The Blood of Saints (Tom Connelly Book 2)

by Nick Dorsey

I’m a fighter.

  I’m a warrior.

  Her mother’s eyes crinkled with concern. “Baby, what’s wrong?

  I’m a badass bitch.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  After seeing Jean off, Tom exchanged his LSU sweatshirt for a light canvas bomber jacket and drove to the casino. He still had some work to do. As he drove, a small voice told him he should call the police. It was a voice he had learned to ignore a little too easily. He only wanted to check a few things, he told himself. And he was sure Jean would be fine out there in Saint Bernard Parish, at least for a couple of days.

  Ray met him in the parking garage. Inside it was too bright, almost clinical after the dim glow of dusk outside. Instead of his usual medic uniform, Ray was wearing an oversized Saints jersey. He stood smoking a cigarette when Tom pulled in.

  Tom grabbed the small briefcase off his passenger seat and got out of his car. He called out, “Hey, you're a doctor. You're not supposed to be doing that.” His voice echoed up and down the row of parked cars.

  “A doctor? Shit. You just gave me a promotion.” He dropped the cigarette to the concrete and stomped it out. “Besides, I don't have the uniform on.”

  Tom held out the small plastic briefcase. “Thanks for this.”

  “You call me and need a piece, I just hand it over.” Ray looked at the case but didn’t make a move to take it. He let out a long breath. “No questions asked. I’m a dumb man.”

  “Relax. We didn’t even take it out of the case.”

  “All that and you don’t want it?”

  “She can’t shoot.” Tom shrugged. They waited as a car passed by, its tires squealing on the painted concrete.

  “Do you need it? Your friend is okay?”

  “I'm good. She's good.” Tom shoved the case toward him.

  “Because you told me you don’t have your police-issued piece anymore.”

  That was true. Tom had not owned a gun for the past few years. Not since the whole incident with the Champagne family. He had once been of the mindset that it was better to have a gun and not need it than it was to need a gun and not have it, but his opinion had changed. He didn’t deny that he could use protection now and then, but it seemed like every time he brought a gun into a situation it only complicated matters in unforeseen ways. He’d rather not have one hanging around if he could help it.

  Tom said, “It’s alright.”

  “Take it anyway.” Ray held up both hands, refusing to take the gun case. “I got to go and get changed. I'm going to be late for my shift.” He started walking toward the elevators on the far side of the parking garage. “You just hold onto that for me, okay? Shit, why would you bring a piece to the casino, anyway? Gonna get yourself in trouble with security.” Ray laughed and left Tom there holding the gun.

  As Tom readied himself for the evening, he called Patton and asked him to come along. He thought Patton would probably want to call him the Defenders or the cops. At the very least, he wouldn't want to go along. Still, Tom wanted to try.

  “You’re going to mess with the game room guys?”

  “I would say I’m going to observe a few persons of interest.”

  “I’m not sure you should do that. You’re not on the Adelfi thing anymore.”

  “No, but you’re still on it, right?”

  “I’m still on it, and I’d like to stay that way. Jean’s not the department’s favorite person right now.”

  “I know.”

  “So I don’t want to be next on the hit list.”

  Tom smiled to himself. “You go with me, you’re guilty by association?”

  “You got it.” Patton paused. “They want me to go back to Bluebird Street and talk to Adelfi’s neighbors.”

  “Again?”

  “Another lawyer, Eason Kandinsky, is on the case now. Double-checking Jean’s work, I guess. He wants to go.”

  Tom checked himself in the mirror and decided not to shave. “Alright. Ask questions.”

  “You know it. Tom? Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

  He found himself sitting in a car alone outside of Dominic’s Napoleon Avenue apartment building. This time, he reminded himself, he had a piece in the car. He had to be careful. He made the block a few times, looking for Dominic’s car and didn’t see it. So maybe he was still at work at the Pan Dell’Orso.

  But maybe, “Sofia Adelfi” or whoever she was, was inside. He jumped out of his car and walked to the side door of the apartment. It wouldn’t open. There was a metal keypad set into the door just over the doorknob. He walked around to the front of the building and found a similar keypad next to a set of tall French doors. Tom peered through the doors and saw a middle-aged guy in Dickie jeans pushing a broom around the foyer. Tom knocked on the door. The guy looked up and shrugged.

