Mostly Murder

by Linda Ladd

  “Then like I said. Proceed with caution.”

  Okay, granted. The place was a rowdy bar, lots of brawls, lots of assaults, lots of arrests, lots of cretins and morons and worse. So they had to be vigilant and put some impressively serious expressions on their faces as they stepped inside the dark, dank, crowded, smelly bar. They had to act as if they weren’t the least bit scared of all the big, black-leathered, chained, tattooed guys with Yeah-I-killed-a-guy-last-night-and-so-what patches on their denim jackets. Inside, a plethora of Skulls were coiled around every table. Claire could smell weed in the air. Weed and spilled booze and filthy bathrooms and sweat and testosterone. Especially testosterone. No low T going on in Voodoo River.

  Wary, Claire observed the scene first, took a second gander at one particular Skull associate that she knew rather well, but hadn’t seen in a very long time. She hid her shock, hesitated, and then decided this was not the time or place to renew their acquaintance. Maybe he wouldn’t remember her. He was sitting at the far end of the bar, and she let her gaze sweep past him as if she didn’t know him from Adam and didn’t want to. That would be better for both of them—oh, yeah, and for Zee, too. She hoped he had enough sense not to approach her with malice aforethought, or trouble would come calling and soon. She kept her hand on the butt of her weapon, just in case anybody felt the need to assault her.

  Long and L-shaped, the bar was made out of scarred, burned, and punctured oak, said imperfections probably created by boozy bikers and other similar ilk that had missed their victims and stabbed their Bowie knives into the wood instead. It also looked to be stained with something grossly unpleasant and had seen nary a Clorox wipe in a month of Sundays.

  Claire’s previous acquaintance had one arm draped around a—how should she describe the gal? Scuzzy but slightly attractive hooker, perhaps? Yes, indeed, the woman did show signs of being a genuine, fully initiated biker babe. First clue? How about the tattoo proclaiming ROCCO’S SLUT in big red letters on her bulging left breast? Yes, her major attributes were barely contained inside a tight, white nylon tank top. Claire did hope those delicate bosoms were held up with reinforced, double-stitched, industrial-strength bra straps. If the dam broke, it wouldn’t be pretty.

  Rocco’s Slut appeared to be his girlfriend, since the name Rocco was embroidered in curly gold script across the breast of his sleeveless black denim vest. Nothing underneath but bare skin and jailhouse tats and lots of muscles. Rocco wasn’t the name Claire knew him by, of course, but she had a feeling he had lots of names and lots of jackets with lots of highly imaginative, embroidered aliases. A quick glance alerted Claire that Rocco was still as tall and tough and intimidating as he had been the last time she had run into him. His black hair was longer now, tied back at his nape with a leather strap, and he had grown himself an incredibly silly-looking Jack Sparrow mustache and goatee.

  Even worse, he’d braided his chin hair, which struck Claire as rather juvenile and immature, even for a Skull. A Confederate-flag scarf was tied around his forehead, also ala Pirates of the Caribbean. He was wearing the aforementioned sleeveless denim vest designed to make sure everybody knew how big and bulging his biceps were. And was that black man-cara on his eyes, just like Johnny Depp’s? Oh, my, Rocco did have an affinity for swashbuckling. Claire looked for his cutlass and turned-back, high-heeled boots like Puss in Boots wore, but didn’t see any.

  Claire did notice that there were a couple of blood-dripping knives and sharp hatchets added as cutesy curlicue embellishments around the name Rocco on the vest. He had numerous patches sewn on, lightning bolts and stars, stuff like that, their biker meanings something Claire shuddered to think about. She didn’t see the skeleton death patch earned when somebody died painfully by one’s hands, but maybe he was just shy about mentioning his murder rampages.

  Rocco saw Claire grimacing at his attire and glanced away, which was a good thing. He kept his face averted and appeared so completely bored that she almost believed it. She stared at his companion, Ms. R. Slut, until the girl shifted her eyes away, too. It took the woman a few seconds longer though, pretty much until right after she saw the badge dangling on the chain around Claire’s neck and the loaded Glock in her holster.

