No Saint

by Mallory Kane

  “Sick,” he whispered, then struggled to his feet. When Lusinda tried to help him, he lurched past her and stumbled into the bathroom where he bent over the toilet and retched. Once he was done, he grasped the edge of the lavatory and turned on the cold water full blast. He splashed his face and sluiced out his mouth. Then he cupped a palm and took a drink. He coughed and gagged a couple of times, but he didn’t throw up again.

  Lusinda hung back outside the bathroom door until he was done washing his face. Then she slid her shoulder up under his arm and led him to his bed. She turned down the covers but before he could flop down onto the bed, she stopped him. “Wait. Your clothes are filthy.”

  He groaned and started to say something, but didn’t. Instead he turned his back, dropped the filthy white jeans and pulled the black T-shirt over his head. He sat carefully, clad in nothing but his briefs, and started to bend over to take off his shoes, but she put a hand on his bare shoulder.

  “I’ll do it.” She knelt and took off his shoes and socks. “Okay. There you go.”

  It took him a couple of minutes, and several groans and gasps, but he finally got settled back against the pillows. “You stay put,” she said. “I’m going to get the wet cloth out of the bathroom.” He didn’t argue, so she hurried into the bathroom, rinsed the cloth in cool water and brought it to his bedside. She scrubbed at the dried blood that was left on his face and neck so she could tell where he was hurt. Besides the scratch on his cheek, cut over his eye and one on his lip, he had a few scrapes along his jaw and neck and his knuckles. Finally, after a couple of trips to the bathroom sink to wash out the cloth, she’d cleaned up almost all of the blood. Then she sat back and took a serious look at him.

  His battered face was pale and kind of green in the light from the bedside lamp, and his eyes were squeezed closed. It frightened her that someone, or judging by his injuries, several someones, could overpower him so easily. As she studied his face, it seemed to get an even whiter shade of pale. “Are you getting sick again? Should I get a bowl?” she asked.

  He shook his head fractionally.

  “Want some water or juice?”

  “No,” he muttered.

  Lusinda sighed. It hurt her, seeing him so beat up and hurt. If she dared, she’d crawl into bed beside him and hold him. She wanted to tell him everything would be okay and that no matter what happened, whatever he might find out about her, he needed to understand that she cared about him and she didn’t believe that he could have done all the things he was accused of.

  Wait! What was she thinking? The very idea of those thoughts going through her mind stunned her. She was a police officer. Not only had she taken an oath to serve and protect, she had taken an assignment to find out the truth about Rick Easterling—no matter what it was—and if he was corrupt, have him brought to justice.

  She stiffened her back and took a fortifying breath. There was nothing to be gained by giving in to her ridiculous urge to take care of him. She was a cop and she had to act like one, even if the only person judging her was herself. “Okay,” she said. “Now, what happened?”

  For a few seconds, he didn’t respond. All he did was lie there with his eyes closed. Finally, though, he opened them and glared at her. “What are you doing here?” he mumbled. “Lose your keys again?”

  “No. I didn’t lose my keys again. I—”

  “What?” he grunted. “What’d you do this time?”

  “I forgot to pay my rent. The landlord changed the lock. Satisfied?”

  He inclined his head.

  “Good,” she said. “I’m so glad. Now, what happened to you?”

  He didn’t answer. The muscle in his jaw worked.

  “Really? Not as accommodating when you’re not the big hero protector?”

  He peered at her out of the eye that wasn’t cut and bruised.

  “Well?”

  “Not your problem,” he said, and licked the cut on his lip, then grimaced.

  “Not my—You bastard!” She bit her lip to keep from yelling at him. The fear and concern that she couldn’t control was making her angry. “Tell me who did this?”

  “Why? What are you going to do, rough them up for me?” Rick laughed harshly, then caught his breath and winced.

  “Damn it, Rick. Stop it. Stop acting so tough. I would if I could, you know. I’m trying to help you.” She threw up her hands. “Or, I can go to sleep on the couch and you can sit here and bleed.”

