No Saint

by Mallory Kane

  “Private party?”

  “Yeah. Earl said Beau’s having some people in.” Bobby swallowed and tried a smile, but couldn’t quite bring it off. “Some special people. You think he’ll mind if I don’t know some of the drinks?”

  The naïve hope in the teenager’s voice hurt his heart. “Did you think about what I said last night?” he asked him.

  Bobby nodded weakly. “Yeah.”

  “Well?” Bobby hadn’t told Rick how old he really was, but he couldn’t be more than fifteen, sixteen at the most. A hot rage simmered inside Rick. Bobby was just a kid. What the hell was Earl thinking, assigning him to a backroom party?

  “Come on, Bobby, you know you’d rather be at home. How much would it take to get you a bus ticket?”

  “Aw, man. You sound like my old man. I’m not going home. He wants me to graduate. I’m sick of school. I’m ready to get out into the real world.” His voice cracked with anger and frustration.

  “Yeah?” Rick clenched his jaw. It was time for some tough talk. He just hoped Bobby would listen. “Well, Bobby, the real world is back there, in that private party. If you want the real world, you go ahead and see for yourself if Beau will mind that you don’t know your job.”

  Rick saw the struggle in the boy’s face. The need to prove that he could take it warred with the very real fear of what he would face behind those curtains. No. The kid wasn’t ready.

  “I—I can do it,” Bobby said tremulously. Rick grimaced to himself. “I could. I just, don’t feel too good tonight.”

  “So how come you ended up here in the first place?” Rick asked him, hoping the answer was not what it often was for runaway kids.

  Bobby scowled. “My old man was leaning on me all the time. Didn’t want me to grow my hair, didn’t want me out on weeknights. He was treating me like a kid. Embarrassing me, you know, in front of my homies, talking about being home by twelve, and stuff like that. I don’t need that, man.”

  Rick almost grinned in relief. If the kid were telling the truth, the worst thing waiting at home for him would probably be a couple of months of grounding. But just to be sure—“He ever pop you one, you know, hammer on you?”

  Bobby shook his head. “Not really,” he said, looking curiously at Rick. “He didn’t abuse me, if that’s what you mean. He’s an okay dad most of the time. He just can’t understand I’m grown-up. I’m shaving, man.”

  Rick believed him. Unless Bobby was a psychopath, which he wasn’t, he didn’t have the sophistication to pull off that good a lie. Rick let the grin reach his mouth this time. He fished several twenties out of his jeans. “Here. One of these days, you’ll figure out how lucky you are to have an old man who’s an okay dad most of the time. In fact, he’s probably worried sick right now. Why don’t you take this and catch the bus?”

  Bobby looked at the money, then at Rick.

  Rick heard Miller hailing him. “Yo, bartender!”

  “Go on,” he said. “I’ll take the party. What’d Earl tell you?”

  Bobby shook his head. “Nothing except I’d be bartending and to do what I’m told.” He turned away.

  “That money’s for a bus ticket.”

  “Yeah, man,” the boy said, smiling faintly, then turned back around. “Uh, Rick, thanks.”

  Rick nodded, then turned to Miller, clenching his jaw.

  “Hey, sweetheart, I could use another beer.” Miller smirked, but his next words were serious. “What the hell’s up with giving money to the kid?”

  Rick swept the counter in front of him with his cloth, then lifted Miller’s beer and wiped beneath it. “He needs to be at home,” he muttered, then louder: “Get you anything else?”

  “Yeah. Can a guy get a massage around here?” Miller drawled, then laughed.

  “Sir,” Rick said very distinctly. “If you’d like, I could recommend another bar.” He stared at Miller meaningfully.

  “Hell, no. I’m in on a high-stakes poker game here. Just biding my time. No problem.” Miller winked.

  “Poker game? Is that the private party I’m bartending?”

  Miller shrugged.

  “Anything else besides poker?”

  “Nope. Nothing weird tonight. Probably the kinkiest thing you’ll see is Mr. Beauregard kissing lots of Ben Franklins goodbye.”

  “So what’s your angle? Have you done this before?”

