by Rawlyns, Nya
The woman looked at me with curiosity. As well she should. Even I knew I was a mess. And going to a meet with the head of Dark Haven enterprises required a cool head, not one out in lala land.
I eased in next to her, using my right hand to keep my sport coat in place. They both had to know I was armed, the bulge was a dead giveaway. Ivan’s concern for my gonads still made me smile.
The driver slid behind the wheel and pulled carefully into light traffic. We hit the usual stop and go on the Shore Parkway. I must have dozed off because the next thing I saw was the FDR parking lot ahead of us. The woman glanced irritably at her watch and tapped a manicured nail on the silk skirt.
“Tomas, when you can…” The driver nodded and angled us onto a ramp that dumped us into the East Village. We bulleted past Mom and Pop storefronts, reconstituted tenements and new high-end condos.
Expecting to pull into a parking garage for one of the office buildings, or even one of the condos, I was surprised when we double-parked outside a trendy restaurant. Tomas left the car idling and assisted the woman, leaving me to my own devices.
She had a quiet word with the driver while I surveyed the area. East Village was still in the process of switching from its immigrant pauper European and Latino roots to the more upscale image that tried hard to recapture the old bohemian artsy-fartsy crowd ambiance. Thompkins Square Park was two blocks over. I’d been working there on security for a drag fest a few years back, an interesting experience but one that almost landed me in hot water. O’Hearn was the only one who knew about that particular peccadillo. He still ribbed me about it.
Miss Prim and Proper approached the door which magically opened. A white-coated attendant with a linen napkin draped over an arm guided us, without a word, to the rear of the restaurant.
The interior dripped old-world charm, the walls lined with wine racks set at asymmetric angles, the floor polished to a dark walnut, lighting low and intimate even in the middle of the afternoon. The place obviously didn’t cater to the lunch crowd. This was a reservation only, late-night dinners, no prices on the menus destination for those in-the-know. Tables for two and four were set far apart, assuring privacy and room for carts to bring out specialty items like Caesar salad prepared at the table, or things flambéed… I was only guessing, of course, as street vendors and delis were my usual haunts. I left cuisine to Annie who provided me with as much authentic Mexican fare as I desired.
Like a lot of eateries in the city, it was long and narrow, but the rear made an ‘el’ with a small, dark and intimate cubby housing leather chairs and an octagonal table with place settings for two. The waiter pulled out a chair for the woman. He pointed a long, aquiline nose in my direction and left, closing a door I’d not noticed when we came in. The woman smirked and indicated I should sit opposite her.
“Would you like something to drink, Mr. Shephard?”
“Micah. And yes, thank you.”
Frigid air poured from an overhead vent and I was glad for the sport coat. I would have been happier to have more light. Candles flickered in wall sconces spaced far apart. The door to the main restaurant was on my right, another, almost invisible in the dark wood paneling, was left and slightly behind me.
With peripheral vision on full-alert I caught a glint in both quadrants as the weak lumens danced along the wainscoted walls. Surveillance cameras. They were discreet, but not invisible.
The disapproving waiter returned with white wine for the woman and bourbon, neat, for me. He murmured something and the woman looked up, inquiring, “Would you care for anything to eat?”
“No, I’m good.” The Reuben sat heavy in my belly. The bourbon would help with digestion, so I slugged down most of it and looked up at the waiter expectantly. He took the hint but before leaving, he cleared the dishes and silverware in front of me.
I was getting tired of thinking of her as ‘the woman’ so I asked, “And you are…?”
“An advocate.”
That was clear as mud.
The ‘advocate’ proceeded to unbutton her silk jacket, revealing a softly feminine pale blue blouse cut in a very low vee, the cleavage exposing lightly freckled skin and plump mounds. Being a man-whore isn’t easy, but I managed to direct my gaze back to her full lips, taking those small triumphs over my lust where and when I could.
I said, “I like knowing who I’m dealing with.”
“I’m not important.”
“I think I’ll be the judge of that.”
