Chapter Ten
Rick had finally made it into one of Beauregard’s infamous back rooms. It was disappointingly normal-looking. Nothing unusual, nothing special or weird, certainly nothing kinky that he could see. There was a large round poker table and chairs, a long sofa, several small snack carts sitting between the chairs and a portable bar. The bar was stacked with boxes, and the coffee maker was dark and cold, so Rick got to work.
He unloaded an impressive array of top-shelf liquor, a large tray of freshly washed, sparkling glasses and huge white coffee mugs, all the while watching the players as they assembled. He quickly counted ten men, including Miller. They were an odd mix, from a couple of obvious lowlifes who looked as though they could have been dragged in off the street to fill the table, to a portly Asian man in a suit that fit so well that custom-made didn’t begin to describe it, to a thin man in a black T-shirt and khaki dress pants who looked very familiar.
It took Rick a few panicked seconds to recall that he’d seen the thin man’s picture in a photo array or two for drug dealing. That was a relief. If he were a police officer, Rick had no idea how he’d handle him and Miller. Miller alone was going to be hard enough, especially if he continued goading Rick.
With a sigh of relief, he turned his attention back to his job. He made a big pot of coffee and placed it in a thermal carafe on a tray with cream and sugar and mugs. He listened to the conversations as the men waited for Beauregard to arrive and the poker game to start. The talk was just about as expected. Sports, news and sex. Then Rick heard a name that sent an adrenaline rush through him. T-Gros.
He strained to hear what the man was saying. He couldn’t understand much, but he did hear a couple of phrases. It was the portly Asian man talking to the thin black man.
“I understand Grossman is gaining traction in the area.”
The other man answered in a Cajun accent. “Nah, man. Dat ain’ gonna happen, I guarantee. Beau won’t give up one square foot of his space. T-Gros got no business here. He’ll come to find out what happens to dem dat mess with Beau.”
At that instant, the door in the back of the room opened and Anastase Beauregard walked in. Noise and movement stopped as if someone had hit Pause. Rick had never met or even been in the same room as the man everyone called Beau, but he’d seen photos and heard a lot about the big man around the Quarter—big in more than one way. According to the guys in the precinct, Beau was the most powerful man in the Vieux Carré, and arguably the fattest. So Rick, like everyone else, had frozen in place when he’d walked in.
Beau surveyed the room quickly, and his dark, beady eyes stopped cold on Rick. After a heartbeat in which Rick nodded his head about a half-inch, Beau’s gaze continued around the room. His gaze stopped again, on Fred Miller.
Miller was acting like a hayseed just off the turnip truck. It wasn’t a good look for him. He teetered ridiculously in the high-heeled cowboy boots, and grinned like an idiot when Beau met his gaze. Rick grimaced. For all his posturing and his silly clothes, Miller’s subconscious body language showed several tells that Rick immediately worried would result in him being made as a cop. Granted they were subtle, but someone who was familiar with police officers and who was paying attention would notice. Rick glanced at Beau and cursed to himself. Beau had noticed.
Beau’s eyes narrowed as he assessed Miller for a full five or six seconds before moving on around the room. Then he inclined his head toward a bald man in a dark suit who had entered the room a couple of seconds behind him. The man pocketed the cigar he’d been examining and stepped up close to Beau. When Beau spoke to him he didn’t bother covering his mouth, so Rick saw his lips move. Where’s the boy? The bald man whispered something in Beau’s ear. Beau gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Beau continued surveying the room for a few more seconds, then stepped over to the table. One of the men who looked like a regular Joe got up and pulled an oversized leather armchair out for him. Beau lowered himself and, after quite a bit of wriggling, got himself seated comfortably. None of the other men sat until he nodded. Once they were all in place, Beau placed his hands, palms down, near the edge of the table.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “We’re here to play a nice friendly game of Texas Hold’em. We’ll keep the blinds down to one and two dollars and there will be no cheating, no card counting and no tricks of any kind. My dealer is from one of my casinos and will have the final say about any disagreement. Is everyone satisfied with that arrangement?”
During the entire time, Beau hadn’t taken his eyes off Miller, except for a fraction of a second allotted to each of the other players at the table. With a barely perceptible movement, Beau called over one of the security men standing to the side. He whispered in his ear. The man’s gaze flickered toward Miller. There it was. Beau had just told his henchman that Miller was a cop.
Beau’s man stepped slowly and deliberately toward Miller, who was stacking his chips and talking too loudly to the other players to notice. Rick shook his head mentally. The odds of Miller making it through this night were shrinking with every heartbeat. Rick had one slim chance to get the other cop out alive, and without even thinking it through, he took it. He moved toward the two men, maneuvering himself in behind Miller before the henchman had a chance to.
“’Scuse me,” Beau’s henchman said, but Rick acted as though he didn’t see him.
