Pipe: (A Romance & Suspense Mystery) (Red Doors of New Orleans Mystery Series Book 1)

by Wade Lake

  Pipe

  By Wade Lake

  Red Doors of New Orleans #1

  ISBN: 978-1-7342575-0-2

  Pipe (Red Doors of New Orleans Mystery Series #1) by Wade Lake.

  Published by Wade Lake Press.

  www.WadeLakePress.com

  © 2019 Wade Lake Press

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact the author, or WadeLakePress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Certain long-standing institutions, agencies, and public offices are mentioned, but the characters involved are wholly imaginary. Additionally, the opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s.

  1

  The smile on Mack’s face won’t go down.

  He pulls up alongside the curb in his rusty Ford truck with a foam mattress tied atop the camper shell. The clock on the dash shows 5:49 am. It’s mid-July. Almost dawn. Across the street, atop an antique lamppost, a streetlight flickers, and Mack's shadow darts around the cabin.

  Dawn is Mack's favorite time of day.

  He loves the fruity colors that illuminate billboards and open-all-night diners. He loves how those colors soften as first light slips over the horizon. He loves to watch old New Orleans begin a new day: Street gutters in the Vieux Carré filled with clear plastic cups, and garbage men shoveling last night’s revelry into trucks. Scrubbers washing the streets. The steamy mist rising off the pavement. The smells like bubblegum and scrambled eggs. Migrant songbirds chirping away from the topmost arms of live oaks along Esplanade. Hipsters and homeless kids walking their dogs in The Marigny. Shop lights turning on in the CBD. Street cars warming up the rails with their first run up Canal Street.

  Mack grew up in this swampy city. For tourists, the party begins and ends at dawn. For Mack, the day begins with fog on his headlights and a toolbox in the back of his truck; it ends with a man he loves in his arms and a to-do list just as long as when the day began. The first and last items on that list: a man named Chase.

  The two things Mack loves most in life are holding Chase at the close of the day and holding Chase in the first light of dawn. Every day begins and ends on a foam mattress with the man he loves. Every day, the opening and the ending are the same. The first and last pages are interchangeable. And Mack wouldn’t trade this life for the world.

  Mack always begins his day early. He's a plumber. A good one, and that’s not just his own opinion. He owns his own business, and it’s a lot of work, a lot of stress, but today he feels like the sacrifices are paying off. It's been five years of short showers and penny-pinching, but things are finally coming together.

  This morning is no ordinary morning. This is the morning Mack has been looking forward to for … feels like his whole life. Today, Mack and Chase move into a home they actually own: a one-bedroom, one-bath fixer-upper on a 32'x64' lot in Tremé-Lafitte.

  Mack and Chase moved into their first place together almost five years ago—a tiny apartment in Bywater. They married six months after that and moved into a truncated duplex in The Marigny. Over the years, they’ve shared a lot of rented spaces, and this house is actually no larger than their most-recent apartment in Bayou St. John, but this house is different. It belongs to them. They own it. Nails and hinges. Doors and windows. The appreciation and the interest deduction. They bought it together. Signed the loan together.

  The smile on Mack's face might just be permanent. So many ideas are tumbling in his head—detailed to-do lists for the interior, the exterior, the magnificent narrow strip of front yard parallel to the sidewalk. His plans are giving him a headache. But it's a good ache. An ache of possibilities.

  His shoulders are tight.

  His stomach is in knots.

  He probably drank his coffee too quickly. He downed the whole thing in four gulps. If he had another, he'd down that one in two.

  He throws the gearshift into park and glances in the rear-view mirror. Chase's Super Duty F-250 pulls in behind him. The headlights flash Mack's mirror then go out.

  Mack cranks his window all the way down.

