Murder on a Saturday Night

by K. C. Sivils

"The best thing we can do for Anna right now is taking care of Becca and Adam.”

  "Paula, you're not listening," Jim repeated, louder than the last time. "Of course, we're going to take care of the kids. But that doesn't change the fact Nick is no good, and Anna needs to end things and move on before Nick drags the kids and her down with him."

  “It’s none of our business.”

  “None of our business? We’re taking care of Anna’s children, Paula. That makes it our business! Suppose one of Nick’s associates shows up? What then? Tell me?”

  “It won’t come to that,” Paula insisted.

  “You don’t know that,” Jim snarled, standing up suddenly. “Because if it does happen, I’m not going to let anything happen to our kids. Hopefully, I can do the same for Becca and Adam.”

  Jim turned his back to his wife and headed towards the door Becca was hiding behind. “You have two days to talk sense to Anna. Then I’m taking over.” He paused to look at Paula. “I’ll be sleeping in the guest room. Good night.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  He'd had rougher accommodations during his life. But it had been a long time since such accommodations had not been by choice, the result of one of his adventures. Nick considered his current situation with a bit of concern. Anna was good for his gambling debts. He knew to the penny how much his wife earned both from her television series contract to her endorsement income. The family assets would be low, but there was enough money to pay off his debt and the interest owed.

  Nick was also fully aware that if he was dead, Anna wouldn't pay. She hadn't signed the markers. He had. Getting roughed up was just part of the deal. Despite multiple warnings, he owed and, while the most recent was a little rougher than he would have liked, Nick fully planned to pay up. He always had in the past; a fact Nick was sure weighed in his favor.

  The problem was he’d never owed five million dollars before.

  Anna hadn't taken that bit of news too well when she'd walked in unexpectedly while he was liquidating some assets to begin paying down what he owed. Nick knew he'd win it all back. It was just a matter of getting hot again. What Nick couldn't get Anna to understand was he couldn't gamble again unless he made a significant dent in what he owed. That discussion degenerated into Anna telling him she'd take his name off their joint accounts and cancel all their bank cards. Even worse, his pretty little wife demanded he get help for his gambling problem. It wasn't until he'd agreed to find a Gamblers Anonymous group to attend meetings that Anna had paid off some of what he owed.

  Constant fighting with Anna was not something Nick enjoyed. But the minx had been serious when she said she'd cut him off. Nick was on an allowance, and it was far from what he felt was a sufficient amount for him to enjoy life. Every time she paid down the debt, Anna had more to say about how things needed to change, how things had to change.

  Nick had no intention of changing.

  Things would blow over with Anna. They always did. He'd start small and build up his cash reserves with his winnings. Like all gamblers, Nick was convinced he was one winning streak away from making it big.

  And that fact was the source of what worried him. The man who had roughed him up hadn’t seemed the slightest impressed that Nick had paid off most of what he’d owed. Instead, the man had constantly been harping about paying for sins from the past.

  Nick had a hard time believing that was why his friend Charlie had been murdered, and he'd been kidnapped. Undoubtedly, the man wanted money and lots of it. The demand for Nick to repent for past sins was nothing more than a subterfuge to leverage more money out of him.

  The next time the man came, Nick would press him. It did nobody any good for Nick not to know what it was the man thought he’d done. How else could he repent for these so-called sins of his if he didn’t know for sure what sin he was accused of committing?

  ---

  With both eyes swollen from crying, there was no amount of makeup that could cover up the damage the tears had done. Streaks of black from her mascara ran all over Anna's face, which, when combined with the wild strands of her long hair that were astray, gave her the appearance of a street person.

  Clutching the king-sized pillow on the bed in her hotel room, Anna rubbed her nose. Disgusted, she sat up and looked at the streak of mucous on her hand. She got up and stumbled into the bathroom to wash her face.

  A few minutes of soap and cool water did her face wonders. Anna tamed her hair, brushing it out and putting it in a ponytail. She sat down on the bed and stared at her reflection in the mirror behind the long desk against the wall.

