The driver remained mute. His shoulders remained hunched, eyes forward. It was as if he’d had guns pressed to his head before and had since learned how to keep even a single muscle from twitching.
Lou saw all this in her perfect peripheral vision, not daring to look away from the man she wanted most.
Angelo Martinelli. This close he was smaller than she’d imagined.
She smiled at him, the taste of victory on her lips. “Drive into the bay.”
When the driver didn’t move, she smacked the gun against his occipital bone. “If you don’t do it, then you’re useless to me, and I think you understand what happens to useless people.”
If he refused to drive, she’d shoot them both. It would be messier. Riskier. But if she couldn’t get Martinelli into the water, she wasn’t going to let this opportunity escape.
Yes. If Lou had to, she’d shoot them both and drive the car into the bay herself.
“Make your choice, Martinelli,” she said. His eyes were pools of ink shining in the lamplight.
The confused pinch of his brow smoothed out. The curling sneer pulled into a tight grin.
“Drive,” he said.
Without hesitation, the driver put the car into motion, and the sedan rolled forward.
“Faster,” Lou said, grinning wider.
“Faster,” Angelo agreed. A small chuckle rumbled in his throat. He slapped the back of the driver’s seat like this was a game. “Faster.”
The driver punched the accelerator, and the car lurched forward. As it blasted past the men on the docks, shouts pinged off the windows. Angelo’s laugh grew more robust, pleasing belly laugh.
He’s high as hell, she realized. High as hell without any idea of what’s happening to him.
They hit a bump when flying past the guardrails and onto the pier. The wooden slats clunked under the car’s tires.
In the wake of Angelo’s mania, Lou couldn’t help but smile herself. She didn’t lower the gun. “You’re crazy.”
This proclamation only made him laugh harder, clutching at his belly. His laugh warped into a wheezing whine.
The thrum of the wooden slats disappeared as the car launched itself off the pier. The sharp stench of fish wafted up to greet them as they floated suspended above the ocean. Her stomach dropped as the nose of the car tipped forward and the windshield filled with black Atlantic water.
There was a moment of weightlessness, of being lifted out of her seat and then the car hit the water’s surface. Her aim faltered on impact, but she’d righted herself before either man could.
Cold water rushed in through the windows, trickling first through the corners, filling the car slowly as they slid deeper into the darkness. It seeped through the laces of her boots.
“Now what?” Angelo asked. He seemed genuinely thrilled. As if this was the most exciting experience of his life.
“We wait,” she said.
“She’s going to shoot us and leave our bodies in the water.” The driver’s voice surprised her, higher and more childish than she imagined. No wonder he’d kept his mouth shut.
The driver could open the door and swim away for all she cared. “I don't—”
The driver couldn’t wait for any reassurance. He whirled, lifting his gun.
Without a thought, she fired two shots into his skull, a quick double tap. His head rocked back as if punched. The brains splattered across the windows like Pollock’s paint thrown onto a canvas.
She was glad she’d decided on the suppressor. Her ears would be bleeding from the noise if she hadn’t. The smell of blood bloomed in the car. Bright and metallic. It was followed by the smell of piss.
Angelo’s humor left him. “Is it my turn now, ragazzina?”
Water gurgled around the windows as the car sank deeper into the dark bay.
“No,” she said, her eyes reflecting the dark water around them. “I have something else for you.”
2
Will you do it?
The question looped in King’s mind. Will you do it, Robbie?
At the corner of St. Peter and Bourbon, Robert King paused beneath a neon bar sign. Thudding bass blared through the open door, hitting him in the chest. The doorman motioned him forward. King waved him off. He was done drinking for the night. Not only because the hurricane was getting acquainted with the pickle chips he’d eaten earlier, but because the case file under his arms wasn’t going to examine itself.
Despite the riot in his stomach, he hoped the booze would help him sleep. He was overdue a good night. A night without crushing darkness and concrete blocks pinning him down on all sides. A night where he didn’t wake up at least twice with the taste of plaster dust on his lips. Leaving the bedside light on helped, but sometimes even that wasn’t enough to keep the nightmares away.
Drunk revelers stumbled out of the bar laughing, and a woman down the street busked with her violin case open at her feet. The violin’s whine floated toward him but was swallowed by the bass from the bar.
King paused to inspect his reflection in the front window. He smoothed his shaggy hair with a slick palm. He could barely see the scar. A bullet had cut a ten-degree angle across his cheekbone before blasting a wedge off his ear. The ear folded in on itself when it grew back together, giving him an elfish look.
A whole building collapsed on him, and it hadn’t left a single mark. One bullet and…well, he supposed that was how the world worked.
Calamity didn’t kill you. What finished you was the shot you never saw coming.
He straightened and smiled at the man in the glass.
Good.
Now that he didn’t look like a drunk, it was time to make sure he didn’t smell like one. He pinned the file against his body with a clenched elbow and dug into his pocket for mints. He popped two mints out of the red tin and into his mouth, rolling them back and forth with his tongue as if to erase all the evidence. Satisfied, he continued his slow progress toward home.
