Carpooling with Carlos, Ch. 10

The sweet, smoky fragrance of burning sugarcane

found its way into the cabin of Thomas Messina’s Chevrolet Impala as he chased a fireball of orange and red that was slipping over the horizon near Des Allemands, La. The ribbon of concrete felt akin to gravel as the car bumped over fallen cane stalks and clods of mud and other detritus thrown free from tractors and trucks that were tasked with hauling the cut and burned sugarcane from the muddy fields.

Messina got permission to take a couple of days off to visit his family and friends in Patterson. It was Homecoming at his old high school and the need to stay connected to his roots pulled him home. He drove with the windows down so he could savor his favorite smell in the entire world: the smell of burning sugarcane. As he peered out his car windows, Messina witnessed the glow of small fires slowly burning themselves out, ridding the stalks of their tops and leaves.

His thoughts lingered on the past few months and the stories he had overheard…the actual events he had witnessed. Acid burned in his throat and a couple of times he nearly pulled to the side of the road to relieve his insides of the growing stress and his half-eaten burger and Coke from a few hours earlier. He pushed the remnants of his lunch down and suppressed his troubling thoughts long enough to keep driving. Moving forward was dangerous. Running away could be worse. It could be deadly.

The impulse to keep driving past his hometown, onto to Lafayette, west toward Texas, New Mexico, maybe even to California, crossed his mind. You aren’t going anywhere, he thought to himself as he tried to relax. The canopy of cypress trees caused the sun to slip in and out of view as murky swamp water casually lapped under the highway guardrails as Messina pushed west through Chacahoula, Gibson and Amelia. The escape from the big city and the familiar scents and landmarks momentarily put Carlos Marcello’s driver at ease and in a nostalgic mood. Passing through tiny towns and villages caused Messina to chuckle as he recalled a Cajun narrative his Dad had told around the dinner table years before.

Boudreaux, when he was a young man, courted a girl named Marie and one evening picked her up from her house on Main Street in Patterson with the idea of taking a short drive. They were driving on Highway 182 past Calumet and closing in on Centerville, when feeling comfortable and relaxed, Boudreaux eased his right arm over the passenger seat above Marie. Marie looked over at him and smiled, boosting the young man’s confidence. This is going great Boudreaux thought. Heck, I’ll keep driving.

As they passed the antebellum homes that lined the historic old town of Franklin, Boudreaux eased his arm down around Marie’s shoulder pulling her closer. She smiled at him and quietly said, you can keep going. Wow, Boudreaux thought to himself, this is going better than I expected. I think I’ll make this drive last all the way to Jeanerette. Boudreaux pushed his foot down on the pedal and kept pulling Marie closer and closer until she was sitting right next to him, her leg brushing up against his. They were driving past LeJeune’s Bakery in Jeanerette when Boudreaux felt brave enough to pull Marie close enough to kiss her on her cheek. She just smiled and whispered, keep going Boudreaux.

Boudreaux could not believe his good fortune! Here it was a Friday night and he and his girl were snuggling in his car leaving Jeanerette and now heading toward New Iberia. This night was lasting a lot longer than he expected for sure. Sweating and still a bit nervous, but sensing Marie was really enjoying the drive, he started running his fingers through Marie’s hair, barely focusing on the road as the temperature in the car began to rise. Between her own shallow breathing, Marie put her mouth to Boudreaux’s ear and said, “keep going.”

The young man’s heart was beating so hard he had no idea if he could keep his car between the ditches. More than anything he wanted to pull Marie close and kiss her on the lips, but he knew she wanted to keep driving so he tried to focus on the road. As the hot and bothered couple touched each other more and let their young minds wander, they realized they had passed through New Iberia and were outside of town and surrounded by sugar cane fields with few street lights. Boudreaux couldn’t take much more of this and wasn’t sure what to do. Marie had said to keep going so he did, but he could barely drive he was so excited.

As soon as he found a place on the shoulder wide enough to pull over, Boudreaux slowed the car down and came to a complete stop. After taking the transmission out of gear and putting on the emergency brake, he pulled Marie close and said, “This is so much fun, but we are a long way from home and I don’t know what to do. Do you want to keep going or do you want me to turn around and take you home?”

With smiling eyes and in her most sultry voice, Marie pulled her young beau close and said, “Boudreaux, I want us to go all the way!”

Boudreaux’s eyes grew wide and he slammed the gear shift into drive and peeled away from the shoulder, sending gravel and debris behind him until he yelled, “Hot dog, we’re going all the way to Lafayette!”

What a corny joke his Dad had told him. But Messina laughed more at how hard his Dad cracked up while telling the joke, than the joke itself. He missed his family more than he thought he did, but he was trying to live in a grown-up world when deep down, he was still just a kid.

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But like a drinking glass that shatters when dropped on a tile floor, so did the happy memories of family and friends that bounced around in his head. Now, dread and a sour stomach returned as the sign for The Newport Motel in Morgan City came into view. The restaurant, motel, and secret gambling hall was just one of many businesses associated with Marcello’s powerful and growing operation. Easing into a parking spot beside the hot sheets motor court of quick love and lust, Messina once again found himself doing something that could probably get him killed or thrown in prison.

The Newport Motel had a drive through carport allowing automobiles to pull in and park while checking in at the front desk in the lobby. The carport was on the south side of the hotel and overnight and restaurant parking was concentrated on the east and west sides. Thomas Messina pulled off the highway, drove under the carport but continued through, turned north and found a parking spot adjacent to a row of coin-operated newspaper machines. Staring through the car’s windshield, Thomas saw The States Item, The Times Picayune, The Morning Advocate, and The Daily Review vying for the attention of potential buyers..

