The Devil's Luck

by W E DeVore

  “Guns.” Urian’s eyebrows stitched together and he said, “You tell what I tell you now to your cop friends or your NOPD uncles or that little redheaded Federal Agent, and my men will on your doorstep for your husband and you. You understand me?”

  She nodded.

  “Mike got into business with a motorcycle gang from Jackson. Racists. Rapists. Meth dealers.” Urian spat. “They moved into my colleagues’ territory, with the guns, it aggravated them. But then, those fuckers, they tried to move into my territory.” He leaned further forward until his face was inches from hers and hissed, “This city is mine. They don’t seem to get that. I told my men to take their guns from Mike and toss the house and tell Mike to tell his friends to come see me.”

  Q pulled back and put her hands up defensively. “I get it. Back off, would you?”

  He relaxed somewhat and folded his arms.

  “So, then what happened?” she asked.

  “Greeks are good at taking out the trash.”

  She swallowed back the smile that tried to spread on her lips as she realized that somehow Urian Galanos had painted himself as some kind of hero in the narration of his depraved life. “So, you wanted to get them to leave?”

  “No,” he said. “I wanted to feed them to the alligators and burn their little clubhouse to the fucking ground. They lost the fucking civil war. The immigrants of this city were going to remind them of that.”

  His sincerity and rage squashed her amusement in an instant and she tried not to shiver, recoiling at the monster that lurked beneath Urian’s calm façade.

  “Did you?” she asked. “Burn them to the ground?”

  “Not yet.” He tilted his head to the side. “Mike was dead when my men got to his house, or close to. He’d already shot himself. They grabbed all the guns on the bed. A few more that were on the kitchen table and then they left. I don’t like getting mixed up in murder. It’s pointless if you can’t use it to control people.”

  “How do you know about the motorcycle gang?” she asked.

  “One of my men. Thinks he’s a rapper. He was friends with Mike. He told him where to go.”

  “He still breathing?” she asked, forming a plan in her mind.

  “Why do you ask?” Urian glared at her and a chill ran down her spine.

  “The ATF is after you and Rodney Augustine. I don’t want Rodney to go to Federal Prison. He’s a good kid.”

  “Stupid, though.”

  “Trusting,” she corrected.

  He tipped his head from side to side and rolled his eyes. In Urian’s world, being trusting and being stupid were equivalent faults.

  She folded her arms on the table. “Give Rodney the information you have. Let him turn State’s evidence.”

  “You want a target on his back, beautiful girl?”

  “Hard to hit a target when you’re in the belly of an alligator.” She stared him down until he sneered at her. “But your man. The one that made the introduction. He’ll need to go down for it. Somebody has to go down for it; otherwise, it won’t work.”

  “And once Rodney snitches, what do I do?”

  “Freeze him out. He has to go straight. Your other man has to go to jail.” She looked down in self-reproach. “You wanted my help. That’s the best I’ve got.”

  A sneer spread across his face. “See? I knew we could be friends. Consider it done.”

  Guilt flooded her stomach and she thought she might be sick from it as she realized she’d just instructed someone to murder unknown people to save just one person she knew from going to jail. The fact that they were bad people didn’t do much to calm her shame.

  Sensing her weakness, Urian said, “Not a word, beautiful girl. Pretty houses in Uptown can be burned to the ground, too.”

  She blinked back her terror and whispered, “Not a word. Just take care of it.”

  He winked at her and stood up. “I like this,” he said. “We’re getting to understand each other. That’s a good thing.”

  She gave him a quick nod and drained her glass of wine in one long swallow as she watched Urian walk back to his table and his wife. Q had lost any appetite she had and called for the waiter to ask for the check, only to be informed that her gentleman friend was picking up her tab. As she stood up, she willed her legs not to buckle, or run, or both. She confidently walked out of the restaurant and smiled congenially at Urian and his wife on her way out.

  Several blocks from the restaurant, she paused on the steps of St. Louis Cathedral and sat down. Pulling out her phone, she texted Sanger:

  Heading to Mikey’s Emporium for my inheritance. Meet me there in 30 if you’re free.

  Q studied the message for several minutes before she hit send. She knew she couldn’t divulge the entirety of her conversation with Urian without forcing Sanger to be an accessory to murder. But she also knew that she could omit a portion of the information she now held.

  Just one lie. Rodney knows who Mike was working with. Rodney is willing to turn State’s evidence. Urian wants him out of the game. Urian thinks he’s weak.

  She repeated the lie over and over in her head as she bounced up to her feet and through the crowds. She flagged down a cab and instructed the driver to take her to Mikey’s Music Emporium, watching the city pass by her window.

  When the cab pulled up in front of the building, Q gasped at the gaping maw above the tin-roofed awning. “What happened to the sign?”

  The windows had been taped over with brown paper from the inside and someone had spray-painted ‘Fuck the Boujee’ on the front door.

