Volume Two: In Moonlight and Memories, #2

by Julie Ann Walker

  “Sure.” I nod. “Sounds like a plan.”

  That’s how I find myself standing outside the brick wall of a Catholic church thirty minutes later. The three of us are looking at a large rusted chain that’s been welded into a cross. It’s tipped onto its side and partially buried in the ground. Hanging from the links of the chain are several slaves’ shackles.

  Listening to them sway and creak in the gentle breeze has a ghostly finger drifting up my spine. Despite the soft warmth of the noonday sun, goose bumps break out over my arms.

  There are a lot of things about New Orleans that make me proud to have been born and raised here. Its history as a major port for the slave trade isn’t one of them.

  “Are there slaves buried here?” Maggie asks, her voice low and reverent.

  “I don’t think so.” Cash’s head is bowed. Sunlight shines on his chin stubble, making it look like gold dust. “I think it’s only a memorial to them. All twelve-point-five million who were shipped from Africa to the New World.”

  Maggie shudders. “To think of them surviving the Middle Passage only to get here and then suffer horrible atrocities at the hands of white men. And to think those white men actually looked at them and didn’t see human beings but pieces of property. It’s too awful to comprehend. What is wrong with us as a species?”

  “When you think about this country being built on the backs of enslaved Africans, it makes you proud to be an American, doesn’t it?” Cash’s tone is dripping in sarcasm.

  After that pronouncement, none of us speaks for a while. Instead, we allow the gravity of the site to seep into us. Another light gust of wind blows through the churchyard, pushing at the slaves’ shackles and bringing with it the smell of a garden—fresh-cut grass and newly turned dirt.

  Ever notice how a garden and a graveyard smell the same? Odd considering one is a place of birth and growth and the other is a place of death and decay.

  Or maybe it’s not so odd. We come from the earth and return to it. Maybe the beginning and the end should smell the same.

  Low, melancholy blues drift toward us from somewhere nearby. When I recognize the tune, I smile.

  “Uh, Luc?” Cash frowns at me. “Why is your face making that face? This is supposed to be a solemn affair.”

  “You hear that?” I point in the direction of the music. “It’s “Hymn to Freedom.” Pretty damned appropriate, I’d say.”

  “Mmm.” He nods. Then, “You ever think about what you’d want played at your funeral?”

  I frown at him. First it was a Viking funeral, and now it’s funeral music? “You’ve become obsessed with funeral arrangements lately. You realize that, right?”

  “‘Don’t Worry Be Happy,’” Maggie interjects. “I mean, it makes sense. Once I’m dead, there’s not a darned thing anyone will be able to do to bring me back, so…don’t worry. And instead of mourning my passing, I’d much rather people celebrate my life and be happy.”

  Cash chuckles. “That’s perfect, Maggie.” Then he turns to me. “How about you, Luc?”

  “I’ve never given it much thought,” I admit.

  Truth to tell, we were so close to death so many times in Afghanistan that I decided it was better to ignore the subject entirely. To think about death might’ve gotten its attention and invited it to turn its malevolent eyes our way.

  Not that I’m a believer in any of that woo-woo nonsense. But better safe than sorry.

  “I want “Hallelujah” by Leonard Cohen played at my funeral,” he says with an emphatic jerk of his chin.

  Maggie frowns. “I thought you weren’t religious.”

  “It’s not religious,” he declares. “Have you ever listened to all the lyrics?”

  “I don’t reckon anyone’s listened to all the lyrics,” I say. “It was originally eighty verses long, or something like that. Most folks only know about seven or eight of ’em. The more popular ones. But you’re right. It’s not religious at all.”

  “But it says hallelujah,” Maggie insists. “That’s pretty much the entire chorus.”

  “I think Cohen’s whole point is that there are a lot of things to praise and ways we should praise that don’t have anything to do with a higher power. I think he was trying to tell us that although some things are ‘cold and broken’”—I make air quotes—“that doesn’t make ’em any less. He’s saying flawless hallelujahs have the same value as shattered hallelujahs.”

