The Devil's Luck

by W E DeVore

  “Language,” Arlene scolded.

  “Whatever.” Q dismissed her admonishment and continued her own of Sanger’s partner. “‘Sup, Rex? Watch any good adult films lately or did you finally get into one of those Internet addiction rehab programs?”

  The last few times they’d met, Rex’s eyes had been magnetically attached to the band logo on Q’s t-shirt and the outline of her breasts beneath. Apparently, hers wasn’t the only set of mammary glands he couldn’t stop staring at, because he’d been reprimanded more than once for looking at pornographic material while on duty - usually by his partner.

  Rex glared at her. “You’re a bitch, you know that?”

  Sanger grimaced, massaging his brow between his first two fingers and his thumb. “Jesus, Rex. What the fuck?”

  “Language, Aaron,” Arlene scolded again.

  Q waved her hand indifferently. “I got this, Aaron.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of, Clementine,” he whined. “Just let it go. Come on, Ms. Jacobs is waiting. Rex, apologize to Clementine.”

  Rex mumbled an apology and slicked his hand through his sweaty, blond crewcut. While Sanger introduced him to Arlene, he managed to remember his Mississippi manners and was suddenly awash with ‘yes, ma’am’s’ and ‘Ms. Arlene’s’.

  Arlene kissed Q and Sanger on their cheeks before returning to her home with a wave. Q walked alongside Sanger and Rex, keeping the former between herself and the latter, listening while Sanger filled his partner in on what they had learned so far.

  As they approached Wanda’s porch, Rex asked, “So, what’s with the old tranny? Jesus, what a nightmare. I thought those she-males liked to try to hide it.”

  Q’s eyes blacked over with rage and she balled her fists. Sensing her body stiffen, Sanger put his hand on the small of her back and said, “You don’t mean my mom, do you?”

  Rex’s eyes widened, and Sanger continued, “I thought I told you that I was adopted… Huh. Arlene’s my mother, Rex. That’s how I know Clementine. Her old bass player used to live next door.”

  “But you said she was your old partner’s granddaughter or something...” Rex stammered.

  “Oh, that, too. Small world, ain’t it?” Sanger continued to smile congenially as he began telling the most elaborate lie Q had ever heard, involving Sanger’s Orthodox rabbi father falling madly in love with a transgendered woman while attending a rabbinic conference in San Francisco four decades ago.

  They walked up the steps to Wanda’s house and Sanger finished with, “...anyway, after Dad retired, he was always underfoot, and mom just couldn’t stand it anymore, so she packed up and moved to New Orleans, just like that. When the job on the force opened up here, I couldn’t resist. I’m kind of a mama’s boy.” He turned to Rex and continued to smile, but his tone was no longer friendly. “And I’d appreciate it if you showed my mama some fucking respect. You understand me?”

  Rex nodded and quickly knocked on the door to escape Sanger’s stare. When Wanda opened the door and led them into her home, Q held Sanger back and kissed his cheek. “I love you, Aaron.”

  He squeezed her shoulders. “I love you, too, Clementine. Bet you’re glad you came along now, aren’t you?”

  She grinned. “I wouldn’t have missed that look on his face for anything. That was some story, cowboy.”

  They followed Wanda into her large, sunny living room. Q glanced around in appreciation. Just like Mike’s house, every wall was covered nearly from the floor to the ceiling with local folk art and photography.

  “Wow,” she said. “I thought Mike’s collection was huge.”

  Wanda followed Q’s gaze around at her walls. “I used to joke that we needed two houses just for all of our art.”

  Rex pulled out a notebook and said, “Forgive me if I’m repeating anything that Detective Sanger has already asked, but do you know what brand of cigarettes Mr. Ackerman liked to smoke?”

  Good question, dickweed. I see you brought your A game.

  Q gave Sanger a sideways glare, realizing that the rumors he’d been spreading about his partner’s incompetence were grossly exaggerated.

  “Lucky Strike Lights,” Wanda said. “If he could find them. But he’d switched over to those e-cigarettes.”

  “He have a backup brand?” Rex asked. “Of the real thing?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “I can’t think of the name though. It was a silver package with a shiny mountain. Almost as hard to find as Lucky Strike Lights. It was intentional. To keep him from smoking too much.”

  Rex nodded and said, “Everest?”

  Wanda snapped her fingers. “That’s it. I always thought it was ironic. Don’t think anyone who ever smoked one of those would have made it anywhere near a mountaintop, let alone the tallest one.”

  Rex flashed an effortless smile that he could have stolen right off Aaron Sanger’s face and said, “It’s a filthy habit. I’m glad I never picked it up, myself.”

  Wanda relaxed into her recliner and began to rock. “Oh, I wish I could say the same. I smoked like a chimney when I was using.”

  “You had a drug problem?” he asked.

  “Yes, crystal meth. It’s not something I’m proud of. I can’t touch anything remotely intoxicating these days. It’d set me right off. That’s why I made Mike quit smoking real cigarettes. Just the smell of it on his breath made my mouth water for things I shouldn’t be wanting anymore.”

