Sex, Lies & Diamonds

by Kris Calvert

  Reaching for any part I could touch as we hurried down the staircase to the safe room, she shooed my hand away. Hustling to the door that lead to the tunnel, I stopped her.

  “You’re so bad, Leo. Rubbing up against me with Tristan standing right there. Really? Honestly, you’re such a troublemaker.”

  I pulled her close, breathing her in. “You’re my favorite kind of trouble, cher.” I cupped her bottom in my hands, pinning her tightly against me and felt my throat tighten. I could tease her all I wanted, but having her out of my sight made me nervous no matter how proficient she was with her Glock. “Be careful. Come straight out and stay out of the street lights.”

  She nodded. I watched her rack the slide of her fully loaded Glock Nano and slid my open palm over her tight breasts before zipping up her leather jacket. Holding her jaw in my hand, I kissed her once and breathed my words onto her lips. “Toi et moi.”

  She closed her eyes. “Me and you,” she replied.

  Opening the door that led to the street, I handed her a flashlight. “Leave this at the end of the tunnel. We might need it later.”

  She held her hand in the air, but didn’t wave. When she turned her back I saw the light come on. I closed the door and locked it. Whatever we’d started, there was no turning back.

  I tore down the front lane of Jackson House and out the main entrance on my blacked out Harley Softail Slim. It was so liberating to leave my own home out the front door, my stomach flipped with excitement. I was damned near giddy. When I rounded the street corner, I worried not only about the sound of the bike, but stopping to pick up Polly. Folks in the Garden District were nosy and anything suspicious would be reported. We needed to stay under the radar as much as possible. And even though it was a neighborhood of multimillion dollar homes, it was still New Orleans—a place filled with gypsies, drug dealers and pickpockets.

  Riding the bike made me come alive. The roar of the engine and the feel of the road beneath me put me on a power trip I’d not experienced in two years. I didn’t want to admit it, but I missed the action. I missed it bad. When I saw Polly waiting in the shadows three blocks from her extraction point, my heart beat a little faster and I kicked the hog into gear, picking up speed.

  Pulling over, I placed my feet on the ground, the bike idling like a beast between my legs. Polly shot me a smile as I handed her the extra helmet. She threw her long leg over and we were off before she had a chance to wrap her arms around my waist.

  Rushing through the damp night air, I embraced New Orleans. Merely driving down the streets toward the French Quarter made the blood pump through my veins with the kind of spark I hadn’t felt since sailing away nearly two years ago. Polly’s fingers stroked my waist and I inhaled the smells of the city—my city.

  “Where are we going?” Polly asked as we idled at a red light.

  “Little joint on Decatur and Ursulines Avenue. Someplace we won’t be seen.”

  The light changed and I took off. It was already nearly eleven. I knew the rookie cop would be finishing his shift and want to get home. There was no need to waste time—his or mine.

  Pulling off of Decatur, I could see the sign for Rick’s Place. A dive that closed at midnight for the public, but had a back room left over from the speakeasy days for the regulars who’d been known to stay, play cards and shoot the shit until daybreak. I parked the bike in the back and found Tristan’s nearby. With no squad car in sight, I made the assumption Officer Marchant was pulling his full shift before meeting up with us.

  Leading Polly, I placed my hand in the small of her back, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath the leather. I opened the front door and immediately saw Tristan in the corner. The place smelled like stale beer, hot sauce and etouffee. Jesus God. I’d died and gone to heaven.

  Polly slid into the booth Tristan had chosen in the back of the joint that was mostly exposed brick walls, beams and furniture saved from Katrina. Our spot was dark and away from the small crowd that, judging by the empty beer bottles in the trashcans behind the bar, had started to thin out. We sat with our backs to the door. Not that I was a regular at Rick’s place, but there was no reason to call attention to myself. Just walking in the joint with Polly called enough attention.

  A rail-thin waitress came up on the table chewing gum and paying more attention to the black polish chipping off her nails than the three of us sitting in front of her. “Kitchen’s fixin’ to close. If y’alls wantin’ anything to eat, best order now.”

