by Mallory Kane
Beau snapped his fingers and his henchman froze, then put his gun away. “What’s your name?” he asked Rick.
“Richard Easton, sir.” Rick took a long breath. “Want me to get rid of this guy for you?”
Beau held Rick’s gaze for a couple of seconds, then wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “You are certain he’s a police officer? Then yes, I would like for him to be handled in some discreet manner.”
The henchman tugged again on Miller’s collar and Rick felt Miller’s throat move as he swallowed with great difficulty. “Let’s go, you lowlife pig,” the henchman said. “I’ll take it from here,” he said to Rick.
“I’ll be glad to take care of it, sir,” Rick said politely but firmly, still looking at Beau.
Beau turned his beady eyes on Rick again. “Are you new here?”
“Yes, sir. Bartender. I’ve seen this guy on television. He’s definitely a cop. I don’t know what he’s doing here, but I was afraid he might have a weapon. He doesn’t. Plus I figured that the game wouldn’t be nearly as much fun for any of you if there was a cop sitting in. Especially a cop who didn’t bother identifying himself.” He held his breath.
The henchman hadn’t known Miller, and Beau hadn’t seemed to recognize him, but he had been suspicious. This was the moment. If Miller had been invited to the game, then Rick’s ass would be the one disposed of.
Beau pulled his lips back from his teeth in what was obviously supposed to be a smile. “Indeed, son. Indeed. I tell you what. Why don’t you and Alfonse here—” he indicated the angry gunman “—take care of this little matter while we begin our game.” He jerked his head a fraction of an inch. “Alf, if you would—”
Rick loosed his hold on Miller’s neck because Alfonse had his gun buried in Miller’s ribcage. If Miller started yapping now, he deserved what he got. Rick followed Alf out the back door of Beau’s into an alley. As the door closed, he heard Beau say, “Hurry back, Mister Easton. I want a martini.”
As soon as the door swung shut, Miller whirled on Alfonse. Rick was ready for him. There was no time to check if anyone was watching. As Alfonse dodged Miller’s blow, Rick delivered an efficient side-hand chop to Alf’s neck from behind. Alf dropped the gun with a clatter and was on his way to following it down when Miller uppercut him on the jaw. Alfonse’s head flew backwards and he hit the ground with a thud.
A quick glance told Rick that there were no windows facing the back alley and no glass in the back door. So maybe nobody had seen what went down. “Good hit,” Rick said conversationally, then easily fended off Miller’s right hook and deftly turned the cop’s arm around behind him and wrenched it just a little.
“You son of a bitch!” Miller hissed. “What the—ah!”
Rick gave Miller’s arm a twitch. “I’d suggest you run if you don’t want to end up as dog food. And tell Larsen thanks. If this doesn’t get me in with Beau, nothing will.” He pushed the other man away. “Now get the hell out of here.”
Miller shot him the bird and ran. Rick threw himself down in the dirt, ruining a perfectly good pair of Dockers and grinding his palms into dirt and seashell fragments. He picked up one of the sharp bits of shell and ran it across the skin of his cheek, scratching it. Then he crawled over to Alfonse and shook him.
“Hey, Alf,” he muttered, slapping the henchman’s face lightly. “Alf old buddy.”
Alf groaned and sat up, shaking his head. Rick handed him his gun, which had hit the ground before Alf.
“Man, that weasel cold-cocked you. You okay?” Rick touched the henchman’s jaw and Alf growled and pushed him away.
“Get away from me, you two-bit hustler,” Alf grunted. “I don’t guess you beat the shit out of him or anything?”
“Hey,” Rick said, then shook his head. “Did my best, but he knocked me down and stood on my neck. Before I could get back up, he was gone.”
The big man pulled himself to his feet with a huge groan. “Mr. B’s probably gonna dock my wages and yours.”
“Come on, Alf. Let’s go. I’ll tell him the guy was a seventh-degree black belt or something.”
*
Lusinda drummed her fingers. She was bored and cranky. Earl had asked her to stay until closing, at three a.m. She hadn’t had anything to eat in more than twenty-four hours except an omelet, and if she ate another pretzel or peanut or drank another sip of juice, she was going to gag.
