Fat Tuesday

by Sandra Brown

She was alone. For a time, she leaned into one of the support columns,

  then she made a slow circuit around the gazebo, trailing her hand along

  the ivy-covered railing. When she returned to her original spot, she

  leaned against the support column again, this time placing her back to

  it.

  Burke saw her face for the first time and, although he didn't speak it

  out loud, he thought, Wow.

  Her black hair looked iridescent in the cool, bluish light, while that

  same moonlight made her skin appear as pale and translucent as

  alabaster. The short black cocktail dress showed off a lot of leg.

  Her breasts swelled above the scooped neckline.

  Burke immediately pegged her as one of the expensive whores who worked

  the classy hotel bars where conventioneers from out of town were eager

  to spend huge sums of money for an hour or two of carnality with what

  they were promised was a genuine, hot-blooded Creole gal.

  Burke smiled grimly. He bet this one was higher priced than most. She

  had a look about her that said I'm expensive and worth every penny.

  She was the kind who could hold out for clients with Duvall's flash and

  finances.

  Not that she would have to hold out. A man with a bankroll like Pinkie

  Duvall's didn't have to surround himself with ugly women. Maybe this one

  had been hired only for the night as a party decoration Or maybe she was

  the girlfriend of one of the guests. Or she could be a permanent

  hanger-on who put out routinely for Duvall and his friends in exchange

  for designer clothes and good drugs.

  The keeping of mistresses had been an accepted practice in New Orleans

  since the city was first settled. Flesh peddling was a major industry in

  any convention town, New Orleans was certainly no exception. Every cab

  driver in the city knew the address of Ruby Bouchereaux's place.

  Her girls were top-notch. Ruby herself was one of the richest women in

  the state.

  But there were also the street hookers who worked the dark corners of

  the Quarter. They would give blow jobs in an alley for a hit of crack.

  They were no more selective than the crib girls who had made Storyville

  one of the most notorious red-light districts in the world.

  Regardless of the price tag, there was no shortage of work in the Big

  Easy for a hard-core whore.

  But even as the thought crossed his mind, Burke realized that this one

  didn't look hard-core. Since drug dealing and prostitution often crossed

  lines with each other, he'd learned a lot from watching these girls. He

  could size one up and know immediately if she was going to succumb to

  the life or if she possessed the killer instincts to survive.

  He wouldn't put his money on this one to make it. She was classy, all

  right. But she didn't look rapacious and calculating. She looked. sad.

  Still unaware that she was being watched, she relaxed her head against

  the ornate ironwork and closed her eyes. Then she slid her hands down

  her body until they met at the center of her lower abdomen.

  Burke's mouth went dry. His gut clenched.

  The guys working Vice routinely circulated pornographic videos, films,

  or magazines that had been confiscated for evidence. It wasn't Burke's

  habit to watch them, but he was as normal as the next guy, and what man,

  cop or otherwise, could turn away from this scene without waiting to see

  what was going to happen next.

  Actually, nothing did. She didn't remove her clothing. She didn't

  actually fondle that erogenous zone. She didn't moan or groan or gyrate

  or breathe heavily through partially opened lips.

  Nevertheless, her pose was arresting. Arousing, even.

  And apparently he wasn't the only one who thought so.

  Burke had been so transfixed by her that he saw the approaching man only

  seconds before she herself became aware of Wayne Bardo.

  Bardo, Basile thought, contempt causing his mustache to curl downward.

  He'd mistaken her for a classy chick, when she'd been waiting on Bardo,

  lord of the lowlives, a career criminal who always beat the rap with the

  able assistance of Pinkie Duvall.

  Did she know that Bardo had killed a prostitute when he was only

  sixteen? They'd been playing tie-me-up-and-hurt-me when he'd gotten her

  neck confused with her wrist and strangled her with her own stocking.

  He'd been tried as a juvenile for involuntary manslaughter and served

  only a year of his sentence before being placed on probation. If that's

  the kind of creep this high-ticket whore pandered to, she deserved no

  better than she got.

  Bardo was all over her now, and she was squirming against him.

  Turning away in disgust, Burke thrashed through the hedge and returned

  to his Toyota, parked among the Beemers and Jags belonging to Duvall's

  guests.

  "Taking the evening air?"

  Remy's heart jumped when she opened her eyes and saw Wayne Bardo

  standing poised in the entrance of the gazebo. He had been intentionally

  stealthy, wanting to startle her. His dark features were heavily

  shadowed and indiscernible, like a figure in a nightmare.