  The silence of the dawn fills the Ford Ranger's cab. This is the perfect street, Mack thinks to himself. The Tremé is one of the oldest neighborhoods in New Orleans, popular for its racially mixed culture, improvised brass band concerts and, nowadays, rapid gentrification. It’s close enough to anything a young man could want, but far enough from the tourists to raise a family. He’s not a young man anymore, he reminds himself. He feels like one today, but he’s thirty-five. He counts himself lucky to have reached that number. And he counts himself lucky to have a family: Chase is his family. Just Chase and himself, and a fixer-upper on a corner lot. And that’s perfect for now.

  After a minute, Mack hears Chase exit his vehicle. He hears Chase's footsteps—sneakers gripping the concrete pavement, approaching Mack's driver's side window. It must be the only sound for blocks. That's another thing Mack loves about the minutes bracketing dawn: Even the faintest noises stands out like a voice in an empty auditorium. Mack appreciates the intimacy of small noises—the drip of a leaky faucet, the rolling metallic echo of water tumbling through a drain. Small noises are the diction of shared secrets.

  Chase's head pokes into the cab. "Is it too late to back out of this?" he asks.

  Mack throws him a confused look. Why would he say that?

  "Kidding, babe," Chase says.

  Is he kidding?

  ✽✽✽

  When they first toured this property with their Realtor, Chase had quickly dismissed the house. Too much work for too little space. The floors and windows needed to be replaced. The walls needed stripped. Plumbing and electrical throughout the entire house needed ripped out and modernized. Reluctantly, Mack had agreed. Too much work. Then the price dropped. A lot. And Mack convinced Chase to give the place another look.

  Chase is a certified electrician. Mack's a plumber. They're both handy. Sure, the property needed serious updates, but nothing the two of them couldn't do themselves. Maybe.

  Armed with notepads and a tape measure, they returned for a second tour. Originally a Victorian double shotgun design with a gabled roof and 14’ ceilings, previous owners had remodeled the house with the latest styles in the 1940s, and again in the 70s. It was a funky Frankenstein, but the narrow rooms were cozy. The transom-capped doors were functional and stylish. The hundred-year-old, wide-planked heart pine floors could be refinished. Once sanded down and varnished, they would look more beautiful than any replacement money could buy.

  They inspected the place floor to ceiling … and at some point in the process, Mack allowed himself to imagine a Christmas tree standing in the corner. He imagined Chase and himself exchanging gifts in front of the exposed brick fireplace. He imagined Christmas cards atop the cypress mantel. At that moment, he fell in love with the little house.

  Chase took more convincing.

  The neighborhood was close to destination restaurants and bars with live music. Chase loved live music. It was within a twenty-minute drive to ninety percent of their work sites. That was on Chase's list.

  The street itself was on a century-old parade route.

  Chase had wanted a porch.

  There was no porch—that had been lost in the last century—but the lot did have a yard. Sort of. It was just a strip of grass, but wide enough
for lawn chairs.

  The property even boasted its own tree: a grand and spidery live oak. New Orleans was filled with grand and spidery live oaks, but this goliath was the star of the neighborhood. The knobby trunk was so broad it would take four or five full-grown men holding hands to reach around its base. From there, the tree forked, forked twice more, then branched upward and outward in all directions. It formed a canopy over the entire lot and extended halfway over the adjacent street. The branches were massive, sleeved with electric-green moss, and festooned with generations of poorly aimed throws—thousands of strands of colorful plastic beads tossed from parade floats. Chase said the tree looked super ghetto, but Mack said it just might be his favorite thing about the place. It was certainly the gayest tree he'd ever seen.

  In the end, Chase conceded. Not about the tree, but about the house.

  ✽✽✽

  Mack leans forward against his seatbelt. He reaches through the driver’s side window, inviting Chase to poke his head into the cab a little further. With the back of his hand, Mack brushes Chase's well-kept beard. Feels warm and springy. Soft like a nest. Damp with hemp oil.

  Chase leans in a little more and growls softly.

  "Remember our first date?" Mack asks.

  Chase closes his eyes and yawns. "The chicken place where we had to sit with strangers?"