  “Wow.” Cash shakes his head. “Deep. And here I just thought the song was pretty.”

  Maggie and I look at each other and laugh.

  “For such a complicated man, you have moments of surprising simplicity,” I tell him.

  He shrugs, and I look at my watch. It’s nearly thirteen hundred. The lunch hour is over. Time to get down to business.

  As we make our way out of the churchyard, Maggie takes hold of Cash’s arm. Ostensibly, she needs support over the uneven ground since she’s wearing a pair of wedge ankle boots. But when we make it to the sidewalk, she hangs on.

  Cash glances at me over his shoulder, his face begging for my help.

  She catches his expression. “What? Because we’re only friends I’m not supposed to take your arm? I mean, I take Luc’s arm all the time.”

  Her tone is pure innocence, but I know better. She can’t out-argue Cash when it comes to his decision to put the kibosh on their romantic relationship. So she’ll do her best to undermine his position by touching him. By putting herself next to him every chance she gets.

  I feel for Cash. I really do.

  Maggie does take my arm. But she doesn’t know how it makes my chest swell with pride. She doesn’t know how the feel of her cool fingers makes my heart race. And she certainly doesn’t know how the two of us moving together, side by side, feels oddly…intimate.

  But Cash knows what I’m talking about. Oh yeah. One look at his face tells me he definitely knows.

  He pulls out his flask and empties it down his throat.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  ______________________________________

  Maggie

  Fear is a strange thing. It’s weightless, and yet it can crush you like a ten-ton boulder.

  “It wasn’t a total loss,” I venture hesitantly. “Was it?”

  Luc leans against Smurf’s tailgate and crosses his arms. The light from the streetlamp makes his hair look as glossy as mink’s fur. He’s always been able to say a lot with his eyes, those warm, liquid-brown eyes. But right now, they’re the polar opposite of warm and liquid. Right now they’re hard enough to stop bullets. And nothing they’re saying is reassuring.

  “Cowards,” he spits. “The lot of ’em.”

  I guess it’s possible everyone we spoke with is a coward. But I suspect what truly happened is that they are so bogged down by the weight of their fear that they can’t manage to crawl out from under it.

  “At least that BJ guy had the gumption to tell us we’re barking up the wrong tree, right?” My tone sounds desperate, even to my own ears. “We have a new lead, right?”

  Hunger, and the disappointment of so many wasted hours, is getting to me. Well, it’s more like hunger, disappointment, and an insidious, polluting unease. If we can’t find anyone who’s willing to stand up to Sullivan and help us bring him down, how the heck are we ever going to stop him from coming after us?

  “Luc?” I say when he’s been quiet for too long. A hard shiver shakes me from head to toe. I didn’t realize we’d be out this late, or I’d have brought my coat.

  He unzips his leather jacket and pulls me against him. I hesitate to thread my arms around his waist. I’m still not sure how to be when I’m around him. So I simply curl into his heat, grateful for the solid feel of him.

  “You know this makes everything much more difficult,” he says. “And it means we’re gonna hafta involve Cash.”

  “He’s already involved.”

  “Yeah, but now he’ll hafta be involved involved. We’ll need him to take an active role.�
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  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “He’s a drunk, Maggie May.” There’s censure in his voice, but also sadness and defeat.

  As hard as it is for me to watch Cash spiral downward, it must be doubly hard for Luc. They’ve spent the last decade depending on each other day in and day out. I can’t imagine the bond that forms.

  “Drunks are rarely reliable,” he finishes.

  My heart rebels against his words. “He’s not that bad.”

  “He is. He just doesn’t show you the worst of it.”

  “I’m going to get help for him,” I swear. “I’m just waiting to hear back from that neurosurgeon.”

  “And what happens if this guy can’t do anything more than Cash’s current doctors? Are you still willing to walk down this path with him?”

  “What are you talking about?” I shake my head. “What path?”