  Tom knocked again. This time he tried his best mime impression. He held his hands together, pleading. The guy grimaced, but he pushed his broom over and opened a door just wide enough to be heard. “You don’t know the code?”

  “I’m supposed to meet my friend Dominic.” Tom wondered if the guy would buy it. Tom was a little too old, a little too underdressed to be one of Dominic’s friends. “He told me his apartment number, it’s five-something?”

  The guy screwed up his face, then shook his head. “Dominic and Erika are in 203. Anyway, they ain’t here. I saw her leave.”

  Erika. So that was the real name that went along with “Sofia Adelfi.” Tom filed that away.

  “No? Shit. They were supposed to wait for me.”

  “You supposed to meet them here?” The guy seemed suspicious for a moment, then a mischievous look crept across his face. “And not at her show?”

  “I thought so.” Tom didn’t have to pretend to be confused.

  The janitor, or super, or property manager propped his broom against the wall and stood in the open door. “She tries to get everyone to go to one of her shows.” He grinned. “But I’m not the kind of guy that goes to places like that .”

  Tom smiled hesitantly. “I’ve never been. It’s that bad?”

  “The Iron Corset? It’s not like a Bourbon Street titty-bar, I guess.” The guy held up both hands. “But it ain’t a place for me. I’m married. Anyway, I can’t let you in here. But they probably over there.”

  Tom grinned. “Sure. I got you. Thanks.”

  The guy waved and went back inside to resume sweeping.

  Outside in his car, Tom got on his phone and opened a search engine. He typed in Iron Corset . The address was in the French Quarter. Not Bourbon Street, but close enough.

  Now the only question was, did Tom want to check out who Sofia, or Erika, really was, or did he want to knock Dominic around for threatening Jean?

  He paid too much for parking in an outdoor lot and joined the Saturday night crowd flowing into the French Quarter. It wasn’t raining yet but the wind was bringing in new clouds in the early evening.

  The crowd went toward Bourbon Street and Tom turned to go his own way. The Iron Corset was on one of the French Quarter’s main drags, Decatur Street. Right on the edge of the tourist district where there were fewer street musicians and more homeless. As he passed under balconies, he had to step over the street people staking out spots, looking for some shelter from the rain. He stepped across a sheet of cardboard and a voice called out, “Hey you gotta dollar? For a burger?” When Tom told the street kid he didn’t have any money, the kid’s dog growled. The kid laughed when Tom walked away.

  Some trick. How do you train a dog to do that? Forget it. Tom focused on the matter at hand. Finding Dominic. And asking him what the hell he was doing following Jeanette Perez around.

  He made it to the doorway of the Iron Corset and was stopped by a skinny man about his age in all black. “Twenty bucks.”

  “Twenty? Really? All night?”

  “After midnight it’s gonna be free. When the show’s on, twenty. You can buy tickets online for fifteen.”

  “How about I buy a ticket from you for fi
fteen?”

  The doorman laughed, and the laugh turned into a hacking cough. He showed Tom a set of brown teeth. “Sorry, partner. Fifteen is the online-price only.”

  Tom handed him the money and walked into something like an entryway. Black-out curtains separated the small space from the rest of the bar. He couldn’t see anything, but he could hear the music inside, a craggy voice singing over some tribal beat. He pushed through the curtains and found he was behind fifty or so people crammed into a tiny room. Two bartenders slung drinks from a bar along his left, but most people were looking straight ahead. A woman was on stage surrounded by what looked like props from the circus. Swings were suspended from the ceiling and a giant brass ring hung off to one side. In the middle of the stage was a pole with a curvy redhead wrapped around it. She wore a thong and a bra, both black with silver studs. The tempo of the music raced as she climbed up the pole almost to the ceiling. She twisted and turned and suddenly she was hanging from the pole upside down, her legs wrapped around the thing and her hands free to wave at the audience. The music crescendoed and with an elaborate motion, the redhead ripped off her bra. Her breasts hung free, capped with large silver tassels. She shimmied and the tassels waved. When everyone clapped, Tom followed suit.

