"Yes."
"Ah, there are so many. So many." She lowered her eyes and clasped her hands at her waist, tucking back her elbows. "Most are from Vietnam. But, of course, you wouldn't be here if he were from Vietnam. You would know."
Amalise nodded. "His paperwork was misplaced. The children's home thought he had a sponsor here in our city, but that turned out to be incorrect."
Almost imperceptibly, the woman bowed her head and her fingertips touched her chin. "And how may I help?"
"This boy spoke a word a few days ago. It's the first thing he's said that we know of. I thought perhaps you could tell me what it means."
The woman dipped her chin but said nothing.
"Mak. The word was mak."
The shopkeeper hesitated. "How does he say it?"
Amalise gave her a puzzled look. "Just like that." She pronounced the word again, carefully, making one flat sound. "Mak."
"Yes." The woman looked off for a moment. "It's not tonal, like Vietnamese. It's probably Khmer."
Amalise started. "Cambodia?" She still recalled every moment on the news of that terrible day in 1975 when the dead-eyed boys of the Khmer Rouge army marched past the cameras into Phnom Penh. Even now she could see the hordes of children waiting at the burned-out airport, searching the skies for the planes that dropped food each day, not knowing that those planes would never come again. Only the bravest reporters had remained in Phnom Penh on that day, their cameras rolling even as the veil of evil fell over the city.
"Probably Cambodia. Although Khmer is spoken by some in Vietnam as well. But the dialect is different."
The shopkeeper drifted toward a table on which delicate colored boxes in various shapes and sizes were arranged, and she looked down, lightly dragging her fingers over them. "Mak," she said again. With a glance at Amalise, she added, "There are many dialects in Cambodia."
"Perhaps it's a name?"
The woman shook her head. She studied Amalise and then clasped her hands together, smiling. "Mak. Yes, I know. It is an intimate word. It refers to someone close, someone like a mother."
Amalise stared. Mother?
The woman nodded. "Did he say this to you?"
Amalise nodded. She reached out and steadied herself against a glass display case. She looked into the shopkeeper's still, dark eyes that seemed to know so much, but found she couldn't speak.
Luke had called her Mother.
As if in a daze, Amalise wandered back down Pirate's Alley, across the square, and into the Café Pontalba. She took a stool at the bar, not feeling hungry, and Henry whisked the area before her with a white cloth. He then set a cold bottle of Tab and a glass of ice down on the counter. He smiled. "Want something to eat?"
"No, thanks."
She turned her eyes to the television set fixed high on the wall at the end of the bar. It was on, but muted. She pulled her eyes away, shaking her head, trying to banish the images of the shadow children she'd seen on that set many times a couple of years ago, children limned in the mist of time.
Had Luke been one of those children?
"You look like you've just seen Jean Lafitte's ghost," Henry said. She turned to him, and his smile disappeared. He moved close and leaned on the bar, his face inches from hers. "What's wrong, Amalise? I know that look."
When she didn't answer, he shook his head. "I'll get Gina."
"No, no. I'm fine." She stretched a wan smile across her face. "I'm fine." When Henry continued scrutinizing her, she picked up the Tab and drank. The cold sweet fizz slid down her throat, lifting her from the daze. "I was just around the corner and decided to stop in."
Henry turned as someone called. With a hard look back at Amalise, he nodded to the customer and walked to the other end of the bar.
She looked about, remembering. What could anyone do in the face of such injustice? Abba, why do you allow such things? She'd told herself that she'd done what she could at the time, sending her tip money now and then. But the truth was, she'd looked the other way after that and gone on with her life, focused on her own problems and fought her way up the ladder at Mangen & Morris, chasing the wind.
And now here was little Luke. And he'd called out to her; he'd called her Mak. She wished that Jude were here so she could tell him about Luke. But Jude was in Pilottown, and even if he were here, he'd be with Rebecca.