  “How long have you been clean?” Sanger asked.

  “Without a relapse?” She thought for a moment. “Going on seventeen years now. It’s a real struggle though. Especially when things like this happen. If I didn’t have a project going, I’d probably be three days in on a high right now.”

  “What kind of project?” Rex asked.

  “I fix up houses in the neighborhood. Started after Katrina. So many people sold out or just never came back. I bought two houses around here, just to keep them from turning into squats for gutter punks. Then I started fixing one up for a friend of mine and her kids. Their house burned during one of the power surges. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I liked it.” She settled back and glanced around the room. “Still do. I’m working on a cute little cottage in Holy Cross right now. You should see the gingerbread work in the eaves. I pulled it all down to sand and paint. It’s in my workshop out back.”

  “How many houses do you own?” Sanger asked.

  “Six. Right now. I had to sell off a couple to buy that place in Holy Cross and pay for the renovations. That’s usually what I do. Sell one, buy one. So, I can take my time without a bank note. I don’t like to be rushed.” She stood up and walked into the kitchen to open a drawer. She returned with three business cards, handing one to each of them. “If you know anyone who’s looking to rent, I have a three bedroom around the corner that’ll be available next month. I just need to go in there and freshen up the paint.”

  Sanger glanced at Q and said, “Did Mr. Ackerman ever mention a side business?”

  Wanda nodded. “Well, like I told you over at Arlene’s, he was thinking about becoming a gun reseller, but I was dead-set against that. There’s already enough guns on the streets without someone else bringing more in. A boy got shot two blocks from here not four days ago. It’s getting out of control again, just like in the nineties. Y’all from here?”

  “I am,” Q said. “Got held up at gunpoint twice on my way home from Hebrew school that first year we made murder capital of America.”

  Sanger looked at her in horror. “You never told me that.”

  “You never asked. It wasn’t a big deal. I cried, both times, gave them some money, and they went away. First time, the kid was probably my age. It was bad, Sanger. Mavis got held up while she was unloading groceries once.”

  “Memphis used to be like that, too,” he said. “So, how much did Mr. Ackerman tell you about his money troubles?”

  Wanda’s eyebrows stitched together, and she replied, “Enough to know he needed help. I offered to give him a lo
an, but he said he was handling it. I thought those investors offering him all that money for the store would fix everything. At least, that’s the way he made it sound.”

  “How much did they offer him?” Rex asked.

  “I don’t know, but they offered me nine hundred, so more than enough.”

  Dollar signs flashed in front of both Q’s eyes as she realized just how much the Cove was probably worth if Ben decided to sell to the same investment group.

  “Nine hundred thousand dollars?” she asked in shock. “Did Mike tell anybody about their bid?”

  Rex pursed his lips and gave her an annoyed look. She ignored him and said, “No wonder Ben wants to sell.”

  Wanda asked, “Who?”

  “Ben Bordelon, my husband,” Q said. “He owns Lafitte’s Cove.”

  “Your husband’s about to be a very rich man,” Wanda said. “They want the Cove more than they want the Emporium. The real estate broker showed me the plans. The lobby is going to sit right in the middle of the Cove’s parking lot; after they tear it down. They’re going to repurpose Mike’s, Genevieve’s place, too. They’ve got plans to build luxury condos, no riff raff allowed,” Wanda explained. “Mike said they weren’t after the Cove until its clientele changed. No offense, but it’s a little rougher than it used to be.”

  Q laughed. “None taken. It’s a little more of a party spot now. But business is booming.”

  Over the last year, the Cove had been introduced to a new and much louder audience than its former jazz listening, Scotch-sipping crowd, thanks largely in part to Derek Sharp. The new clientele was just as loyal, but not nearly as polite.

  “Well, some of the gentrifying neighbors don’t like it too much,” Wanda replied. “At least, according to Mike. Every time that rock star plays there, he said there were at least six noise complaints.”

  “Not noise, crowds,” Q corrected. “People from out of town move in next to a live music venue and then get mad when there’s live music and drunk folks talking in the parking lot until three in the morning. It’s not Derek’s fault.”

  Rex cleared his throat and said, “What’s the name of the investment group?”

  “Charter Real Estate,” Wanda replied.

  “Icarus Nguyen - the owner of Sun Nails? - said you were looking for someone to take over the business,” Sanger interjected. “But you said you sold it, right?”

  “When Icarus and I talked at the funeral, I was thinking about trying to save it. But that was before they gave me the numbers. I don’t have Mike’s books yet, but that business isn’t worth anywhere near the kind of money they’re offering. I figure, I’ll have a going out of business sale and donate what’s left of the inventory to one of the music schools. You know why they won’t let me into the building yet? I’m not in any rush to sell or anything, but the real estate broker handling the sale is pestering me almost every day to close the sale and I’m tired of talking to him.”