  It had been a long shot, going to Heat for help.

  The more Anna thought about it, the madder she began to feel. Heat was in the business of finding people. Stan, her long-time manager and partner in crime when it came to cleaning up Nick’s messes, had sworn Heat was the best there was. If Heat couldn’t find Nick and get him out of whatever jam it was he’d gotten himself into this time, then it couldn’t be done.

  Anna might be broke at the moment, but she was good for it. The series paid well. If necessary, Anna could borrow against her future earnings to pay Heat off. What she hadn’t counted on was Heat was every bit as prideful and stubborn now as he was when they’d been a couple.

  Fidgeting as she sat on the bed, Anna wondered where she’d gone wrong. More than once, she’d used her considerable talent as an actress to manipulate individuals to do her bidding. Of all people, Heat should have succumbed to Anna’s charms. Instead, the current mess of affairs left Anna feeling exhausted to the point it would take her several weeks to feel human again.

  Deep inside, Anna felt like a little girl. She hated that feeling, the helplessness it brought with it. She hated how Nick made her feel that way, how his philandering and gambling humiliated her. Most people didn’t believe in love at first sight, but Anna did. The moment she’d met Nick at an audition held in San Antonio, Anna had known he was her soul mate. The fact she was engaged to Heat hadn’t deterred either her or Nick.

  Now she needed the man who’d loved her, who’d pursued her since ninth grade, and with whom she’d been comfortable with to the point that Anna was content with the idea of marrying Heat. His devotion to her had been why it was so easy to leave him behind. At no point in their relationship had Anna ever felt like Heat was a challenge for her. It wasn't that she didn't love him or was unhappy in the relationship, far from it. Heat was so easy for her to be around. She could talk to Heat about anything and often had.

  For Heat to react the way he had shocked Anna. Her ex-fiancée had always been there to rescue Anna. To comfort her when she experienced loss or pain. To pick her up when she fell and to encourage her when she felt despair. It had always been easy to be with Heat. Anna would flit from one boyfriend to another, but Heat had always been there. More than anyone else, including Anna's parents, Heat had believed in Anna. Believed that she had that special spark, that if she persevered, would lead to success as an actress.

  Anna needed to find Nick. She needed for the father of her children to come home and be in the house with the kids. But, for that to happen, James Benoit Heatley needed to save the day for Anna Devereaux one more time.

  The only problem was the little girl sitting all alone on the end of the king-sized bed in a hotel room didn't know what to do. So, she stood up and got her cell phone out of the grown-up woman's purse and made a phone call.

  A familiar voice answered on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Mom, it’s me, Anna.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Amy had pleaded with Boucher to tell her where Heat had gone. Instead, Boucher had smiled his charming smile, flashing his pearly whites, bowed to the pretty secretary and Blondie, and taken his leave. Elijah Boucher was many things, some of them not being particularly good. But one thing he was not was a man who would turn his back on a friend.

  It was true, Boucher might stretch the very limits of a friendship to the breaking point. But betray a tru
e friend, never. And that included not telling Amy and Blondie where Heat could be found when he didn’t want to be found.

  First, Boucher would have to kill a couple of hours as it was too early in the day yet for Heat to emerge from whatever hole he'd hidden in. But at noon, the doors to Big Joe's Juke Box would open to the public. A few regulars would stumble in and take a seat on the stool at the bar that was theirs exclusively from opening until about five when Big Joe would shoo them off the premises.

  Heat would be sitting in the far corner, in the dark in a booth that was held for him if he called ahead. More than once, Heat had met people who didn’t want to be seen meeting with him at Big Joe’s.

  Big Joe Melancon had moved to Houston after Katrina had destroyed the original Juke Box. The food was traditional New Orleans fare and the lunch trade, specializing in po-boys, was brisk. Neighborhood locals started coming in around five to eat dinner but were gone by seven. Eight-thirty in the evening was about when the Juke Box truly came to life.

