"So I noticed," Jack said, rubbing his jaw wryly. "Who knew the Ravens could be so pugnacious when provoked."
"Pugnacious." I laughed. "Now there's a word you don't hear every day, city boy."
He laughed, put his hand around my neck, drew me closer, and kissed me. Jack was a good kisser—firm-lipped, just the right amount of pressure, no tongue unless he meant things to go further, which he apparently didn't tonight. And that was all right with me. It had been a long day, and I had a lot on my mind.
"This Zachary Jones guy," I began. "I've got my eye on him."
Jack took the ice pack from me and held it himself. "Should I be worried?"
"You know what I mean," I said. "I've got my eye on him for what happened to Slim."
With his free hand, he squeezed my shoulder. "Just teasing," he said. "If we can help clear Valentine, I'm with you on this. What do you have in mind?"
"That's just it," I said. "I don't know this guy. How am I going to get close enough to him to find anything out?"
"He's a bookie, right?"
I nodded.
"And from what you told me Stella said, his business is important to him, important enough that he spends a small fortune here having his astrology charts done to add his own good luck to the spreadsheets he uses."
Again, I nodded. "That's what she said."
Jack shrugged. "Seems pretty simple to me."
"I don't suppose you'd be willing to share your thoughts then."
He took hold of my hand, pulled me up, and began to hum Justin Timberlake's "Like I Love You." We danced a couple of minutes before I said, "Ok, so spill it."
He pulled me closer and put his lips next to my ear. "If you want to get close to a sports bookie, girl. You've got to place a bet with him."
CHAPTER TWELVE
After Jack walked me back to the resort, and the shuttle took me to the ferry, I crossed over and walked the few blocks to our place on Dumaine Street. The air was crisp and cold, the sky clear, but I couldn't see the stars until I rounded the corner off the busy, well-lit thoroughfare of Decatur onto Dumaine, and the only lights were the amber glow coming from residence windows.
We rented a two-bedroom from Mrs. Peabody who owned the three-apartment complex where she, our neighbor Beauregard Taylor, and Cat and I shared the lovely brick courtyard surrounded by the building. I let myself into the locked gate. Light from Mrs. Peabody's place and our place spilled out into the courtyard. Beau's place was dark. He tended bar at Thibadeaux's on Bourbon Street in the Quarter and was probably getting extra hours during the holiday season.
Cat was snuggled on the sofa in her robe and slippers, watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas on TV. Satchmo was curled up on her lap but jumped down and ran to greet me when I walked in.
Cat turned. "How'd it go?"
I took off my jacket and hung it on the coatrack just inside the double French doors that led me into the living room. "It was pretty exciting." I sat down at one end of the sectional sofa and toed off first one boot then the other, rubbing one stockinged foot against the other. "I've seen Cajuns brawl before, but who knew those long-robed tree huggers would be up to holding their own." I patted the empty spot beside me, and Satchmo jumped up and curled up, his head on my thigh. I scratched his ears. "Jack got a few scrapes and bumps."
Cat grinned. "Did you kiss all the boo-boos and make them better?"
I sighed. "Not all of them."
On the TV set, the music swelled and the Grinch's heart grew. We both stopped talking to watch. We both loved this holiday favorite from childhood.
When the credits began to roll, Cat switched off the TV. "Did you have something to eat?"
"Not yet," I told her. "You?"
"Scrambled eggs and andouille sausage. Still some in the skillet." She got up. "Come on. We'll heat it up."
I carried my plate out to the Mission-style table we'd stripped down and refinished when we'd first moved in. Cat sat opposite me with a cup of her favorite Waterfall chamomile tea that she ordered off the internet by the case. I'd filled a glass with almond milk. Neither Cat nor I would have ever been called good cooks exactly, but we both did a mean breakfast. And tonight was no different. "This rocks, Cat," I said, chewing.
She fluffed her hair. "Why, thank you, ma'am."
"What's on your calendar for tomorrow?" I asked. "I'm off, and I was thinking I might go 'round to one of those disreputable betting parlors. You know, see if I can't catch me a killer?"