  So this was burlesque. Okay. Tom made his way through the crush of flesh looking for familiar faces. It was more mixed than he expected and younger than the crowds he remembered hanging around the Bourbon Street strip clubs. There were a few guys that were Dominic’s build, but he didn’t see the man himself.

  The music started up again, lots of strings and bass. From somewhere an announcer crooned, “Alright folks, please put your hands together for Jezebelle Queen!”

  The crowd turned as one to watch the woman coming on stage. She was tall, all her blonde hair was somehow taller and curly, too. Large jewels encircled her forehead, stuck there by some unseen force. Her royal gown was in tasteful tatters, though Tom guessed that wouldn’t last long. As the woman sat in the large brass ring and began to swing, Tom realized who she was. He moved to the back of the bar and watched Erika, alias Jezebelle Queen, dance.

  She had her own spin, but it was largely a repeat of the redhead’s show. Some shaking. Some writhing. Some dancing. Then the tassels. After she had shown the crowd her tassels, Erika darted backstage. Tom carefully made his way around the bar while another dancer took the stage. He found a flyer for the next show and scanned it. The dancers all had fake names, but the show was produced by five women. What did that even mean, produced by? At any rate, one of the women was named Erika Cheramie. How many Erika’s could there really be? He folded it into his pocket. When he was sure that Dominic wasn’t in attendance, he walked over to the side of the stage where the first dancer, the redhead, was in a kimono drinking with a few friends in front of an Employees Only sign. Tom interrupted their conversation.

  “Hey, I’m a friend of Erika’s. Can I get back there?”

  The redhead shook her head sadly. “Dancers only. I’m sure she’ll be right out, though.”

  “Yeah? Hey, could you tell her Dominic is out here waiting for her?” The redhead gave him a look that said he was pushing it, so he added, “Let me buy y'all a round, okay?” Now he was speaking their language. She ducked behind the curtain.

  Tom was waiting at the bar when Erika came out wearing a silk robe. She still had the jewels on her forehead reflecting the dim light of the bar. Damned if she didn’t look regal, parting the crowd as she looked for someone who wasn’t there.

  Tom walked over to her and said, “Hey, I liked your show.”

  “Thanks for coming,” she said, but she was on autopilot, not interested in him at all.

  “You ever find anyone to kill your husband?”

  Now she looked at him, slowly. Like he was some exotic bug that recently learned to talk.

  “I bet you’re still looking. Hey, I noticed you lost your accent. What was it, like Swedish? German? More like Central Louisiana. Lafayette maybe?”

  She whirled around, really looking for Dominic now.

  Tom could see the panic on her face. He said, “He’s not here. It’s just me.”

  Satisfied that he was telling the truth, Erika rolled her shoulders in her robe and walked to the bar. She ordered a gin and tonic and waited. Tom followed.

  He said, “You going to talk to me?”

  She said, “I don’t know who you are.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That’s right.” She made a move to walk away and Tom stepped in front of her. She flashed him a smile, a playful smile he remembered from when they first met. She said, “If I scream, a dozen guys will be all over you.”

  “I’d be more worried about the cops if I were you.”

  Her smile vanished. She pushed past him.

  Tom called out after her, “Alright, Erika Cheramie. Tell your boyfriend I stopped by looking for him, okay?”

  On his way back out of the French Quarter, Tom put it all together. Wrapped his mind around the whole set-up. Ernesto Adelfi is on the outs with his business partners, something like that. So Sal LaRocca tells his nephew or whatever, Dominic, to take care of him. Maybe it’s Sal’s plan, maybe Dominic comes up with the whole thing on his own. They’re going to frame Ernesto’s wife. Sofia is a drinker, nobody denies that. Unreliable. So there’s your patsy. Erika looks just enough like Sofia to pass for her, so she goes to see Tom. Tells him how much of an asshole Ernesto is. Her accent wasn’t half-bad. That pulls Tom in as a corroborating witness of sorts. He can speak to her state of mind right before the murder.