  Q got out of the cab and walked around to the side door. As promised, it was unlocked. She went through the dimly lit storeroom and out into the store, slightly grief-stricken at the loneliness of the once homey interior.

  The front of the store had been cleared out of its inventory. The display shelves looked raw and defeated in their emptiness. A sparkle of light caught her eye, and she found her objective. Whoever had cleaned out the store had left the hamsa wind chimes still dangling from the top hinge of the front door. The early afternoon light caught the iridescent inlay on the protective hand, sending rainbows refracting through the dusty air. Flipping over an empty milk crate that had once held sheet music, she stood up on it to boost herself higher. She had just untied the first knot when she heard footsteps on the squeaky treads of the stairs.

  “You busted me, detective,” she said. “I’ve always loved this and I’m taking it. Try and stop me. I’m not really. Wanda called and told me to take them. It’s my inheritance.”

  She felt Sanger move behind her as she freed the wind chimes. She turned to present her prize to him and screamed when she saw Chris McMillan’s face where Sanger’s should have been. As she backed off the crate, she misjudged the distance and fell hard on her shoulder rattling the chimes and her joints.

  Chris’s face was flat. “I don’t care. Take them.”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  He pulled out a gun. “Stand up, will you?”

  Motherfuck. Not again.

  “Please,” Q said. “You don’t have to do this. I literally do not why you are doing this.”

  “Shut up,” he said. He glimpsed around the store, nervous energy vibrating off of him. “You bring the cops with you?”

  “What?” she asked.

  “The cops!” he exclaimed. “They fucking showed up at my house. Fucking cunt went to the cops? I told her to keep her mouth shut. Bitch wouldn’t listen. Fuck!”

  He started to pace back and forth. Q froze while she watched him, trying to see if there was some path to an escape. “They know,” he muttered. “I know they fucking know. I should have killed that bitch, too. It’s all ruined. Everything is ruined. I slipped out the back. Thought I could just wait here. Get my head together, then you show up. Stupid!”

  Her phone dinged in her pocket and he jumped. “What’s that?”

  “My phone,” she replied, slowly standing up. He held out his hand and she
handed it to him.

  He glanced at the screen. “Who’s Aaron?”

  “My friend…”

  “Goddamnit!” he screamed. “He’s outside. What does that mean, he’s outside?”

  “He’s here. I asked him to meet me,” she said. “Look, I’ll go. Or you go. He’s just coming to meet me.”

  Chris put her phone in his back pocket and grabbed her wrist, putting the gun to her temple, shoving her towards the staircase as Sanger’s voice called out from the back of the store, “Clementine! You here?”

  Chris hissed into her ear. “Tell him to come upstairs.”

  Q did as she was told. “I’m up here, Sanger.”

  When they got to the second floor, Chris pulled her to the back of the large open room, pressing the gun into her cheek and gripping her arm so hard she thought her wrist might shatter. She heard Sanger’s footfalls on the stair treads and he appeared at the top of the stairs.

  As soon as he saw her, Sanger pulled his gun and leveled it at her captor.

  “NOPD. Drop your weapon and let her go,” he said, his tone even and steady. “You don’t have to do this. Just let her go.”

  Chris tightened his grip on Q and hissed in her ear, “You didn’t tell me he was a cop.”

  “You didn’t ask,” she replied. “Look, just go. Sanger, let him go.”

  Sanger flashed his easy smile and kept his gun trained on him. “Listen, brother. You kill her. I kill you. And that’s a whole lot of paperwork. She’s also my girlfriend’s sister-in-law, so just let the lady go. You and I can sort the rest of this out.”

  He took two steps towards them. Before she knew what was happened, the gun suddenly left her face and a blast shattered the air next to her ear. Chris pushed her to the ground and she covered her head, protecting her shrieking eardrums. She tried to see Sanger, but her eyes refused to focus over the roaring in her skull.

  Strong fingers tangled themselves through her hair and dragged her to a nearby post, heaving her to an upright seated posture and violently binding her hands behind her back. As the fog inside her brain began to clear, she struggled and screamed.

  Chris’s face appeared in front of her eyes, and he said something she couldn’t understand before a sharp pain shot through her jaw and the world went dark.

  ◆◆◆

  “Clementine. Clementine.”

  Q’s eyes fluttered open, and she found she was bound to a post on the second floor of Mikey’s Music Emporium. Sanger was tied to the railing overlooking the first floor. The front of his crisp, white shirt was sticky and red.

  She gasped, and the left side of her face screamed at her as she opened her mouth. “Aaron, you’re shot.”

  “No shit,” he grunted. “Fucker shot me then pistol-whipped me. Looks like he hit you pretty good, too. You recognize him?”

  She felt the inside of her lip with her tongue and flinched, tasting blood. “He’s Chris McMillan. Our neighbor at the Cove. You and Rex must have spooked him when you showed up at his house. How long have I been out?”

