by Wendy Rosnau
"I didn't know," Blu admitted.
"Then you didn't know when you busted Taber Denoux last year for stealing those kids that you'd shut down a slice of the biggest pie in the Gulf?"
"No."
Patch's brows crept higher. "Maland's a twentieth-century slave trader, Blu boy. He's international. Taber Denoux had a lucrative slice of the pie, but the big man who turns all the sugar into gold is Salvador Maland."
Blu couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Why doesn't the NOPD know that?"
"Because maybe they don't want to know that."
"I don't believe it."
Patch shrugged. "Maland's a European. He's not a citizen here, and he's smart. He keeps all his dirty business hidden by legitimate import/export companies. Keeps his name off everything."
"Tell me more."
"What you've uncovered, Blu boy, is the motherload. Salvador took over his father's business and has tripled it in ten years' time. Some say he killed his old man to get where he is, others say his mother did it for him. But everybody agrees he's one kinky son of a bitch. He stays clear of the States, or at least he has for the past three years. All the companies are run by independents who know the risks. That's why Denoux's doing time and Maland's still enjoying his island."
His island. Blu tried to keep his emotions harnessed, but it was getting harder by the minute. He wanted Salvador Maland in an iron box next to his brother and he wanted Angel back on his boat until he could make that happen.
It all made sense now, why Maland had his picture on the wall in his office, why his pictures were in a file labeled Old Business. Salvador Maland and Taber Denoux were brothers. Blu could hardly believe it.
"Denoux kept his mouth shut at the trial when he could have cut a better deal for himself?" Blu heard himself say.
"No sense cutting a deal if you won't live long enough to enjoy it," Patch said. "Salvador Maland is the wrong man to have as your enemy. He's got the longest reach of anyone I know next to God. Brother or not, Taber Denoux would have been dead within twenty-four hours if he had breathed his brother's name. I'm surprised you're not dead yet after what went down last year."
Blu pointed to the files. "Somebody sang long and loud for you to get all that on Maland in two days, Patch. Who was it?"
"Now you know I can't give you a name straight out. That's not how things are done. We make an exchange, you go on your way, and you figure out the rest on your own. Say, it was sure nice seeing Lester on his knees the other night crying like a baby. You sure I can't interest you in doing one job a week for me?"
"No. I'm finished with that."
"Then our business is over." Patch watched Blu scoop up the file and head for the door. "You really didn't know, did you?"
Blu stopped at the door. "No, I really didn't know Maland even existed until a few days ago."
Patch pulled his cigarette case from his satin vest pocket. "I figure sometime next week we'll be reading about this on the front page of the Times-Picayune. And depending on just how good that god-given talent of yours is, Blu boy, we'll either be calling you the new American hero, or your remains will be in a body bag on the way to the morgue. 'Course, if that happens, Maland will be back selling flesh to the highest bidder from here to Colombia. But only after he carves up that little blond who ran away from him."
* * *
Chapter 12
« ^ »
Days ago, Blu had put aside the idea that he'd met Angel somewhere before, and that was true enough—he'd never actually met her. But if the information in the file was correct, then the little tomboy who had been Perch's shadow years ago was more than likely his Angel.
Oh, yeah, he knew Perch Aldwin had a granddaughter, had always known. He'd just chosen to forget it because anything involving that crusty old man left a sour taste in his mouth.
Blu slowed the Nightwing as he headed around Paradise Point, and there, moored in the bay, sat the pilothouse—the aging old trawler from Perch's heyday when he was king. He'd been a fisherman first, and Blu guessed that's why Perch had become the most respected wholesaler in the area when he'd decided to become a middleman.
He'd lived all his life in Algiers, and the past forty years on Paradise Point. His wife, Carmela, had died when their only son, Dale, was a teenager. Ten years later, at age twenty-six, Dale, along with his wife, had died in a car wreck. But their children had survived—one boy, and one little girl.
Blu would lay odds that Perch's sudden switch from fisherman to wholesaler years ago had had something to do with the fact that he'd been left alone to raise his two small grandchildren.