As the henchman put his hand inside his coat, Rick grabbed Miller’s shoulder. “Wait a minute. I know you,” he said artlessly. “Weren’t you on television? I remember. Weren’t you one of the cops that broke that case—?”
“What the—?” Before Miller could get another word out, Rick grabbed him in a headlock. Beau’s henchman reacted in creditable time, pulling a semi-automatic and planting himself in front of them. Rick had a hold on Miller that cut off his ability to talk. “Sorry, sir,” he said to Beau, ignoring the man with the gun. “I didn’t mean to make a scene, but I recognized this guy. He’s a cop!”
The henchman reached for Miller’s denim collar, but Rick held on. If he let up on Miller, there was no telling what the moron might say.
Beau snapped his fingers and his henchman froze, then put his gun away. “What’s your name?” he asked Rick.
“Richard Easton, sir.” Rick took a long breath. “Want me to get rid of this guy for you?”
Beau held Rick’s gaze for a couple of seconds, then wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “You are certain he’s a police officer? Then yes, I would like for him to be handled in some discreet manner.”
The henchman tugged again on Miller’s collar and Rick felt Miller’s throat move as he swallowed with great difficulty. “Let’s go, you lowlife pig,” the henchman said. “I’ll take it from here,” he said to Rick.
“I’ll be glad to take care of it, sir,” Rick said politely but firmly, still looking at Beau.
Beau turned his beady eyes on Rick again. “Are you new here?”
“Yes, sir. Bartender. I’ve seen this guy on television. He’s definitely a cop. I don’t know what he’s doing here, but I was afraid he might have a weapon. He doesn’t. Plus I figured that the game wouldn’t be nearly as much fun for any of you if there was a cop sitting in. Especially a cop who didn’t bother identifying himself.” He held his breath.
The henchman hadn’t known Miller, and Beau hadn’t seemed to recognize him, but he had been suspicious. This was the moment. If Miller had been invited to the game, then Rick’s ass would be the one disposed of.
Beau pulled his lips back from his teeth in what was obviously supposed to be a smile. “Indeed, son. Indeed. I tell you what. Why don’t you and Alfonse here—” he indicated the angry gunman “—take care of this little matter while we begin our game.” He jerked his head a fraction of an inch. “Alf, if you would—”
Rick loosed his hold on Miller’s neck because Alfonse had his gun buried in Miller’s ribcage. If Miller started yapping now, he deserved what he got. Rick followed Alf out the back door of Beau’s into an alley. As the door closed, he heard Beau say, “Hurry back, Mister Easton. I want a martini.”
As soon as the door swung shut, Miller whirled on Alfonse. Rick was ready for him. There was no time to check if anyone was watching. As Alfonse dodged Miller’s blow, Rick delivered an efficient side-hand chop to Alf’s neck from behind. Alf dropped the gun with a clatter and was on his way to following it down when Miller uppercut him on the jaw. Alfonse’s head flew backwards and he hit the ground with a thud.
A quick glance told Rick that there were no windows facing the back alley and no glass in the back door. So maybe nobody had seen what went down. “Good hit,” Rick said conversationally, then easily fended off Miller’s right hook and deftly turned the cop’s arm around behind him and wrenched it just a little.
“You son of a bitch!” Miller hissed. “What the—ah!”
Rick gave Miller’s arm a twitch. “I’d suggest you run if you don’t want to end up as dog food. And tell Larsen thanks. If this doesn’t get me in with Beau, nothing will.” He pushed the other man away. “Now get the hell out of here.”
Miller shot him the bird and ran. Rick threw himself down in the dirt, ruining a perfectly good pair of Dockers and grinding his palms into dirt and seashell fragments. He picked up one of the sharp bits of shell and ran it across the skin of his cheek, scratching it. Then he crawled over to Alfonse and shook him.
“Hey, Alf,” he muttered, slapping the henchman’s face lightly. “Alf old buddy.”
Alf groaned and sat up, shaking his head. Rick handed him his gun, which had hit the ground before Alf.
“Man, that weasel cold-cocked you. You okay?” Rick touched the henchman’s jaw and Alf growled and pushed him away.
“Get away from me, you two-bit hustler,” Alf grunted. “I don’t guess you beat the shit out of him or anything?”
“Hey,” Rick said, then shook his head. “Did my best, but he knocked me down and stood on my neck. Before I could get back up, he was gone.”
The big man pulled himself to his feet with a huge groan. “Mr. B’s probably gonna dock my wages and yours.”
“Come on, Alf. Let’s go. I’ll tell him the guy was a seventh-degree black belt or something.”
*
Lusinda drummed her fingers. She was bored and cranky. Earl had asked her to stay until closing, at three a.m. She hadn’t had anything to eat in more than twenty-four hours except an omelet, and if she ate another pretzel or peanut or drank another sip of juice, she was going to gag.