  That she hadn’t been told about her husband’s activities meant that Wanda Jacobs was on Jeffries’s suspect list. Q internally rolled her eyes as far back as they would go, mocking the special agent’s conspicuous desperation. Clearly, she didn’t have enough information to book Urian on anything and was grasping at anything she could find.

  Sanger shook his head and affected mystified ignorance. “I’ll look into it for you. It shouldn’t be much longer.”

  He pulled out his phone and handed it to her. “You know that man?”

  Wanda glanced at the screen. “Urian Galanos? Sure. Every drug addict in town knows that asshole. But that’s not who Mike would have used.”

  “No?” Sanger asked.

  “No,” Wanda said. “Flavia, the junkie at my meeting? Well, she was right about one thing. He would have gone to Frenchie. All us old timers used him back in the day. He’s still muling above the 528 Bar.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Do you mind if we wrap this up? I have a plumbing contractor coming to my project house in an hour. I need to get over there.”

  Sanger stood and said, “You want to give me that gun?”

  She walked back to the kitchen and returned with a handgun case and a framed print. She handed the gun to Sanger and the frame to Q. Q smiled broadly as she saw a younger and even more gangly version of Tom Wills sitting behind a drum kit on the second floor of the Emporium. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, making the cymbals and drum hardware sparkle around him. Mike stood at a set of congas nearby, cigarette hanging haphazardly out of his mouth, his comb-over wildly askew as he beat on the skins.

  “This is amazing,” Q said, still regarding the image in her hands and letting herself be transported to the second floor of the Emporium. “Tommy will love it.”

  Low voices interrupted her sentimental musings, and she turned to see Sanger and Rex in deep conversation as they examined the gun Wanda had surrendered to them.

  “Ms. Jacobs,” Rex said. “Where did you say you got this?”

  “Mike gave it to me about two months back. Said he was worried about me and I needed protection.”

  “Is it registered?”

  “It should be,” she said. “It was from his collection. Is everything ok?”

  Sanger flashed his easy smile and said, “Sure, sure. It’s just an unusual model. Only a collector would have one. We’re both gun nerds. Occupational hazard.”

  Q looked into his eyes and instantly knew he was lying. She held her tongue and sat quietly, admiring the art on the walls of Wanda Jacob’s house, and listening to Sanger interact with his partner as they finished their few remaining questions. Once they were back in Sanger’s truck, she said, “Ok, spill. What’s up with the gun?”

  “Thought you didn’t want to get involved,” he said.

  “Shut up, Sanger. Spill.”

  “No serial number. It’s been filed off. I’m going to take you home, now.” He glanced over at her. “Thank you. I don’t think we would have gotten this far with Ms. Jacobs without you or Arlene.”

  “You’re welcome. What’s next?”

  “Guess I have a date with a federal agent. I promised her I’d loop her in. Can’t back out now.”

  “Making friends?” she asked.

  “Gonna do my best, anyway. Me and Rex will head over after lunch. God, what a dick. I can’t believe he said that shit about Arlene and you.”

  “He’s an asshole, Aaron, but he’s a competent cop.”

  “How do you figure that?” he asked, obviously not agreeing with her.

  “He asked good questions, Aaron. He’s good at building rapport. You two could work well together. It’s not his police skills that are your problem with him. He’s a shitty human being. But he’s a good cop.”

  “So is Vincent Gabrielli. What’s your point?”

  The fact that Sanger just invoked the name of the former police lieutenant that had helped frame Ben for murder and used Q’s rape as leverage over her father to escape a corruption charge, meant Sanger was in desperate need of a lifeline that would help him escape his partner.

  “He dirty?” she asked.

  “Not that I know of,” he said.

  “Then you should try to work with him and let some of your goodness rub off. You got him good today with that story you told him about Arlene. A few more experiences like that and he might learn his lesson.”

  “I can’t believe you’re defending him,” he said.

  “I’m not defending him,” she replied. “I love you and I want you to be safe. He’s a good cop. He’s smart. He’s also a dick with a hard-on for anyone who gives him a tough time, which means he can probably handle himself and keep you safe. And that is the only thing I want for you in a partner. And he respects you. I saw it. He could balance you out, cowboy. Be the bad cop to your good.”

  Sanger was silent for most of long drive uptown. As he pulled into her driveway, he admitted, “He’s not a bad cop. I’ve been looking for reasons not to work with him. Making it seem worse than it is.”

&nb
sp; “Why?”

  He turned to her and gave her an exasperated look. “You just said it: he’s a dick.”

  “And…”

  “Isn’t that enough?” he asked. “He called you a bitch less than an hour ago. Did you forget that?”

  Q shrugged. “No. But I get called a bitch a lot.”

  Sanger scowled and said, “You ask me, you’re more of an asshole.”

  “An asshole who gets things done,” she replied, and he laughed out loud. “Speaking of getting things done. I have an idea about how you can make nice with Jeffries and get her on your side.”