Domilise’s Po-Boy and Bar doesn’t look like much from the outside. It’s a squat clapboard house with a hand-painted sign that’s draped with tinsel for the holiday. But the smells of fried shrimp and oysters fill the air, revealing the delicacies served up inside.
“I’ve been pushing that man’s buttons since the minute I learned to talk,” I assure Luc. “When his buttons are pushed, he forgets himself. I’ll get what we need. Don’t worry.”
He nods, but I can see the hesitation in his eyes. He knows Rick and I are like nitro and glycerin. Put us together and boom!
“You can’t come with me,” I tell him for the third time. “Rick won’t open up if you’re there.”
“I know. But I hate sending you in alone after what happened the last—” He cuts himself off.
“It’s okay. You can say it. After what happened the last time. Wasn’t ready for him then. I’m ready for him now.”
Not that I ever want Luc worrying about me. But I’d much rather see this concern on his face than the condescension of three days ago. Thankfully, cooped up together inside Smurf for the last seventy-two hours, he’s worked his way around to forgiving me for the hurricane party.
Then again, that probably has less to do with me and more to do with Maggie.
She decided not to hold it against me that I spent the entire time with Kelsey on my arm. Although I’m not sure if that means she’s given up on her diabolical scheme to test the boundaries of our friendship by constantly touching me since I haven’t seen her since our meeting with Broussard. And I’ve been too cowardly to bring up the subject during the few text conversations we’ve had in the interim because…well…if I’m being honest, while I absolutely, positively must convince her there’s no future for us that involves a revisit of our teenage romance, her persistence and angel-eyed grit are flattering.
What? I like my ego stroked as much as the next guy. So sue me.
After I hop out of the truck, the cool December wind whips at the ends of my hair and tries to sneak inside my jacket.
“Brrrr,” Luc complains. “Shut the damned door!”
I make a face. “Says the man who survived two winters in the Hindu Kush.”
“That was different.” He shakes his head.
“Yeah. It was forty degrees colder.”
“And we were geared up in polypropylene drawers, fiber-pile bib overalls, balaclavas, and bunny boots.”
“True.” I slam the door and give him the point.
Taking out my flask, I jog across the street while quickly throwing back two quick slugs. Then, standing on the sidewalk outside Domilise’s, I snag my phone and click open the voice recording app I downloaded this morning. After squaring my shoulders, I push inside the restaurant.
It’s your typical Big Easy po’ boy shop. Diner-style tables topped with napkin dispensers and squeeze bottles of ketchup, mayonnaise, and mustard. Acoustic ceiling tiles. And mouthwatering sandwiches served on paper plates.
Rick is easy to find in the sea of coveralls and Dickies. In his blue pinstripe suit, he stands out from the crowd like pants on a dog.
Pretending I don’t see him at a table near the back, I make my way to the line forming at the register. The moment he spots me, I know. My hands go clammy and my mouth tastes like I’m sucking on a penny.
When he waddles up behind me, the hairs on the back of my neck lift as if in warning of lightning strike. Or the presence of the devil.
“Well, well, well.” The sound of his voice is nails down a chalkboard. “If it ain’t the rotten fruit of my loins.”
Slowly, I turn to take in his ruddy face and flinty stare. I hate that we share the same eyes. If I wasn’t so enamored of my eyesight, I’d pluck my eyeballs right out of my head.
“Next!” the woman working the register shouts.
“Sorry,” I tell her, playing my part. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
Pushing past Rick, I make my way toward the door. It’s a gamble. Can’t be certain he’ll follow. But if this is going to work, I have to act natural.
And natural for me is trying to get as far away from him as humanly possible.
“Not so fast.” He catches me on the sidewalk.
I fight a grin of victory. He’s so predictable.
Turning to him, I plaster my face with derision. “What do you want?”
“What has you on this side of town?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but the guy who helped me replaster my ceiling medallions lives over here. Luc and I dropped off his check and we were going to grab some po’ boys before heading back to The Quarter. But seeing you has my heartburn acting up.”
When Rick’s eyes alight on Luc behind Smurf’s steering wheel, his fat lips peel back.
“You’re still hanging around that swamp rat even after I warned you to steer clear?”
“So it would seem.”
He shakes his head sorrowfully. “Thought I taught you better than that, boy.”
“You didn’t teach me shit, old man, except to hate your guts.” Button one pushed.
I go to step off the curb, but to my relief he stops me again. “Hold up,” he says. “I got something important to say.”
I don’t try to hide how much I despise him as I turn back. “With actual words this time? I mean, I know you love to talk with your fists. And as much as I’d like to answer back the same way, I don’t have time to administer the ass-kicking you so richly deserve.” Button two pushed.
His jowls bunch when he smiles, revealing those ridiculous veneers. “I seem to remember that it was your ass getting kicked the last time we met.”
“You always did go in for sucker punches.”
He pretends to pout. “Sour grapes because your old man can still wipe up the floor with you?”
I sigh heavily and motion him forward. “Fine. If it’s a fight you want, go ahead and come at me. Let’s get this over with once and for all.”