It all made sense; Angel's knowledge of boats, her sea legs. She'd grown up with a grandfather who had spent all his life on the water. They had lived on a houseboat, the same houseboat Perch lived on now.
The newspaper article had been labeled, Tragic Drowning On Rough Water. The information claimed that a fast-moving storm had hit suddenly and that the two young people had been too far from shore to save themselves. The paper reported that one body had been recovered—an eighteen-year-old by the name of Benjamin Frank. But the girl, Kristie Aldwin, age sixteen, had never been found.
Sixteen… She'd been sixteen when she'd disappeared, had been working at Smokey Joe's as a waitress the summer she'd supposedly drowned. And for three years she'd lived on an island in the Caribbean with Maland. That would make her nineteen now.
Blu wasn't sure how Salvador Maland had ended up with Angel, but he did know that somehow the sick bastard had managed to either capitalize on a tragic accident, or he had orchestrated the perfect crime.
When Blu saw Perch's small boathouse anchored in a secluded inlet, he cut the engine and steered the Nightwing toward the dock. He still needed to be one-hundred-percent sure that his Angel and Perch's Kristie were one in the same. His gut told him it was true, but he wanted visible proof. And that meant he needed to board Perch's boathouse.
It was early morning, that time of the day when more people were sleeping than awake. But Perch was up. Blu could see him on the aft deck of the boathouse as he tied up the Nightwing.
"I need to talk to you, Perch," Blu hollered.
The old man didn't move, he just kept staring out over the water. "You ain't got nothing I want to hear, you black devil."
"I know you and I have had our differences, but this can't wait."
"You don't know how to talk, boy. All you know how to do is throw those fists of yours." This time Perch's head came around slowly. "Your daddy must be moaning in his grave with shame, boy."
Blu saw the scar above the old man's right eye. He'd known facing Perch wouldn't be easy. And he couldn't deny he'd often wondered what his father would have said to a son who had chosen to make money with his fists. Pushing the thought away, not having the time or the energy to contemplate his past mistakes—Blu acknowledged that the sooner he found the proof he was looking for, the sooner he could get back to a more important matter, looking for Angel and Mandy.
"Got a message for Curt. Is he around?"
"No, he ain't. You got something to say to him, you can say it to me. Curt don't like you any more than I do."
Blu kept coming, limping as his long stride ate up the dock. When it ran out, he vaulted onto the deck of the boathouse with one lithe maneuver that easily confirmed his injured leg had never slowed him down. "I guess I'll just have a look around and make sure Curt's not hiding under the bed."
"No, you won't! You got no right to trespass on me, boy." Perch jerked to his feet.
Blu clamped his hand on the man's bony shoulder and shoved him back on the chair. He didn't like playing rough, but if he couldn't get anywhere being nice, then he'd play the role Perch expected him to play. "Sit, old man, and don't move. I've hit you before, and you know how hard I can hit. But I don't mind showing you again."
"Bastard!" Perch continued to cuss, but he stayed down—he was no match for the Blu Devil, and they both knew it.
Inside the boathouse, B
lu came face-to-face with a wall covered with dozens of house-blessing masks. He'd forgotten about the masks. Down at Cruger's he'd heard that Perch's collection was second only to Lema's at Spirit World.
A hint of lemon clung in the air, and he turned his head to the left to catch sight of a smoke stream coming from an incense cone sitting on a shelf next to a picture.
A picture…
Blu moved closer, and there in the picture was the proof sitting next to Perch on the old pilothouse. Without a doubt, his Angel was Perch's Kristie.
Blu felt his throat close off, felt his heart thud loudly in his chest. He left the boathouse seconds later, stepping past Perch without looking at him, then vaulting through the air to the dock. Halfway to the Nightwing, still not looking back, he called out to Perch. "I'll be in touch, old man. Maybe Christmas will come early this year."
Perch's reply was short and to the point. Two words clearly stated what he thought of Blu duFray.
