Despite better weather and no real damage to his French Quarter apartment following the recent storm,
Pete Franklin was in a foul mood. It wasn’t the $200 bucks he lost playing poker at Tujague’s with Sammy Goldoni, Sleepy Eye Sonnier, and Frankie Rico a few days prior, nor was it the recent loss of his job flying for Eastern Airlines.
He was restless, agitated, and despondent over recent political events. Sure, he knew everyone made fun of his appearance and eccentric personality, the way he wore a variety of cheap toupees, and his tendency to feel more at ease in the gay bars and transsexual dance clubs like Papa Joe’s. He’d made peace with his demons long ago and could care less what people thought of him. Deep down he considered himself a patriot. A man willing to save his country from the likes of John and Robert Kennedy and that commie bastard Fidel Castro.
Standing on the balcony of his Royal Street apartment, he lit a cigarette and silently watched the crowds below as they made their way toward the bars, music, restaurants and the decadence that could be found along the narrow alleys, streets, and corners of the Quarter.
More and more, rumors were circulating in the circles frequented by Marcello and his men. It was no secret that Carlos would be celebrating and hosting the party of all parties once the Kennedy’s were out of power. Maybe it was time to take a drive to the country, get some fresh air, and visit Mr. Marcello at his farm on the Westbank. He’d make a few calls and perhaps the boss would have some work for him. Maybe Mr. Marcello needed a good pilot who could make deliveries anywhere along the Gulf Coast. Perhaps, with things heating up in Havana, there would be a need to make a trip to the island 90 miles south of Key West.
After several phone calls and a spike in his blood pressure, Franklin finally reached Mr. Marcello at his office on Airline Highway outside New Orleans in Metairie. The Town and Country Motel was your typical low budget, single story, everyone parks in front of their room type of place—it blended in perfectly along the busy highway connecting South Louisiana.
The atypical part of this nondescript, hot sheets motel was its owner ran his illegal gambling, prostitution, extortion, sports betting, leg-breaking, gun running, drug dealing, throw his enemies to the alligators, etc., businesses out of a room that had been converted into a cozy office. His office digs and lack of education may have been laughable to someone who did not know better, but revenue in excess of a billion dollars a year gave Carlos Marcello the last laugh.
Marcello was standing next to the window, smoking a cigarette and thinking about taking a drive to his farm when his phone rang. “Get that, kid,” he told Thomas Messina who was sitting in a chair reading the sports section of the Times Picayune.
“Bayou Tomato Company,” Messina answered pleasantly and professionally.
“Mr. Marcello please,” said a high-pitched, nasally voice that although male, sounded a bit too sugary.
“Hold please,” the kid said without acknowledging that Marcello was in the office or in fact had any affiliation with the tomato company at all.
Casually Messina told Mr. Marcello that he had a phone call.
“Don’t just stand there like a bump on a log, find out who it is son,” Marcello said gruffly.
“Who’s calling please,” Messina asked.
“Franklin. Pete Franklin. Look it’s important I speak with Mr. Marcello,” he said as the sweetness in his voice took on a tone that was both anxious and annoyed, probably because he knew the gatekeeper between him and Carlos was a kid from Patterson less than a year out of shop class and sneaking smokes in the boy’s room at the high school.
Messina relayed the message to Marcello.
“I wonder what the hell does that freak of nature want,” Marcello fussed as he walked toward Messina, pushing smoke from his nostrils and swearing under his breath.
Pinball & Preachers 