She fiddled with the edge of the blouse, adjusting it so the bits of lace fell flat along her rosy flesh. As a distraction, it was a spectacular success.
I’m not clever with verbal sparring on a good day and this ‘he said, she said’ was definitely not going in my favor, especially if I managed to swallow my tongue in the process.
And a herd of horses was not getting me to stand up.
If I couldn’t be witty, at least I could be persistent, so I said, “Well?”
“Why do you need to know, Mr. Shephard? Are you planning on asking me out?”
“Do you want me to?”
She paused long enough to give me hope and no small amount of fear that she’d say yes. This one was a complication I could do without.
She took a deep breath and exhaled, “Madeline.”
Gripping the freshened tumbler of bourbon, I drank deep and considered the black widow spider eyeing me with interest.
“Are you as dangerous as your namesake?”
She laughed out loud at that, seemingly delighted at my reference to the actress who played the executive strategist on the original TV version of La Femme Nikita.
“Is that how you see me? Cold, cruel, efficient?”
Add master manipulator and, yes, that’s exactly how I saw her: an ice queen who could melt my bones.
“You didn’t answer the question… Madeline.”
“I thought I just did.” She took a sip of wine, then said, “Perhaps we can explore next steps later. Right now we have more urgent matters to discuss.”
“I’m still waiting…”
“And I thank you for your patience, Mr. Shephard.”
The mystery door eased open on a whisper, revealing a tall man, elegantly lean and wearing a black tonal lightweight wool two button suit that I’d bet the farm carried the Canali label. I’d dated a runway model back in the day. Some of it had rubbed off.
“I’m Damien Maxwell.”
That surprised me. The CEO of Dark Haven, Inc. was Jamison Caldwell. Maxwell wasn’t a name I recognized.
I stood to shake hands, his grip strong but the skin oddly cool to the touch. Familiar, though I couldn’t say why.
He went around the table to Madeline, giving her a brilliant smile.
“My dear, thank you for bringing Mr. Shephard. You look lovely as ever.”
The voice proclaimed unctuous Euro-trash polite-speak, but his eyes sizzled like coals as he raked them over his advocate’s lush curves. A long forefinger stroked her neck, tracing the line along the nape and pausing briefly at the tight bun, the uptick in his lip telling me he had the same desire to see those strawberry blonde strands hanging loose about her shoulders as did I.
The woman, Madeline, leaned into the caress, eyes lowered, her thick lashes tickling high rounded cheekbones, lips slightly parted. The fingers that worried over the bits of lace edging suddenly stilled. I imagined her nipples growing taut in the energy surge, him to me and back again, the air so thick with lust you could cut it with a knife.
When he spoke the voice was without accent, yet I sensed English was not his native tongue. Deep, well-modulated, he sounded like the intellectual I suspected he was: a product of a privileged upbringing, with enough inherited wealth that he allowed himself indulgences, one of them being a lifestyle choice that challenged the mores of those who served him.
He was cold, hard, and dangerous; and despite the doors to either side of me, I knew I was trapped in a room with no exit.
Madeline sat mot
ionless, chest rising and falling in slow, languid movements, the man’s hands now resting lightly on her shoulders, elegant fingers following the line of her cleavage, spreading the thin material away to expose the top of a lacy confection.
Voice in a deadly purr, he stated, “She’s lovely, isn’t she?”
Madeline’s hand fell away to rest on her lap. Both of us concentrated on the rise of flesh, floating the man’s fingers, up, down, up. I had to force myself to breathe as he freed a breast from the confines of the blouse and bra, flicking at the nipple, then pinching wickedly hard between thumb and forefinger. Hissing through clenched teeth, the woman arched against the assault. My cock jumped and strained against my jeans.
Though my body enjoyed the show, my brain screamed caution and made getting out of there a priority. If I got caught up in more mind fucks, I’d lose myself completely, if I hadn’t already.
Muttering, “Perhaps I should leave you two alone,” I pushed away from the table but stopped abruptly when he said, “You used to like this sort of thing, Micah.”
