Chapter Eleven

Blood and Sandman rolled slowly through the French Quarter. Night had fallen. and the revelry the Big Easy was famous for was in full swing. Music poured into the neon-lit streets from a dozen bars. The two men had already done one full swing down Canal, along the river and up Esplanade to the east bordering the Faubourg Marigny section and up through the Treme neighborhoods, skirting the section where the house Blood had been kept stood looming in the darkness. The place looked deserted and quiet. Undertaker had informed Blood that he had some informants in the area keeping an eye on the place, and no activity had been reported.

The two bikes rode slowly up and down each one-way street, traversing back and forth like a search team clearing a quadrant. There were a few bikers in the French Quarter, like there always were, but they were civilian, just out having a good time, their bikes parked, rear-wheel to the curb, the owners standing on the sidewalk within sight.

Blood and Sandman finally circled back and parked in the courtyard by Blood’s place. They backtracked toward Bourbon Street, showing Holly’s picture around to some of the bouncers that stood in open doorways. No one had seen her.

Blood noticed that none of Black Jack’s girls seemed to be out on the streets in the neighborhood by his place. He thought that odd.

The more he thought about it, the more it ate at him.

“Sandman.”

“Yeah?”

“The Treme neighborhood is where Black Jack’s compound is. It’s where I was headed the night I was jumped. Now the Death Heads were supposedly headed toward the Quarter with Cat’s sister. I can’t help but wonder if this is all tied to Black Jack somehow. Or is it just a coincidence?”

“Do you believe in coincidence?”

“Fuck no.”

“You think Black Jack’s involved?”

“He hates bikers. Can’t stand the fact that the Evil Dead MC exists here. I just can’t see him getting involved with the Death Heads. Besides, he’s runs all the prostitution from the Ninth Ward to Canal St. and all the way up to Lake Ponchartrain and out toward the Vietnamese section.”

“Little Saigon?”

“Yeah. What do you know about it?”

“I know they have the best Bahn Mi.”

“The Vietnamese version of a po-boy?”

“Yeah. They’re awesome. There’s this little place off Michoud Blvd. Been there a couple of times.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Can we get back to the problem at hand?”

“Right. Black Jack.”

“My point is, he sure doesn’t need an MC cutting into his business.”

“Maybe they sold her to him.”

Blood nodded, eyeing the end of the street. “Guess we should go ask him.”

“Fuck, I was hoping you’d say that. I’ve always wanted to see his place.”

“Don’t be so eager. His compound is well guarded. We’ll be outnumbered. He has a lot of men. Some you’ll see, some you won’t, so don’t go doing anything stupid.”

“Me, stupid?” Sandman scoffed, holding a hand to his heart. “I’m wounded, Brother.”

“Shut up and come on.”

They walked the eight blocks toward the compound, pausing halfway down the street to observe. They watched for twenty minutes to be sure there were no Death Heads anywhere near the compound. Blood wasn’t about to be caught off guard again.

This time when they approached, they skirted the alley and went in through the front entrance. Inside a small courtyard was the front door.

Blood hated the setup, with its one way in and out; they could easily be cornered here. His eyes darted around the area and up to the windows and galleries above. There was a set of French doors two floors up that opened into a gallery. Sheer curtains were softly billowing in the breeze. Quiet classical music drifted down.

“Watch our backs,” he ordered.

Sandman kept an eye to their rear. “On it.”

Blood used the old doorknocker; its loud banging echoed around the small courtyard and up to the French doors above.

There was a tiny square window in the heavy wooden door covered by intricate iron scrollwork in a fleur-de-lis design. A shadow moved at the glass. and after a long moment the door swung open.

A large bull of a man stood in the doorway. “Can I help you?”

“Here to see Black Jack.”

“Mr Boudreaux isn’t receiving visitors this late.”

“Tell him Blood is here to see him.”

The man’s eyes ran over him, and he stepped back, gesturing them into a parlor. “Wait here.”

Another man stepped forward to guard them as the big bulldog went to inform his boss. Blood smirked, sizing up the man who watched them. He was quite sure Sandman was doing the same thing, thinking just where he’d stick his knife—just under the ribs where it could do a lot of damage.

The big man returned.

“Follow me.”

Blood noticed, as they headed up the stairs, that the second man brought up the rear, his eyes on them the whole time. They were led down a long hallway with beautiful décor, old world paintings, soft lighting, and polished woodwork.

The big man tapped on a door to the left and opened it. He motioned them inside. Once they were in, the two men took their positions just inside the door.

