, but quickly found himself chewing paint chips off the wall, blood pouring from
     his mouth as he slumped into oblivion.
    Slayton was beating the crap out of the second thug when Case scurried after the gun. Catching this move out the corner of
     his eye, Slayton dropped his prey—who crashed to the floor with a broken arm—and pounced on Case, pulling him over backward
     by the hair. Case screamed, and Slayton raised one knee against the pimp’s mouth, chipping off three teeth and turning his
     lip into jelly.
    Without a scratch on him, Slayton walked back to the middle of the room and tossed a file box on Case. “Now where’s Charlemagne?”
     he said.
    Case spit out fractured molars. “I don’t know anyone, I don’t know anyone.”
    “You’ll talk,” warned Slayton. picking up the desk chair. He proceeded to smash the’ chair down on Case’s agonized frame,
     busting a few ribs. “Tell me now, you piece of shit.”
    Case cried
uncle.
“Next door in Room Nineteen. Don’t hit me again!” Slayton let him fall. The desk drawer was open and Slayton retrieved his
     cash. Joey Case was out cold.
    Room 19 was at the end of a grubby corridor on the third floor. The floorboards