  Big Joe loved live music, in particular the blues. But jazz was a close second, and on occasion, if he liked their sound, a country band might play a set or two. R&B acts were booked if they met Joe's standards as well. It was a place where young talent came to hone their act and hopefully get discovered. Journeyman musicians could earn decent pay for a gig, and the locals were treated to great live music at reasonable cover charges. The man himself was a blues guitar master, and every Friday night, Big Joe and his house band, the Players, would play the first set.

  Boucher walked in and paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. Behind the bar, Big Joe nodded a welcome as he tirelessly wiped down the wood surface of the bar. Over six feet six in height and tipping the scales at three hundred plus pounds, it was obvious how Joe got his name. A quick, respectful nod from Boucher elicited a grin from Melancon. The big man had a soft spot for Boucher, another New Orleans native transplanted to Houston, and let the creole run a tab. Whenever a Dixieland band was playing, Big Joe comped the cover charge for Boucher.

  The big bluesman jerked his head to the right, indicating Heat was in his regular booth.

  “See the game Saturday?”

  “Went to the game, Big Joe. Me and Heat, on the fifty-yard line no less.”

  “Gonna be a good season.”

  “Yep,” Boucher agreed. “Catfish po-boy?”

  “Way ahead of you,” Jim replied. “How ‘bout dem Saints? Two and oh already.”

  “Lookin’ good,” Boucher answered cheerfully. “Maybe it’ll be another Super Bowl this year!”

  “Who Dat,” Big Jim said in agreement, turning to place Boucher’s order. “Say hello to Momma Boucher for me next time you talk to her.”

  "Be careful, Big Jim. My daddy might not cotton to that."

  The two men laughed at the inside joke. Big Jim had introduced Boucher's father to the young woman who would become his bride.

  Boucher winked at his old friend and headed over to the booth to deal with Heat.

  “Hey.”

  “What are you doing here,” Heat mumbled.

  “You drunk already?”

  “Haven’t touched a drop.”

  “I saw her.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Heat snarled, glaring at Boucher.

  “Most certainly did, strutting out of your office. Nobody struts like your Anna, Heat.”

  “You watch your mouth, Elijah.”

  “Easy now,” Boucher replied gently, holding both hands in front of him. “I know the rules when it comes to Anna.”

  Heat looked away, his eyes watery and the muscles in his neck taut.

  “Amy told me what happened. That is after I figured out why you left. Figured I’d find you here.”

  “Did Amy tell you why Anna came to see me?”

  The pain in Heat's voice was evident, making Boucher angry to see his friend suffering.

  “No, but it couldn’t be good.”

  “She wants me to find that deadbeat husband of hers.”

  Boucher stared at Heat for nearly a minute with his mouth open before he realized the fact and promptly closed his mouth.

  “She didn’t, Heat. No way,” Boucher protested. “Not even a woman could be that cold.”

  “She did,” Heat mumbled. “Then Anna got pissed at me when I said no.”

  “You did the right thing, Heat. Anna had no right, no right, after what she did to you.”

  “Tell me about it,” Heat mumbled, looking down at the table. “If Anna would have done right by me, she wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  Tears began to run down Heat’s cheeks. “Elijah, I’d be a father now.”

  Words didn't come to Boucher, and the fact pained him. His friend was hurting, and there was nothing he could say or do that would ease the pain.

  Heat looked up at Boucher, his face grim. "She had the gall to come to my office. First, she just walked in like it was any other private investigation agency in the country. Then she had the gall to ask me to find her missing, no good, bum of a husband."

  “Heat, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ to be said, Elijah.”

  Holding up two fingers, Heat motioned to Big Joe. In less than a minute, Boucher's po-boy was on the table with a side of fried pickles and two icy cold beers. Big Joe stared at Heat for a moment and then at Boucher before frowning and walking away.

  “Don’t start drinkin’ this time of day, Heat.”

  “Why not? Anna just walks into my office like it was nothing, Elijah. Just like she walked out of my life and left me hanging. No explanation, no note, not even so much as a phone call.”