The central streets of the French Quarter were never dark, even after the shops closed and all that remained were the human fleas feeding in the red light of Bourbon Street. The city didn’t want a bunch of drunks searching for their hotels in the dark, nor did they care to provide cover for the petty pickpockets who preyed on them. There were plenty of both in this ecosystem.
At the corner of Royal and St. Peter, King paused beneath a metal sign swinging in the breeze rolling in off Lake Pontchartrain and wiped his boots on the curb. Gum. Vomit. Dog shit. A pedestrian could pick up all sorts of discarded waste on these streets. He balanced his unsteady body by placing one hand on a metal post, cane height and topped with a horse’s head. The pointed ears pressed into his palm as he struggled to balance himself.
A fire engine red building stood waiting for him to clean his feet. Black iron railings crowned the place, with ferns lining the balcony. Hunter green shutters framed oversized windows overlooking both Royal and St. Peter.
The market across the street was still open. King considered ducking in and buying a bento box, but one acidic pickle belch changed his mind. He rubbed his nose, suppressing a sneeze.
Best to go to bed early and think about all that Brasso had told him. Sleep on it. Perhaps literally with the photographs and testimony of one Paula Venetti under his pillow for safe keeping.
And with his gun too, should someone come in during the night and press a blade to his throat in search of information. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Will you do it?
King supposed if he thought this case was hot enough to warrant a knifing in the night, he should’ve said no. He should remind his old partner he’s retired. Brasso should find some young buck full of piss and vinegar. Not a man pushing sixty who can’t have two cocktails without getting acid reflux severe enough to be mistaken for a heart attack.
The case file sat heavy in his hand. Heavier than it had been when he’d first accepted it. He clutched the folder tighter and crossed the threshold into Mel’s shop, the light
s flickered, and a ghostly moan vibrated the shelves.
A gaggle of girls looked up from their cell phones wide-eyed. Then they burst into laughter. One with braces snorted, and the laughter began anew.
Mel’s sales tactics may not be old hat to them, but King found the 10,000th fake moan less thrilling than the first. Funny how it had been the same with his ex-wife.
It’s all about theatrics with these folk, Mel had said when she forced him to help install the unconventional door chime. They come to N’awlins for the witchy voodoo stuff, and if you want to keep renting my room upstairs, Mr. King, you best clip these two wires here together. My old fingers don’t bend the way they used to.
And he did want to keep renting the large one-bedroom apartment upstairs, so he offered no further resistance to her schemes.
The store was smoky with incense. Ylang ylang. Despite the open door and late breeze, a visible cloud hung in the air, haloing the bookshelves and trinket displays full of sugar skulls, candles, statues of saints, and porcelain figurines. The fact that he recognized the scent spoke of Mel’s influence on him these past months. If someone had bet him he would know the difference between Ylang ylang and Geranium two years ago, he would have lost the shirt off his back.
Apart from the four girls clustered by a wall of talismans, only one other patron was in the store. A rail-thin man with a rainbow tank top and cut-off jean shorts showing the bottom of his ass cheeks plucked a Revenge is Love candle from a wooden shelf. He read the label with one hand on his hip. When he scratched his ash blond hair, glitter rained onto the floor.
King’s heart sank. Despite Mel’s endless tactics, business was still slow. At ten o’clock on a Friday, this place should be packed wall-to-wall with tourists, ravers, or even drunks. Five customers did not an income make.
Behind the counter, a twenty-two-year-old girl with a white pixie cut took one look at the falling glitter and her nostrils flared.
Piper wore a sleeveless tank top with deep arm holes revealing her black sports bra beneath. A diamond cat earring sat curled in the upper curve of her ear and sparkled in the light of the cathedral chandelier overhead. A hemp necklace with three glass beads hung around her neck. Every finger had a silver ring, and a crow in flight was tattooed on her inner wrist. She managed to mask her irritation before Booty Shorts reached the counter with his purchase.
“$6.99.” Piper slipped the candle into a paper bag with the Madame Melandra’s Fortunes and Fixes logo stamped on the front.
Booty Shorts thanked her and sashayed out into the night. A glow stick around his neck burned magenta in the dark.
“I don’t see what a candle can do that a hitman can’t.” Piper blew her long bangs out of her face.
“Why would you have someone else fight your battles for you?”
“I don’t hit girls.” Piper scoffed in mock indignation. “Anyway, my point is it’s a waste of time sitting up all night with a candle praying to some goddess who doesn’t give two shits about my sex life. Don’t cry about your sour milk! Go get another fish! A cute, kissable fish who’ll let you unsnap her bra after a couple tequila shots.”
“Be grateful for the candle-burning crybabies,” King adjusted the folder under his arms. “Unless you want to be a shop girl somewhere else.”
Her nostrils flared. “Apprentice. I’m learning how to read fortunes. Sometimes I set up a table in Jackson Square and make shit up. People pay me! It’s unbelievable.”
“The Quarter is a dicey place for a young woman to be alone.”