Great undercover work she was doing. Apparently Rick was bartending at a private poker party. For all she could tell, the most he’d investigated here so far was how much the liquor was watered and how young Beau’s new recruits for minimum-wage jobs were. As for herself, she was stuck out here fetching drinks for customers who, as the night waned, seemed to be either lonely divorced guys or kids who were high and looking to prolong their buzz and the night by drinking beer.
She’d figured that working alongside Rick was a good idea, but she didn’t have nearly the leeway she’d thought she’d have, either to get to know him or to watch him. Darla and Earl, the supervisors, kept close watch on her work and her breaks.
She sighed and reached automatically toward the bowl of pretzels, then stopped her hand when her stomach clenched. She shuddered and dusted salt off her fingers.
She surveyed her tables, but everyone was nursing their drink, apparently in some lemming-like group decision to make their latest drink last until closing. She made a half-hearted trip around her tables, then motioned to Tom, who was obviously pissed at having to tend bar alone. Maybe she could find out something more from him than she’d heard earlier from Earl. “Where’s Rick?” she asked casually.
Tom jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Private party, ma’am.”
Lusinda bristled. “Ma’am? Seriously?”
He shrugged and turned away.
“Wait a minute. Wasn’t that kid, Bobby, supposed to be handling that party?”
Tom squinted at her. “You were here when I came on duty. You probably know more than I do.”
“I must have missed something. So was Bobby sick tonight or what?”
Tom eyed her suspiciously, glanced around, then leaned in as though he were sharing a secret, which maybe he was. “Bobby was coming out the back door when I came in. Had a backpack. I asked him where he was headed and he said Rick gave him money to get home. I kinda feel sorry for Ole Rick if Beau finds out about that.” He shook his head.
“What do you mean?” Lusinda asked, looking down at her dupe pad. She didn’t want the bartender to see the worry in her eyes or just how interested she was in what he was saying.
“Give me a break. You know. Everybody gets the same pitch when they’re hired.”
“Oh, right,” she said. “It takes them forty-five minutes, but it boils down to don’t stick your nose into someone else’s business.”
“Exactly.” He looked at his watch. “Thank God,” he said and reached over to flip the light switch on and off a couple of times. “Closing time,” he called out. Lusinda made one more trip around, taking bills and credit cards and checking people out. By the time she was done with that, it was straight-up three o’clock. She shed her apron, got her stuff from her locker, said goodnight to Tom and headed out.
This time as she walked back to the old hotel in the dark, carrying a leftover ham and cheese po’ boy sandwich from the kitchen, Lusinda was prepared. She had a slap-jack in her bag and a spray can of Mace in her palm. But her strongest weapons were her careful awareness of everything around her and her confident stride. The night before, she’d been tired and distracted, and it had almost cost her dearly.
It was well known that muggers preferred women who were small, who appeared to be either distracted or lost or frightened, or older women and those who wore a ponytail or a braid—easier to grab. They avoided confident women who looked strong and aware. So, unless she was being specifically targeted again, she was probably golden.
She climbed the two flights of stairs to the third floor, anticipating the taste of t
he excellent po’ boy that the restaurant had made for someone who’d changed their mind. There was nothing in her refrigerator but a couple of bottles of water, but she didn’t care. She was ready to eat her sandwich, check her bed for critters, then climb in and sleep for another eight hours. She was dying to know how Rick’s private party had gone, but she had no reasonable excuse to knock on his door, so she’d have to wait.
She pushed her key into the lock. It didn’t go in smoothly, and when she tried to turn it, it stuck. She tugged on it until it finally slid out and she tried again. Same thing happened. “Come on,” she muttered. “Get in there.”
What the hell? She looked at the key, then at the lock. She had it turned the right way, so what was the problem?
Then a sinking feeling hit her stomach. “No,” she whispered. “Come on. Please work. No, no, no.” She pulled out her phone and looked at the date. As of midnight, three hours ago, her rent was overdue. Damn it.