"You what?" She practically choked on her tea.
"You wanna go?" I asked.
"Heck, yeah," she said. "I'm going straight to bed and setting my alarm. I wouldn't miss this for the world."
* * *
I got up the next morning and called Stella. She said she was still getting ready for work and sounded rushed.
"I have a plan," I told her.
"Good to know," she said, sounding impatient.
"I'm going to place a bet with your client Zachary Jones and grill him about where he was and what he was doing the night of Slim's murder."
"Oh, Mel, not really," she said.
"Yes, really. I don't buy that Valentine had anything to do with this mess, and not only do I want to clear her, I feel like when the killer stole Papa's bag, it was almost as if he was stealing from me. Those kids need the loot from that benefit, especially Nicole. A match could come up for her any day, and if money isn't there to help with the bone marrow transplant, it could mess things up real bad. And I know you want to help, Stella."
She was quiet for a while, and I began to think she might not answer but then, "What can I do?"
"You can tell me where your customer Zachary Jones runs his illegal sports book."
She swallowed so hard I heard it all the way from across the river in Lafitte, over the phone connection. "What makes you think I know where he runs his business from?"
I didn't answer, didn't figure I needed to. I gave her time to come to the inevitable conclusion.
Finally, "It's over on Bourbon Street, above a bar…"
She gave me all the details, and I wrote down every word she said.
After I showered and dressed in what I hoped was appropriate wear for sleuthing, a pair of black jeans, black boots, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and a leather motocross jacket, I dug out my old pixie-cut black wig and put it on. It made me look like a thirteen-year-old boy, but at least maybe Zachary wouldn't recognize me. For good measure, I put on a pair of sunglasses to disguise my eyes.
I walked out of my bedroom to find Cat sitting on the sofa, waiting and wearing, honest to God, the exact same outfit, only with a blue long-sleeved T-shirt and long blonde glamour wig. It told me I'd chosen the correct wardrobe for the chore.
She stood and yanked down her jacket. "You ready?"
"You kiddin' me, chère?" I replied. "I was born ready."
We locked up and left.
* * *
Rue Bourbon, Bourbon Street. Obi-Wan Kenobi would have accurately described it as a wretched hive of scum and villainy. While I wouldn't have gone quite that far, Bourbon Street was definitely one of a kind. Cat and I pointedly avoided it most of the time, but of course when Jack and I started hanging out, I had to take him there. He'd heard all kinds of things about it. Most were true. He'd commented that even Times Square wasn't nearly so hedonistic. It was said to be Mardi Gras year round, and that there were places on Bourbon Street that never closed until the last partier had left the building, so people could drink and carouse around the clock if they wanted to.
Women with any common sense at all avoided going there alone at night, and even in the daylight, it could be a little iffy. I was definitely glad Cat had wanted to come with me.
The morning air was still brisk as it swept along the nearly empty sidewalks, quiet by Bourbon Street standards. Street sweepers had already made their rounds, so things weren't in a terrible state. The address Stella had given me for Zachary Jones's sports book was above a bar called Floozy's, ju
st on the hetero side of the Lavender Line.
A confused and disheveled-looking guy sat on the curb in front of the bar, his head in his hands as a cop stood above him with one foot propped on the curb while he checked the guy's ID. The cop looked up as we walked by, his disapproval evident. Cat and I both smiled and went quickly into the bar before someone stopped to ask what a couple of nice girls like us were doing in a place like this.
The farther we went inside, the darker it grew. Tables and chairs were on one side, an old-style wooden bar on the other. A stale smell of beer and bar food permeated every nook and cranny.
An older guy sat at the counter nursing beers. Two middle-aged couples hovered over an order of wings and a few huge rainbow-colored drinks.
A woman behind the bar, leaning forward on her elbows, straightened as we walked up to her.
"Stairs?" Cat asked.
The bartender didn't reply until I said, "Looking for Zachary," then she pointed us to the back of the place where we found a flight of barely lit stairs.