  The bartender was beefy and red-faced. Why were all bartenders beefy and red-faced? Now the center of attention, Claire and Zee strolled over to the bar and sat down on a couple of swiveling stools where their backs wouldn’t be such an open invitation for sharp knives and/or prison shivs. Claire avoided looking at the pool of something rather black and rancid on the bar. Whatever it was, it smelled really bad. But she preferred clean air and the smell of Downy and flowers. So there you go.

  The barkeep was leaning against the wall, staring at them, chewing on a toothpick, or maybe it was a nail. “What can I get for you, Officers?”

  So everybody saw the badge. Well, good. Zee was being watchful, hand on his hip, very near his weapon, too. Claire was pretty certain that nobody was going to accost two police officers, but bikers never talked to police officers, and didn’t snitch on each other, either, so she didn’t expect to get much information without a couple of strategically inserted deadly threats.

  Claire met the bartender’s stare. “How’s it going?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  Enough small talk. “You know a guy named Rafe Christien?”

  “Rafe Christien? Let me think.” He pressed his fore and middle fingers up to his forehead as if contemplating. A real card.

  Zee said, “Somebody told us that he mops up around here. That true?”

  The Real Card swiveled his gaze to Zee. “Maybe.”

  Claire said, “Maybe you should tell us then.”

  He shrugged and idly wiped a dirty dishrag over the dirty counter with his dirty hand. Again, the place did not appear to be a Good Housekeeping test kitchen. No casseroles, no cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches, no million-dollar-winning recipes, no mop, no anything that equated with clean.

  “Yeah, he mops sometimes, bounces sometimes, too. That’s all I know.”

  “That’s not much. Is Christien here now?” Claire glanced around and decided that everybody in the place looked like bouncers. She also found about thirty pairs of beady, mean, and possibly whiskey-fogged eyes boring into her. Luckily, she’d seen other cop haters before so she wasn’t inordinately upset. Zee was trying to be friendly now. He smiled and nodded to a bald-headed guy, the one who’d sidled up and claimed the bar stool right beside him. His new friend displayed a rather skillfully rendered skull-and-crossbones tattoo on his scalp, just above his right ear.

  The bartender finally decided it wouldn’t hurt to answer her question. “Nope. Ain’t seen him.”

  “Know where he is?”

  “Yep.”

  “And where would that be?”

  “My guess is he’s sittin’ in jail since a couple of your NOPD buds came in a coupla nights ago and roughed him up. Last I saw they was shovin’ him into the back of a cop car.”

  “Gee, poor guy. I bet he missed Communion Mass, and everything. What’d they charge him with?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t see him do nothin’.”

  The bar was suddenly quiet, pin-dropping silent in fact. Even the jukebox shut itself off.

  The friendly bartender must’ve decided it wasn’t such a healthy choice to cooperate further, not with everybody hanging on his every word. He said, “Ain’t none’a my business.”

  “You better make it your business, or you can come down to the Lafourche Parish Sheriff’s Office and talk to us there. So, I’ll ask again, Christien work here long?”

  “Three, four months, I reckon.”

  “What about this week?”

  “He ain’t been here much. He done some crabbing somewheres down around Chauvin. Hell if I know. I ain’t his mama.”

  “You didn’t see him earlier this week?”

  “I ain’t keepin’ track.”

  A few more questions got a few more disingenuous an
d evasive answers. Claire took a casual gander down at the end of the bar and found Rocco nuzzling said slut’s neck. Lucky gal. She better check for fang marks.

  Old Skull and Crossbones beside Zee decided to stand up and glare down at Zee, arms akimbo, frown rather intimidating.

  “Quit starin’ at me, asshole,” he sweet-talked Zee. The guy was clenching and unclenching his fists, as if fantasizing about Zee’s neck.

  Unfortunately, Zee decided a reply was in order. “My pleasure, man.”

  It appeared that Zee didn’t particularly like people messing with him. He didn’t appear to be a man to take insults lying down either, giant ugly biker, or not. But Zee could take care of himself—at least she hoped so. She did know he had won trophies for karate and jujitsu. And he did have that great big loaded gun to pull out.