“It wouldn’t give me any satisfaction.” His eyes travel over me from head to toe. “What’s wrong with you, boy? You sick or something? You look like a bag of hammered shit.”
“Takes one to know one.”
His nostrils flare, and I know I’ve succeeded in pushing the third and final button.
He curls his meaty hands into fists and steps toward me.
I’m ready for him this time. My heart pounds with an ugly, hysterical sort of anticipation.
Even though I’m here on a specific mission—one that doesn’t involve grinding his fat, florid face into the pavement—I can’t deny that I’ve been waiting to give him a taste of his own medicine for years. For as long as I can remember, actually, because I can’t recall a time when I felt anything but hatred for him.
Even when I was young, before he began kicking the shit out of me, I loathed him for what he did to my mother. For all the bruises that marred her pretty face. And for all the times she locked herself in the bathroom while I sat outside listening as her wrenching cries slipped out from under the door.
I adjust my stance, giving myself a good, steady base. Adrenaline spikes my bloodstream, an intoxicating high. My muscles twitch, ready for action.
These are all sensations I remember well from my years in the service. But just when Rick looks poised to go on the attack, he reconsiders. Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulls out a cigar and takes his time lighting it.
I recognize the hollow feeling reverberating through me as disappointment.
After blowing a thick cloud of smoke, he says, “George tells me your friends are going around looking for dirt on him.”
“Not looking for.” I shake my head. “Found.”
His chin—or, rather, chins—jerks back. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means the years of him bleeding the good people of this city dry are over. The canaries in the cage are singing.” When he continues to stare at me dully, I sigh and spell it out for him. “His blackmail victims are talking.”
<
br /> “Bullshit they are,” he scoffs.
“It’s true. Luc and Maggie convinced a bunch of them to confess to what’s been going on.”
“They wouldn’t dare. They’ve got too much to lose.”
I wallpaper my face in disgust. “And you know this how? Oh, right. You’re probably Sullivan’s accomplice.” I act like a thought has just occurred. “Or is Sullivan your accomplice?”
“You’re damn right.” Rick puffs up like a peacock. I hold my breath, waiting for him to start digging his own grave. “George always thinks too small. All he wanted was to use what he had on these people to ensure he kept his job. But I was quick to show him the error of his ways. These are fatheads with fat wallets. They can afford to share their wealth.”
I try not to smile as I imagine shovelful after shovelful of dirt flying over his shoulder. “Share it with you?”
“Hell yes with me. And that’s how I know you’re lying. I know these people. They’ll never talk.”
I shake my head like the entire conversation has made me weary. Inside, I’m dancing a fast jig.
“One of these days, your arrogance will be the end of you, old man.”
He laughs, then takes a deep puff of his cigar. He thinks he’s called my bluff. “God wouldn’t put suckers on the planet if he didn’t mean for them to be taken for all they’re worth.”
I stare at him. “You know the truly sad thing? You actually believe that bullshit. You’ve been rationalizing the horror of your existence for so long that you no longer recognize the difference between right and wrong. Or is it possible you never knew to begin with? You think maybe you were born a vicious, self-serving psychopath?”
Rage mottles his face. “You think you’re so much better than me? Well, I hate to tell you this, boy, but you’re a pale shadow of the man I am.”
Trying to get him to see himself for the monster he truly is, is like trying to get blood from a stone. I haven’t the time or the energy. Besides, I have what I came for.
Stepping off the curb, I head in the direction of Smurf.
“And I always knew you would be!” he calls to my back. “From the moment the doctor pulled you out of your mother all scrawny and screaming and red!”
“Go eat a dick!” I throw a parting shot over my shoulder.
“No, thanks! Of the two of us, it’s you who needs to eat something!”
I let him have the last word because, in the end, it’ll be me enjoying a victory. Pulling open the passenger-side door, I duck under the doorframe and slide into the truck’s bench seat.
“Well?” Luc frowns through the windshield, watching as Rick continues to smoke his cigar while glaring daggers at us.
“What’s that catchphrase you like from The Big Bang Theory?”
His brow furrows. “Bazinga?”
“That’s right.” I pull my phone from my front pocket and wiggle it. “Bazinga.”
Chapter Fifty-five
______________________________________
Maggie
We’re all at the mercy of the universe.
It’s a lesson I learned long ago. But recently, the truth of it has been hammered home with a baseball bat. A baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire like the one on The Walking Dead. Lucille. That dirty girl.
“So you’re saying we have to wait?” I ask in disbelief. “Again?”
Luc nods. “Broussard wants to approach a particular judge with the recording and the request for the warrant, someone he reckons will be amenable to our cause. Unfortunately, this judge is in south Texas on a golfing trip and won’t be back till Friday.”
“What is with everyone taking vacations?” I raise my hands in helpless frustration. “Did I miss the memo? Christmas is almost here. Couldn’t this judge have waited until then to hit the links?”
“It is what it is.” He shrugs laconically.
Most times I appreciate his ability to keep calm and carry on. Today I could use some company in that little place I like to call Freaking the Eff Out.