I put my hand on the sticky bannister then pulled it off and looked at my palm before placing one foot on the first step. "So, here we go." I was suddenly nervous.
Cat was behind me, looking up, her eyes big and round. She gulped. "You first."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Up we went. After ringing a buzzer, we waited in an area on the second floor that had been recently upgraded. New brick pavers tiled the landing. The door itself looked fairly new and clean and was opened by a guy who looked like a contemporary of Zachary Jones. About the same age and demeanor, except this guy must have tipped the scales at over 250, and every ounce looked like solid muscle.
He didn't speak but stood waiting until I said, "I was told to ask for Zachary." Then he opened the door wide, and we walked in.
Cat grabbed the back of my arm, and I had to shake her off. "Geez, Cat."
We were led toward the back of the place where a bank of video screens lined the wall. On each screen was one kind or another sports event going on—football, basketball, ice hockey, car races, and one with a green screen with white letters that looked like an odds sheet.
Zachary Jones sat facing the screens, chewing on the end of a pen.
All around us, people were clicking away at computers and holding animated phone conversations. It was busy as an anthill.
The young guy who'd led us in spoke. "Mr. Jones, someone to see you."
Zachary swiveled around. He looked surprised to see us, but there was no flair of recognition in his eyes. "Hello," he said. "How can I help you?"
"We'd like to place a bet on a horse race," I tried to sound like I knew what I was talking about.
He grinned. "Oh, great. Well, Dan here can help you with that."
Dan, the guy who'd answered the door, gestured and said, "Right this way—"
I interrupted him, standing my ground. "I was told to ask for Zachary." I was pretty sure my voice shook.
Zachary leaned his elbows onto his knees and laced his fingers together, looking up at us. "And you are?"
"Um, Priscilla McGillicuddy."
"Do I know you?" he asked. "You seem familiar to me?"
"No," I said, hoping it didn't sound phony. "I never saw you before in my life."
"Who told you to ask for me specifically, Priscilla?"
"Slim," I said. "Slim Conner."
"Slim?" Zachary asked. "How do you—did you know him?"
I pretended not to know what happened to Slim and just shrugged. "Just seen him around here and there. You know."
"Huh." He stood. "I'm glad to help you." Then he led us to a computer station and sat down behind it. "Tell me."
"Well, we…" How was this sort of thing done?
Thank God for Cat, who'd found her voice and her confidence. "There's a filly running in the fourth today at the track. Gypsy Lady. She has good odds, and we'd like to place a cash bet on her."
He nodded, sizing up the two of us and held out his hand.
I fished around in my jeans pocket and pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill, which I laid on the small table, smoothing it out with my fingers. "There ya go."
He stared at it. Then he looked up at us.
"That's your bet?"
"Well—" I looked at Cat. "Yeah."
After a beat, he began to laugh, and my face went hot. "What?"
Cat cleared her throat. "It's not enough?"
He stopped laughing after a bit and said, "Well, if you want my honest opinion, you and your twenty dollars would have a lot more fun making the trip out to the actual track. They take bets like this there."
"Hmmph." Cat narrowed her eyes at him. I could tell he'd gotten off on the wrong foot with her. She yanked her purse around and unzipped it, reaching inside and bringing out another twenty-dollar bill, this one in better shape that the one I'd given him. "What about now?" she said. "Will you take our money now?"
He studied her a minute and laughed a little before reaching for the forty bucks. "Sure," he said. "Why not? Who knows? You girls might roll this into something major and wind up being my best customers one of these days."
He explained the process to us. Our bet was on Gypsy Lady, a three-year-old filly, to place in the fourth race. If she came in second, the odds were such that our $40.00 would miraculously become $640.00.
"Really," I said, totally amazed.
"But if she runs anything but second," Zachary went on, picking up the two twenties, kissing each one, and then waving at us. "Buh-bye."
He laughed again. "I want to thank you girls for coming in. You made my day. It's been a while since I took a bet like this one, and it'd be a real kick in the pants if you win. So good luck."