  “Nope. I managed to get an invitation to the game. The Lieutenant is hoping I’ll get asked back. Just a little extra insurance on the side for finding out about the dope. Maybe I’ll hear something.”

  “I don’t get it. I’m already here.”

  Miller drained his beer and set the glass down. He smiled and leaned in, as if he were telling Rick the punch line of a dirty joke. “Word is, they might pull you.”

  Rick laughed. “Come on, Miller. Nobody’s saying that.”

  Miller shrugged, just as Earl came up to Rick. “Where’s Bobby? Already back there?” he asked.

  “He’s sick,” Rick replied smoothly. “I’m filling in. Got somebody to work out here?”

  Earl cursed fluently. “Sick? We’re not running a day-care, Easton. Kids don’t get to play sick and go home. What are you anyhow, a freaking school nurse?”

  “I can stay out here—” Rick started, crossing mental fingers that Earl didn’t agree.

  “No. No. I’ll grab somebody to work out here. You go ahead and work the game.” He jerked his head toward the dark curtains, where Miller was just disappearing.

  Rick followed Miller, wondering what he was going to find in the back of Beau’s tonight.

  *

  Lusinda stepped up to the bar in time to see Rick disappear behind the dark green curtains and Earl frown in his direction. Well, well. Rick had decided she needed rescuing when she had a chance to get back there, and now he was getting to go without her. What if he figured out who was distributing the toxic heroin before she had a chance to prove he was a crooked cop?

  “Earl,” she called.

  “What?”

  “Where’s Rick headed? I thought he was on duty out here tonight.”

  Earl’s wide mouth turned down in a frown. “You got an order? Get it into the computer and don’t be worrying about what anybody else is doing.” Earl headed down the bar to where an impatient man was snapping his fingers.

  “Do you know what Rick’s doing back there?” she muttered to Nina.

  “What?” Nina asked distractedly. She was counting the drinks on her tray and comparing them to what she’d written on her dupe pad. “Damn it. Rick?” She looked up. “Where’s Rick? He gave me a bourbon and cola. I needed a bourbon and soda.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. Rick just headed back behind the curtains. What do you think’s going on back there?”

  Nina shrugged. “Who the hell knows? Earl!” she called. “Who’s working the bar?”

  Earl came over. “Whatcha need, sugar?”

  “Bourbon and soda. This is cola. Where’s Richard?”

  “Working the game. Bobby was supposed to, but he’s sick,” Earl said sarcastically.

  “Bobby?” Lusinda said, surprised. “But he’s only—”

  “Relax, Sin,” Earl said. “The kid’s gone. From what I just heard, your buddy Easton gave him bus money. That’s just one of the things he’s in big trouble for.”

  “He’s not my buddy.”

  Nina snorted as she hefted her tray. “No?” she scoffed. “Nobody’s missed the way you two look at and tease each other.”

  “Tease? Trust me, I am not teasing. I can’t stand him. Earl, he gave Bobby bus money? What does that mean?”

  “What do you think it means? He gave Bobby money to get home. Beau’s not going to be happy about that. He wanted the kid back there serving drinks tonight. He’s not sure if he trusts Easton.”

  Lusinda studied Earl, but he was surveying the customers seated at the bar, probably checking how close to needing a refill they were. “Why wouldn’t he trust him?” she asked.
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  “See,” Earl said to Nina. “That’s what I’m talking about. She can’t stand not knowing what her boyfriend is doing every second.”

  She felt her face grow warm. “Come on, Earl. Leave me alone. Nina’s the one who likes Richard Easton. She thinks his bod is hot.” She turned and sent Nina a smirk.

  Earl and Nina were right, of course. She’d been watching Rick’s every move since he’d taken the bartending job. She hadn’t realized how obvious she’d been, though. She was failing miserably at her job. O’Reilly should probably send someone else in, someone with more experience. All she was doing was becoming a laughing stock. Not only was she failing at her undercover assignment, she’d apparently forgotten everything she once knew about waitressing. Although the diner where she’d worked could have fitted four trays on Beauregard’s one.

  There was something else bugging her too. The more she was around Rick, the more he was getting under her skin. She definitely could not afford to get a crush on a guy who could be a crooked cop.

