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New Orleans

Julio Cortinez stepped out of the Limousine and climbed the short steps of the Lucky Strike Casino in New Orleans. Inside the raucous sounds of gaming machines, people shouting and the piped-in music of Rockstar boomed with a cringe worthy howl. The clean cut well dressed Latino dodged through lanes of machines to the bar. He gave a knock sign to the bartender.

A moment later a beefy man that could have made a sumo wrestler jealous came to his side.

“Can we be of service?”

“Please inform Standridge that Julio Cortinez is here.”

Moments later the front man for the Los Muertos was ushered into a long hall then into a comfortable billiard room. The only lighting in the room was over the three pristine tables. At one table three curvaceous women dressed in very tight dresses drank and shot pool. In a far dark corner a man sat at a large round table. He beckoned Julio forward.

“Welcome Mr. Cortinez. It is an honor to finally meet you.”

“Standridge I presume?”

“Correct. I am the one and only. Have a seat. Can I get you a beverage or something to eat?”

Julio studied the man carefully. He had very dark skin but not African, no he was Arab or from the middle east. His eyes shimmered in pools of purple in the dim light. He wore a dinner jacket and a hat that looked like something Frank Sinatra wore back in the day.?

Julio sat down. “No, I’m good.”

“I am very interested in what you can provide for us.”

“It is the best,” Julio agreed. “Only the finest for our friends in the United States.”

“How soon will this all start happening,” Standridge asked.

“Next week at the outside. You were still interested in a case?”

“Oh certainly. I’m all set to start things rolling. The old regime was greedy. They didn’t see the big picture. It is good to see someone with some foresight.”

“We will provide,” Julio said. “I will contact you when it is in the wind.”

“Until then stay safe my friend.”

Julio stood, “You as well.”

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