She snapped to and looked around, but Henry was talking to the customer at the other end of the bar. Thoughts of Luke and Jude and Black Diamond and Rebecca being added to the team hit her all at once. Quickly she reached into her purse for two dollar bills and set them on the counter. It was time to get back to work.
They convened in Bingham's suite at the Roosevelt after a long day. They had left a roomful of lawyers still working at Mangen & Morris.
Robert leaned forward and handed Bingham the detective's report on Amalise's activities over the past few days, and Bingham frowned as he began to read. "This place she visits in Marigny, the house with all the children, she spends most of her time there with the Asian kid?"
"Appears that way. She took him to the park this time. The one that abuts our parking lot. The place she was so worried about."
"And the family, they're renters?"
"Yes."
"Have we got the owner locked in?"
"No. We've made some preliminary approaches, but only to major commercial property owners. Homeowners will be last. Otherwise, neighbors will talk, sound the alarm. We need to wrap up as many properties as possible before that point."
Bingham tossed the report on the floor. The intricate pattern woven through the carpet caught his eyes, and he followed the trail across the living room of the suite. Frowning, he looked at Robert. "What do you think she's up to?"
"Doesn't matter. She's meddling. If word gets out, we're cooked."
"Maybe it's a coincidence. Maybe they're just friends."
Robert hunched over a cigarette and lit it. Leaning back, he let the smoke drift. "I don't believe in coincidence." He looked straight at Bingham. "She's figured out a way to make some money on the side. My bet is she'll buy up some of the properties using another name as a cover. Then she'll hold us up." With a sharp laugh, he said, "Or maybe she's a protester, one of those save-our-heritage people, and she's stirring things up to halt the project." Robert took another drag and blew out the smoke. "Either way, she's trouble. I say we get rid of her."
Bingham didn't like what he was hearing. He shook his head, musing on power and its burdens. "That's just speculation. We have no proof." He gave Robert a hard look, but even as he did he again felt that shadow of doubt.
Robert gazed back at him unblinking. Bingham had seen lizards with eyes like his on the beaches of Thailand. Tokays that would fix their eyes on you and stare for hours.
"I want her off the deal team," Robert said. "Tom's going to want her off." He let his arms rest on the chair, the cigarette dangling between his fingers close to the fabric.
Bingham bristled, his eyes on Robert's cigarette. "We wait," he finally said. "If she was a rabble-rouser, we'd have seen something by now."
Robert followed his eyes and reached for an ashtray. He stabbed the cigarette into the glass, looking at Bingham. "Why wait?"
"We'll wait because the banks will get spooked if we stir things up right now. And it may not be necessary. We're still just guessing." Bingham leaned back, spread out. "Your investors are used to taking risks, especially in private deals on their own dime. But the syndicate banks have got shareholders and depositors and regulators to worry about." He shook his head. "We're less than three weeks from closing. Leave it alone unless we get something tangible." He watched Robert carefully. Robert was cold, unpredictable.
Robert picked up a pen and flipped it. "The banks aren't stupid. If she's a risk, they'll want her out."
&nbs
p; Imprudence and impatience were a bad combination. Bingham had seen this kind of thing blow a deal before. He leaned his head back against the cushion and studied the ceiling. "Miss Catoir's not dumb. At this point she's done nothing but visit friends. Her career is her life. And she's bound by ethical rules, as well as by her ambition."
Robert said nothing.
Bingham sat up, bent and picked up the report from the floor, thumping it. "But keep the detective on her. If we find she's up to something, then we'll make the move."
Robert stood. Bingham pushed up from the couch, unknotting his tie. Walking to the door, he slapped his hand on the young man's shoulder. "We're almost there." He cranked his neck to the right, then to the left, and unbuttoned his collar.
Robert halted and turned in the doorway. "We'll put that house first on the list after the closing."
"Good. Anything happens, you let me know."
Robert's expression hardened. "One wrong step, and she's out."