* * *
Kristen woke to the sound of Rose duFray teaching Amanda how to sing "Mary Had a Little Lamb." She quickly dressed in her yellow tank top and fitted jeans, then emerged from the bedroom braiding her long hair into a single plait.
"Good morning, child. Did you sleep well?"
Kristen glanced at Amanda, who was on her knees helping Rose stir a huge bowl of cookie dough. Well, she wasn't really helping, she was stealing nuts whenever the spoon wasn't in motion.
"Amanda, don't do that," Kristen scolded.
"Look, Mommeee, nut." Holding it out to Kristen, she offered her mother the pecan half.
Kristen ate it. "Mmm, it's good, isn't it? But we need to leave the rest for the cookies."
"She's adorable," Rose complimented. "And so smart."
"I want to thank you for letting us stay here last night. And for not calling Blu and telling him we were here."
"I still think that was a mistake, but it was your decision to make."
Kristen dodged the subject. "If you'd like some help in the store for a few hours, I'd be happy to do it. But we'll be leaving later this afternoon."
"Leaving? Where are you going?"
She was beginning to detest the lying. But just once more, Kristen thought. "I have a friend at the women's shelter, Sister Marian. She's expecting us for supper."
"I could use you downstairs after lunch for a few hours. My helper is still sick." Rose turned to the sink, washed and dried her hands, then picked up Amanda and washed her sticky fingers, too. "Look in here, sweetheart." Rose eased Amanda down and opened a cupboard with plastic bowls stacked inside. "You can play with anything you like."
Amanda stretched her little body and looked into the cupboard. When she backed up and looked at Kristen, her eyes were wide and hesitant.
"Go ahead. She said you could."
Of course, Amanda, like any two-and-a-half-year old, was more than eager to make a mess of Rose's cupboard, but messes had never been allowed at the Maland estate. She hesitated a few minutes more, glanced at Kristen again, then finally reached inside and began to empty the cupboard.
Rose poured two glasses of orange juice and brought them to the small table where Kristen sat. "So, what did Blu do to make you leave the Nightwing?"
"What makes you think he did something?"
"Because I know my son. I don't like the word 'hothead,' but he can be ornery and stubborn."
"I haven't really noticed that," Kristen replied. "Not often, anyway."
"Really. That's interesting."
"No. I left the Nightwing because I just didn't want to impose on Blu with Amanda." There, that sounded reasonable.
"About Amanda?"
"She's my child," Kristen said quickly.
"I know. She looks just like you. So, Blu didn't ask you to leave the Nightwing?"
"No."
"But you felt you should, and he agreed?"
"Not exactly." Kristen refused to admit the real reason she'd left. "I'm sorry for burdening you like this. I'm going back home in a few days." It wasn't a lie. She was going home, in a roundabout way. Home was where you felt safe and happy, and she intended to find a place where she and Amanda could live without looking over their shoulders.
"If I can do anything… I have plenty of room, child. You can stay here as long as you like." Rose stood, glanced down to where Amanda was enjoying herself building a tower of bowls. "Did Blu tell you about those poor children he rescued last year?"
Kristen was taking a sip of juice. She set the glass down. "No. He never mentioned any children to me."
"That's how he got shot. You knew that he'd been shot?"
"No, I didn't know."
"That's the reason he limps. Didn't he tell you any of it?"
"No."
Rose sighed and headed for the living room. When she returned, she was carrying a scrapbook. "Here. This will give you a clearer picture of who my son really is. You make yourself breakfast and take your time looking through this. That is, if you're interested." She patted the book. "There are things in here that might shock you, but there is more good in here than bad. Anytime the percents are up, a parent should count their blessings. It's a tough world out there, and only the strong make it. I'm proud to say I have two strong children. My husband, Carl, used to say, 'Rose, don't you worry none about those two kids of ours. We grew 'um tough.'"