  “You know what path, Maggie May.” I try not to flinch at the rebuke in his tone. He’s turned into a man of hard truths. There’s no longer any give in him when it comes to prevarication. “You’re throwing caution to the wind and jumping back into a relationship with him ’cause you’ve convinced yourself he can be saved. But what if he can’t? What if he’s right? What if how he is now is as good as he’s gonna get?”

  The thought of Cash continuing to suffer is too awful to contemplate. “You heard him.” I firm my chin. “He won’t let me jump back into a relationship with him. He’s plunked me firmly in the friend zone.”

  Luc’s mouth twists. “That may be where he’s put you, but you have no intention of staying there. You’re gonna tempt him with gentle touches and sweet words and soft glances until he gives in.”

  I blink in astonishment. “How do you always know what I’m thinking?”

  “’Cause I know everything about you. How your breath catches when you see fireflies. How you get goose bumps anytime you hear “The Star-Spangled Banner.” I know you so well I could find you in the pitch black in a crowd of people.”

  Good. Lord.

  I’m suddenly aware of the steely feel of his thighs against mine, of the clean, woodsy scent of his aftershave.

  “None of that matters right now.” I pull from his embrace. “Because right now, we have bigger fish to fry. We need to go tell Cash what we found out from BJ.”

  I skirt the side of the truck and buckle myself into the passenger seat. Luc’s quiet as he climbs behind the wheel and stays that way the entire drive to Cash’s house. After pulling next to the curb, he cuts the engine and turns to me. “You know I’d do anything for you, right?”

  “Yes.” I nod. He proved that in the swamp that night.

  “But I can’t hurt you to help Cash. And vice versa, I can’t hurt him to help you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  For a long time, he stares at me. The only sound in the truck is the tick-tick of the cooling motor. Eventually, his voice so low I strain to hear it, he says, “I think you do.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  ______________________________________

  Cash

  Dear Cash,

  I was walking through the French Market today, and the Joan of Arc statue caught my attention. No wonder, right? Could the thing BE any more gold? Plus, someone has festooned her and her horse in Mardi Gras beads. So now she’s gold AND gaudy.

  For the first time, I stopped and read the inscription at her base. “Joan of Arc, Maid of Orleans, 1412-1431.” Did you know she was only nineteen when she was burned at the stake? Nineteen.

  That’s so young. I mean, that’s how old YOU are. Or at least that’s how old you’ll be next week.

  I can’t believe I’m going to miss your birthday. It seems so surreal not being able to hug your neck or send you a card.

  I know you’re not one for celebrating, but I hope you’ll do something nice for yourself. Or if you can’t do that, then let Luc do something nice for you. You know he’ll try.

  After the French Market, I went into Café Du Monde and sat at our favorite table. It wasn’t the same without you and Luc. Nothing feels the same, actually, and I’m trying to figure out if that’s because y’all aren’t here, or if it’s because I’m different now.

  I AM different, by the way. But I guess after what happened, I should be. If I wasn’t different, if I wasn’t changed by it, what sort of person would I be?

  Anyway, I miss you. Still. Always.

  Happy early birthday.

  Love, Maggie

  Part of being human is sucking it up and carrying on even when you’re the emotional equivalent of a damned tire fire.

  Ever since Luc and Maggie went on their hunting expedition, I’ve been thinking back to how Maggie held on to my arm in the churchyard. She claimed it wasn’t about anything more than friendship. But the way my body reacted to her touch certainly hadn’t felt friendly. Or, more like, it’d felt too friendly.

  Beneath her palm, my skin had heated. And then, when I’d looked over to find her smiling that siren’s smile, the world had gone pear-shaped. I’d been seconds away from chucking my good intentions to the roadside, from chucking The Plan to the roadside, and kissing her.

  Damn it all! It’s going to take more than words to convince her to steer clear of me. It’s going to take action.

  I know what I need to do. The idea has gotten inside me like a tapeworm, and all afternoon it’s been eating at me, leaving me with a terrible ache in my belly that the Gentleman Jack can’t help.

  Although…may as well keep trying.