  Rick closed his eyes and leaned his head back again.

  “Okay, fine,” she said, doing her best not to feel sorry for him and failing miserably. Despite her warning to herself, she still wanted to gather him into her arms and comfort him. She wanted to kiss his cuts and bruises and make them better. But it was clear that he didn’t want her help.

  “How did I guess you’d pick the tough-guy option? Bleed all you want, you stubborn mule. I’m going to sleep.” She turned away, holding her breath to keep from crying, not just because he was hurt, but also because he wouldn’t accept her help.

  “Sin.”

  His voice was so soft she almost didn’t hear him. She turned around.

  “Sin. I’d appreciate…some help.”

  She pressed her lips together for a brief moment, until her eyes stopped stinging. “Great. I guess there won’t be much sleep around here tonight,” she grumbled. “I’m going to see if you’ve got anything I can put on those cuts so you don’t get an infection.” She went into the bathroom and grabbed a clean washcloth. In a cabinet under the sink, she found a bottle of isopropyl alcohol.

  She poured alcohol onto the cloth, then handed the bottle to Rick and sat beside him on the bed. “Scoot over,” she said. “I’m about to fall off. I need to be able to reach you.” She dabbed at his lip with the alcohol-soaked cloth.

  “Ouch,” he gasped, jerking his head back.

  “Seriously?” she chuckled. “You just got the crap beaten out of you and you cry over a little sting?”

  “No,” he said, but when she started to dab at the corner of his mouth again, he winced away.

  “You’re a big baby,” she said. “Are you ready to tell me what happened?”

  He lay still with his eyes closed and didn’t protest any more as she cleaned his cuts and scrapes. He still hadn’t answered her question either, but she let it go—for the moment. “I’ll be right back. I think I have a couple of bandages in my bag.” She fetched the small strip bandages and took care of the worst places on his face. Then she sat back and looked at him.

  “That’s a little better,” she said. “You look like a prize fighter the day after. A prize fighter who lost. Want me to bandage your knuckles?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did Beau do this?”

  His eyes flew open. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I heard he was mad about you giving that kid money to get home on.”

  “Yeah? Who told you that? Beau himself?”

  Lusinda frowned at him. “No. Why would Beau talk to me?”

  “That’s a good question,” he grunted.

  “What are you talking about?”

  He pushed himself up to a sitting position, which turned his complexion a darker shade of green for a few seconds. “Just that you seem to show up everywhere I go,” he muttered, his hand pressing on his stomach again. “You are living in the same hotel as I do, and working as a waitress at Beauregard’s, where I work, and you lose your keys and need a place to stay the first night I’m here. Then tonight, son of a gun if you aren’t here again.”

  “Are you freaking kidding me?” She was shocked and hurt by his accusations, but she reminded herself that shock and hurt weren’t part of her job description. She narrowed her eyes, trying to decide if he’d made her as a cop, but she figured if he had, she’d already know it. He hadn’t bothered to beat around the bush so far.

  She wondered how to play this and decided that she didn’t want to beat around the bush either—at least no more than she had to.
“If you’re accusing me of something, how about you come right out and say it. I’m not very good at puzzles.”

  “Puzzles? Do I need to make it clearer? Are you working for Beau?”

  She’d lost control of the situation and was in danger of losing control of her emotions. She stiffened her back and lifted her chin. “I have no idea what you’re accusing me of,” she said shortly, doing her best to keep her voice even. “Yes, I’m a part-time waitress at Beauregard’s. I know I’m not the world’s best waitress, but that’s the job I got and that’s the job I’m trying my best to keep.”

  “Why?”

  She blinked. “Because I need the money.”

  “No. Why Beauregard’s?” He pushed himself up to a sitting position.

  “I had to find a job fast, when—when my boyfriend kicked me out.” She looked down at her hands and waited to see if he bought her story.

  He didn’t say anything.

  It occurred to Lusinda that she had the perfect way of holding Rick’s interest, and it had nothing to do with what Carlos had told her. She kept her head down. “Okay. A friend of mine got some bad dope—and she died. I’ve heard Beau could be the one putting the bad stuff on the street.”