For a motel in a town of less than 10,000 people, off the beaten path of tourism, in the middle of the afternoon on a Friday, there were quite a few cars parked toward the rear of the hotel. He could account for the scattering of cars parked outside the individually numbered hotel units, but to have over 20 cars and trucks lined up near the service entrance to the restaurant meant only one thing—booze was flowing, dice were tumbling, slot machines were jingling and most importantly, Carlos Marcello was making money.

The owner of the hotel, Pete Guarisco, made a good living in the motel and restaurant business, but he did much better in illegal casino gambling. Oilfield hands, shrimp boat captains, and your typical white-collar resident of St. Mary Parish who wanted to have a good time drinking high balls while playing poker, knew this was the place. Although he had never been inside Guarisco’s casino, Messina knew without a doubt that every pinball machine, jukebox, billiard table, and slot machine was rented from Mr. Marcello’s Bayou Tomato Company.

As instructed by the Old Man, all Thomas had to do was pull up to the side of the motel, go into the lobby and tell the clerk he was there to pick up a package for the tomato company. Once he received a brown envelope from the motel clerk, Messina was to take the sealed envelope back to his car, lock it in his glove box and forget about it until he returned to work in New Orleans.

Inside, a window AC unit was doing a fairly decent job of keeping the large room cool. The clerk, probably in her mid-thirties, with shoulder-length dark brown hair, large caramel eyes, and glasses attached to a silver chain that hung from her neck, looked up when Thomas walked in. She walked to the counter to wait on a man who was reading the headlines of that morning’s Times Picayune, a stray section left behind. Dressed in a stylish black business suit, a white shirt, a pale-yellow tie that matched a starched handkerchief tucked neatly in the front pocket of his coat, the man did not give any indication he heard or saw Thomas come into the motel. All business. Polite. Polished. Friendly but guarded. Direct. Good eye contact with the clerk. Connected. Family. Mobster. No doubt at all in Thomas Messina’s mind.

The clerk tried to act casual but Messina could tell she felt nervous. He could tell that she recognized the man in the expensive suit but tried to hide the fact as she suddenly realized there was someone else in the lobby. She cleared her throat and glanced quickly at Messina before turning back toward the man.

“Good afternoon sir. Welcome to The Newport Motel. How may I help you?” she asked but her voice cracked when she said the word you.

“I would like to see Mr. Guarisco,”the man responded, cocksure, direct.

“Well, ugh, yes sir. And your name?” she asked already knowing this wise guy managed night clubs for Marcello in Shreveport and Dallas.

“Just tell Mr. Guarisco that Jack is here to see him,” trying to hold back the contempt in his voice but failing.

“Of course. And your last name sir?”

“Just tell him Jack. He will know who I am,” he replied, restraining the urge to yell Ruby! Ruby! You silly woman.

Her voice, barely above a whisper asked, “Should I tell Mr. Guarisco what you would like to see him about?”

“No.”

Flustered, nervous, and suddenly absent of color in her cheeks, the clerk picked up a phone and after a few seconds spoke into the receiver, apparently speaking directly to Peter Guarisco. “Sorry to disturb you Mr. Guarisco but a gentleman is here to see you. He said his name is Jack and that you would know who he is.”

A pause.

“Yes sir, I will direct him to your office.”

As the clerk hung up the phone and before she said another word to ‘Jack’, he was already walking out the same door that Thomas had entered and was heading toward the back of the motel. Trying to recover from the terse exchange the clerk apologized to Messina for the delay and asked how she could assist him.

“Yes, ma’am. My name is Thomas and I am here to pick up a package for the Bayou Tomato Company,” he told her.

With a skeptical glance, the clerk asked to see Messina’s driver’s license. He took it from his wallet and passed it over the counter and placed it into the woman’s hand. She looked at the license, looked back at Messina, and told him to wait just a moment. Turning around and still holding onto Messina’s license, the woman walked back through the door, closed the door behind her and was gone for about 3 minutes. Re-entering through the same door, the woman held a sealed Manilla envelope, approximately 14” x 12” and about 2 inches thick,  packed with enough $100 bills to buy the hotel three times over and money left over to for a nice vacation to the Bahamas.

Together with his driver’s license and the Manilla envelope, the clerk reached back over the counter and placed both items in Thomas Messina’s hands. “Have a good day Mr. Messina,” the clerk said and abruptly began shuffling papers and making herself busy.

Messina gathered himself and left through the same door the businessman had gone through a few minutes earlier. He walked to his Impala, opened the door, sat down, and let out a deep sigh. Reaching over and opening the glove box in front of the front passenger seat, Messina placed the envelope inside the glove box, closed the door, and using the key on his key ring, immediately locked it.

Messina did everything as he was instructed to do except for one thing. He couldn’t forget about the envelope that was locked in the glove box of his car. The paper Albatross locked away would weigh heavily on his shoulders throughout the weekend.

As difficult as it was, young Thomas Messina pulled onto Brashear Avenue, headed west and soon crossed the old triple span bridge that traversed the Atchafalaya River connecting Morgan City with Berwick. His Impala passed under the rusting sign that told everyone the bridge had been built under the administration of Governors Huey P. Long and O.K. Allen, two people who Messina knew also had ties to his employer An employer who was unafraid to use bullets, alligators, the bumper of a big Diesel rig, or something as simple as a note, hand-delivered by a courier in a fitted suit, to deliver a message, and most importantly, hold on to his wealth and power. Sometimes even a governor or a president needed to know who really was in charge.