“Sorry, Santou. But they’re both mine.” I grinned, reveling in the game. “Pilot’s part wolf, but he’s definitely no ghoul.” I opened the door and the dog proceeded to lick the back of my hand, never taking his eyes off the man next to me. “Besides Lizzie, he’s the best friend I’ve got in this town.”
I didn’t yet fill Santou in on the fact that if it hadn’t been for Pilot, I might be splattered across my yard at this very moment along with my mailbox.
Santou cautiously opened the passenger door as Pilot continued to growl, refusing to budge an inch from the front seat.
“Would you mind telling your best friend to back off and give me some room?” Santou asked, a touch of impatience creeping into his voice.
Instead, I handed Jake a dog biscuit and watched as he slowly made the peace offering. Pilot grabbed the cookie in one fell swoop, nearly lopping off Santou’s fingertips in the process.
Santou gave me a sidelong glance. “Nice manners. That’s one hell of a job you’ve done training him, Porter. What does he do for his next trick? Bite off my head and play ball?”
I scratched Pilot behind the ears and then ordered him into the back seat. “What can I say? He’s very protective.”
“And here all this time I thought you didn’t need protecting,” Santou retorted.
A few more lines had furrowed his brow since the last time I had seen him, and more strands of silver had crept into his hair. Santou had been born brooding. But now something else was there as well.
Digging inside his shirt pocket, he produced a pair of sunglasses and stuck them on. I’d never known Santou to wear shades before, either on the jazz-soaked streets of New Orleans, dripping with steam and café au lait, or the humid country bayous with only their ghostly fringe of Spanish moss for shade. I wasn’t sure why, but I found it unnerving.
I pulled out of the airport lot, past the imported palm trees, and headed for home. The rosary beads hanging on my rearview mirror swayed in their own rendition of a hula. Santou gently fingered the onyx and garnet strand he had given me.
“Then you didn’t forget me, chère?” His voice was quiet and low, but a rasp crept into it that scraped at my heart.
“I could never forget you, Jake,” I replied, and I meant it. I’d opened my soul to the man, something I considered more frightening than any pipe bomb.
Santou was silent as we drove down the broad streets. We passed one bungalow after another with their picture-perfect patches of lawn as green as newly minted astroturf, denying that this was really the desert.
I pulled into Lizzie’s drive and turned off the engine.
“So this is where you live?” Santou asked as he surveyed the place.
“No. Actually, that’s where I live.” I pointed to the disaster next door, with its littered front lawn and decor of bright-yellow police tape. “This is just where I’m staying since a pipe bomb went off in my mailbox last night.”
After a long pause, Santou quietly asked, “Why does that make sense to me?”
He got out of the Blazer and walked over to my ramshackle bungalow to take a closer look. He kicked among the debris before letting loose a low whistle. “I know you like excitement, chère. But I think this is taking it a little too far.”
As I told Jake about Pilot’s frantic barking last night, followed by the phone call, the lines in his face tightened. He took off his sunglasses, and I saw that the crow’s-feet around his eyes were deeper than before. Some hidden demon was voraciously eating away at him.
“I think you just used up your second life, Porter. Maybe it’s time to rethink things.” Santou walked back toward me and for a brief moment a flicker of anger flashed over his face. “This is more than a dart game you’re playing here, chère.”
“You mean that’s all I was doing back in New Orleans, Santou?” I snapped without thinking.
Jake studied my face, bringing his fingers up to lightly graze my cheekbones before sliding down to rest on my lips. I knew something was wrong, even as a shot of heat raced through my body.
“Just don’t use up the rest of your seven lives too fast, Porter. You’ll screw up my plans.” Santou stretched and then grinned. “Well, it doesn’t look as if we’re staying here tonight. What say we find us a big, brassy place in Vegas and get a room? I’m in the mood for a drink and some dinner.”
I took a deep breath and let go of the tension that had begun to coil in me. “That’s a good idea. Let me just take Pilot inside and write Lizzie a note.”