  Popping the top on my flask, I swallow two mouthfuls, welcoming the warm buzz that softens the edges of too many sharp thoughts.

  “Put that shit away.” Luc comes through the front door with Maggie in tow. The sight of her makes my heart squeeze like a fist. And when she walks in my direction, I drink in each hip-swinging step. “We got good news and bad news, and we need you sober to hear both.”

  Capping the flask, I send it to its home in my back pocket.

  “Took you guys long enough.” I dust the sanding grit off my hands. Stripped ten layers of paint from the baseboards last week. Today I’ve been sanding them down. “I expected you back hours ago.” I motion to the two folding chairs and grab a seat atop the milk crate.

  “New Orleans’s upper crust can’t be bothered to turn on a dime and lend us their ears.” Luc holds Maggie’s chair for her and takes his seat only once she’s situated. Here in the South, chivalry is alive and well. “We spent most of the afternoon sipping sweat tea in front parlors or sitting in reception areas waiting for folks to deign to speak to us.”

  Maggie reaches over and pats his shoulder, saying to me, “You’ll have to forgive him for being grouchy enough to make a hornet look cuddly. Today didn’t go as planned.”

  “Shoulda known better than to hang my wash out on someone else’s line,” he grumbles. “Not a one of ’em was willing to stick their necks out and confess to being blackmailed by Sullivan. They all lied straight through their too-white teeth.”

  “Reputation means everything to most of these families,” Maggie explains unnecessarily. “But you’re making it sound like it was a total waste of time. It wasn’t. BJ gave us something to go on.”

  “So despite the nickname, he’s not such a blowhard after all?” I ask.

  She cracks a smile, but when Luc continues to frown, it falls off her face.

  “What did BJ… I can’t say that with a straight face.” I shake my head. “What did he give you guys to go on?”

  “He said that if folks were being blackmailed to support Sullivan, then they’d be hesitant to try to bring him down unless we could assure them that we’d also bring down…” She trails off, and a sinking feeling pulls at my stomach.

  In a flash, I know what she’s not saying. “Rick?” I say, and her expression is pained. Luc tugs on his ear. “Hey.” I hold up my hands. “I know what an asshole my sperm donor is. Don’t hold back on my account. Give it to me straight.” />
  “BJ said the only way people will risk coming forward is if they know George Sullivan and Richard Armstrong will be brought to heel. BJ indicated that Sullivan was originally the one to go around threatening folks into supporting his reappointment as superintendent. But he said in the last ten or so years, it’s been your father doing the strong-arming. And not only to support Sullivan.”

  “He’s extorting them for money.” I don’t pose it as a question. I already know it’s the answer.

  Maggie spreads her hands. “It was implied.”

  I let my head fall back. The single bare bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling glows dull yellow and seems to pulsate. Not sure if it’s an electrical surge, or if this thing with my head is beginning to affect my vision.

  “If Rick’s taking their money, then he’s putting it somewhere.” I lower my chin. “And I don’t mean he’s burying it in Mason jars in his backyard. Maybe he’s funneling it into an offshore account. Or it could be he’s laundering it through his other businesses. Regardless, he’s leaving a trail. Money always leaves a trail. If taking down Sullivan means having to take down Rick, then we need to start by finding that trail.”

  “But how?” Maggie asks. “Where would we even begin?”

  “He still lives in that house on Prytania in Uptown.” When Luc gives me a weird look, I admit, “Got curious a few Saturdays ago when you stayed out at the swamp house to do some work and took myself to have a look-see. Same address as always. Same asshole at that address.”

  Maggie frowns. “So what? Like you said, it’s not like he’s burying the money in the backyard.”

  “Since I was old enough to know what was what, Rick’s stored a big ledger inside a safe. He’s old-school that way. Doesn’t like electronic bookkeeping when it comes to his nefarious endeavors. Too easily tracked or hacked. The ledger lists all the records and transactions he doesn’t let his accountants see. If he’s squeezing these folks for money, you can bet your sweet ass he’s recording the payments there.”