Chapter Sixteen
Rick had barely closed his locker when he heard Beauregard’s staff talking about Carlos. He’d expected the news to travel through the French Quarter like a prairie fire in a windstorm. There had been nothing in any of the newspapers or on TV that had identified Carlos by name, but this was the French Quarter, and not even the Internet spread information as fast as word of mouth did down here.
“It was an overdose,” Nina said.
“That can’t be. Carlos never touched drugs,” another waitress responded.
“Never say never,” Tom said.
“I don’t believe he OD’d,” the waitress countered. “I heard that him and Jack Adams lived together. I think he was murdered, just like Adams.”
“Jack Adams? The attorney who OD’d on the bad dope?
“Neither one of them OD’d. They were murdered. Don’t you listen to the news?”
So some people knew that Carlos and Johnny had been together. Rick wondered how far that information had gotten.
Earl broke up the group. “Get to work, all of you. If Carlos was murdered, you’re not going to solve it tonight.” He nodded at Rick. “Beau wants to see you,” he said.
Rick frowned. “Beau? What about?”
But Earl wasn’t having a conversation. “No idea. He’s in the back. In his office.”
Rick shook his head.
“Behind the poker room.”
Rick headed to the poker room. When he opened the door, the room was spotless, just like it had been the other night at the game. The bottles behind the small bar sparkled and there was no lingering smell of smoke. In fact, there was no sign that anyone had ever been in the room.
Rick walked over and knocked on the door in the back of the room.
“Come in.” The voice was pitched low, with the faint lilt of a Cajun French accent.
Inside the door was a space that had been built for luxury and comfort. The walls were paneled with what looked like cherry wood and a large desk dominated one side of the room. Behind the desk were dark green curtains, just like the ones that hid the mysterious back rooms from the restaurant and bar. Standing in the shadows beside the desk was a bodyguard. He was silent and still, but his eyes watched Rick’s every move.
Near the door was a cozy conversation area, lit from above by a circle of pendulum lamps. There were two oversized easy chairs under the lamps and a round coffee table between them. One of the chairs had a side table with a large retro ginger jar lamp on it. Beau sat in that chair.
Anastase Beauregard was a very large man. He could not have weighed less than three hundred pounds. His chair looked as though it had been built around his bulk. He was impressive.
“Mr. Beauregard?” Rick asked, by way of greeting.
“Sit,” Beau said. “Sit. Take a load off your feet.”
Rick sat. The chair was soft and deep. It would be difficult to vault out of, and that was not good. Rick liked to maintain a careful balance of apparent relaxation and poised readiness. It paid, in his line of work, to be ready for anything.
“I heard your apartment was the scene of my dear friend Carlos Montoya’s death,” Beau said, propping his elbows on the chair arms and tenting his fingers.
Of course Beau would know, probably had known two seconds after it had happened. In fact, he could have known before it happened. He could have ordered it.
“That’s true,” Rick said, wanting to ask him how he and Carlos became dear friends but not wanting to irritate him.
“And you reside where?”
“The Ace Hotel, at Rampart and Iberville Streets.”
“Mister…Easton, is it? I would like to know what happened at your apartment last night and I would prefer not to be forced to drag it out of you. Could you please tell me why Carlos was at your apartment and what happened to him?”
“I wasn’t aware that you and Carlos Montoya were dear friends.” As he’d expected, he saw a fleeting annoyance cross Beau’s face.
“I’ve known him for a long time,” Beau responded. “He has worked in various capacities for me on occasion. But I’m curious as to how you knew him. As I understand it, you have only been here in our beautiful city a short time.”
Rick thought fast. Anastase Beauregard was known to the NOPD. He made a point of skirting the very edge of the law, running several legitimate businesses, the most popular of which was this very place, Beauregard’s Restaurant and Bar. He was known to be trafficking in drugs, but had always been clever enough to stay under the radar.