I fixed Pilot a bowl of dry dog chow mixed with beef stew, then tacked a piece of paper onto Lizzie’s fridge, explaining that I’d see her in the morning. Pilot quickly ate and then licked my face, settling down on one of my old shirts to indulge in his favorite activity of chewing on a shoe. Satisfied that everything was in order, I headed out the door. Santou was still digging through the clutter in front of my house.
“You might as well come inside. There are a few things I need to get,” I said.
I limboed under the police tape to untack the plastic sheet that had become my front door. Santou followed me in.
“Too bad you didn’t see the place before this happened. It looked great,” I lied through my teeth.
I walked into the bedroom and went straight for my closet, where Lizzie’s black dress beckoned like a siren luring me onto the rocks. I pulled it out, along with a few other items as I planned my Vegas weekend. Santou spent the time taking in the damage, then made his way into the bathroom, where he dug through my medicine cabinet.
“What’s this? You getting ulcers these days, Porter?”
I turned to find Santou standing in the doorway, holding the bottle of Mylanta. My face flushed, and I busied myself with packing. But his eyes burned into my back. I turned around once more, and this time Santou pulled me close, his breath hot on my hair before moving past my ear to linger on my neck as his lips touched my flesh, sending my pulse rate soaring. His hands slid up my back, where they burrowed under my tee shirt whipping it off in a flash. And then I was pressed against him, caught up in a vortex of emotions. I moaned as his body molded itself to my contours. Even though I’d dreamt of it most mornings and every night, I’d forgotten what Jake’s touch was like. His fingers lightly played along the tips of my breasts. I shivered. And then I gave in—not that I really had the willpower to resist him.
We made love with an urgency that took me by surprise, then lay on my bed and let time slow down again. I wanted to ask him if this was the first he’d slept with someone since we were last together. But I held myself back, afraid of the answer. Or even worse, fearing he might tell me a lie.
After showering, I was tempted to put on my tee shirt and jeans again, but decided to be brave and opt for the dress.
Santou gave a low whistle as he walked out of the shower. “Your taste in clothes has improved, chère. You look great.”
In keeping with Vegas tradition, I let Santou hold onto the illusion.
The sun was just beginning to slide below the horizon like a huge, golden slot-machine slug as we made our way into town. I pulled into the Treasure Island Hotel, where a valet dressed to resemble Blackbeard demanded my keys, holding the Blazer for ransom. We quickly checked in and then headed outside.
“Let’s walk around for a while before dinner,” Santou suggested, as a horde of senior citizens stampeded by. “I want to get a feel for this town.”
We rounded the corner, onto the Strip, where a British frigate and a pirate ship were exchanging cannon volleys in the hotel lagoon. Farther down the road, a fifty-four-foot, man-made volcano was spewing flaming fireworks high into the sky, geysers of ruby-red water running down its smooth slopes. A hurried blur of plaids and polyesters, shorts and mini-skirts, crowded the streets, single-mindedly intent on spinning the wheel and rolling the dice, already mentally making their bets and spending their money.
We hadn’t gone far when we spotted a man dragging a huge crucifix strapped to his back. Garbed in a full-le
ngth burlap robe and sandals, he sported a long, white ponytail that hung down past his shoulders. A trail of splinters followed behind him.
“A little late for Good Friday, isn’t it, fella?” Santou queried as we crossed paths with the Vegas prophet.
“Pray for your salvation,” the old man replied tersely. He nailed Santou with a look, biblical fervor burning in his eyes.
“I think he has a point,” Santou muttered as we passed him by.
The infernal clang of slot machines, Vegas crickets, filled the night air, and miles of neon outshone the stars. We came to a Crayola-colored replica of New York City, complete with the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, Grand Central Station, and the Brooklyn Bridge.
Santou ran a hand through his thick, tangled hair, his fingers snarling in the disarray of curls. His shirt clung to his chest as tiny beads of sweat soaked through the thin fabric. He folded his arms tightly against his body and took a long look around, then peered at me over his beak of a nose, like a raptor intent on skewering its prey.