  Lusinda finally caught up on her orders and got a minute to lean on the bar. She thought about the guy who’d been talking to Rick at the bar. He was another Eighth Precinct detective. She recognized him from some photos O’Reilly had shown her of cops she might run into around Beauregard’s or the Quarter. We might send one of them in to investigate a different aspect of Beau’s operations, O’Reilly had told her. We know there’s gambling going on behind the scenes at Beau’s, and we need dirt on him if they decide to bring him down and they can’t get any evidence on the bad dope angle.

  From the way the Deputy Chief had talked, she’d been a little surprised to see Miller and Rick talking. It was apparently unheard of for undercover cops to communicate, especially about a case. Although, O’Reilly had mentioned that Miller got a kick out of harassing other undercover cops, trying to get a rise out of them. Miller called it on the job training for dummies. From the thinly disguised anger on Rick’s face, she was pretty sure Miller had been goading him about something, maybe his clothes.

  Then there was the kid, Bobby. He couldn’t be more than sixteen and Lusinda had worried about him being in this kind of environment. But why would Rick give Bobby money for a bus ticket home? Not that it wasn’t admirable. But for Rick, who was supposed to be nothing more than a guy working as a bartender, it was stupid, wasn’t it? Wasting money on a kid he didn’t even know? Bartenders didn’t do that. Besides, there were hundreds of runaway kids in New Orleans and more arriving in the city every day. Granted, Rick had probably saved the kid’s life.

  Her rogue cop, her subject, had done an about-face on her—again. There was no getting a handle on Rick Easterling. The other night he’d come to her rescue, then been rude and dismissive when she’d smarted off to him. And now he’d rescued one of the myriad teenagers who came to the French Quarter looking for something they didn’t have at home.

  She caught a wave from one of her tables and headed off in that direction. A drunk, middle-aged man came barreling toward her, nearly knocking the heavy tray out of her hands. She struggled to keep it balanced as she dodged him. He plopped clumsily into his chair, nearly tipping it over. His wife scowled and called out to Lusinda to get her another Gin Rickey, a double this time. She took the table’s dessert order and turned it in, then fetched the woman’s drink and took another couple of orders on the way back to the bar. In between orders, she nibbled from a bowl of pretzels and peanuts and drank some juice.

  Glancing toward the heavily draped back rooms, she sighed. Her back was aching and she felt as though she’d served more drinks tonight than all other nights combined. She’d collected a killing in tips, but she was working hard for them. It seemed that everybody had decided to come to Beauregard’s tonight and nobody was having a good time. The tension that hovered over the bar was thickening by the minute. It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter Ten

  Rick had finally made it into one of Beauregard’s infamous back rooms. It was disappointingly normal-looking. Nothing unusual, nothing special or weird, certainly nothing kinky that he could see. There was a large round poker table and chairs, a long sofa, several small snack carts sitting between the chairs and a portable bar. The bar was stacked with boxes, and the coffee maker was dark and cold, so Rick got to work.

  He unloaded an impressive array of top-shelf liquor, a large tray of freshly washed, sparkling glasses and huge white coffee mugs, all the while watching the players as they assembled. He quickly counted ten men, including Miller. They were an odd mix, from a couple of obvious lowlifes who looked as though they could have been dragged in off the street to fill the table, to a portly Asian man in a suit that fit so well that custom-made didn’t begin to describe it, to a thin man in a black T-shirt and khaki dress pants who looked very familiar.

  It took Rick a few panicked seconds to recall that he’d seen the thin man’s picture in a photo array or two for drug dealing. That was a relief. If he were a police officer, Rick had no idea how he’d handle him and Miller. Miller alone was going to be hard enough, especially if he continued goading Rick.

  With a sigh of relief, he turned his attention back to his job. He made a big pot of coffee and placed it in a thermal carafe on a tray with cream and sugar and mugs. He listened to the conversations as the men waited for Beauregard to arrive and the poker game to start. The talk was just about as expected. Sports, news and sex. Then Rick heard a name that sent an adrenaline rush through him. T-Gros.

