“Are you going to someone’s house, or a restaurant?” Vincent questioned, ever the cautious gentleman.
“His house,” I responded, aware of what was coming next.
“And just how well do you know this guy?” Vincent grilled.
“It’s the same man I met after my caviar lesson last night.”
“In other words, the creep’s a perp.”
The next thing I knew, I was facedown on the floor, my arms and legs pinned, with Vincent on my back.
“Okay. This move is your classic full nelson. That character tries anything funny, this is what you do to him.”
First I was nearly attacked by a twisted religious freak, now I had an oily, gay wrestler on top of me. So far my day had been full of surprises. I promised to be careful. After a few more pointers, I headed back upstairs to shower and change. What the hell—if I was going to play Mata Hari, I might as well go all the way.
I fixed my hair and put on some makeup, then surveyed the results. My black dress clung in all the right places more than I might have liked, but it would help get the job done. Besides, if Sergei got out of hand, I’d just brushed up on the right moves to contain him.
I pulled up to find the hot-pink Caddy was the only car parked in Sergei’s driveway. This really was an intimate dinner. I listened to the chimes play “Don’t Be Cruel,” wondering just how crazy I was to have come.
Billy Paw once again opened the door, looking more like Jed Clampett than ever. “Ohhh. It’s youuuu.” His sunken red eyes gave me the once-over.
A look of displeasure flashed across his face as I stepped inside. He held out his hand for my gun, and placed it on a nearby table. I was about to ask what his problem was when Sergei rushed up, grabbing both my hands in his own.
“Rachel! You look absolutely delicious!”
“You look pretty spiffy yourself.”
He was dressed in a short-sleeved white jumpsuit swimming with rhinestone studs. Missing were the sunglasses from the other night, and he exuded an even more powerful presence without them. Possibly it was my weakness for caffeine, but his espresso-colored peepers were truly captivating. If Sergei dropped fifty pounds, wore normal clothes, and lost the sideburns, he’d actually be quite good-looking.
“Champagne?” he asked, handing me a glass.
I properly grasped the flute by its stem.
“Billy Paw, get dinner ready,” Sergei commanded.
“Sho ’nuf,” Billy Paw responded and trudged off.
While his choice of words was unnerving, even more so was the fact that Billy Paw was Sergei’s chef.
“He’s your cook?”
“Absolutely! Billy Paw was the best thing to come with this house.”
“Then you inherited him?”
“Inherit! Very good, I like that!” Sergei laughed. “Yes. He worked for the previous owner, and I saw no reason to fire him. Besides, he makes the type of food that I like. His mother used to cook for Elvis.”
Whoa! Hold on there! “That’s not possible. Elvis’s chef was a black woman.”
Sergei leaned close enough that his sideburns tickled my face. “Mixed marriage.”
Billy Paw was proving to be quite the huckster: the guy was as white as a Klan sheet. I lifted my glass, only to have Sergei stop me, entwining his arm in mine.
“You must never drink without looking into the other person’s eyes. It’s bad luck.”
Billy Paw wasn’t the only hustler around.
“To our new relationship,” he said.
By the sound of it, Sergei was planning to catch more than just paddlefish.
“Now let me show you the house. As I told you, it’s an exact replica of Graceland.”
“Perhaps the downstairs is, but nobody knows what the second level of Graceland looks like. That’s off-limits to the public,” I reminded him.
“That’s true. But not to me,” Sergei bragged. “You’re about to see what only a chosen few have ever been privy to—Elvis’s most intimate quarters.”
Lucky me. Being a regular peon, I guess I’d have to take his word on it. We headed upstairs. All the while, I could hear Sergei’s engine running, even though he appeared to be in neutral.
“You know one of the things I like best about you?”
“What’s that?” I asked, preparing to karate chop him if he made the wrong move.
“The fact that you’re part Russian.”
Well, catch me with a hook, line, and sinker. “How did you know?”
“I have my sources. It was easy to check.”