  She felt his body stiffen. “You’re—?” He shook his head. “You thought you’d get a job at Beau’s to find out about the laced heroin? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”

  Lusinda peered up at him through her lashes. She had him hooked with the talk of the bad dope. And she’d set the hook when she mentioned that she knew someone who’d died. Her heart rate tripled. “My friend died,” she said.

  She’d thought it was a good idea to bring in the information about the bad dope, but he’d jumped on it faster than she’d expected. Given his suspicion about her working at Beauregard’s, she was concerned that he was testing to see if she knew something only a cop would know. But she was just being paranoid, right? The woman who’d been the first death from the bad dope had to have friends, didn’t she? How hard would it be to believe that Sin Stone was one of those friends?

  “What was her name?” he asked, shifting positions gingerly.

  “Maria Gomez,” she said. Maria had been the first person found dead from the contaminated heroin in the New Orleans area.

  “Gomez. How did you know her?”

  “We worked together for a while. Why?”

  Rick shrugged, then grimaced. “Just seems pretty convenient. You lose your keys one night. You forget to pay your rent the next night. You work at the same place I do. You know someone who died from bad dope.”

  “What are you saying?” she asked.

  “Did Beau put you up to this?”

  She stared at him. “Are you delirious or just an idiot, Richard East—” She stopped barely in time to avoid using his real name. To cover her panic at nearly giving herself away, she drew in a quick breath. “Okay, you got me. I moved in here over a week ago to spy on you, because Beau knew that you’d be wandering in to ask for a job two days ago.” She growled in frustration and threw the alcohol-soaked cloth at him. It landed on his bare chest with a wet thwap.

  “Sorry I bothered you.” She went into the living room and grabbed her handbag. She’d been paid yesterday, so with tips, she had a hundred and forty dollars and some change. Probably not even enough to get back into her apartment.

  She had no clue what she would do tomorrow—maybe call O’Reilly or catch a streetcar to her apartment. But she did know she had to do this. Whether it was for her assignment or for her own pride, she wasn’t sure. Probably both. Stomping back into the bedroom, she counted out fifty dollars and tossed the bills at him. A ten stuck to the wet cloth on his chest. Hard to miss the irony of that.

  “There. Thanks for the use of the couch. I’ll be gone before you wake up.”

  Chapter Twelve

  In Rick’s living room, Lusinda flopped down on the vinyl couch and dug her cell phone and cord out of her bag. Her phone was probably dead. It had been two days since she’d even thought about charging it. She tried to turn it on. Yep. Dead. She traced the cord of the ragged table lamp to an outlet just behind the couch. After plugging the cord in, she set the phone on the table.

  Then she rubbed her face. She thought she’d made a good case for being so conveniently around, as Rick had said. But when he’d thrown it all back at her, it sounded like an amateurish, pathetic attempt at seduction. Maybe that was a good thing. If he thought she was in the throes of a childish crush on him, it ought to be impossible for him to also think she was a cop.

  Still in her clothes, she curled up on the opposite end of the couch with her head on the arm and hoped she could fall asleep.

  On some level, she was aware that Rick’s bedroom door opened and the shower ran, but she didn’t fully wake up until she heard him walk into the living room. He put the cash she’d given him under her phone, then dropped into the easy chair.

  She sat up.

  He had showered and changed into pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt. There was a small spot of blood on the neck of the shirt and a smear at the edge of his lip. He held the glass of water and sipped from it gingerly. “Sorry about your friend,” he muttered a little sheepishly.

  She nodded. They sat there for a few minutes. Finally she spoke. “I’m still waiting for you to tell me what happened.”

  He looked up without answering.

  “Not this again,” she said. “Do you seriously think I know who beat you up?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Well, I don’t, but I’d love to know why you think I do. Am I hanging out with the wrong crowd?” she asked, her tone belligerent. “Is it the way I tilt my head?”