“Looks like you hit the jackpot, Porter.” An edgy note crept into his voice. “This is some kind of town. Home away from home, complete with pimps and hookers, crackpots and pipe bombs. Hell, you’ve even got the skyline of New York to keep you company.”
Santou seemed to be spoiling for a fight, and I wasn’t about to disappoint him.
“Except for the skyline, do you want to explain to me just how all this differs from Bourbon Street in New Orleans?” I inquired.
“Less silicone there,” Santou dryly replied.
A babe dressed head to toe in spandex sauntered by, making me glad I had worn Lizzie’s dress. The competition was tough in this town.
“I think what I need is a drink. Let’s go someplace typically Vegas. I want to make sure I get the full exposure,” Santou remarked, his eyes following the hip-swinging spandex.
The man’s attitude was beginning to grate on my nerves. But if that’s what Santou wanted, I’d make sure he got a megadose of glitz.
It was a toss-up between the MGM Grand, with its Flying Monkey Bar, laser thunderstorm, and neon rainbow, and the Luxor Pyramid, complete with belly dancers and chariot races, along with an overabundance of whips and chains. I opted for the Luxor. If we were going to duke it out, it might as well be somewhere with weapons on hand.
We arrived at the Antechamber Bar, where a woman swathed in ivory chiffon and a cheap Cleopatra wig held a harp between a pair of monumental breasts that could have been chipped out of marble. A few glassy-eyed drunks stared off into space as she plucked the strings and sang that all-time-favorite lounge tune, “Send in the Clowns.”
Santou was rarely relaxed, but tonight he looked even less so. A wound-up intensity radiated from him, and his fingers drummed a hard, uneven tune. It was obvious that the man hated Vegas. I just couldn’t figure out why.
“Hey, Santou—lighten up. Just think of this trip as a weekend in a schizophrenic theme park,” I suggested. “You know, kind of like Mickey Mouse meets Barbarella.”
Santou stopped drumming his fingers as he took in the scene. “You got a point there, Porter. If New Orleans is one big Mardi Gras, this town is the Devil’s own version of Disneyland. I keep expecting to find Minnie dancing in a G-string and Mickey standing on the corner selling crack.” He pulled a pack of Camels from out of his pocket and lit one up, inhaling deeply.
“Since when did you start smoking?” I asked in surprise.
Jake took another drag and smiled, a nervous twitch tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Bad habit, chère. I’d dropped it for a while. But it seems I’ve started up again.”
“Any other bad habits pop up that I should know about?” I asked lightly.
Jake gazed at me from under heavy lids, but his eyes weren’t giving away any secrets. I knew Santou was filled with a bevy of them. He’d divvied out a few in the past as frugally as if they were cultured pearls. One had been his former addiction to cocaine.
“What kind of bad habits would you be talking about now, sugar?” His voice wrapped around me in a sinuous embrace.
“What choices have I got?” I teased.
Santou winked as he finished his scotch and quickly ordered another. “You got plenty. But don’t worry about me, darlin’. I’ve got everything under control. What I want to hear about right now is you.”
I obliged by filling him in on my interconnected cases along with their growing casts of characters. Jake silently swirled his scotch, meditating on the deep golden liquid, as I ended with the pipe bomb.
Santou took a deep drag on his Camel, emitting a cloud of smoke as billowy and white as a small atom bomb. He watched it slowly evaporate before he spoke. “You know how this stuff works, Rachel. We trip across things all the time during investigations. The problem is you don’t even know that it’s there until all of a sudden it snaps up at you. And the kicker is that what you’ve stumbled upon usually doesn’t have anything to do with what you were investigating in the first place.”
Santou downed his second scotch in no time and motioned to a scantily clad waitress for another.
“It’s always something that nobody ever wanted you to trip across. And that’s when you get a bomb hand-delivered to your door.” He leaned forward, locking his gaze onto mine. “You know what that tells me, chère?”
I shook my head, as I watched him take a large slug from the glass that had promptly appeared before him.
“It tells me that you should back off. I got a bad feeling about this one. And this time I’m not here to protect you,” he said.
Santou had pushed the wrong button, knowingly or not.