Yesterday morning, she had left Rick’s apartment, gone straight upstairs and slept through the day. She’d completely forgotten to pay her weekly rent, and the Ace Hotel wasn’t the kind of place that offered a grace period.
“You son-of-a-bitching landlord,” she whispered. “You won’t get up to let me in but you’ll get out of bed at midnight to change a freaking lock?”
Lusinda started to kick the door, but she was too tired and too hungry. She felt like throwing something, but all she had was her keys or the sandwich. Neither one would be satisfying, and she’d end up with nothing to eat.
She eyed the wooden door again. She even went so far as to draw her foot back in preparation for a very hard kick, but instead, she slumped, drained of the last of her energy. Dragging herself over to the staircase, she sat down on the top step and lowered her head to her knees. Tears squeezed past her closed lids.
“I just want to eat and go to sleep,” she whined as her eyes stung with tears. For half a second, she thought about going down to the ground floor and banging on the landlord’s door until morning, but that would only frustrate her more. Sighing deeply, she stuck the wrapped sandwich into her bag, propped her arms on her knees and laid her head on them. It was only six hours until the landlord woke up. She’d pay the rent, the late fee and the lock fee and get back into her apartment. Meanwhile, she’d do her best to sleep on the stairs.
Or, she could go downstairs and beg Rick for his couch again. She caught a tiny movement out of the corner of her eye. A roach! She vaulted up off the stairs, a shudder wracking her tired body. She had a much better chance of getting some sleep on Rick’s couch than she did out here in the darkened stairs with roaches lurking around. As she walked down the stairs, she wondered if he’d take an almost fresh ham and cheese po’ boy as payment.
She knocked on Rick’s door and waited, but nothing happened. She knocked again and listened. Was he asleep or had he not gotten back yet? It was after four o’clock in the morning. Was the private party still going on? After beating on the door until someone in another apartment yelled that they were about to call the cops, she gave up. Sinking down to the floor of the second-floor landing, she tried again to go to sleep.
But she’d seen a roach on the stairs, so now she was skittish. She kept thinking she heard or felt their tiny feet. “Five hours,” she reminded herself in a whisper. The landlord would be up in five hours. She wrapped her arms around herself and prepared to wait.
Chapter Eleven
Rick took a last look around Beauregard’s, then stepped outside and closed and locked the door. This was his second night and the second night in a row he’d worked more than eight hours, coming in at noon and working through until three a.m. He chuckled wryly. Three o’clock quitting time was a myth. By the time he checked everything, ran the computer reports, and locked up, it was closer to four than to three.
Looking at the locked door and the key in his hand, he wished he could curl up and sleep behind the bar. It was a nice idea, but impossible in reality, because the cleaning crew came in from five to seven. Anyhow, the walk was fifteen minutes at most. He’d get home, drink some juice and be asleep within a half hour, even with the lingering essence of Sin Stone. His longing for sleep morphed into a longing to see her again.
As he turned to walk up Rampart to the hotel, a man fell into step beside him. It was Alfonse, his buddy from the back room, whom he and Miller had ambushed behind Beauregard’s. He swallowed a sense of apprehension and took a breath to speak, then he heard more footsteps. He listened. At least two more men. Was this it? For the first time in his undercover career, had he been made?
His muscles tensed, not enough for the men to notice, and his brain kicked into hyper-drive. Everything suddenly seemed brighter and clearer and time seemed to slow down. He was facing big odds—three to one. Whatever Beau’s men were up to, he prayed that he could at least hold his own.
“Evening, gentlemen. Nice out tonight, isn’t it?” Rick said, fingering the keys in his pocket. They wouldn’t make much of a weapon, but he could wrap his fist around them.
“Yep,” one of the men said. “Real nice.”
“Guys,” Rick tried again. “I appreciate the thought, but I’m just up the street here. I don’t need an escort.”
“Mr. Beauregard thinks you do,” Alf said. “Mr. Beauregard is concerned about you.”