Rick shifted in his chair, as if he were uncomfortable. “He approached me only a couple of days after I started work here, and asked me some questions. Did I need anything I hadn’t been able to obtain on my own? What had brought me to Beauregard’s to look for a job? Had I had any run-ins with the law? I thought maybe he was asking on your behalf. But being a good boy, I didn’t ask questions.”
Beau studied him for a moment. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked.
“No, I’m good.”
“Please tell me what transpired at your apartment that led to Carlos’s death. I have other appointments this evening.”
“Yeah, sure.” Rick shifted again, this time, leaning slightly forward, which gave him more leverage if anything were to happen. He hoped the posture made him seem more sincere. “I was working last night. It was busy. I hadn’t noticed Carlos until he waved me over and ordered a drink. He was maudlin. Something about it being somebody’s birthday and he was having a hard time dealing with it and he had nobody to talk to.” Rick knew there were always security guards in the restaurant and bar, and he was sure there were cameras. He made sure if Beau checked his story against the cameras that had been running last night, they would match.
“Jack Adams’s birthday. He and Jack were partners.”
Something dark and dangerous welled up inside Rick at the sound of his brother’s name coming from Beau’s mouth, but he tamped it down. “Maybe,” he said evenly. “All I know is he asked me if I’d like to have a drink with him after I got off work.” Rick shrugged. “I felt sorry for the guy so I told him where my apartment was and gave him a key.”
A knowing smirk twisted Beau’s lips. “A key. You gave a man you didn’t know a key to your apartment. I see.”
“No, I—” Rick’s first instinct was to protest, but his rational brain told him that there was no need to waste time on something that didn’t matter. He didn’t care what Beau thought of him. He just needed Beau to believe him.
“So you made a date with someone you barely knew because he told you he wanted to talk? Then before you could get to him he was murdered—in your apartment? Do you have any idea who would want poor Carlos dead?”
“No,” Rick said. Do you? Because he found out you murdered my brother? He did his best not to let his thoughts change his expression. “Although, well, wasn’t Jack Adams killed in the same way?” he said carefully.
“That’s what I understand. What I don’t understand is why he was murdered in your apartment.”
Rick shrugged, cringing inside. Hang in there. He’s fishing. “Carlos was upset. I felt sorry for him. You know how people always talk to the bartender.”
Beau watched him, his dark eyes narrowed. “I do, but they don’t usually do the talking in the bartender’s apartment.”
“Okay. I think he was followed. Why are you so interested in where he was?” Rick said, straightening in the chair. He had to play this just right. He’d already decided that Beau was suspicious of him—that he might even be trying to decide if Rick was a cop. The Man of a Thousand Faces just might be playing the charade of his life right now.
Beau’s gaze narrowed. “I’m just trying to understand how my friend was murdered in the apartment of someone he didn’t know.”
“Are you calling me a fag?” He grimaced inwardly at the word, which he’d never said again after the day Johnny left.
Beau smiled. “If the epithet fits…”
Rick stood, not trying to hide his anger at the man he was sure had ordered Carlos and his brother killed. “I probably should get back to work.”
“Sit down!” Beau snapped. “I told you I want to know what happened. Now!” He gestured grandly. “S’il vous plait.”
Rick sat, glancing sideways to be sure the bodyguard hadn’t moved. “And I told you, Carlos asked if I’d get a drink with him. He was really upset. I didn’t want him to break down in the middle of the restaurant, so I told him he could wait in my apartment. Then when I got there, a man was coming out of my door. His nose was bloody. I grabbed him and—” Rick paused, his brain whirling. And what? Handcuffed him? He couldn’t say that. Why hadn’t he worked on his story for a situation like this?
“—and tied him to the banister rail so he wouldn’t run away while I checked on Carlos. He was already dead. A woman, one of your waitresses—” he gestured vaguely in the direction of the restaurant “—was collapsed against the wall with a needle hanging out of her neck.
“One of my waitresses?” Beau said without inflection.
Rick nodded. “Her name is Sin Stone.”
“Stone,” Beau said, shaking his head. “Never met her. I have noticed the name on the schedule. I understand you were able to get ambulances and police to the scene. What happened to Sin Stone?”