Blood glanced around the room. He’d been here before, and not much had changed. Black Jack sat at his large antique desk, surrounded by all the trappings his ill-gotten wealth had afforded him. The man was in his early sixties, his still dark hair was slicked back, and he had a moustache that came down along the sides of his mouth.

His fathomless eyes lifted to Blood and moved over him before skating over to Sandman. “Well, look what the cat dragged in. Something I can do for you, boys?”

“How’s business?” Blood asked snidely. If looks could kill, the one Black Jack gave him back would do the job.

“I’ve got things to do. How ‘bout you just tell me what you want. I’ve got no reason to be nice to you, so let’s not screw around.”

Blood reached to his vest to pull the photo of Holly out of the inside pocket. When he did, the two men behind him drew guns. He put his hands up. “Easy fellas. Just got a picture to show your boss.” When they didn’t move, Blood looked Black Jack in the eye. “You want to tell Frick and Frack to relax?”

Black Jack’s eyes shifted to his men, and he nodded. The guns were holstered.

Blood slowly lifted his cut and reached inside. He held the picture up for Black Jack. “Have you seen this girl?”

Black Jack leaned forward and held his hand out. “May I?”

Blood handed him the photograph.

Black Jack studied it with an appraiser’s eye that made Blood’s stomach turn. “She’s lovely. Yes, quite lovely.” His eyes moved to Blood, and he handed the photo back. “In answer to your question, no, I’ve not had the pleasure. And who is she to you?”

“A friend.”

“A beautiful, young friend,” Black Jack elaborated with a twisted smile. “Is she a runaway, perhaps? You do seem to have a penchant for ‘taking up their cause,’ now don’t you?”

Blood’s jaw tightened. He supposed Black Jack knew every move he made around here. Talking to Black Jack’s girls apparently had not gone unnoticed. Blood didn’t like the insinuation that he had no business sticking his nose in. Or perhaps it was a warning. Blood didn’t take too well to those either.

“We’re looking for her. And we’re going to find her. And God help anyone who’s harmed her.”

“My, my.” Black Jack made a fake tremble. “I shudder to think. I do so hope you find her. I’ll be sure to keep my… people informed of the missing woman. If I can be of further assistance, don’t hesitate to ask. Was there anything else I could do for you?”

Blood leaned forward, his hands on the desk. “Do not misjudge me.”

Black Jack held his eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Blood stared the man down, wanting to rip the smug smile off his face. His eyes shifted to the balcony. There was another man out there smoking. Blood could only see his shadow, but he’d bet anything it was Big John, Black Jack’s right hand man, lurking like the scum he was.

Blood grit his teeth and cut his eyes back to the man seated at the desk. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

The man smiled. “I’m sure we will. I look forward to it.”

Blood straightened. “If I were you, I wouldn’t. My next visit won’t be so pleasant.” With that, he and Sandman moved toward the door. The two men guarding it didn’t move aside. They looked to their boss. Blood swiveled his head back in time to catch Black Jack’s nod, and then the men moved out of their way. The door was opened, and they were escorted out the front door.

As they moved through the courtyard, Blood’s eyes shot up to the gallery. It was empty now, and the French doors were shut tight. He caught the scent of cigar smoke lingering in the air, a sickly sweet cherry cheroot—an unmistakable scent.

They moved out onto the street and headed back toward Blood’s place.

***

“He’s going to be trouble.”

Black Jack looked to his second in command. “Let me worry about him, John.”

“You gonna put the girl out on the street?”

Black Jack leaned back in his chair, his elbow on the armrest, his hand running across his chin and moustache, deep in thought. “No, I have something special in mind for this one. After all, she’s quite the prize, isn’t she?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have a buyer in mind for her. He’s been looking for someone just like her—innocent, young, beautiful, and blonde.” Black Jack’s eyes lifted, piercing into John’s. “Contact Mr. Yamaguchi. Tell him I’ve found what he’s requested. He’ll be in town next week.”

“There’s also that Saudi prince,” John reminded him.

“Khalid?” Black Jack considered it. “A bidding war? That could be interesting. Of course you’ll have to get some pictures of her. You can’t make a sale without showing the goods.”

“I’ll see to it.”

“I have an additional job for you.”

John chuckled. “Who am I killing?”

That got a small smile from Black Jack. “No one dies. We’ll save that for another day. For now, I want you to have him followed.” He nodded toward the door the two MC members had exited. “I want to know everything he does.”

John grinned. “Yes, sir.”