  He strained to hear what the man was saying. He couldn’t understand much, but he did hear a couple of phrases. It was the portly Asian man talking to the thin black man.

  “I understand Grossman is gaining traction in the area.”

  The other man answered in a Cajun accent. “Nah, man. Dat ain’ gonna happen, I guarantee. Beau won’t give up one square foot of his space. T-Gros got no business here. He’ll come to find out what happens to dem dat mess with Beau.”

  At that instant, the door in the back of the room opened and Anastase Beauregard walked in. Noise and movement stopped as if someone had hit Pause. Rick had never met or even been in the same room as the man everyone called Beau, but he’d seen photos and heard a lot about the big man around the Quarter—big in more than one way. According to the guys in the precinct, Beau was the most powerful man in the Vieux Carré, and arguably the fattest. So Rick, like everyone else, had frozen in place when he’d walked in.

  Beau surveyed the room quickly, and his dark, beady eyes stopped cold on Rick. After a heartbeat in which Rick nodded his head about a half-inch, Beau’s gaze continued around the room. His gaze stopped again, on Fred Miller.

  Miller was acting like a hayseed just off the turnip truck. It wasn’t a good look for him. He teetered ridiculously in the high-heeled cowboy boots, and grinned like an idiot when Beau met his gaze. Rick grimaced. For all his posturing and his silly clothes, Miller’s subconscious body language showed several tells that Rick immediately worried would result in him being made as a cop. Granted they were subtle, but someone who was familiar with police officers and who was paying attention would notice. Rick glanced at Beau and cursed to himself. Beau had noticed.

  Beau’s eyes narrowed as he assessed Miller for a full five or six seconds before moving on around the room. Then he inclined his head toward a bald man in a dark suit who had entered the room a couple of seconds behind him. The man pocketed the cigar he’d been examining and stepped up close to Beau. When Beau spoke to him he didn’t bother covering his mouth, so Rick saw his lips move. Where’s the boy? The bald man whispered something in Beau’s ear. Beau gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  Beau continued surveying the room for a few more seconds, then stepped over to the table. One of the men who looked like a regular Joe got up and pulled an oversized leather armchair out for him. Beau lowered himself and, after quite a bit of wriggling, got himself seated comfortably. None of the other men sat until he nodded. Once they were all in place, Beau placed his hands, palms
down, near the edge of the table.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “We’re here to play a nice friendly game of Texas Hold’em. We’ll keep the blinds down to one and two dollars and there will be no cheating, no card counting and no tricks of any kind. My dealer is from one of my casinos and will have the final say about any disagreement. Is everyone satisfied with that arrangement?”

  During the entire time, Beau hadn’t taken his eyes off Miller, except for a fraction of a second allotted to each of the other players at the table. With a barely perceptible movement, Beau called over one of the security men standing to the side. He whispered in his ear. The man’s gaze flickered toward Miller. There it was. Beau had just told his henchman that Miller was a cop.

  Beau’s man stepped slowly and deliberately toward Miller, who was stacking his chips and talking too loudly to the other players to notice. Rick shook his head mentally. The odds of Miller making it through this night were shrinking with every heartbeat. Rick had one slim chance to get the other cop out alive, and without even thinking it through, he took it. He moved toward the two men, maneuvering himself in behind Miller before the henchman had a chance to.

  “’Scuse me,” Beau’s henchman said, but Rick acted as though he didn’t see him.

  As the henchman put his hand inside his coat, Rick grabbed Miller’s shoulder. “Wait a minute. I know you,” he said artlessly. “Weren’t you on television? I remember. Weren’t you one of the cops that broke that case—?”

  “What the—?” Before Miller could get another word out, Rick grabbed him in a headlock. Beau’s henchman reacted in creditable time, pulling a semi-automatic and planting himself in front of them. Rick had a hold on Miller that cut off his ability to talk. “Sorry, sir,” he said to Beau, ignoring the man with the gun. “I didn’t mean to make a scene, but I recognized this guy. He’s a cop!”

  The henchman reached for Miller’s denim collar, but Rick held on. If he let up on Miller, there was no telling what the moron might say.