  "No," Mack says, "up at the weird sculptures in City Park."

  They had gone to the Museum of Art for their first date, both hoping to impress the other. It didn’t work. They had both stared vacantly at the works of modern masters and giggled at the nudes. They decided to end their self-guided tour early, before security did it for them. Exiting the museum, they strolled along Dueling Oaks Drive where nineteenth century Creoles once defended their honor with swords and pistols. Chase had looped his arm around Mack's as naturally as if they were a straight couple. At the time, Mack wasn't sure that was a good idea. It was a crowded street and not a "gay" part of town. Chase sensed what Mack was thinking but, instead of letting go, he pulled him tighter. That was the moment Mack fell head over heels.

  "I don't remember any sculptures," Chase mumbles sleepily.

  Mack rolls his eyes in the dark and, reaching higher, rubs his palm over Chase's bald spot. He loves the feel of Chase's warm head. He knows Chase's body so well, he can tell from the prickliness of Chase's scalp how many days it's been since his last haircut. Just as accurately, he can predict how many days to go before the next haircut. Chase is a creature of habit, a man of simple and predictable routines. Mack adores that.

  Since they began dating, Chase has never once strayed from his favorite brand of tools or sneakers or coffee. He's never even upgraded his phone. Says it works the way it is, he doesn't want to risk messing it up. He probably wouldn't even have any apps on the thing if Mack didn't download them for him.

  Being that close to somebody—knowing somebody that well—is a lot of responsibility.

  Mack takes his responsibility seriously. He looks out for Chase. He anticipates his needs. Runs damage control.

  "What's with the memory quiz?" Chase asks.

  "On that first date, I joked that we were going to get married, buy a house together."

  "I do remember that," Chase says, nodding a little. "You were … so weird."

  "You were so sexy."

  "I was," Chase agrees.

  "I was crushing hard," Mack says. "I probably said a lot of crazy things that day."

  "You did," Chase agrees. "But you were quite the fortune teller," he adds. "You were spot on with the marriage prediction. And now we've got the house."

  "We got the house," Mack repeats softly. He can't believe it. "I love this house, I love this neighborhood … I love the idea of owning something in both our names."

  "Me, too," Chase says. "Me, too." There’s a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

  Mack can't read Chase's face through the flickering light, but he knows Chase is struggling with this move. Buying a house is a big step. Sure, Mack scraped up most of the down payment himself. But that's what Mack does. He plans. He sacrifices. He makes things happen.

  For most of his life, Mack had been content just getting by—in school, in finances, even in relationships. For close to thirty years, he improvised his way through whatever life threw at him. Consequently, his first plumbing business went bankrupt, and his only serious boyfriend left him. When that happened, Mack had stopped visualizing success. Mediocrity was hard enough to imagine.

  Then he met Chase. Suddenly Mack found himself daydreaming about vacations, solid furniture ... ways to prove his commitment. Early on in their association, during a conversation about where they see themselves in five years, Chase had told Mack, "I want to be done with dating. I want to be in a relationship. My final relationship. I need some stability."

  Mack took that as a directive. He began compiling a checklist.

  One-by-one, he's been checking items off that list ever since: monogamy, rings, marriage, retirement plan.

  Now they have a house.

  "Be honest," Mack says, shifting in his seat. "You don't exactly love the house. It's not what I was hoping to buy you."

  "Is that why you're acting so bizarre?" Chase asks, pulling away. He sets his coffee cup on the roof of the truck then leans back in through the driver's side window—he leans so far in, his face nearly bumps Mack's. "I will learn to love this place because you love it."

  Mack grins in the dim light. He appreciates that Chase said that.

  Sometimes hearing what we want to hear is almost as good as believing it.

  As if reading his mind, Chase says “You’re not convinced.”

  “Sure I am.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’re not,” Chase snickers. “But that’s okay. I’m sure enough for both of us.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Why so nervous, babe?”

  “It’s nervous excitement, I think.”