Bingham felt fatigue pressing down on him. Not for the first time he wondered why he'd left his island in the sun. He yearned for the wide-open sea, the sound of waves crashing against the high craggy cliffs. The old men playing chess in the square at night. The golden glow of the harvest moon on the water. He swallowed a yawn and gave Robert a gentle nudge, but he kept his tone light. "You're a little haphazard, son."
Robert pointed a short finger at Bingham, just inches from his chest. "Don't mess around with this, Bingham. There's too much money at stake." His voice was low and even. "My own money. Tom's too. And others you don't want to know. Personal funds."
Bingham rested his hand on Robert's shoulder. "I'm going to bed. What time are we meeting tomorrow?"
Robert shrugged him off and headed for the elevator, buttoning his jacket. "Nine o'clock. We'll have a new draft of the loan agreement in the morning."
Bingham frowned at the door as he closed it. Pups like Robert didn't understand the limits of discretion, and that worried him. You never knew what they might do. He flipped off the light and went into the bedroom. Pulled out some pajamas from the chest of drawers. He'd made it a point to always wear pajamas to bed after the war, thinking of those cold wet nights when he didn't know if the next minute would be his last.
He trudged into the bathroom. Amalise Catoir could become a problem, he had to admit, though he'd never say so to Robert. If she opened her mouth and prices went up in the Marigny, or there was a march or someone sitting in a tree, Robert would see that she'd never work another day in life as a lawyer. Bingham brushed his teeth, peering unseeing into the mirror. She'd lose her job and her law license, too. If there was a mortgage on her house, Robert and Tom would buy it and foreclose. If she had a pet, the pet would disappear.
Rinsing out his mouth, Bingham put the toothbrush back into its holder and turned out the bathroom light. He couldn't figure why he liked the young woman, but he did. Stupid. He had a lot to lose if things went badly. It wasn't just the hotel at risk, but he'd lose the investors counting on the big-money casino, the easy money, tax free and a lot of it. Easy to launder, onshore or off. He stopped at the window, looking at the bright colors of the Quarter below, the lights gleaming on the river.
Climbing into bed, he pulled the smooth silken sheets up around him and closed his eyes, drifting off. He wasn't going to worry about Miss Catoir just yet. Her sights were set on a career, not making a few bucks in a property scam. And she'd fall in line with a warning, should that be necessary. They all did, that kind. She'd let nothing interfere with her career.
Bingham woke at seven the next morning. Reaching over, he shut off the alarm. Several minutes passed as he lay in bed, gazing at the ceiling and organizing his day. At last he threw off the covers, took a hot shower, shaved, and dressed. Then he picked up the telephone on the table by the bed. He'd rented a car to see the city, and now he planned to use it.
"Murdoch," he said. "Room—"
The bellman cut him off. "Yes, sir. I know the car."
Breakfast arrived at eight o'clock sharp. Orange juice and coffee; one egg, sunnyside up; no bacon, no grits; wheat toast; and a small bowl of sweet strawberries, homegrown across the lake in Ponchatoula. Bingham read the Times-Picayune quickly as he ate. Then, tossing the newspaper onto the couch, he adjusted his tie, shot his sleeves, and headed for the door.
Within minutes he was tooling through the Quarter toward the Marigny District while listening to Bob and Jan Carr ponder the state of the world on the radio. At Esplanade, he took a U-turn then hooked a right on Royal. He'd lied when he told Amalise Catoir he had no desire to visit this place. In fact, he did. And he would enjoy this tour of the area, he knew. He'd remember it.
He rolled the window down and drove slowly past the bars, cafés, and small shops. The bars were all closed now, their windows almost hidden behind signs advertising jazz players, blues bands, and someone called the Wolfman. The cafés, on the other hand, were open for business. Outside one, two men in work shirts sat at a round table too small for their bulk. As he drove past he heard a voice in the building calling, and one of the men grimaced, said something to the other that made him laugh, then rose and shuffled inside. Half a block farther, a woman in a business suit and heels high enough to make Bingham wince sat alone at a sidewalk table, reading her newspaper and drinking coffee.