Great. I wondered what else he knew about me.
Sergei answered my unspoken question. “You have an emotional nature, which is a Russian trait. I can already tell you’re a very passionate woman.”
With any luck, he might come to view me as his very own Russian Priscilla Presley.
“It is very smart of you to work for me.”
“I prefer to think of it as working with you,” I corrected.
“The future holds many possibilities. I have all sorts of business ventures.”
“Such as the Velvet Kitty?”
It was Sergei’s turn to be surprised. “How do you know about that?”
“I have my sources as well,” I archly responded.
“It’s merely a small club for entertaining business clientele,” he said with a shrug.
“Like the man who was here the other night?”
“Who?” Sergei’s hand smoothed his pompadour, as if the answer lay in there. “Oh, Renny Folse. He’s just someone from New Orleans who’s interested in purchasing supplies.”
So Santou was using an alias these days. “What kind of supplies might those be?”
My question remained unanswered as we reached Sergei’s bedroom door. If I’d thought the rest of the house was over the top, this room took the proverbial cake. Decorated in gold, it boasted three built-in TVs and a four-poster bed with a chinchilla spread. But the tour wasn’t over yet. Sergei led me to a bathroom whose walls were covered with photos of Elvis, and nodded toward the toilet.
“That’s where the King fell off the throne in 1977.”
“You’re speaking metaphorically, of course.”
Sergei looked at me questioningly.
“I mean, that’s not the actual toilet.”
“Yes, it is. The very one.”
“That’s the toilet from Graceland?” I asked in disbelief.
“Absolutely. And let me tell you, it cost a pretty ruble,” Sergei solemnly informed me.
I was left with that thought as we headed down to the dining room, where dinner was already on the table.
“See? I eat just like Elvis.” Sergei boasted. “Meat loaf, collard greens, mashed potatoes, and cornbread.”
Everything was swimming in a pool of butter. Sergei served me first, then loaded his own plate with enough food to spur on a case of arteriosclerosis.
“You’re a fascinating man. How is it that you decided to settle in Memphis?” I coquettishly inquired, as he shoveled some meat loaf into his mouth.
“A group of business associates wanted to set up a base in the U.S. I was chosen since I am the best and the brightest,” Sergei bragged. “It was decided there are too many headaches involved with sending paddlefish roe over to Russia, just to mix in a little Caspian caviar and export it right back here. For instance, I had a problem the other day with a small overnight shipping firm. Some fool broke the package and ruined all the eggs.”
So Sergei was the anonymous shipper Gena had tried to track down!
“It is much better to tin paddlefish roe right here, label it as Russian caviar, and distribute the product out of Memphis. That way there is no middleman. It means bigger profits, plus we corner the market,” Sergei gloated.
“You’re talking about an enormous chunk of the trade. Where can you get enough fishermen to do that?” I asked innocently.
“Easy! I steal them from the local hick caviar dealers.” Sergei snorted. “I
give them better prices, help them get girlfriends. Whatever they want!”
“But don’t you worry that angry dealers might decide to snitch?”
Sergei burped and buttered a piece of cornbread. “The ones that are smart don’t. And those that do? I take care of them.” He lifted his knife and drew it across his throat as Billy Paw shuffled into the room.
“Clear the table and bring out dessert,” Sergei ordered.
Billy Paw flung a few more invisible daggers of resentment my way. Either he was overly protective of his master, or Billy Paw just plain didn’t like me.
Dessert was another Elvis calorie buster—banana icebox pie.
I waited until Billy Paw left the room. Then, raising a finger, I began to trace the intricate outline of the designs burned into Sergei’s skin.
“Your tattoos are fascinating. Tell me about them.”
“What do you want to know?” he asked, his voice husky and low, his eyes following my finger’s every move.
“For instance, the designs. How did you choose them? And why do you have iron manacles tattooed around your wrists?”
Sergei grabbed my finger and held it captive. “Each is very special. They were given to me as proof of my courage and loyalty for work well done. I will tell you more when you prove your loyalty to me. Then you will also get rewards.”