  Instantly she lowered her hands, but she knew he'd seen her pressing

  them against her body because his grin was even more suggestive than

  usual. He was blocking her exit. Short of vaulting the railing, there

  was nowhere for her to run.

  Without bothering to conceal her dislike, she asked, "What are you doing

  out here?" "I missed you at the party. Came looking for you."

  He stepped forward.

  Although it took an act of will not to recoil from him, Remy stood her

  ground. When he was only inches from her, he gave her an insulting

  once-over, his eyes lingering on her chest. Lowering his voice to a

  confidential level, he said, "And here you are."

  Bardo was handsome in the way of a silent-movie idol. His black hair was

  combed straight back from a wide forehead and steep widow's peak.

  He had a smooth, olive complexion. He was trim and lean, and flashily

  dressed. But from the day Remy met him, she had mistrusted his suave

  manner and was put off by the smoldering intensity he affected.

  Even before Pinkie was retained to represent him in the Stuart case,

  they had been associates, so Bardo was a frequent visitor to the house.

  Remy treated him with cool politeness, but avoided having any close

  contact. His smoky stares gave her the creeps.

  On those rare occasions when she was caught alone with him, usually by

  his cagey design, he never failed to say something suggestive, his smirk

  loaded with innuendo. He always acted as though he and she shared a

  naughty secret.

  "Pinkie will be looking for me."

  She tried to move past him, but instead of giving way, he boldly splayed

  his hand over her lower body and stroked her with his fingers.

  "Why don't you let me take over for you here."

  He had never dared to touch her, and for a moment she was paralyzed by

  repugnance and fear. She had overheard enough of his boasts to know that

  he enjoyed all forms of violence, a penchant that logically would extend

  to his relationships with women. No less importantly, she feared what
/>
  Pinkie would do if he were to learn that another man had laid a hand on

  her.

  Bardo's boldness tonight was probably due to his delusions of

  invincibility following his acquittal, and possibly to the alcohol she

  smelled on his breath. His excitement would only be fanned if she showed

  any fear. Instead, in a harsh and distinct voice, she told him to remove

  his hand.

  Stretching wider his reptilian grin, he ground his palm more firmly

  against her."Or what, Mrs. Duvall?"

  Pushing the words between clenched teeth, she said, "If you don't take

  your hand off me " "He was fucking you, wasn't he?"

  Unable to stand his touch another second, she shoved his hand away.

  "Leave me alone." This time when she made to go past him, he roughly

  took her by the shoulders and backed her against the support column.

  "That's why you were late for the party, right? Pinkie was screwing his

  brains out. If you belonged to me, that's what I'd do. Day and night.

  All the time, I'd be at you. One way or another."

  Lewdly, he rubbed his pelvis against her."You think Pinkie is good?

  Until you've had me, you don't know from good, Mrs. Duvall." He stuck

  out his tongue and wagged it obscenely, then dragged it across her neck.

  "It's only a matter of time, you know. I'm gonna have you." She

  swallowed her nausea and pushed against him with all her strength.

  She couldn't have physically overpowered him, he allowed her to push him

  away. When he stepped back, he was laughing at her attempts to stave him

  off.

  "If you come near me again " "You'll what? Well, speak up, Mrs. Duvall:

  What'll you do?"

  He placed his hand above her head on the column and leaned into her.

  His voice was taunting."You'll what? Tattletale to Pinkie?" He shook his

  head."I don't think so. If you told your husband I'd come on to you, he

  might blame you instead of me. He trusts me, see. And you do have a way

  of advertising the merchandise."

  He reached for her breast, but she slapped his hand aside."I won't

  bother telling Pinkie. I'll handle you myself."

  "Handle me?" he mocked."I like the sound of that." Her voice calm, eyes

  glittering as coldly as the gem around her neck, she said, "Mr. Bardo,

  are you under the misconception that you're the only killer-for-hire on

  my husband's payroll?"

  For a fleeting moment, his arrogant grin faltered and his dark eyes lost

  some of their gleam. Using that momentary lapse in his selfconfidence,

  Remy pushed him aside, and this time successfully escaped him.

  She walked quickly and purposefully up the pathway back to the house,

  hoping that Wayne Bardo couldn't see how unstable her knees were.

  Because, despite her boast, in a toss-up situation between her and

  Bardo, she wasn't sure whom Pinkie would believe.

  GAg Barbara was already asleep when Burke got home. He undressed in the

  dark, not wanting to awaken her. But when he got into bed beside her,

  she rolled toward him."Where have you been?"