He was seeking the soul of the place that Miss Catoir had mentioned.
When he came to the park, he slowed, watching children play in a sandbox, overseen by a woman on a shady bench nearby. She was engrossed in her reading. The bucolic scene was a contrast to the scheme of Black Diamond with its parking lot abutting one side. He drove around that way, paying special attention to the trees and the houses, the rows of wood-frame homes that Amalise had described, some built right up against the sidewalk. Were there no setback restrictions?
There was nothing singular in this neighborhood that cried out for historic preservation, not in his opinion. But he'd had his fill of this life long ago. So he drove on, checking each cross street for a sign that indicated it was Kerlerec. Looking about as he drove, he bet himself the old wood houses were cold in winter, the wind off the river seeping through cracks between the wood planks. He was equally certain that in the summer the heat would bottle up in there.
He recognized the house on Kerlerec Street as soon as he saw the children in the yard. He wanted to see the kid that Miss Catoir seemed to favor, but there wasn't an Asian child around.
The dull green paint on the house was worn and peeling, though a neat white trim had been put around the windows not long ago. The roof sagged where it was overhanging the porch. One side of the porch was hidden by a bank of bushes, their branches now stripped of leaves in the November chill. Windows looked out over the porch on either side of the door, like eyes.
He pulled to the curb across the street and let the engine idle, watching the children play and remembering how a spot of dirt under a tree could transform itself into the wild west when he was about that age. If his mother were there on the porch, she'd be rocking back and forth in that old chair of hers, hands folded over her waist. He remembered how strands of her hair would slip from the clips she wore at each side of her forehead, and how the unruly stands would lift and blow across her cheeks in a breeze. Suddenly it occurred to him how young she must have been at that time, in her mid-twenties perhaps. Feeling old, he shook off the memories and drove on.
Wheeling back down Decatur toward the business district and the offices of Mangen & Morris, he realized that the Marigny had reminded him in some way of home, a home he'd not thought of in years. Not since Susan and Mother had passed away. But you can choose to forget some things. If he couldn't have Susan and Mother in his life, then he didn't want any second-rate substitutes. He'd changed everything in his life since then, and he liked it that way. Those old memories could take a rest. Without attachments, a man was fr
ee.
He drove up to the O'Keefe entrance of the hotel, where the valets stood waiting. An old song ran through his mind as he got out of the car and handed the valet the key and a couple of bucks.
Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.
Wrong. In his opinion, that was just razzle-dazzle wrong.
Chapter Thirty-Two
It was Wednesday, November 16, one week to the closing day, and the hot box was popping. Tom and Doug were squaring off over the old issue of who would fund their money first, the bank syndicate or the investors. Amalise doodled on her legal pad. Rebecca, sitting beside her, did the same. Jackets and coats were thrown across chairs. Briefcases were on the floor beside the owners' feet or stowed against walls, their contents scattered across the conference table creating mountains of paper, pencils, pens, legal pads, paperclips, along with half-empty cans of warm Coca-Cola and Tab, cups of cold coffee, crumpled napkins, and ashtrays full of cigarette stubs. Smoke hung over the room like a heavy fog.
They'd been arguing for hours.
"Negotiating," Raymond had muttered when Amalise made the comment.
Across the table Tom sprawled in his chair, facing Doug, his face red, arms folded over his chest, and head tilted to one side, listening. Doug leaned forward on his arms, making his case. Tempers were rising fast.
Today was the day to act, she'd decided. The room would soon erupt once more over this issue. And when that happened she'd make her move, escaping for a few hours while the principals pulled themselves together. No one would even notice her absence.
So far as she could see, the problem arose from the timing of the closing. The federal wire system was usually jammed the day before a national holiday. So if anything went wrong during the closing and a lender or investor had already wired funds, that money was stuck in a non-interest-bearing account for thirty-six hours in a dead deal while the nation sat down for Thanksgiving dinner.
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