Galinov put increasing pressure on my finger as he swiftly picked up a knife, pricked the flesh, and drew blood. I gasped in surprise and tried to pull away, but Sergei held on as he did the same to one of his own and then pressed our two fingers together.
“Make an oath that you’ll never betray me,” he demanded, his face hovering close. “Swear it on the name of all you hold holy.”
My finger ached as he continued to press tighter.
“I swear,” I finally repeated, knowing I’d probably go straight to hell.
“I always like to grab my friends by the balls so they can’t double-cross me. Where are your balls, Rachel Porter?” He laughed and kissed my finger before letting go. “Don’t worry. I’ll find them.”
Galinov poured us each another glass of champagne. “Now, let’s drink to working together, as you say. You like that. No?”
The liquid slid like poison down my throat. “I should tell you that I’m also known for busting balls. Now, I really must go.”
“But it’s still early! Don’t tell me I’ve scared you away?” he teased. But his eye held a deadly gleam.
“I need to contact Virgil and Woody so they’ll know where to set their nets tonight. After all, the more paddlefish they catch, the more money we make.”
Sergei smiled and lifted his champagne glass, his teeth gleaming against the crystal. “You’re both beautiful and smart. The best way to increase production is to start fishing in the protected waters of Mississippi and Alabama. Get information on those areas. I trust you’ll keep our operation safe.”
“I will,” I promised.
Sergei tenderly kissed my hand. “Then until next time, Rachel Porter.”
I retrieved my gun and headed home.
Eighteen
I drove back to Memphis under a sullen sky, accompanied by an angry mob of raindrops. Jagged lightning ripped through the night, punctuated by a low rumble of thunder. The sound echoed, as eerie as a disembodied moan rising from out of a graveyard.
You’ve gone too far. There’s no turning back now.
I was afraid the admonition was correct. I’d wanted to play with the big boys; now I had no choice but to go the distance.
I parked the Ford near my loft and began to walk toward the Blue Mojo, too immersed in my thoughts to care about the rain. That is, until a wraith grabbed me from out of the dark, seemingly intent on dragging me back to hell with it. Whirling around, I was determined to fight off Satan in whatever form he was cloaked—Virgil, Sergei, or even Charlie Hickok. Instead, I froze in place when I saw it was the man who’d haunted my dreams and held my heart in shackles.
Even darkness couldn’t hide the blistering intensity radiating off Santou, nor the lines in his face, which were etched deeper than ever. Life had apparently dealt him a few more blows since last we’d met. A crackle of lightning marbleized the sky as rain showered the street in a punishing outburst. I held back the tears that were welling up inside.
It was Santou who shattered the silence. “We need to talk. Is there somewhere we can go?”
I nodded and led the way. The Blue Mojo’s sign cast a seductive glow, its colors staining the puddles below.
I grabbed a table in the dimmest corner of the room, hoping it would mask not only my wounded pride, but also the fact that I’d take Santou back in a New York minute. I momentarily closed my eyes and luxuriated in his scent, which wrapped itself around me, until something foreign touched my skin. Pulling back, I was startled to find Santou drying the rain off my face with a napkin.
He reacted likewise, covering his embarrassment by extracting a pack of Camels from his pocket. Removing a cigarette, he rolled it between his fingers, the action as intimate as if he were exploring the body of a long-lost lover. Then he placed the cigarette between his lips where it hung suspended, along with my soul, until he lit up.
“I see you still have one bad habit left. Any others I should know about?” I asked lightly.
Santou’s eyes momentarily softened beneath their hooded lids, and he leaned in as if to share something, only to think better of it. He was once again the professional, keeping his distance.
“I’m not here to discuss my bad habits, Porter. I’m here to talk about you.”
You were hoping he’d say “us,” weren’t you? Just remember, people don’t change. And only rarely do circumstances.