  She’d decided to go ahead and push him—hard. If he had made her as a cop, she needed to know. She could inform O’Reilly that she’d failed and he could send in someone who would do a better job. Someone who hadn’t gotten too close to her subject for her own good. “Maybe you really do think I’m spying on your for Beau, or—” She threw up her hands. “Maybe you think I’m a cop.” She lifted her chin.

  He sighed and looked into the bottom of the water glass as if he were searching for an answer there.

  “Well? You apparently think I sicced Beau on you for some reason. Like ruining my chances with—what was his name? T-Gros?” She laughed shortly. “Sure I could use the money and it was none of your business; but truthfully, I did not want to go in the back with him. And trust me, if I could get Beau to do stuff for me, I wouldn’t waste my wishes on you. I’d be aiming higher.”

  He frowned at her.

  “Like a full-time job or a car or a nice apartment. You get beaten up—what do I get? I get zip.” She got up and poured herself some juice. “I put a sandwich in here—a ham and cheese po’ boy. I’ll split it with you.”

  “Maybe later,” he said.

  She came back to the couch with her juice and half the sandwich. “I do think it was Beau who had you beaten up,” she said. “Like I said I heard he wasn’t happy that you gave that kid money to get home.”

  “Where’d you hear that anyway?” Rick asked.

  “From the George Michael wannabe, what’s his name—Tom, who worked the bar tonight.”

  She got nothing out of him but a grunt. He stared at the glass.

  “That was sweet of you.”

  “Sweet?” He laughed without humor. “Give me a break.” He pushed a scraped hand through his hair.

  “Well what do you call it?” she asked, exasperated. “You probably tacked several, maybe a lot of years onto his life by doing that. You certainly didn’t have to do it.”

  “I’m beginning to be sorry I did.”

  Lusinda assessed him. “What’s wrong, tough guy? Embarrassed by your momentary lapse?”

  “More sore from my momentary beating.”

  She smiled. “Well, you did a good thing.”

  Rick threw himself up out of the chair. “A good thing? Hardly. I just hated to see the kid end up dead, or worse.
That’s all.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” she insisted. “You did something good. You knew that might happen. Apparently, it was a chance you’d decided to take. The point is, you cared. You saw a kid in trouble and you cared what happened to him.”

  Rick refilled his glass and drained it. “He was one kid. There are hundreds out there who don’t have anybody who cares for them. Dozens who’ll be dead in a year. It was stupid of me to think helping one kid would make a difference.”

  The bitterness in his voice surprised her. “Really? Are you trying to tell me that’s how you look at it? If you can’t save them all, then why save one? So why Bobby? Why, out of all the kids in the world, did you pick Bobby?”

  She took a deep breath and decided to dive into the deep end. “I mean, look at that lawyer guy, Jack Adams. You know who I’m talking about? He was killed by bad dope too. Apparently, the cops think he was murdered. Think how many kids he must have saved, one by one, like you did tonight. I wonder how many kids are alive because of him. Do you think he ever wondered why bother if he couldn’t save them all? Or tried to work out the future value of each kid before he made his decision? He did it because he knew somebody had to. And think about this: what if somebody gave him enough money to get home years ago, or talked to him, or gave him a place to crash when he needed it? Bobby could turn out to be a Jack Adams someday. I think what you did was a very good thing, just like Adams.”

  Her pulse was pounding as she waited to see what he would say about his brother, now that she’d brought it up. To give herself something to do, she got up and walked over to the kitchen counter and poured herself some more juice.

  She didn’t hear him behind her until he slammed his glass down into the sink. She jumped.

  “Don’t talk about—!” He stopped, staring at her. “Just shut up!” he yelled.

  She took a few quick steps backward, almost dropping the juice carton. “Hey, what’s the matter with you?”

  “You have no freaking idea. You think I’m some kind of saint or something? Like Joh—like Adams?” His fists were clenched at his sides, the scrapes and cuts on his right forearm and knuckles stood out between the veins that bulged beneath his skin. The cut on his lip was oozing blood again.