Forcing my eyes away from the woman’s exposed flesh, I stared up into an abyss so terrifying, it turned my knees to jelly.
He was right. I used to like that sort of thing, as he put it. I still did, sick as that made me. It was the reason I’d retreated into the Goth world so many years ago, and the reason why it still pulled me back when loneliness and an empty soul longed for something, anything to let me feel the way I’d been with Trina… alive, with pain and pleasure my only realities.
As if on cue, the waiter entered bearing a refill of bourbon for me, but nothing for my host. Without a word, Maxwell rearranged Madeline’s clothing with practiced ease. When she was put to rights, the server led her gently from the room. The dark closed in, suffocating me.
This was a well-rehearsed tableau, not something cooked up just for my benefit. I had to believe that, otherwise I might be forced to entertain the option that Maxwell had damning information on me from a time in my life I’d rather keep buried. If O’Hearn or Annie or Juan knew what I’d been…
Maxwell eased into the seat still whispering Madeline’s body heat.
He asked, “Was I wrong about you?”
A ‘yes’ fought past my lips but both of us knew that to be a lie.
Heart hammering, I decided to go on the offensive. “You brought me here for a reason, Mr. Maxwell. Why the games? Why not lay out your proposition and be done with it?”
Steepling fingers, he smiled and said, “I needed to be sure you were the man for the job.”
“And that is…?”
Ignoring the question, he continued, “I need someone who … understands.”
Dammit, more cryptic comments. If I had a gun, I’d…
Shit, I did have a gun. And Damien Maxwell clearly did not consider that to be a problem. That spoke of arrogance. More likely, it meant I had an arsenal trained on me, and the first wrong move I made would be my last.
As if reading my mind, Maxwell chuckled and said, “Exactly right, Micah. I’m happy we’re on the same page.”
Not much scared the shit out of me anymore, but Damien Maxwell did.
“Why am I here, Maxwell?” That my voice remained steady was no small matter of pride.
“I need for you to perform a small service for me. I understand you are looking into the recent unfortunate events with some of the young ladies who frequent our various establishments.”
I nodded, waiting for him to go on.
“I believe we have mutual concerns. While you are in New Orleans, I would like you to ask a few questions, discretely.” He pulled a number ten envelope from his inside breast pocket and handed it over, then continued, “The names and addresses are all there.”
I took the envelope, still baffled. First off, how did he know I was going to New Orleans, unless… Crap, everything was on my kitchen counter. O’Hearn had eyeballed the pile just last night, and anyone with skills could get into my apartment and find out all they needed. At that point I was ready to check myself into Bellview. Damn it to hell, I couldn’t be more stupid if I tried.
Before letting my brain completely check out, I decided it’d be best just to assume Maxwell knew what I knew and stop spinning my wheels.
Still needing to pin him down, I growled, “Ask them what, exactly?”
“About unusual activity, Mr. Shepherd. Our interests, as you already are aware, extend to several major urban centers, but it is New Orleans that is our most important secondary hub. We suspect that someone has designs on our operations.”
“A corporate takeover?”
“That would be one way to look at it, yes.”
“So why not just send a squad of accountants down there and flush them out. Why me?”
“Discretion, Mr. Shephard. This must be kept low profile or we risk a war that none of us can afford right now. You go there to seek answers about the murders. I’m asking you to quietly expand your investigation to include people you might not normally consider.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, Maxwell, I’m not exactly the soul of discretion.”
The corners of his mouth turned up. “Yes, we are aware of that, Micah.”
“If I agree, what’s in it for me?”
And please don’t tell me that little display earlier was another off-the-wall retainer. Ten minutes with the black widow and she’d be feeding me my balls as hors d'oeuvres. As for the cash-advance and the blow job… well, the jury was still out on that.
Damien Maxwell stood and walked to the door. Before exiting, he said the one thing I’d prayed to hear for over sixteen long years.
“I can give you that which you seek, Micah.”