I caught Boobie’s eye and held up two fingers. He nodded, automatically knowing what the occasion called for. Then I set my emotional armor in place before turning my attention back to Santou.
“What could you possibly want to talk about that we haven’t already discussed at some point or other?”
If Santou felt the zinger, he did his best not to show it. But his fingers danced across the table like a crab with a case of the jitters.
“I need to ask if you’re still working for Fish and Wildlife?”
I threw the ball back at him. “Now that’s an interesting question. Why do you want to know?”
Santou’s hand crash-coursed through his hair, sending a shower of watery droplets into the air. He looked at me and slowly shook his head, flashing that signature grin which never failed to tug at my heart. This time he did lean forward.
“You’re right. I do know you, chère. I know you all too well. And my gut tells me that you’re not corrupt—which means you must be involved in some kind of undercover assignment.”
Boobie placed down two glasses. It was the same concoction he’d previously prepared to kick-start my mojo. I hoped it worked as well tonight.
“How many drinks have you already had, Jake? I think you’re letting your imagination get the better of you.”
“And what I think is that you’re working on something to do with paddlefish,” Santou responded.
“What a fascinating leap. Why don’t you enlighten me as to how you reached that conclusion?” I bantered, as if this were highly entertaining social conversation.
“All it took was one look at those two jokers you were with the other night. My guess is they’re working as fishermen for Galinov. In fact, that’s probably how you got to Sergei in the first place.” Jake smugly picked up his drink and downed it.
Oh yeah? And what about the blond babe you were with? I smiled in amusement. “You should consider becoming a novelist in your spare time. Come to think of it, I have the perfect pen name for you. How about Renny Folse?”
Santou blinked, but didn’t say a word.
“By the way, I heard you quit the New Orleans police force.”
Jake took a hit off his cigarette, bathing his profile in a ghostly haze, his wound-up intensity tighter than ever. He
signaled for another round and Boobie brought it over, raising an eyebrow in Jake’s direction.
“I call this my apparition special,” he announced, and sauntered away as Gena took the stage.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Santou suspiciously asked.
“It’s his name for the house drink,” I said airily, beginning to feel its effect.
An unruly curl fell onto Santou’s temple, like a black sheep rebelliously straying from the rest of the flock. I instinctively brushed it back only to have Jake seize my hand, making it his most willing prisoner. His lips seared my palm, and every cell in my body burst into flame. Jake was here and, for now, that was all that mattered. Which is why I could have kicked myself as the words tumbled out of their own accord.
“Tell me what you’re doing in Memphis. Are you working on assignment for another agency? And why is Sergei Galinov your target?”
All he had to do was say five little words.
I’m here because of you.
Just that.
Instead, Santou dropped my hand. “I can’t tell you anything now. Maybe later.”
I defined that to mean, No deal. No way. No how.
“Listen, chère. I showed up tonight to give you a warning. It’s obvious you’re working Galinov. And knowing you, it’s probably without any backup or authorization. I want you off this case right now. You don’t have the slightest idea who it is that you’re dealing with.”
I should have expected this. After all, this was the reason we’d broken up in the first place.
“Okay, Jake, now you listen to me. What I choose to do is my business. You’re not my boss; you’re no longer even my lover. I don’t need advice from someone who’s unwilling to tell me why he’s here in Memphis.”
“I don’t see you entrusting me with any precious details,” Santou said with a sharp, angry laugh.
I began to move away but Santou grabbed my arm, refusing to let me leave.
“Do you even know what Galinov’s tattoos stand for?” he hissed.
“What’s this? A ploy to extract information that you don’t have?” I fired back.
Santou’s eyes furiously locked onto mine. “Those markings mean the man’s been in prison doing hard time. He’s part of the Russian Mafia’s ancient Thieves World. Galinov is an aristocrat of the profession and keeper of its code. Those tattoos are a sign of his membership. He is absolutely ruthless. He’d kill you just to show his cohorts that he can slaughter a federal agent and get away with it—which is why I’m telling you to stop whatever you’re doing.”
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