“She’s staying with a friend until she feels better,” Rick improvised. He had no idea where Sin was. His best guess was she was at her own apartment, recuperating. What would happen if Beau decided to look into her background?
“And the man you tied to the banister?” Beau’s emphasis on the word tied told Rick that he knew about the plastic ties he used to hold the guy until the police got there.
“He wasn’t going anywhere.” Rick was a little amazed at what he was thinking up on the fly. He hoped it sounded as good to Beau as it sounded to him. He couldn’t tell by Beau’s expression, but he had a feeling if he didn’t impress him he might not be walking out of this room under his own steam.
“Ever since Chicago I’ve made it a point to carried a few things in my pockets that I figure will help me out in a difficult situation.” He started to dig in his pockets and heard a faint rustling of fabric from where Beau’s bodyguard was standing. He lifted his hands, palms out. “Just showing you what I haul around with me,” he said with a little smile.
Beau nodded, so Rick emptied his pockets and laid them out on the coffee table. There were two long plastic ties, a small roll of duct tape and a very good pocketknife.
Beau’s bloated face scrunched up into what Rick assumed was a laugh. His enormous chest moved and his massive white shirt fluttered slightly, as his belly fat jiggled. “You are prepared.” Rick wasn’t fooled by the man’s fake laughter. Beau’s hand had twitched and the slight rustle of fabric told Rick that the bodyguard had moved closer.
Rick shrugged. “Got stopped by a mugger years ago in Chicago. I had to keep him in a choke hold until a cop got there to handcuff him. I was very tired and very irritated afterwards. So since I tend to live and work in areas where I might need some help—” He nodded toward the items on the table.
Beau’s laughter faded. He stared at the items on the table for a long time.
Rick sat back in the chair. This was a battle of nerves, now, he figured. Beau had made up his mind. If he had decided Rick was a cop or was a threat to his businesses, all it would take was minuscule gesture to the bodyguard and Rick had no doubt he’d be surrounded by a group of very large men very soon. If Beau had decided Rick was careful, fairly smart, but relatively harmless until proven otherwise, then Rick could be in for a long wait, while Beau tested the limits of his patience.
To his surprise, Beau looked up at him after only a few seconds. Not a patient man, our Mister Beauregard. “Why was Miss Stone there?” Beau asked.
Rick was ready for that question. He lifted a shoulder. He’d decided to deliver his answer with coy reluctance. “We’d um, made plans. I didn’t think she’d be there until much later. Figured her showing up would give me a good excuse to get rid of Carlos if he was still hanging around.”
Beau leaned back and tented his fingers again. It was a full minute before he spoke. “Mister Easton, I need you to tell me who you work for.”
Rick frowned at him, studying his face. He was not easy to read. That probably contributed in large part to his success. One thing Rick knew. This was not the time to play coy or dumb. To say, I work for you, or What are you talking about? would probably get him kicked out, beaten up or worse. So Rick stayed silent, wondering if he could outlast the big man.
After several seconds, Beau spoke. “I trusted Carlos,” he said. “He is—was loyal and dependable.”
Rick held Beau’s gaze but still didn’t speak.
“He seemed to think that you were working undercover.” He paused. “For T-Gros Grossman.”
It took every bit of self-control Rick had to keep his face and body in check, to keep his gaze from wavering, and to keep his breathing slow and steady. “Carlos told you that?” he asked evenly.
Beau smiled. “It’s true, isn’t it? I truly miss Carlos now. He could tell me how he knew about you.”
Rick had to do something to impress Beau or at the least, he was on his way out as an employee of Beauregard’s. “Well, that’s interesting, because Carlos came to me and told me there was a bartender opening at Beauregard’s. Are you sure he was as loyal and dependable as you think he is?”
A shadow passed over Beau’s face. “He has always been. Had.” The big man let out a sigh. “I shall miss him a lot.” Then he shifted slightly in his chair. “But we are away from the question at hand. Are you a spy for that low-life Grossman?”