“And I suppose we’re just supposed to cross our fingers, hold our breath, and pray to sweet baby Jesus that Sullivan doesn’t pull the trigger on his plan before then,” I grumble irritably.
“Broussard thinks this four-day delay is a boon,” Cash says.
I turn my frown from Luc to him. “How’s he figure that?”
“It gives him time to put together a team of outside investigators. Since he can’t be sure who Rick and George have their hooks into here in New Orleans, he wants to tap some resources outside the city.
“Smart.” I nod grudgingly, some of the fight draining out of me. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
The DA’s office was closed over the weekend, so even though Luc and Cash emailed the recording to Broussard as soon as they made it, they didn’t hear back from him until this morning. Then they came straight to my apartment to share the news.
Now the three of us are sitting at my kitchen table holding holiday mugs of steaming coffee, and there’s no denying the tired strain on their faces.
“Not to change the subject,” I say, “but y’all look like you’re both missing a wheel and have an axle dragging.”
“That’s what three days cooped up inside an old pickup truck will do to you,” Cash laments, rubbing a hand over his face. His beard stubble is in serious need of a visit from a razor.
“I hear you,” I say with commiseration. “I pulled two doubles this weekend, finally got around to putting up my Christmas tree”—I motion to the brightly lit Douglas fir in the corner of the living room—“and googled the crap out of New Orleans’s most rich and famous. Seriously, my laptop is still smoking.”
Cash’s eyebrows slash. “What did that accomplish?”
I rub my hands together. “I’m glad you ask. So, as y’all know, Aunt Bea only gave us names for six of the potential blackmail victims, but there are fifteen different sets of initials in Rick’s ledger. I tried to find out who those remaining nine mystery folks might be, and I can’t be completely certain of anything, of course. Lots of people share the same initials. But that pool gets a lot smaller when we’re talking about those around town who have the means to pay blackmail.”
I grin with pride. “Anyway, I think these folks I’ve come up with might be worth talking to. Just in case they are some of Rick’s and George’s victims and find themselves of a mind to spill the beans. All this would be so much easier if someone came forward to point a finger.”
Cash chuckles. “Look at you, Nancy Drew.”
I pantomime a curtsy while remaining seated.
“The ball’s in Broussard’s court now,” Luc insists. “We gotta keep our noses outta it and let him do his job.”
“I’m not saying we should approach them. But maybe if Broussard gathers enough evidence, he’ll feel comfortable calling in some of these folks for an interview. And I figure the bigger the supply of potential whistle-blowers he has to pull from, the better. I emailed him the list I came up with this morning.”
“Nice work.” Cash nods.
“Why, thank you, kind sir.” I squeeze his forearm, enjoying the warmth of his skin and the crinkliness of his man hair.
The half grin he’s wearing slides off his face. “You have to stop that.”
“Stop what?” I cock my head at him.
“Touching me every chance you get. Making sure your fingers linger.”
I pull my hand away and curl it into a fist in my lap. I didn’t touch him with a mind toward persuasion. At least, not this time. It was just a natural thing.
Holding onto my composure by sheer dint of will, I clear my throat and ask, “Why?”
“You know why.” He pins me with a hard look that turns the coffee in my stomach to acid. “And don’t think I can’t feel you sitting over there giving me a dirty look.” He turns his scowl on Luc. “Your silent disapproval is like a blunt-force instrument to the back of my head.”
“You should be careful,” Luc says slowly, sitting pe
rfectly still in that way of his that makes you think he’s putting down roots.
“I’ve tried careful.” Cash’s mouth is flattened into an angry line. “Careful isn’t getting the damned point across. So she and I are having this out here and now.”
“Cash—” I try to interrupt him, knowing what he’ll say next. Not wanting to hear it.
He stops me with a raised hand. “I know what you’ve been up to, Maggie, and it has to end. You’re only making this harder on both of us.”
“You love me,” I insist around the lump that’s forming in my throat. “You said you did.”
“Yeah. And because I love you, I can’t let you make a fool of yourself any longer.”
The sting of his words makes my breath catch.
“All I want is to be your friend, get it?” he says. “F-R-I-E-N-D. Nothing more. Nothing less.” He pulls out his flask and, not bothering to add the whiskey to his coffee, pours it straight down his throat. He looks at me defiantly and wipes a hand over his mouth.
“You know what I’ve been up to?” I challenge. Lean in. Isn’t that the trending philosophy? I decide to lean way in. “Well, I know what you’ve been up to too. You’ve been doing everything you can to run me off. That woman behind the barn at the fais do-do? Lauren’s little sister? Rubbing your drinking in my face? You think if you tomcat around and play the part of a gutter-diving drunk, I’ll give up any hope—”
“That’s exactly right!” he shouts, startling me with his vehemence. “Give up hope, Maggie! For fuck’s sake!”
I slam my hands down on the table, and poor Yard scampers from beneath my chair to cower by the cabinets. My instinct is to comfort him, and I will, but first I have to settle this thing with Cash.
“Not until we’ve exhausted all the options!” I’m shouting now too. “Not until we hear back from Dr. Stevens, and—”
Volume Two: In Moonlight and Memories, #2 Page 18