Rick glanced over at the big man, his heart pounding, but Alf just kept walking, his eyes ahead. Rick looked around, but the streets were deserted. It was four o’clock in the morning, and the sounds coming from Bourbon Street had muted a little. Most of the quieter side of the Quarter had closed down. He knew where he was, and knew that the hotel was only three doors down. He also knew that he’d never make it if he made a break for it. He decided to bluff, which probably carried about a twenty percent chance of success, if that.
“Well, Alf, I hope you’ll thank Mr. Beauregard for me, but truly, I can take care of myself. Sorry you had to be up so late. You can go home. Bye now.”
Alfonse turned toward Rick, and as he did, the other two took up positions on either side of him. “Sorry, Richard,” Alf said, “but I’m afraid we can’t do that. Mr. Beauregard, as I said, is concerned about you. He appreciates what you did for him tonight, getting rid of the undercover cop.”
Rick shrugged and tried to step around Alf, but Alf moved just enough to block Rick’s way. “Hey, man. I was glad to do it. I want to do what I can to protect Mr. Beauregard’s right to have a nice card game in his own club. So let him know it was my pleasure, okay?”
He tried again to step around Alf. This time Alfonse put a hand out. He didn’t touch Rick, but Rick felt the heaviness of his hand anyway.
“You know, Mr. Beauregard likes to keep tabs on the people who work for him.”
Rick stiffened. Here it comes. Without turning his head, he gauged the other two men. They were big—real big. “That makes me feel real safe,” he said. “Thanks, Alfonse.”
“You see, Richard,” Alfonse said, “Mr. Beauregard likes to personally approve all the hiring and firing that’s done in his club.”
“Look, Alf,” Rick said. “You and me, we’re buds huh? I mean we took care of that cop together, right? So what say we—”
The two men grabbed his arms and dragged him off the sidewalk and into an alley. He knew he couldn’t win, knew it was impossible to break their holds, but he had to try. As their iron fists tightened on his arms and shoulders, he kicked out, but Alfonse stepped neatly out of the way, and Rick ended up on his knees with both arms twisted behind his back.
Alfonse nodded at the men and they lifted him up, just enough so Alf didn’t have to bend down to slam his fist into Rick’s belly.
*
Just about the time Lusinda managed to doze off, she heard the heavy front door open and halting steps on the stairs accompanied by grunts and groans. Within a few seconds, Rick’s head appeared. What was with him? Was he drunk? She watched him as he climbed. He was bent over, staggering, holding on to the ba
nister.
“Aww, Rick, honey. Must have been a great party. Did you have a few too many? Need any help?” she drawled. But even before she’d finished talking, she realized that something wasn’t right. Rick wasn’t drunk, or at least not just drunk. She sat up and frowned as she studied him in the dim light from the neon sign across the street. Her heart jumped into her throat.
“Rick?” There was a dark stain across the side of his face and down his neck. His left fist was clenched against his belly.
She stood and reached out to help him, but he ignored her. He did his best to pretend he was fine. “What are you doing out here?” he asked, his voice tight and strained.
“What happened to you?” she interrupted. She slid her arm around his waist.
“Don’t,” he said. “Nothing wrong with—” But he put his arm around her shoulder and leaned on her. She wavered under his weight, but managed to help him over to his door.
“Give me your key,” she said.
He pulled away and dipped into the pocket of his jeans. He got the key out of his pocket, but he couldn’t hold on to it.
Lusinda caught the key before it fell. It was slick with blood. She got the door open, then put her arm around his waist again and tried to guide him to the couch. After a brief and very weak resistance, he let her push him down onto the vinyl. He leaned his head back against the arm.
She turned on the lamp and looked at his face. There was a lump over one eye and a bleeding cut near its corner. His nose was bloody and a cut on his lip was spilling blood down his chin and neck. That was where the blood on his hand had come from. And he had a scratch on one cheek.
Once she got him seated on the couch, she fetched a wet washcloth from the bathroom. When she handed it to him, he buried his face in it, hissing as the cold cloth touched the cuts and scrapes.
She waited while he ran the cloth over his face and pressed it hard against the places that were still oozing blood. When he gingerly rested his head against the back of the couch again, she took a deep breath, but before she could say anything, he moaned.