  We looked back and forth amongst each other. I broke the silence knowing Polly wouldn’t drink. “Water for the lady. I’ll have Sazerac with whiskey and a Bud Light.”

  “Bourbon. Straight,” Tristan mumbled.

  Without eye contact, she sighed. “Sure.”

  The look of confusion on Polly’s face caught my eye. She shook her head at me. “Sazerac?”

  “I’m home, cher. I might as well act like it.”

  “It’s Marchant,” Tristan said, looking past us and to the door. He eyed him with casual indifference, then looked back to me.

  When the young officer made it to the table I didn’t want to seem shocked, and yet I knew from the elbow Polly threw in my ribs I wasn’t hiding my thoughts. At nearly six and a half feet tall, Officer Simon Marchant was as thin as our waitress, making him seem even taller than the towering beanstalk of a man he was.

  I stood to greet him, shaking his thin-fingered hand. “Have a seat, Marchant.”

  He nodded as Tristan stood away from the booth, allowing the young officer the opportunity to slide in first. Tristan wasn’t going to sit on the inside.

  Marchant had changed from his uniform into jeans and a black Pearl Jam t-shirt. I was certain it was his father’s, the kid didn’t look a day over eighteen. I started the casual conversation with the usual. “How long you been on the force?”

  “Nine months.” His voice was deep and confident, even if his body said otherwise. “I’m sorry. I met Agent Bleu the other night at the crime scene. Who are you?”

  I gave his question some breathing space before answering. “I’m Agent Leo Xanthus, FBI.”

  The kid’s eyes narrowed and I watched the wheels turn in his head. As if on cue, he slid down into the booth. It was obvious he was questioning his decision to meet with us.

  “I—” Marchant stuttered and the waitress returned with our drink order.

  “Water, Bud Light, Sazerac, and Bourbon straight. Y’all startin’ a tab or paying now? Oh hey, Simon. Didn’t see you come in. What’ll it be?” The thin waitress rattled off her diatribe without taking a breath.

  Simon Marchant replied in a near whisper. “Bud Light.”

  The waitress leaned into the table, looking at us for the first time since we arrived. “You okay, Simon? Need a glass of water or somethin’?”

  Marchant nodded and she finally walked away. I concealed my need to take a deep breath. Tristan’s idea of meeting out in the open wasn’t so smart, but bringing Marchant to Jackson House wasn’t a good idea either. Frankly, I was running out of ideas and good ones were nowhere to be found.

  As quickly as she’d left, the waitress returned with another glass of water and a Bud Light. I passed a folded hundred-dollar bill through the bottles on the table. “We’re good for the night darlin’. No need to check back. Keep the change and we’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”

  She slipped the bill from between my fingers. Her weary smile told me she appreciated the tip. “Anything you say, boss.”

  Finally alone, I sipped my Sazerac. Whiskey, Peychaud’s Bitters and one sugar cube in an absinthe laced glass with lemon peel, it went down as it should—like a bomb in a warzone. Lethal and right on target. I took a moment, got my head right with God and stared the young officer in the eye. “I know what you must be thinking.”

  “How you could know what I’m thinking?”

  I liked the kid already.

  “How old are you, Marchant?”

  “Twenty-five.”
r />   “What’d you do before the force? Military?” I asked the question and looked at his arms. There was no way the kid had done a pushup in his life.

  “College. I studied Criminal Justice, sir.”

  The surprise must’ve shown on my face because he immediately followed his answer with an explanation.

  “Look, I know I don’t look like the kind of guy who’d want to go into law enforcement. I’m not cool. I’m not tough looking and I’m awkward as hell.”

  Tristan and I exchanged a glance. The kid was right. Still, we didn’t stop him. We didn’t correct him. Polly did.

  “Officer Marchant.” Her soft voice echoed in the booth. “You’re not awkward, you’re tall. You can always bulk up, but no man can make himself taller.”

  He stared at her and blushed, then looked away and nodded at his fidgeting hands. And just like that, my brilliant wife had broken down the protective barrier the young officer had put up. When Simon Marchant brought his head from the table, a new attitude accompanied it.