“Awww. I’ve always wanted a concerned father figure.” She pressed her hands to her heart. Then she rolled her eyes. “Who said I was alone?”
“Were you with Tiffany?”
“Tanya,” she corrected. “And no. We broke up weeks ago.”
King rubbed the back of his head, leaning heavily against the glass case. “That’s right. You left her for Amy.”
“Amanda,” she said. “Keep up, man.”
He’d never been great with names. Now faces—he never forgot a face. “I’m sorry. How’s Amanda?”
“She’s—”
A teenage girl burst from behind the curtain, clutching her palm as if it’d been burned. Fat tears slid down her cheeks, glistening in the light until her friends enfolded her in their arms.
The velvety curtain with its spiraling gold tassels was pulled back again and hung on a hook to one side of the door frame. From the shadows, a voluptuous black woman with considerable hips emerged. Mel’s kohl-rimmed eyes burned and an off-the-shoulders patchwork dress hugged her curvy frame. Gold bangles jangled against her wrist as she adjusted the purple shawl around her.
“Bad news?” Piper arched a brow, and King realized she’d begun to mimic Mel’s dramatic eye makeup.
Mel crossed the small shop, and King straightened again. He hoped his eyes weren’t glassy, and the mints had done the trick.
Mel stopped short of the counter and put one hand on her hip.
“Crushing hearts?” Piper asked, and she sounded excited about it.
Mel rolled her eyes. “I only suggested a book.”
Piper frowned. “What book?”
Mel puckered her lips. “He’s Just Not That Into You.”
Piper’s grin deepened. “You’re so cruel. Do you want me to talk to her? I’m really good with damsels.”
“They’re release tears. They’re good for the soul. She’ll wake up tomorrow and feel like the sun is shining, the baby bluebirds are singing, and—”
“—she’ll be $80 lighter for it,” Piper muttered.
“She’ll be fine.” Mel tapped her long purple nails on the checkout counter and turned her dark eyes on King. “You, on the other hand, you’re in trouble. Big trouble.”
King felt the sweat beading under his collar. He resisted the urge to reach up and pull at it. It was the chandelier overhead, beating down on him. Or he could blame the muggy night. New Orleans was hot as hell in June. Sweating didn’t mean a damn thing.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight, Mr. King.”
He shrugged.
Mel stopped tapping her fingers on the glass countertops. King noticed reflective gems had been glued to the end of her index fingernails. “I see a woman in your future. She’s someone from your past. Pretty little white thing. Blonde. Big blue eyes. And she needs your help.”
His ex-wife Fiona had brown eyes, and no one would have called her a pretty little white thing.” She’d been nearly six feet tall with the body of a rugby player.
Lucy.
“Is this a real fortune, Mel?” he asked his tongue heavy in his mouth.
Mel wrinkled her nose. “As real as the booze on your breath, Mr. King.”
He adjusted the file under his arm. “It’s mouthwash.”
“I’ve done told you when you signed your lease, I wouldn’t let no drunk man in my house again.”
King found it amusing when Mel’s southern accent thickened with her anger. Amusing, but he didn’t dare smile. Mel hadn’t wanted to rent her spare apartment to anyone, let alone a man. It had taken two weeks of wooing and reference checking to convince the fortune teller an ex-DEA agent was an asset rather than a liability.
“At least he’s not an angry drunk.” Piper tried to pull the file free from King’s underarm. She bit her lip as she tried to peel the flaps apart and glimpse the contents within.
He slapped her hand lightly. “I’m not even buzzed.”
Mel’s eyes flicked to the case file then met his again. She arched an eyebrow.
King didn’t believe in palm reading or fortune telling. Ghosts only existed in the mind, and he would be the first to admit he had a menagerie of malevolent spirits haunting him.
But despite what his mother called a healthy dose of skepticism, he believed in intuition. Intuition was knowledge the frontal lobe had yet to process. He trusted his instinct and he respected the instinct of others. No one person could see every angle. Shooters on the roof. Boots on the groun
d. You had to rely on someone else’s eyes, and this was no different.
Did Mel sense something about the case Brasso brought him? About a witness on the run and the man hunting her? And this mysterious woman from his past…
Mel spoke to the gaggle of girls. “Who’s next?”
Three hands shot up. Someone cried, “Me!”
Clearly, they were eager to have their hearts broken.
“Wait.” King touched her shoulder, and she turned. “Were you serious about the woman?”
“I don’t need to be a fortune teller to know there’s a woman, Mr. King.” Mel tucked one of the girls behind the curtain and met his eyes again. She looked at him through long, painted lashes. Candle flames danced on the walls behind her. “She’s in your apartment.”
“You let a woman into my apartment?” His heart took off. “There’s a woman in my apartment? Now?”
Mel grinned and dropped the burgundy curtain.
“Good luck with your ex-girlfriend.” Piper swiped at the floor with a corn husk broom, doing no more than smearing the glitter. “Hope you have better luck than I do with mine.”
“I’ll be okay.” King stood at the base of the stairs, looking up at his dark door. “Probably.”
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Dying Day Page 29