“I wasn’t aware that that’s what you’d done in New Orleans, Jake. I thought I’d pretty much handled that case on my own,” I reminded him angrily.
Santou slowly stubbed out his cigarette, grinding it into the ashtray until only a few shreds of tobacco clung precariously to his fingertips.
“Is that what you thought, Porter? Well, then, let me fill you in.” His eyes sliced through me and his voice was low and cold. “Nobody does nothing all on their own. That’s how you get yourself killed. You don’t want a man backing you up? Fine. Then go find another hotshot woman like yourself to cover your ass. ’Cause there’s no way you can do it solo and live long enough to brag about it.”
Santou’s words hit me harder than I wanted to admit. I prided myself on working alone, on not showing fear, on not depending on a man. If I was with Santou, it was because I chose to be. Not because I needed to be. The same attitude extended itself to my work.
Santou leaned back in his chair, and for the first time I noticed a slight tremor in his hand as he lit up another Camel. A dark curl had fallen onto his forehead, where it hung loosely against his damp brow, giving him the air of a dissolute rogue.
“Look, Porter. All I’m saying is back off of this one. My gut instinct tells me that something’s not adding up. There’s more to this case than angry ranchers or miners or a few pissed-off animal dealers.” A cloud of smoke trailed out of his mouth.
“It must be that Cajun sixth sense of yours, Jake. The question is, would you back off if it were your case?” I quietly asked.
Santou rubbed the stubble on his chin, his eyes dancing over the black dress as he took in every curve. A low chuckle escaped his lips. “No. I can’t say that I would.”
“Then don’t ask me to,” I said, trying to keep the lid on my temper.
All the noise and flashing lights seemed to have become louder and brighter than just a moment ago, making me dizzy. It was as if the wine was going to my head, though I had yet to finish my first glass.
Santou reached across the table, slowly entwining his fingers in mine. “It’s just that I’ve got enough on my platter back home. I don’t want to have to worry about you out here as well, chère.”
“That’s easy,” I responded with a casualness I didn’t feel. “Then don’t.”
Santou said nothing as we paid the t
ab and headed out to find a restaurant. We ended up instead at the Hard Rock Casino bar, with its head-splitting ching, ching, ching of slot machines as hypnotized, dead-eyed johns automatically fed their habit one coin at a time.
I watched as Santou ordered yet another scotch. I was tired of playing the game. “What’s going on, Santou? There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“What makes you say that?” he asked, not looking in my direction.
“The way you’re drinking yourself into oblivion,” I shot back.
Santou turned his laser-sharp gaze on me, reeling me in and not letting me go. “I’ve already tried that, Porter. It doesn’t work.”
I glanced around at the autographed Bob Dylan guitar hanging above the window where a few lucky winners cashed in their chips, at the row of slot machines announcing their dedication to help save the rain forest, and wondered what the hell we were doing here.
“Just what is it that you like about Vegas anyway, Porter?” he asked gruffly.
Santou’s voice wound itself deeper and deeper through me until it tugged at my heart. At the moment I wanted to be anywhere but Vegas, with its nonstop noise and miles of neon, its windowless, time-warp casinos pumping in oxygen to keep you awake, its token-toting grannies and plastic-perfect women who only made me feel anxious about growing older and more out of shape. But I was damned if I would admit it.
“You want to know what I like about Vegas, Santou?” I replied in a voice that dared him to stop me. “What I like is walking into a restaurant at four in the morning and deciding if I want breakfast, lunch, or dinner. I like the fact that I can drive like a speed demon all through this town. I find it comforting that there’s a constantly changing world of transients I can get lost in. And I can relax knowing that this place has no past with bayou ghosts dragging me down.”
The scar on my neck had started to throb, bringing back memories of my close call in the swamp. At the same time, I remembered Holmes’s mocking laughter from earlier today, and a shiver rippled through me as the roar of last night’s pipe bomb echoed in my ears. In my heart, I knew that whatever I was onto was still out there, and more likely than not would strike again.
Tortoise Soup (Rachel Porter Mysteries) Page 20