  Not bad. But how did they get to him? Did they research private investigators? Did they know his history? Did they just pick him out of a hat?

  Jesus, was his luck that bad?

  Tom pulled out his cell phone but didn’t dial anyone. Jean was out of town and Patton wouldn’t want any part of what he was going to do. Tom shoved the cell phone in his pocket and clenched his jaw.

  These guys just picked his name out of a hat? That was fine. That was okay. But they brought him into this, whatever it was. Whatever happened next, it was on them.

  His tires squealed as he left the parking lot. He barrelled through traffic until he found the interstate and then he was off. He barely let his foot off the gas until he was in front of the Pan Dell’Orso. The parking lot was empty, but Tom stopped anyway. It was getting a little late for the restaurant’s regular crowd.

  The doors were unlocked, so he pushed his way into the bar. The big guy back there was cleaning up. He said, “We’re closed.” But stopped when he recognized Tom.

  Tom ignored him. He walked straight into the dining room, past a bewildered busboy, and through the backdoor into the kitchen. A few cooks were scrubbing the place down. No Dominic. As Tom left the restaurant the big guy stepped toward him but didn’t try and stop him. He was on the phone. “No, he’s leaving.”

  The door groaned as it shut behind Tom. Nobody important at the Pan? That was fine. He had options.

  The lot in front of the poker room was packed, but Tom still saw the police cruiser sitting in the back, watching. That was fine. Ray’s guy would stay stowed and silent. He parked and crossed the lot and pushed open a door next to the empty storefront. The fat guy with no neck was in the biggest flannel shirt Tom had ever seen and was balanced precariously on a stool that looked ready to collapse at any moment. This time Tom noticed the camera stuck in one corner.

  The big man looked at Tom for a moment, waiting for him to speak. So Tom did. “Is Dominic in there?”

  “I don’t know any Dominic.”

  So it was going to be like that. Tom said, “What about Nino?”

  “What about Ben and Jerry?” He said it with a straight face.

  Tom’s jaw twitched. He said, “I’ve been in there before.”

  The man shook his bald head. “Nah, man. I guess you want the liquor store, bro.”

  “I have the right place.”

  “I’m not going to a
rgue, I’m just not letting you in.”

  Tom decided to ignore the guy. He pushed past him but was stopped by a meaty hand. Tom was ready for it. He grabbed the fat wrist and yanked his cell phone from his pocket and jabbed the phone into the bouncer’s nose. There was a wet crack and Tom felt the shock travel up his arm. The guy jerked back.

  The bouncer’s hands leaped up to his face, but Tom pressed him. He pulled the guy into a bear hug, feeling the guy’s wide midsection for the gun he knew was there. His fingers touched the textured grip. He pulled the piece and stepped back to the door.

  “Jesus Christ, you broke my nose.”

  “I did?” Tom held the gun loosely in one hand and pointed it at the floor. “That was self-defense. I feared for my life.”

  “You’re trespassing.” The last word came out all muddled. The bouncer’s hands were cupped to his face.

  “I’m just waiting for a friend.”

  The guy opened his hands around his mouth revealing teeth sticky with blood. “Dom isn’t even here. Christ, they’re gonna see you on the camera. Better give me my gun back before they get here.”

  “I’m not going to do that. Dominic isn’t here?”

  The front door swung open and they both turned to see a young police officer standing there. With his mouth hanging open like that, the cop wasn’t exactly an authority figure.

  Tom said, “He fell.”

  The cop took in the bouncer, his bloody nose, and Tom standing there with a gun. He was still staring, then the whole scene clicked into place and the cop remembered who he was. “Jesus, drop the weapon!” The sound of metal on leather was huge in the small space as the cop drew his service weapon.

  Tom’s world suddenly shrank. It was filled by the barrel of the cop’s piece. He held his own gun with two fingers and said, “Okay, I’m doing that right now. Putting it on the ground, okay?” Tom did so. He showed the cop his empty hands.

  “Now get down on the ground.”

  “I used to be a cop.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  “You will when you try and book me. It being your day off and all. And you have to explain what you’re doing at an illegal poker room.”