CHAPTER NINE
Big Easy
Winding my way along 9th, head down, hands jammed in pockets, I couldn’t help but feel lost and alone, completely out of my depth, and hopeful as hell.
Maxwell said he could give me what I sought. At one point in my life I was sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that what I wanted was to find Catrina, to recapture the magic, to rekindle that blaze she’d ignited in my belly.
But sixteen years later, after endless disappointment, and endless self-flagellation over what I might have done to drive her away, I was no longer so sure of my feelings, let alone what I wanted in my life. The boy ached to return to the womb, the man recognized the futility of false hope. Together they walked a tightrope with no safety net.
A brief thunderstorm turned the air cooler, sweeping away some of the grit and stink of failure coating my soul. Washington Park beckoned in the early evening shadows, dog walkers and lovers out for a stroll, old men, boys on skateboards, a few hardy tourists lining up for the night tour.
It was too dim now for the chess players, the slatted green bench seats spaced evenly around the curving pebbled retaining wall, mostly empty. An elderly black man in a deep blue baseball cap stared at the checkerboard squares, black and white, eyes darting like pinballs as he mentally replayed a game or plotted a strategy for his next opponent. He looked up briefly, expectantly.
I nodded and sat across from him. He removed a hinged box from his lap. It was inlaid with the same checkerboard pattern. He set out each piece precisely and with care. I adjusted the knight an eighth turn. He smiled and nodded approval.
He made the first move, pawn to C4. A hand, bent and arthritic, the knuckles barely discernible in the knobby flesh, hovered over the timer. At his silent question, I shrugged, not caring one way or the other. Time was no pressure for me. After sixteen years, I’d learned a thing about time… it was my enemy, never my friend.
He depressed the plunger…
****
O’Hearn sat on the stoop smoking a cigarette. It looked like things were going from bad to worse with his domestic problems, or the job was getting to him. The last time Julie kicked him out, he’d gone to two packs a day.
“Been waiting long?” Stupid question, the ground was littered with butts.
“Not
really.”
“Liar.”
He rose with difficulty, unsteady on his feet. Speaking with the deliberateness of the fully inebriated, he said, “I could use that couch again.”
“Where’s your stuff?” He waved to the unmarked car and mumbled, “S’open,” so I retrieved his duffel bag and led him up the three flights, going slow and pausing to let him catch his wind.
Keying us in, I flipped on the overhead and did a quick visual. Nothing looked disturbed but I knew looks could be deceiving. Whoever’d been in the place knew what they were doing.
After dumping Tom’s duffel on the bed, I said, “You sleep in there tonight. I need to work.”
“Don’t wanna put…”
“You’re not.”
“Got anything to drink?”
I was pretty sure the grocery and liquor store fairy hadn’t made a run on my behalf. I had whatever I’d had the night before, but less of it.
By the time I changed into sweats, made a run to the bathroom and back, Tom was slumped in the chair fingering a cigarette but not lighting up. I preferred he didn’t smoke, but I usually didn’t say no. For some reason, that was one of the few bad habits I’d never embraced.
Yay, me.
The man’s eyes were red-rimmed and burdened with a weariness I couldn’t even begin to imagine. I’d never seen him cry, not even when his old man’d beat him within an inch of his life. For a woman to bring him to this state, especially one as selfish and manipulative as his wife, really surprised me. For all we’d been through growing up, he’d remained the steadiest, and most level-headed, of the lot of us. A straight arrow in a bent world.
He caught me staring when he shrugged out of his rumpled suit coat. He was missing his shoulder holster, the gun, and the badge.
At my quizzical expression, he muttered, “Suspended.”
I busied myself with making a pot of coffee, letting Tom collect his thoughts. When it was ready I poured two mugs, black, handed him one and sat on the couch.
“Tell me.”
“She came in this morning, while I was out pursuing a lead on the St. Vartan’s murder.” He sipped and grimaced at the bitter flavor. “Talked to Cap, he said she might press charges.”