  "Sorry I woke you up."

  "It's late, isn't it?"

  "A little after midnight."

  "Where've you been?" she repeated.

  "Working."

  "You told me Doug had given you the rest of the week off."

  "He did." He wished she would leave it there, but he sensed her unspoken

  demand for an explanation."I had to put some closure on it, Barbara.

  Isn't that the catchphrase these days? Closure?"

  She gave a little huff of disapproval."For God's sake, Burke, Kev

  Stuart's been dead for months. The verdict is in on Bardo's trial."

  "I know all that."

  "So get over it," she snapped.

  "It's not that easy."

  "It's not easy, but you're making it harder than it has to be."

  A dozen sharp retorts sprang to mind, but he held them back. He and

  Barbara had plowed this row countless times. He didn't want to plow it

  again tonight. Their arguments always left him feeling like he'd been

  wrung out and hung up to dry. He couldn't take another defeat today.

  In a more conciliatory tone, she said, "What happened to Kev was

  terrible. But the harsh reality is that policemen get killed. The risk

  goes with the job."

  "But it's pretty damn rare that a cop's own partner is the risk."

  "It wasn't your fault."

  "The jury must've thought so. In any event, they didn't blame Bardo."

  While subconsciously flexing his right hand, Burke envisioned Duvall's

  house, lit up like Shangri-La, flowing with liquor, and filled with food

  and fancy women."He and Duvall are having a big party tonight in

  celebration of killing a good cop." He kicked off the covers and sat on

  the edge of the bed with his hands supporting his head.

  Behind him, Barbara also sat up."How do you know what they're doing?"

  "Because I was over there watching them."

  Even though his back was to her, Burke imagined her frowning with

  consternation."Are you insane? Are you trying to get yourself fired?

  If Doug Pat is forced to fire you, will that make everything all right?

  Would losing your job make you happy?"

  '"It would make you happy."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  He shot her a pointed look over his shoulder."Like you haven't been

  after me for years to leave the department."

  "I don't want you to leave it in disgrace," she said angrily.

  He snorted a caustic laugh."Oh, I see. No wonder you didn't come to the

  courthouse during the trial. You didn't want to be associated with the

  disgrace of the N.O.P.D, which, ironically, is an organization you've

  bad-mouthed for years."

  During the course of their marriage, a recurring argument had been over

  his work. Barbara wanted him to give up police work in favor of

  something less demanding and more lucrative. Discussions on the subject

  started out in a fractious mode and usually deteriorated into shouting

  matches that resolved nothing, but left in their wake disaffection and

  resentment on both sides.

  Barbara always fell back on the argument that if he loved her, he would

  take her feelings into account. Burke's argument was that if she loved

  him, she wouldn't ask that he stop doing what he loved to do. What if he

  were to insist that she give up teaching? Would that be fair? It was an

  ongoing debate that neither side could win.

  Tonight, Burke was too tired to engage in such a futile argument.

  He lay back down and stared at the ceiling.

  After a long silence, she said contritely, "I didn't mean that the way

  it sounded. The disgrace part." There was genuine remorse in her voice,

  but she didn't touch him. He couldn't remember when they'd last touched

  each other in anything more than a perfunctory way. Not since the night

  Kev died. Maybe even before then. No, definitely long before then.

  He turned his head toward her and said softly, "Forget it, Barbara. It

  doesn't matter."

  Although years of chronic discontent had etched lines into her face, she

  remained a very attractive woman. Teaching physical education at a

  public middle school had kept her figure slender and supple. In fact his

  coworkers often
dropped envious, if lewd, comments about her figure.

  They all thought he was one lucky son of a bitch to have Barbara in his

  bed every night.

  Sadly, Burke couldn't recall the last time they'd done anything in bed

  except sleep. During the months leading up to the trial, his fractured

  emotions and heavy workload hadn't left him with the energy even to

  think about sex. Responding to his moodiness, Barbara hadn't initiated

  it either.

  But now Bardo's trial was over. The issue was history. Kev had died, but

  Burke hadn't. It was time he began living again. Sex would be

  rejuvenating. It might make him appreciate that he hadn't been entombed

  along with Kev.

  A woman's softness had healing properties. Her body could provide a man

  not only physical relief, but surcease from spiritual conflict.

  Suddenly, Burke yearned for that sense of peace. He was desperate for a

  few minutes of sweet oblivion. He craved intimacy with something besides

  suffocating guilt and bitter regret.

  Curving his hand around the back of Barbara's neck, he drew her head