across the country, and every punch that struck a bag or chin made him money as well. But these were fronts for his true revenue operations. His real money still came the “old-fashioned” way—he stole it. Although he, himself, was thoroughly insulated by several layers of employees, his illegal activities included gunrunning to the Shining Path in Peru and the FARCs in Colombia, call girl services and massage parlors in most major cities, and some blatantly outright brothels. Like the one he was presently sitting atop.
The penthouse of the old antebellum mansion, which faced Lake Pontchartrain, had been turned into McFarley’s offices. There was little secrecy about what happened on the four floors below. Police and other cleanup workers—still trying after all these years to get the Big Easy up and running once more—had more pressing business than pursuing misdemeanor prostitution arrests.
The Irishman chuckled again. Besides, he thought, the top brass of the New Orleans PD and the district attorney’s office were some of his best customers.
McFarley leaned forward, crossed his arms on the desktop and thought briefly about the one last thing he had to do before Matt Cooper arrived for dinner. Even thinking about performing such a task would have sent many men running to the restroom to throw up, but to McFarley, it seemed to come naturally. He had done similar things many times in the past, and he felt no emotion about them one way or another. It was all business, he thought, as his mind returned to his overall empire of crime once again.
In addition to the weaponry he sent south, he brought cocaine and heroin north into the U.S. for the Mexican and South American cartels. Of course, his favorite activity was still fixing boxing matches in the smoky clubs where his fighters fought. Although the gambling money he made from these fights was small compared to his profits in the other areas, he hung on to it as a nostalgic link to his past.
McFarley’s smile turned suddenly downward. Once in a while, a fighter or his manager didn’t go along with his wishes to take a dive. That had happened less than a week ago.
Which was why that fighter and his manager were no longer around. And never would be again. And why Cooper had been hired to take the manager’s place, and was consequently on his way to the brothel to meet McFarley.
Slowly, and somewhat reluctantly—because part of him rebelled against the racing technology taking over the world— McFarley twisted his chair to the left and faced his computer. He knew very little about the machines, but he had found email to be an effective addition to his business. So, calling up a message he had already read through once, he hit the properties icon, set the computer to print in fast draft mode, then hit Print.
A moment later, the printer sputtered to life and a single sheet of paper came sliding out of the machine.
The Irishman looked up and down the page. He had used one of his New Orleans PD contacts to have a background check run on Matt Cooper. And as he stared at the page, he saw that the man had been arrested for some of the very crimes that were nothing more than a day’s work for McFarley Enterprises. And these arrests had been effected all over the world.
But there was one thing that impressed the Irishman far more than the arrests. Matt Cooper had absolutely zero convictions. In fact, none of the crimes had even gone to trial. All of which meant Cooper knew how to play the law, much as McFarley did.
His reminiscing had come full circle, and McFarley decided it was time to finish the last item of business for the day. Lifting the telephone again, he tapped on the intercom and said, “Grace, send the men in, please. And you can go home.”
A moment later, the door opened and a square-shouldered man lumbered in. His suit coat was too small, and it gaped at the back of the neck. His crooked nose leaned to the left, which tended to make him look cross-eyed. He had once been a light heavyweight with over a hundred wins in the clubs. But he had never come close to the big time. So when he’d finally grown too old to fight, McFarley had given him a job as one of his personal bodyguards. Looking back, McFarley realized that had been a mistake.
Jo-Jo Gau was the man’s name, and while he didn’t know it yet, he was about to hit the canvas for the last time.
Gau was followed by two other men. Razor Westbrook and Felix O’Banion. O’Banion was a fellow Irishman who McFarley had brought to the U.S. when he was first establishing his operation. He had been a mediocre middleweight in Ireland but was smarter than the average fighter. Most of all, McFarley knew he was loyal and could be trusted.
The smaller Westbrook had fought a few fights in the featherweight division in the U.S. But like O’Banion and McFarley, he’d realized he would never be a champion on the professional level, and been smart enough to get out of the game before he’d damaged his brain.
The Irishman behind the desk felt his jaw tighten. O’Banion and Westbrook might not have been particularly good boxers, but they had proved they could pull the trigger of a gun with the best of them.
As the three men took seats on a couch across from McFarley’s desk, the Irishman studied their faces. Westbrook and O’Banion looked slightly puzzled.
Gau was outright scared. And had every reason to be.
McFarley broke the silence. “You did a good job of getting rid of our two troublemakers,” he said after the door had swung closed. His gaze moved to Gau. “But the problem goes deeper than those two men.”
The three men on the couch shifted uncomfortably. Still staring at Gau, McFarley opened the desk drawer in front of him. He glanced down to see the pearl-handled Webley .455 revolver that he had brought with him from Ireland. It was still hidden from the men on the other side of the desk.
“The New Orleans gym falls under your care, Jo-Jo,” McFarley said as he casually wrapped his fingers around the pearl grips of the wheel gun. “It was your responsibility to see that Kiethley took a dive.”
Gau covered his mouth with a big fist and coughed nervously. “Boss,” he said, “I did my best. They told me they were both cool with it.”
McFarley stared at the man. Gau. Was it a French name? It sounded like it. Not that it mattered.
When he didn’t answer, Gau began talking nervously again. “I was in the dressing room with them right before the fight,” he said in a slightly trembling voice. “They both swore Kiethley would go down in the third round.” He coughed again. “Kiethley was going to wait on that jab-uppercut combination the other guy liked to use, let it land, then fall.”
“But that’s not what happened, was it?” McFarley said.
Gau’s coughing became almost spasmodic. “No, sir,” he managed to get out between the roars from his throat. “They lied. I don’t know why. Maybe the other side paid them more than we were going to.”
“That’s really no excuse, Jo-Jo,” McFarley said. “It’s your responsibility to see that things like that don’t happen.”
“I know, boss.” Gau coughed out once more. “And it won’t happen again. I swear it won’t.”
“There’s no need to swear to it,” McFarley said. “I’m going to personally make sure it doesn’t ever happen again.” He paused as his fingers tightened around the pearl grips of the Webley. “At least not on your watch.”
Without another word, McFarley lifted the big revolver, aimed it at Gau’s crooked nose and pulled the trigger.
The blast sounded like a nuclear bomb going off in the closed office. The .455-caliber lead bullet struck Gau between the eyes and he fell back against the couch, his arms dropping to his sides. The man’s eyes stared wide-open at McFarley.
The nervous coughing stopped, but Gau’s eyes still looked scared, even in death.
The sudden explosion had gotten Westbrook’s and O’Banion’s attention, too. They looked at McFarley, then Gau’s corpse, then back to McFarley again. McFarley wouldn’t have called their expressions shocked by any means; they had seen him perform violent acts before with guns, baseball bats and other items. But neither had been expecting