According to the files, the Matrangas had been operating in New Orleans since at least the 1880s, but had virtually disappeared since the death of Carlos Marcello in 1993. Marcello had used Mosca’s as the epicenter of his empire, having meets there for everything from personal meals to planning killings. Mosca’s reputation of good food, incredibly discreet service and no questions asked had outlasted even the Mafia.
The location was far enough away from the hustle and bustle of New Orleans itself that it was possible to come and go without being seen by everyone. Bolan pulled up to the simple black-and-white building. It was fairly busy, and the parking lot was almost full. That suited him fine, and he parked on the far edge of the lot and rolled down his window. The smells coming from the restaurant were heavenly despite the heavy humidity in the air, and his stomach grumbled. He’d spent most of the afternoon reading the files he’d stolen from the FBI database and hadn’t taken the time for lunch.
After watching for several minutes and seeing no signs of trouble, Bolan rolled up the window, got out of the car and locked it, then moved across the lot to the front door. He weaved his way through parked cars on the way there, as the lot didn’t boast marked spaces, but was little more than a graveled area where people parked as they wanted.
He opened the door to a wave of smells and muted sounds. According to the file, Mosca’s had renovated after Hurricane Katrina, and one of the improvements had been the installation of cork in the panels surrounding the booths, as well as the floors, to further dampen the noise. It had worked well, since while it was obvious that people were talking, it was almost impossible to discern single words.
There was an older man in a tuxedo shirt behind the bar, polishing glasses, and a middle-aged woman was standing near a podium. “Good evening, sir,” she said. “Welcome to Mosca’s.”
“Thank you,” Bolan said. “I’m meeting someone.” He scanned the restaurant and spotted Smythe seated in a booth near the back. “There he is,” he added.
“Oh,” she said. “Mr. Smythe. He’s expecting you.”
“Thanks again,” he said, turning away from her and crossing the restaurant, while keeping his eyes open for trouble. He didn’t trust Smythe any further than he’d trust Lacroix. His suspicions about extensive corruption had been confirmed in the files he’d read, though nothing solid had been proved in recent years.
Smythe was seated with a beautiful woman, and both of them were drinking large glasses of red wine, presumably waiting for him to show up. They spoke together in low, heated whispers. Smythe finally spotted him and waved him over. The woman looked even more uncomfortable as she put her glass on the table. She really was striking, in a conservative cut, tan business suit, with a white blouse open at the neck and unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of cleavage.
Bolan reached the table. “Mr. Smythe, I don’t recall your mentioning that you were bringing someone else along.”
“I didn’t, and she won’t be staying long anyway,” he said. “Marshal Cooper, this is my sister, Sandra Rousseau. Sandra, this is U.S. Marshal Cooper.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth as she looked everywhere but at him. “I was just leaving.” She tucked her purse under her arm and looked pointedly at her brother.
Bolan cleared his throat and her eyes met his. “I’m thinking that you may have a different definition of pleasure than I do. You look like a rabbit ready to dart.”
“I…I apologize,” she said, stammering. “It’s been a long day for me. We had just ordered, but I really can’t stay.”
“You should eat something,” Smythe said. “You’ll feel better.”
“There’s no need to leave on my account,” Bolan said. “Sit.” It wasn’t quite an order, but it was close.
She relaxed back into her seat. “I’ll just finish my wine, then, and take my food to go.”
Bolan sat down, ensuring that he had a good view of both the front door and the kitchen entrance. “Is there anything that you recommend on the menu?” he asked them.
“Oyster Mosca,” Smythe said.
“I love their Italian crab salad,” Sandra offered. She signaled a server who was passing by and asked for her order to be put in a container to go. Sandra looked anywhere but at Bolan. She fidgeted with her napkin and the pearl drop pendant on the chain around her neck.
Bolan considered their suggestions and discarded both. He ordered the Chicken à la Grande, and a glass of water. Sandra asked how he was enjoying New Orleans, and Bolan said that all he’d seen of it so far was his hotel and the DA’s office.
“He’s not here vacationing, Sandra,” Smythe scolded. “He’s on a case.”
“Oh, I see,” she said. “That’s why you wanted to meet with Trenton, then.”
“Yes,” he said. “There’s a missing U.S. marshal who was last known to be here in New Orleans. I’m trying to find him.”
Bolan noted the hard glance that Smythe shot his sister, and she quickly changed the subject to places he might enjoy seeing, should he find the time.
“I was reading a little about the history of this place,” Bolan said.
“Yes, interesting crime families and ruling the world,” Sandra said.
“Something like that,” Bolan said.
“The Matranga Family was very powerful in New Orleans for a long time. There was a rival Family that tried to come in at one point, the Provenzanos, but a battle waged in public brought that to an end and nearly ended the Matrangas as well.”
“Sounds like you know your crime,” Bolan said.
“I know my New Orleans history, Marshal Cooper.”
“So what brought it all to an end?”
“A barrel murder.”
“I’ve heard of a lot of ways to kill someone, but I’ve never heard of them being killed by a barrel,” Bolan said.
“No not killed by, found in. They would kill someone, stuff them in a barrel and leave them on a corner for someone to find as a warning. The investigator that led the investigation into the cases was killed, and it was blamed on Italian immigrants. There were trials, lynch mobs and a lot of innocent people got killed, but Matranga escaped it all and reasserted himself.”
Finally, the server brought her food in a container and served the other dishes. Sandra stood up to leave. Bolan stood as well.
“Thank you for the history lesson.”
“Enjoy your stay, Marshal Cooper.”
“Hold on,” Smythe said. “I’ll walk you out.”
“Thank you, but I’m fine to get to my own car, I think. Besides, your food will get cold.”
“It’ll keep,” he said, taking her arm firmly. “I insist.”
“Smythe,” Bolan said, “I’m about out of patience. Sit down and let’s have our chat.”
“I’ll be right back,” he said, already pushing his sister away from the table. “Have a glass of wine from our bottle. It’s just the house merlot, but it’s excellent.”
Bolan watched as Smythe led the woman out through the front door. There was something cagey about the whole thing, but he wasn’t interested in the sister. He wanted to know what Smythe knew. He ignored the wine on the table and asked for the server to refill his water, then turned his attention to the restaurant itself. He’d read that it had been renovated after the hurricane, but it looked like they’d been able to keep much of the original memorabilia intact. Ignoring the food despite his hunger, Bolan looked around the restaurant, scanning the many photos on the walls. The restaurant