  The tension was so thick that it felt like a heavy fog pressing down on her head. She took a deep breath, now fairly certain that the situation would soon escalate into a rather unpleasant, nuclear evening. Them’s fighting words, and all that. Several more tough guys scraped back chairs and flexed inked muscles. Including Pirate Beard and his lovely companion. Rocco’s Slut slid away from the bar and the probable onset of physical violence, which only proved that she was probably smarter than she looked.

  “Yeah,” growled Rocco, walking slowly toward them, calm as could be, but the menace was there, and everybody could see it. “Who do you think you are, bitch, coming in here and bustin’ our balls?”

  “I think I’m an officer of the law. You interested in doing something about that, Rocco?”

  Zee turned to face all their newfound friends, leaned his back against the bar, but kept one eye on the man behind the bar, who had lots of bottles at hand to break over their heads. Rocco was close enough now for Claire to smell the whiskey on his breath. He said, “You busted me once, bitch. Ain’t gonna happen again.”

  Zee decided it was time to pull his weapon. He did so. Everybody noticed.

  Nobody moved for a couple of beats. Claire decided to defuse the situation. Couldn’t hurt. She preferred to avoid shootouts.

  “Don’t be stupid, Rocco. I’m not hassling you. I’m asking questions about Rafe Christien and his whereabouts.”

  His big brown eyes were focused on her face. Now that they were up close and personal, Claire could see that he absolutely did wear black eyeliner and man-cara, lots of it. Gross.

  “Maybe what we need here is some one-on-one, Rocco. How about you take a little ride with Detective Jackson and me down to bayou country? You can tell me where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing for the last week, or so.”

  Rocco didn’t appear interested in her offer. “You think you’re hot shit, don’t you?”

  “Aw, stop, Rocco, you’re hurting my feelings.”

  Quiet, extreme quiet. Glares, stares, gritted teeth, everybody quivering in anticipation of the first fisted blows. Then Rocco gave a tight little laugh, one with no trace of amusement. Claire heard a few nervous charity snickers. She kept her eyes on Rocco, and let Zee watch everybody else. Rocco narrowed his gaze and looked at her as if she were the most disgusting little cockroach that he’d ever stepped on. He didn’t blink. He said, “Let’s get outta here. I don’t like the way cops smell.”

  Halfway to the door, he turned back and gave Claire another hard stare. “Better watch you back, bitch. We might meet again down in the bayous one of these days.”

  “That sounds vaguely threatening. Is it?”

  Rocco held her gaze in a vaguely threatening manner, and then he strode out, macho leader of the pack, black leather boots scraping across the floorboards. His busty bimbo fled her hidey-hole and scurried after him. The rest of the Skulls spent a few more seconds nursing their disappointment over the lack of a bloody, knock-down-drag-out and then stomped out behind him, but with just enough nonchalance to show they weren’t intimidated by the likes of two detectives from Lafourche Parish. Outside, a dozen choppers fired up all at once, engines loud and revved to ridiculous decibels, to scare them, she supposed, and then the lot of them roared off down the street, off to no good.

  “Thanks for clearin’ out my bar,” said the surly bartender.

  Claire said, “We’ll be back. If Rafe Christien happens to show up, tell him we want to talk to him. Thanks for your cooperation.”

  Outside, Zee stopped, sucked in some air, and looked at Claire. “Well, that was interestin’. Can you believe those guys? I mean, who lives like that anymore? Grown men ridin’ around together on big loud bikes and gettin’ tattoos all over their heads. It’s childish and absurd.”

  Somehow, that struck Claire funny. “Childish, huh? You saying you never ran into guys like this when you worked narcotics? Who’d you run in on Saturday nights? Sunday school teachers?”

  “Yeah, sure I ran into this kind of lowlife scum. But not this many at once and not in their favorite waterin’ hole. Tell me about this Rocco punk. What’s up with you and him?”

  “Nothing much. I ran into him once a long time ago. No big deal.”

  “He seems to remember you fairly well. Enough to hate your guts. You better watch your back like he said. That was definitely a threat he tossed at you.”

  “He took off without throwing a punch. He’s not as tough as he looks.”

  “It got a little hairy in there, don’t you think?”

  “They’re stupid men, but they know better than to assault cops in broad daylight.”