  Boucher allowed himself to savor the first three bites of his po-boy while Heat finished his beer and raised his hand for another.

  “No,” Boucher called out, waving the order off. “You ain’t gettin' drunk."

  “Am too,” Heat protested. “I’m going on a bender, Elijah. I might even drink myself to death.”

  “No, you ain’t,” Boucher said firmly. “I ain’t gonna let you.”

  “Really? Since when did you become Mr. Sensible?”

  "When I walked through the door, Heat. You would do the same thing." Boucher paused for a moment. "Let me rephrase that. You have done the same thing for me more than once. It's time I return the favor to you."

  Heat’s hand shot out and grabbed Boucher’s beer. Boucher watched as his friend drained half the frosted mug in a single pull.

  “We’re leavin’ as soon as I’m finished eating my sandwich. You ain’t drivin’ either, Heat,” Boucher commanded, grabbing the mug of beer away.

  His friend didn’t argue. Heat just sat and watched as Boucher took his time eating his catfish po-boy, occasionally sipping his beer. Finally, Boucher stood up and went and paid his bill plus what was on his tab.

  “Give me your keys,” Boucher ordered upon his return.

  Heat scowled at his friend and protested defiantly. “I’m not drunk.”

  “Didn’t say you were, Heat. But drunk or sober, you ain’t in no condition to drive. Not when Anna shows up like she did.”

  Boucher held his hand out. “Keys, now.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Driving and fiddling with her phone was dangerous, and Anna knew it. She also didn't know how to find Beltway 8 from her hotel, and with her mother due to arrive on the first flight to Houston, Anna was desperate to get to Bush International as soon as was possible. She'd rather wait at the baggage claim area than spend another minute alone in her luxury hotel room.

  An ear-piercing blast from the oversized, dual-axle truck behind Anna forced her to look up. The light had turned green, triggering the teenager in the Texas-sized truck. Gritting her teeth, Anna accelerated through the intersection, giving the truck enough space to whip around her. As the teenagers sped past, the passenger flashed the universal symbol for number one in Anna's direction, a favor she felt compelled to return in a fit of childish anger.

  Easing off the road in
to the parking lot of a Whataburger, Anna finally got her phone to produce a set of driving directions she could follow. Without Becca, Anna was often helpless when it came to using the features of her smartphone, the GPS in particular. Tears came to Anna’s eyes as she imagined Becca sitting next to her in the passenger seat and the conversation they typically had over and over in this exact situation.

  “Mom! You are like, so helpless when it comes to technology.”

  “That’s why your father and I had you, Becca. So you could handle all this for us.”

  Becca would execute an exaggerated eye roll before continuing.

  “Dad can handle a phone, Mom. You, on the other hand, are an embarrassment to Adam and me.”

  "Well, I have a few years before you go to college, young lady. I think I'll master the intricacies of a smartphone by then."

  "Mom, smartphones won't even be around anymore by the time I go to college."

  Frustrated, Anna slammed the phone down in the passenger seat and gripped the steering wheel with both hands.

  “I can do this,” Anna whispered, wishing she had a driver to take her to the airport. The sudden realization of how helpless she would seem to Heat made Anna’s cheeks burn. Heat would have no trouble with technology, at least not something as simple as using a GPS or getting map directions on his phone.

  She accelerated her SUV back into traffic and merged into the flow. I-10 was a few miles away, according to the map on her phone. Once she reached I-10, Anna knew if she went west, it was just a matter of time before she reached Beltway 8. From there, she could travel all the way to Bush International on the tollway. It might not be the most direct route, but she wouldn't get lost.

  ---

  “Do you think Elijah will be able to find Heat?”

  Amy nodded. “Those two go way back. Sometimes it’s the only reason I can think of as to why Heat puts up with Boucher’s garbage.”

  "Elijah doesn't seem that bad. He just likes to flirt," Blondie replied, smiling sweetly at Amy.