  “You’re a trip,” Chase says. “You fight for what you want. You grab life by the balls. Then you second guess yourself.”

  Mack smells the coffee on Chase’s breath. Two creams. Two sugars. A shot of Fireball Cinnamon Whisky. Chase's mouth is so close, it sounds like his voice is coming from inside Mack's head. Sometimes Mack thinks of Chase that way: as a voice inside his head, the commentary of a stronger, smarter and better person who knows his thoughts as quickly as he knows them himself.

  "I had a dream last night," Mack says shyly. "I was walking up to the house, this house—our house—and I step up the stoop to where I can see in through the front door. You're already inside, and I'm about to step in to join you, but the lady from the Credit Union blocks me in the doorway and says there's been a mistake."

  Chase laughs softly into Mack's ear. "That can't happen, the papers are signed—but if it did, so what? I didn't marry you for a house. Certainly not this piece-of-shit place."

  "We'll get a better place eventually," Mack says quickly.

  "Maybe, maybe not, doesn't matter."

  "I want to give you something permanent," Mack says.

  "You did that four years ago. 'Til death do us part."

  Mack chuckles. "Debt holds a couple together better than marriage."

  Chase grunts. "Nothing holds me where I don't wanna be, babe." His left hand touches the side of Mack's face. His fingers are still warm from the coffee cup.

  Mack likes that.

  Chase's fingertips skim Mack's two-day scruff. His palm cups Mack's chin. Squeezes.

  Mack grins again.

  Chase leans in even further. His right hand finds the seatbelt across Mack's lap then slips underneath the bottom of Mack's t-shirt. Mack draws a quick breath. Chase’s hand rests on Mack’s tight belly for a long moment then slides upward until it reaches the center of his chest. Mack draws another quick breath. The flat of Chase’s heavy palm presses the short hairs over Mack's sternum. Rubs a circular motion. The slow scrape sound fills the cab.

  Mack's grin levels to a conten
ted flat line.

  "Listen, babe," Chase whispers, "I didn't marry you to better my credit score."

  "Good thing," Mack whispers back.

  Chase chuckles.

  "So … why did you?" Mack asks.

  “Why’d I what?”

  “Why’d you marry me?”

  Chase licks Mack's ear. "I was losing my hair … my options were receding."

  Mack is pretty sure he's joking.

  "Listen," Chase says. His voice is louder now, but his mouth is just as close. "I was fine with renting. I never minded moving to a new neighborhood every couple years. But that’s not who you are. And all I want is whatever you want."

  "I know," Mack says. "Thank you."

  Chase's palm slides back down to Mack's belly.

  "Buying this place was the right thing to do," Mack adds, his own voice louder now as if trying to convince himself. "It's a good four walls. Flippers are buying up the neighborhood. If we'd waited another year, this opportunity wouldn't exist … gonna be a lot of work, though."

  "Not a fan of work, myself," Chase says. His middle finger skates around Mack's tight, sunken navel.

  "Weeell," Mack drawls, his voice dropping lower and barely escaping his lips. Chase’s hand feels so good … Mack doesn't want him to stop … But knows they should stop. They're in a public place. The curb in front of their new house. "We got a lot of furniture to move," Mack says, "at least … three back-and-forth trips … 'tween here and our old place … lots of boxes."

  "True," Chase agrees.

  "So … we should probably get started."

  "We start nothing until I say so," Chase says.

  He means it.

  His lips brush Mack's lips—just enough to tickle.

  The streetlight atop the antique lamppost turns off. Through the windshield, the sky looks like watercolor paper: wet with spills of orange and pink. The colors remind Mack of chrysanthemums and traffic cones. His mind is racing. Chase's hands on him always make his mind race. The air inside the cab feels cottony.

  "Did you know we'd be okay?" Mack asks. This is the wrong time to keep talking, but the words come out faster than he can censor himself: "When I popped the question, and you said, 'yes,' it scared me."