  “What is it I can do for you, Agent Xanthus? Because the college paper I wrote on you, your family and the beginning of the takedown of the Marcello Crime family says you and your girlfriend Polly Benson are dead.”

  “You did a college paper on—” Polly paused. “That?”

  Marchant blushed again, then took a long swig from his beer before nodding.

  Choosing to brush past his obvious knowledge of who we were, I started my line of questioning. “The break in at Jackson House. Were you the first on the scene?”

  “Yes.”

  “What can you tell me about it?”

  Marchant looked across the table to Tristan. “I gave Agent Bleu the report I wrote.”

  Dropping my chin to catch his eye, I scowled. “I don’t give a damn about what you wrote in the report. I want to know what you saw.”

  The prominent Adam’s apple on Marchant’s long neck slid up and down with his nervous swallow. I didn’t want the kid to fear me, but I sure as hell wanted his attention.

  “Well,” he muttered looking around the bar as if it had ears. “The alarm company called in a ten sixty-two—a B and E in progress. I was on patrol nearby and took the call. The security company let me past the main gate.”

  “How’d the perp get through the main gate?” I asked.

  “We believe they came in the back—service road.”

  “We?” I asked. “Or you?”

  Marchant shrugged one shoulder. “Personally sir, I think they came through the front. I think Mr. Wilson opened the gate for them. Mr. Oscar Wilson?”

  I let that idea roll around in my head for a moment. What were the chances Oscar would allow Al and his two sons into Jackson House? Was he hospitable, hoping to keep from causing a scene? “Let’s keep that thought in mind. What else?”

  “By the time I arrived, the front door was open, and I could hear, you know, scuffling sounds upstairs. Your house—” Marchant caught himself. “I mean, Jackson House is old and places like that ring out pretty loud when fisticuffs are breaking out. Know what I mean?”

  I nodded. “Keep going.”

  “I called for backup, pulled my service weapon and began to climb the main staircase at a good clip. I could hear someone calling out.”

  “What were they saying?” I asked.

  Marchant looked away and then back to me and Polly. “Help.”

  A knot formed in the pit of my stomach and I remedied it with another gulp of my Sazerac, finishing it off. With a resounding thud, I slammed the glass on the table and picked up my beer.

  “Keep going,” Polly said, urging him on.

  “When I made it to the room—” Suddenly Officer Marchant stopped.

  Pissed and unable to control the emotion that had been bubbling up since I stepped foot into my master bedroom, I finally snapped. Leaning in, I brought my voice down to a whispered but threatening growl. “Spit it out, son. I didn’t ask you here for a damn book report, but a true account of what happened in my motherfucking house.”

  Marchant’s face flushed. The kid was afraid. But not of me. “What. Happened?”

  “Alfonso Balivino’s two sons—”

  “Vito and Angelo,” Tristan interjected.

  “Yes.”

  “They were there?” I asked, confirming what I already knew.

  Marchant nodded.

  “And?”

  “And you won’t find that in the police report.”

  I sat back and rubbed the stubble on my face. Polly placed her hand on my rigid thigh, calming me. “Because the Chief is beholden to Al?”

  Marchant shook off my question. “Certainly not me, sir.”

  I dropped my head into my hands to think it all through. “You saw these two? Angelo and Vito?”

  Marchant looked around the bar again. “Keep it down. All these little dives have ears. They all pay Al Balivino.”

  “For what?” The days of protection were long gone. The family mostly dealt in drugs and money laundering.

  “Look, I know you’ve been gone a little while sir, but while you were—wherever you were—the war on drugs in New Orleans has become a losing battle. There’s more heroin on the street nowadays than weed, and it’s cheaper too. Cops like me? We’re reviving on average two to three people a day with Narcan. And people like the Balivino boys can’t get it into the junkies’ hands fast enough.”

  “They’re dealing in heroin?” Polly asked the question for me. I was astonished. I knew times were tough in the old world of the mob, but heroin?

