Shadow Hunt. Don Pendleton

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      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 had the perfect mixture of old-world charm, polished wood and brass, and pictures from both Italy and New Orleans through the years.

      Meeting at Mosca’s with its known history was either a very bad joke or Smythe was a complete idiot. He had to have known that it had a loose connection to organized crime at one time, but perhaps he just liked the food. Still, if Rio had asked him about organized crime in New Orleans before he came down here, Bolan would likely have told him not to bother. But since his disappearance, the soldier was beginning to think that Rio’s hunch had been far more accurate than even he’d originally anticipated. If Mosca’s was involved, the FBI would surely know about it, so the pictures on the walls of the old notorious Mafia Family members were just that: pictures of infamous men.

      Bolan glanced once more at the front of the restaurant and noticed that the bartender was no longer there, and neither was the hostess. The flow of customers had dried up, too. He walked over to the entrance and tried to look through the small window on the door, but there were only a few parking spaces directly in front of the building. Smythe was taking a long time, but something was clearly going on with his sister. Bolan returned to the table and sat down again.

      Finally, after another five minutes had passed, he decided that Smythe was out of time. He got up and headed for the door, but wasn’t even all of the way out, when he saw two large men standing next to his car on the far side of the lot. Smythe was nowhere to be seen, and Bolan made a mental note that the next time he saw him, bad things were going to happen to the little weasel. He moved across the parking lot cautiously, knowing they’d seen him come out, and simply tried to avoid being boxed in from behind.

      As he reached his car, he saw that the two men were easily 250 pounds apiece. They wore pressed close-fitting khaki pants and dark T-shirts that revealed their muscles, and several tattoos. The bigger of the two looked like his biceps were going to pop through the material at any second. The other was slightly leaner and bald. Bolan stopped in front of the two men.

      “Gentlemen, you’re blocking my car.”

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