  He cursed under his breath. “I don’t know. Sun’s setting, so probably a few hours.”

  “How bad are you hurt?” she asked.

  “I’m still conscious, so not too bad.” He tried to smile and cringed around the pain.

  “I smell gasoline,” she said. “Why do I smell gasoline?”

  Before he could answer, Chris came back upstairs carrying a gas can. He dumped the contents on the floor. “That’s because I’m burning this place to the ground.”

  “Please,” Q said. “Just run. You don’t have to do this.”

  He laughed. “I didn’t have to do any of it. I didn’t have to shoot Ackerman, but the fucking kike tried to Jew me down. What is with you people? I get him nine hundred thousand dollars for this fire hazard and he has the balls to ask for double? Fucked up out of his head on smack, no less. Jesus.”

  “You shot Mike?”

  Chris tossed the gas can across the room and began to pace. “So many guns around. He went back to his bedroom and passed out on the floor. I picked a pistol up, put it in his hand. Sat him up and helped him pull the trigger. It so was easy.”

  Q gasped in horror. “Why? Did Charter want you do kill him?”

  “What? No. But he wouldn’t sell, and they were going to fire me, and then Julie would leave me, and I don’t know,” he said. “Not really. But it felt good. Like I was taking back some control over my own life. Have you ever felt out of control? Like nothing you did made any sense?” He stopped pacing and looked at her as if he really wanted to know the answer to his question. “Well, have you?”

  He asks the woman tied up and about to be burned alive.

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  “One fucking deal. That’s all I needed. Get him to sell. Get that old fucking bat to sell. Suddenly my house is worth a million bucks. Then I’m the rock star. You see?”

  She shook her head slowly from side to side.

  “Genevieve?” she asked.

  “Boom!” he bellowed. “Man, that was a cool noise. Then that whore wife of mine decides to leave. Leave! She doesn’t get to leave. I fucking kill two people for that cunt, and she leaves?”

  “Just go,” Q said. “Leave town. Get out. We’ll give you a head start.”

  “Fuck you,” he replied. “I’m going to burn this fucking place to the ground with you in it. Derek took something of mine, so I’m going to take something of his: his little archangel. We’ll see how cocky your husband feels after his wife is dead. This development is happening. He’ll sell, or I’ll kill him. That’s how this works.”

  Q’s eyes pleaded with Sanger to do something and he grimaced. “It’s rush hour. The smoke will be seen within a few minutes. You should just leave town.”

  Chris turned his attention to him and thought through his plan. “No, I should wait until dark. I’ll be back in a few hours when the coast is clear. Stay tight.”

  He jogged down the stairs and Q heard the backdoor close. “How long do you think we have?”

  “I don’t know,” Sanger said. “Maybe he’ll wait until the Cove closes, less chance of a fire being discovered. Listen to me. When it starts, I want you to breathe in as much smoke as possible as quickly as possible.”

  “Why?” she asked, horrified.

  “So, you’ll pass out. It’ll be faster that way.”

  “We have to get out.” She struggled against the tape on her wrists. “I don’t want to die, Aaron.”

  “Me, either, Clementine. But if it comes to that, I’ll be right here with you.” Sanger sagged back, and she recoiled at the darkening red blooming on the front of his shirt. Beads of sweat formed at his temples and his skin had an unnatural sheen to it. “I can’t, Clementine. I’m so sorry.”

  Q swallowed a wave of tears whole and gave him an annoyed scowl, trying to sound normal. “You’re supposed to be comforting me, asshole. Jesus, cops have the worst bedside manner. Don’t you pass out on me, Aaron.”

  He screwed on a crooked grin. “Alright, then, tough guy. What do you suggest?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s play a game or something. You pick. You need to stay awake.”

  “Ask me a question, I’ll tell you no lie,” he breathed out.

  “What?” she asked, worried that Sanger may be slipping out of rational thought.

  “My brother and I used to play it.”

  “Is that like ‘Truth or Dare’?” she asked, wondering how they were going to dare each other to do anything being bound as tightly as they were and as injured as Sanger refused to admit he was.

  “No. Just truth. It’s a trust game. It’s how I found out he was gay.”

  “I don’t know this story,” she said. “Why don’t I know this story?”

  “We were at my grandparents’ house in Tel Aviv. I was ten. He was twelve. I had my first real crush on this girl that lived two doors down.” His head seemed to drift towards his chest of its own accord.

  “What wa
s her name?” she asked, determined to keep him conscious.

  “Gali,” he said. “She was a ballbuster. Gave me a black eye when I tried to kiss her.”

  “You always go for the tough ones, Sanger,” she replied, laughing.

  He winked at her and said, “Well, Avi’s questions were mostly about the shiner I was sporting and there was something he said. I don’t remember what it was, but it made me realize something that I hadn’t thought about much…”

  His voice trailed off and he stitched his eyebrows together.