  “Your police report leaves out the fact that the Balivino brothers beat the shit out of Oscar because your department is doing what? Dealing? Staying out the way?”

  “Look,” Marchant said, peeling the label off the beer he’d barely touched. It was evident his nerves were getting the best of him. “I’m trying to stay the hell out of the way. I figure I’ve got a couple years on the force here, then I’m applying to the Academy in Quantico.”

  “That’s all fine and good, Marchant, except for the fact that my house was broken into, my safe was blown off the wall and my caretaker, whom I’ve known since the day I was born, was beaten half to death. And for what?”

  A mask of confusion covered Marchant’s face. “Half to death?”

  I looked away, nearly blowing the story. “Sorry. To death. They beat him…to death.”

  “You tell me,” Marchant said straightening himself. “You’re the one who used to run with them. Your father was one of them. I think you would know better than anyone what they wanted. And respectfully sir, as my grandmother always said, if you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.”

  I felt Polly slide her hand up my leg and take my hand into hers with a gentle squeeze. I started to open my mouth—to tell Marchant to go fuck himself, but Polly’s touch placated me. Everything the gangly young cop said was true. Polly knew it. Tristan knew it. Hell, I knew it.

  “I’m sure from the outside, Officer Marchant, it would seem as though I’m tightly knitted into the Marcello family.”

  “Z.” Tristan stopped me, but only momentarily.

  “But that’s simply not the case. I’ve been—for the lack of a better term—a double agent, so to speak. Not that I need to explain myself to you, but I’d like your help with this case. And if you’re willing to do so, I’m pretty sure I could put a good word in for you at the Farm.”

  Marchant’s eyes brightened at my offer and I watched him silently weigh his options. “Well…” he said dragging out the word, “What kind of help would you need?”

  “The inside kind,” Tristan said.

  Marchant’s eyes darted between Tristan and me. I knew he wanted to say yes, but after the whole dog and flea comment, I thought perhaps his naïve rule-following character would have trouble falling in line with a couple of off the grid FBI agents—one of which was known to be connected to the mob and was supposed to be dead.

  Marchant took a sip of his half-full beer and flared his
nostrils as he exhaled whatever demons he was wrestling with. “Okay.”

  “Okay?” I asked.

  Marchant nodded. “But I want something in writing that says—not just one of you but both of you—will write me a letter of recommendation to the Academy.”

  Tristan and I barely glanced at each other. “Sure.” I replied.

  “So,” Marchant said clapping his hands together and rubbing them. “Where do you want me to start?”

  “Find out who changed your police report. I want to know who on the inside is protecting the Marcello crime family. Tonight, I’ve called in some hired guns to put the house on lockdown. Then tomorrow, we’re going on a little buying spree.”

  Polly dropped her head to catch my gaze. “Buying spree?”

  “Time to score some heroin.”

  8

  POLLY

  When we arrived back at Jackson House, it was nearly one in the morning. Going nonstop from Italy to the states, we’d not taken a breath and barely slept in two days. I was beyond tired. I was weary. Still we’d had to hang back and away from home, waiting on the security detail to find their way to Jackson House. Until then, Leo and I sat in the darkness on Third Street. Tristan had checked into a hotel somewhere despite Leo’s offer to stay with us. When he’d left, Leo explained Tristan was a loner—the kind of man who didn’t stay with anyone.

  Stretching my neck, I paced in the small alcove. Leo kept an eye on our home from afar. “Who are these people again?”

  “Private security.”

  Leo’s short answers told me he wasn’t in the mood to talk. The problem was, I still needed answers. “Private security from where? Are you talking about hired guns? Like what the military hires for diplomats in places that no one wants to go?”

  Leo finally took his eyes off Jackson House and looked back at me. “Exactly like that.”

  My eyes widened. “Seriously?”

  Turning back to his eager watch down the empty street, Leo straightened, his level of intensity without sleep mind-boggling. “They’re the best of the best, cher. Even if they are retired. I promise they’ll stay in the shadows and they’ll provide a layer of security for us—for you.”