“Sir, I can’t answer that. I would love to be honest with you. I admire how well you run your business. But I have my own suspicions about you, so we may be at an impasse.”
Beau’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that so? I will stipulate that I run all my businesses well, both the legal ones and the illegal ones. Therefore, random killings do not appeal to me. They are not good for business.”
Rick nodded. “I understand. Did you know the man who went to my apartment and killed Carlos and almost killed the waitress? Because no one knew Carlos and I were meeting, or where.”
“That’s amusing. I was about to ask you the same question.”
“Let me apologize. I asked the wrong question. Did the man who killed Carlos work for you? And please don’t insult me with semantics.”
“He did not. I had nothing to do with Carlos’s death.”
Rick studied Beau. He was lying. “Then we know who did it, don’t we?”
A slow smiled spread across Beau’s wide face. “I believe we do. T-Gros. Something will have to be done about that bottom-feeder. Please answer my previous question. Do you work for him? And do me the same favor I did you. Don’t play with semantics. Just answer.”
“No, sir, I do not work for T-Gros. In fact, I want to kill him if he had Carlos murdered and my friend Sin hurt.”
Beau tented his fingers again. This time he stared at the curtains for at least a minute. It was the longest he’d gone without talking. Rick waited, doing his best not to fidget.
“Would you be interested in the possibility of becoming a part of my security team?”
“What?” Rick said, surprised. “I mean—yes, sir. I would.” He was stunned by Beau’s sudden suggestion, but he’d made a career of handling himself in difficult, even dangerous situations. Beau was obviously pleased that he’d surprised him. So Rick’s authentic first reaction was flawless. If Beau were serious, being on his security team would fit in perfectly with Rick’s plans. He’d have a much better chance of finding out what was going on behind the scenes of Beau’s operation. Maybe he could finally start to figure out if Beau was the one who had put heroin laced with carfentanil, the bad dope, out on the streets.
“Not so fast,” Beau said. “There is an extensive background check you’ll have to go through. Will that be a problem?”
Rick hesitated for a brief instant. He didn’t want to seem too eager. He wanted Beau to think that there was something in his past he’d rather not have the big man know. “No, not at all. I mean, go ahead. I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have.”
Beau nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll have one of my men get in touch with you. You’d better get back to work.”
Rick stood, willing his hands not to shake. “Yes, sir.”
“And please tell Earl I need to see him now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Back in the bar, everyone was still talking about Carlos and Sin. It seemed as though everyone who worked at Beauregard’s knew Carlos. Nina appeared to be upset. She kept getting orders mixed up and she looked as though she’d been crying.
“Richard, I need a scotch and soda. I swear the guy said scotch and seven.”
Rick quickly mixed the drink. “I asked you twice. It’s gross, scotch with a soft drink.”
“I know. I just can’t—” She stopped, shook her head, then went to give the customer his scotch and soda.
When she returned to the bar and set her tray down, Rick said, “Relax for a couple of minutes and talk to me.”
She leaned against the bar and rubbed her temples. “Have you talked to Sin? Do you know how she is?”
“I think she’s out of the hospital and staying with a friend for a couple of days.”
“What friend?” Nina asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Why?”
“I’m just worried about her, that’s all.”
“She’s going to be fine. She just needs a few days off,” Rick said.
“Did they catch the guy who did it?”
He nodded. “You knew Carlos well?”
Her mouth turned up in a small smile. “Everybody knows—knew Carlos. He was always around here. We used to tease him about being a spy for the cops or the narcs, because he was always sticking his nose into other people’s business. He worried about the kids—you know—the young ones who worked here. Tried to help them.”
Rick felt his gut twist. “He helped the kids?” Like Johnny had. No wonder they had gotten together.
“Sure. You know he was Jack Adams’s boyfriend. He’d get the kids to talk to Adams. I don’t think Beau liked that, but he seemed to like having Carlos around.” This last was said in a whisper.
“Do you think Carlos really was a CI?” Rick asked, watching Nina closely.
“A what?”