* * *
Kristen was bent over, offering Manard Nelson—a local customer with a round belly and thick glasses—her advice on spices, when she heard the doorbell ring. She glanced up to greet her next customer and her heart stopped. Blu was coming through the front door. There was no way she could disappear before he saw her, no way to avoid him at all since Rose had slipped upstairs with Amanda for a fifteen-minute break.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was three o'clock. The store would close by five, and she'd planned it so she would have just enough time to make it to the bus station by seven.
Manard was saying something. Kristen didn't hear, nor could she move—Blu had spied her and their eyes locked. For a moment she couldn't look away, then she had to. She realized she knew too much about this man, too much and not enough.
"Miss? I said, I'll take the jambalaya seasonin'. The five ounce, please. I'm gonna be usin' it on shrimp and my homemade smoked sausage."
"Good choice, Manard." Blu stepped forward, plucked the spice off the shelf and limped to the cash register. Manard's wrapped fish sat on the counter, and Kristen watched as Blu got busy ringing up the two purchases. She watched his hands, a mix of emotions flooding her thoughts.
"That'll be nine dollars and sixteen cents, Manard."
The older man had waddled to the register. Squinting at the cash register's highlighted numbers, he said, "Don't that seem high?"
"You don't want the spice." Blu reached for the spice and hauled it back, then shoved the fish toward Manard. "Six dollars and forty-nine cents."
"Now wait a minute, Blu."
"Either you want the fish or the spice, Manard. Me, I'd take the fish. That is, unless you enjoy spicy toast."
"Toast. Hell, I gotta have more than toast for supper. But Pearl said I should pick up seasonin' for her shrimp."
Kristen watched Blu shove the spice forward to join the wrapped fish. "That'll be nine dollars and sixteen cents, Manard."
The older man screwed up his face, looked at the register's highlighted numbers once more, then mumbled something about the high cost of living. Seconds later he dug deep in his pocket and pulled out the correct amount. Blu tossed the money in the till, then came around the counter. He stuck the spice in Manard's shirt pocket, then tossed him the wrapped fish. Manard was still juggling his package as Blu gripped his arm and propelled him out the door and into the street. "Thanks, Manard."
Before the man could reply, Blu shut the door in his face, flipped the Open sign around, then locked the door.
"You can't close," Kristen insisted. "The sign says Open Until Five."
"When you're in business
for yourself you can do any damn thing you want. Look at me, I haven't worked for over a week."
His confession reminded Kristen as to why that was, and she raised her chin. "Go back to work, Blu Devil. There's no reason not to anymore."
He studied her a minute. Finally he said, "You didn't have to leave."
"Yes, I did." Kristen wasn't going to get into it. She'd lied to him and he'd walked out because of it. They both had their reasons for doing what they'd done. And that's how she intended to view Blu's "other job," too. He must have had a reason for becoming the Blu Devil. She didn't understand it, but one thing she was sure of was that deep in this man's soul he was a good person.
"I want you back on the boat."
Kristen blinked out of her musing. "How did you know I was here? Did your mother call you?"
"No. I've been going door to door. Arnie Lennon down at the liquor store told me he saw you in here yesterday afternoon. Go tell Ma I'm taking you for a boat ride, then out to supper."
"No, I can't. Blu? Blu!"
Kristen raced after him as he headed for the stairs. He took them three at a time and was inside the apartment before she could stop him.
"Ma!"
"Blu, is that you?"
"Da…"
Kristen had reached the door. Blu was already in the kitchen. Rose was holding Amanda in the rocking chair in the living room. With all eyes on Amanda, they watched as she wiggled off Rose's lap, and with a wide grin, trotted eagerly to Blu. More amazing was watching him hunker down and wrap his big hands around her as she began to climb up onto his knee.
"Hey, Mandy, how's my girl?"
Giggling, her little hands squeezed Blu's cheeks, which made his lips pucker, then she kissed him. He made as if he was going to bite her neck after that, and she giggled louder.
For a moment Rose and Kristen watched without saying a word, then finally Kristen found her voice. "I'm sorry, Mrs. duFray, but Blu put the Closed sign out and locked the door. I tried to tell him—"