I suddenly remembered why we'd come. It wasn't to gamble—Mama would have died if she knew—it was to get answers.
"We'll be sure to thank Slim for sending us, and if you see him first, tell him we said, 'Yat.'"
"Not likely I'm gonna see him anytime soon. You didn't hear?"
I batted my eyes until Cat poked me in the side. "Hear?"
"Slim's dead. Got knocked over a couple of nights ago out in the bayou."
Both Cat and I took in an exaggerated breath. "What? Slim Conner?" I gasped.
"You sure 'bout that?" Cat whined.
"Pretty sure," Zachary said. "They're saying it was murder."
"Oh, my," I said. "When was that?"
"Tuesday night," he answered. "Out where he worked. The Mansion at Mystic Isle. It's across the river over in Jefferson Parish."
"Wow," Cat said.
"How'd you hear about it?" I asked. "Were you there?"
He nodded. "I sure was. There was some big shindig going on, and I'd forgot all about it till I got there and saw my lady who I see over there wasn't working, so I turned around and came back here. But I was there for a little while. Slim, he wasn't working at his usual place then either. And, believe me, I wanted to talk to that man."
"You needed to talk to Mr. Conner about something?" Cat asked.
Zachary nodded absently while he clicked a few keys on the keyboard in front of him. "Oh, yeah, I needed to talk to him about 52,000 somethings," he said absently.
The noise I made in the back of my throat caused him to look up at me. "Money? Was it money? Did Slim owe you $52,000.00?"
His face was serious. "Your friend Slim was a real deadbeat, and I was a fool for letting it mount up like that. He even stiffed me on the interest payments." He smirked. "Now I know you ladies would never do something like that. Would you?"
We both shook our heads.
He went on, "Because if you did, well, I couldn't be responsible for any bad karma you might be creating for yourselves."
I didn't know what to say. Cat took hold of my hand.
"Well," I said. "I guess we better be getting on back home."
We both turned and hadn't taken more than two steps toward the door when Zachary's voice, harsh and imperative, cut right through us. "Stop!"
We both looked up at the only apparent exit, where Dan stood blocking the door, massive forearms crossed over his chest.
"Holy crud," Cat whispered. "We're gonna die."
But apparently not just then. Zachary stood and came around the computer station. "You forgot your receipt, Priscilla."
"Oh." Whew. "Thanks." I took it, and Cat and I double-timed it to where Dan was now holding open the door to let us out.
It was after ten thirty when we walked back out onto the sidewalk in front of Floozy's. Cat had an appointment at work, so she headed down to the ferry, while with my bet in mind, I splurged on a cab that carried me from Bourbon Street over to the Lower Ninth Ward and St. Antoine's Children's Home. On the way, I snatched off the sunglasses, took the black wig off my head, scrubbed my scalp with my fingers, and then fluffed up my hair.
Then I called Cap'n Jack. He was already hard at work in his office. "Hey, girl."
I sighed. Those words on another man's lips would make him sound like a player, but when Jack said them, it was an endearment. "Jack, could you do me one?" I asked.
"Anything," he said, and I knew he meant it.
"This Zachary Jones," I began. "Jack, the guy has admitted he was on the property the night Slim was killed. He insists he just showed up without an appointment, and when Stella wasn't available, he turned right around and left. I was wondering if the security footage might not have recorded his activities. Any way you might have time to take a look?"
"Huh," he said. "So he was here? I'll have a few minutes after I finish up reviewing the social director's agenda for tonight. Ring me back later."
"I have one stop to make then I'm crossing on the ferry. I'll see you soon, Bob," I said.
"Bob?" It took a minute. "Oh. Right. Bob Cratchit." He paused a few seconds before saying, "Why do I ever sign on for these things?"
I could hardly wait to see handsome Jack in his Bob Cratchit costume tonight at The Mansion's Ghostly Christmas Gala—and not only Jack. Several of my other friends would be appearing as characters from the Dickens classic.
Mystic Mistletoe Murder Page 9