“A confidential informant. A spy for the cops.”
Nina picked up her tray. “No. I mean, we were just joking with him. I do know he was never the same after Adams was killed.” She shook her head regretfully. “He didn’t shine anymore—” Her voice broke. She sighed and headed to a table that was signaling for their check.
Rick thought about his talk with Beau. He had to be doubly careful, now that Beau was considering him as part of his security team. He knew that Beau was trying to co-opt him, in case he was working for T-Gros. He also knew that a man like Anastase Beauregard was capable of saying anything to further his own ends.
It was entirely possible that either man could be responsible for the laced heroin on the streets. And Carlos could have found out who was responsible. Therefore, either Beau or T-Gros could have had Carlos and Johnny killed. The police had to make Carlos’s killer give up his boss—if he knew.
Meanwhile, Rick had to do everything he could to keep more people from dying.
*
After a couple of days at home, Lusinda felt like ants were crawling all over her. It had to be either a reaction to the drugs or too much sleep and inactivity, or both. Whichever it was, she knew that it would help if she could talk to Rick. For a few minutes, she engaged in a useless argument with herself about the promise she’d made to O’Reilly to stay home.
Ultimately, her boredom and curiosity won out over her caution, even though she knew if O’Reilly found out what she was doing, he’d probably have her picked up and thrown in jail.
She took a cab to the Ace Hotel where the landlord reluctantly rented the tiny apartment to her again. He was not happy that she’d been a part of a drug-related murder in his building but he relented when she paid him three weeks in advance. Luckily, he hadn’t had a chance, or hadn’t bothered, to clean out the apartment yet, so her clothes and things were still there.
Rick’s apartment was still sealed off with yellow police tape. She’d wanted to ask the landlord if Rick was in a different apartment, but she hadn’t wanted to annoy him, considering how reluctant he’d been to rent to her again. After a quick shopping trip to grab some soft drinks and few snacks, she decided to walk over to Beauregard’s. She was sure that she no longer had a job there, but it was her best chance to find Rick. She wasn’t sure what she’d do if he wasn’t there.
When she got there, Rick was tending bar. He looked just like he always had. Kind of bored, kind of irritated and really sexy. She almost cried, she was so glad to see him. When he saw her he scowled.
“What are you doing here?” he snapped.
“I wanted to thank you. You saved my life.”
He opened his mouth as if he was about to deny it; but instead, he looked down at the drink he was mixing.
“Listen, Rick, I need to talk to you.”
He looked up, his expression carefully blank. “No. You don’t.”
“No, I do. Please.”
At that moment, Nina walked up. “If it isn’t Sin City. You look awful.”
“Thanks, Nina,” she said wryly, surprised when Nina gave her a quick hug.
“I’m so glad to see you. I heard you could have died.”
Lusinda wasn’t sure what Nina knew, so she just shrugged. “It was kind of scary.”
“Well, I’m just glad you’re up and walking around.” Nina picked up the drinks Rick had mixed and headed to the tables to deliver them.
It was Saturday noon and it looked as though everyone had decided to have lunch at Beauregard’s, with drinks. Lusinda leaned in toward Rick as he polished the bar. “Can we talk when your shift is over? I got my apartment back at the hotel.”
He ignored her.
“Where are you staying? Your apartment is still taped over.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, nodding at a customer who waved at him from the other end of the bar.
“Wait!” she said.
“Get out of here,” he grated between clenched teeth. “We shouldn’t be talking.”
“Then meet me,” she whispered. “Let me explain. We can work together.”
“What I heard is you’re not working at all. You’re on sick leave.” He nodded at the customer again. “Now go away before you get me into even more trouble.”
“Rick, please.”
He glanced around. “You’re making a scene.”
“That’s right,” she said. “And I will continue to make a scene until you agree to talk to me.”
“Out back, five minutes,” he muttered, looking past her and giving a slight shake of his head. She knew that he was indicating to the security guards that there was no trouble. She started to protest, but he’d turned away. She could see the muscle working in his jaw.
“Five minutes,” she said.