  Shaking his head, Zee pulled open the driver’s door of the Jeep, and Claire walked around the front and slid into the passenger’s seat.

  “Hey, Zee, how about us going down to lockup to see if Rafe Christien’s still there? Think we can get Rene Bourdain to give us the go-ahead.”

  Zee pulled out his phone. “You read my mind. Let’s do it.”

  A Very Scary Man

  Malice ended up liking the Merchant Marine a lot. In fact, he loved it. He loved being at sea. He loved shore leaves in exotic places that he’d never seen before. He loved the hardness and callousness of some of his shipmates and the crudeness of their words and actions. He loved being able to find prostitutes in the slums of the cities they visited, and he loved pretending they were the bitch who had betrayed him with his best friend and hurting them the way he wanted to hurt her. He beat them, took them by force, slapped them around, bit them until he drew blood, and nobody said a word, not if he gave the pimp a little extra cash.

  After a couple of years of service, he met his new best friend. He was an older guy on the crew, a lot older than Malice was. He was from Algiers, a town just across the river from New Orleans. He, too, was of Cajun birth, and they had a lot of stuff in common. They both liked to be violent and cruel and fed off each other when they had opportunities to find victims they could abuse. But he learned a lot because the older man finally admitted one day when he was drunk that he worked for a Louisiana crime family out of Algiers, that he did contract hits for them, and had actually murdered people for money, lots of money. He was a cold-blooded killer for hire, an actual hit man, and he fascinated Malice. He told Malice how he committed his murders when he was home on shore leave so he could ship out right afterward so no one could connect him to the crimes. It was a good and lucrative job. The hit man said that he was willing to put in a good word for him with the Mob bosses, but only if Malice was willing to study hard and learn the ropes. He said time would tell if Malice had it in him to kill people for money. But he did. Of course, he did.

  As time went on, the hit man taught him to murder with precision without leaving incriminating clues. They began to practice their skills in other countries, sometimes killing some drunk they picked at complete random. His new friend taught him to stalk and watch and plan and then swoop in and stick the knife in, so to speak. He learned a lot about the art of assassination and he learned it fast and he learned it well. More important, he liked it, even better than scaring people and killing somebody by mistake like he had with Betsy.


  As soon as he served a few stints, he decided he would return home. He would get a reputable job first, so he’d have a good cover, and then he could start his shiny new life as a professional hit man, earning lots of blood money and spilling lots of blood. He grinned at the idea. If only that betraying bitch at home knew what he had become, she would be terrified of him, and fear his return. And for very good reason. He intended to kill her and the man who had taken her away from him. But she wouldn’t know that, no way, uh-uh, not until he stabbed the knife into her heart, cut her jugular, and then stepped back and watched her blood flush out of her, red and sticky and slick, just like his new best friend had taught him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Downtown, two uniformed NOPD officers manned the front desk. Rene Bourdain had paved the way, so they didn’t give Claire and Zee much grief. Looked like a friendly relationship with Lieutenant Rene Bourdain went a long way in New Orleans. A tall sergeant named Chris Makowski escorted them to a small interrogation room with hospital-gray walls, a scratched-up black steel table with four uncomfortable black folding chairs, two on each side. The guest of honor had not yet made his appearance.

  Fifteen minutes dragged by, and then Rafe Christien clanked in, all scruffy and bleary-eyed, dressed in white jailbird togs with NOPD JAIL in big black letters across the front and back. His chains dragged the ground as if he were the Ghost of Incarcerations Past. He sat down across from Claire. Mr. Docile, now that he was hooked up nice and tight to a floor ring, nursed a swollen black eye, a painful souvenir from his resisting-arrest charge, no doubt.

  “Mr. Christien, we’re Lafourche Parish detectives. My name’s Claire Morgan, and this is Zander Jackson. We need to talk to you about a homicide case.”

  They also needed to tell him that his sister was dead, which was not something she coveted. Even with a reprobate and criminal like Rafe. Wendy of cheer fame had intimated that Rafe and Madonna had been fairly close, at least in their drug-dealing/using, sibling/symbiotic sort of way. But blood was thicker than water, or so it was said.