Great undercover work she was doing. Apparently Rick was bartending at a private poker party. For all she could tell, the most he’d investigated here so far was how much the liquor was watered and how young Beau’s new recruits for minimum-wage jobs were. As for herself, she was stuck out here fetching drinks for customers who, as the night waned, seemed to be either lonely divorced guys or kids who were high and looking to prolong their buzz and the night by drinking beer.
She’d figured that working alongside Rick was a good idea, but she didn’t have nearly the leeway she’d thought she’d have, either to get to know him or to watch him. Darla and Earl, the supervisors, kept close watch on her work and her breaks.
She sighed and reached automatically toward the bowl of pretzels, then stopped her hand when her stomach clenched. She shuddered and dusted salt off her fingers.
She surveyed her tables, but everyone was nursing their drink, apparently in some lemming-like group decision to make their latest drink last until closing. She made a half-hearted trip around her tables, then motioned to Tom, who was obviously pissed at having to tend bar alone. Maybe she could find out something more from him than she’d heard earlier from Earl. “Where’s Rick?” she asked casually.
Tom jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Private party, ma’am.”
Lusinda bristled. “Ma’am? Seriously?”
He shrugged and turned away.
“Wait a minute. Wasn’t that kid, Bobby, supposed to be handling that party?”
Tom squinted at her. “You were here when I came on duty. You probably know more than I do.”
“I must have missed something. So was Bobby sick tonight or what?”
Tom eyed her suspiciously, glanced around, then leaned in as though he were sharing a secret, which maybe he was. “Bobby was coming out the back door when I came in. Had a backpack. I asked him where he was headed and he said Rick gave him money to get home. I kinda feel sorry for Ole Rick if Beau finds out about that.” He shook his head.
“What do you mean?” Lusinda asked, looking down at her dupe pad. She didn’t want the bartender to see the worry in her eyes or just how interested she was in what he was saying.
“Give me a break. You know. Everybody gets the same pitch when they’re hired.”
“Oh, right,” she said. “It takes them forty-five minutes, but it boils down to don’t stick your nose into someone else’s business.”
“Exactly.” He looked at his watch. “Thank God,” he said and reached over to flip the light switch on and off a couple of times. “Closing time,” he called out. Lusinda made one more trip around, taking bills and credit cards and checking people out. By the time she was done with that, it was straight-up three o’clock. She shed her apron, got her stuff from her locker, said goodnight to Tom and headed out.
This time as she walked back to the old hotel in the dark, carrying a leftover ham and cheese po’ boy sandwich from the kitchen, Lusinda was prepared. She had a slap-jack in her bag and a spray can of Mace in her palm. But her strongest weapons were her careful awareness of everything around her and her confident stride. The night before, she’d been tired and distracted, and it had almost cost her dearly.
It was well known that muggers preferred women who were small, who appeared to be either distracted or lost or frightened, or older women and those who wore a ponytail or a braid—easier to grab. They avoided confident women who looked strong and aware. So, unless she was being specifically targeted again, she was probably golden.
She climbed the two flights of stairs to the third floor, anticipating the taste of the excellent po’ boy that the restaurant had made for someone who’d changed their mind. There was nothing in her refrigerator but a couple of bottles of water, but she didn’t care. She was ready to eat her sandwich, check her bed for critters, then climb in and sleep for another eight hours. She was dying to know how Rick’s private party had gone, but she had no reasonable excuse to knock on his door, so she’d have to wait.
She pushed her key into the lock. It didn’t go in smoothly, and when she tried to turn it, it stuck. She tugged on it until it finally slid out and she tried again. Same thing happened. “Come on,” she muttered. “Get in there.”
What the hell? She looked at the key, then at the lock. She had it turned the right way, so what was the problem?
Then a sinking feeling hit her stomach. “No,” she whispered. “Come on. Please work. No, no, no.” She pulled out her phone and looked at the date. As of midnight, three hours ago, her rent was overdue. Damn it.
Yesterday morning, she had left Rick’s apartment, gone straight upstairs and slept through the day. She’d completely forgotten to pay her weekly rent, and the Ace Hotel wasn’t the kind of place that offered a grace period.
“You son-of-a-bitching landlord,” she whispered. “You won’t get up to let me in but you’ll get out of bed at midnight to change a freaking lock?”
Lusinda started to kick the door, but she was too tired and too hungry. She felt like throwing something, but all she had was her keys or the sandwich. Neither one would be satisfying, and she’d end up with nothing to eat.
She eyed the wooden door again. She even went so far as to draw her foot back in preparation for a very hard kick, but instead, she slumped, drained of the last of her energy. Dragging herself over to the staircase, she sat down on the top step and lowered her head to her knees. Tears squeezed past her closed lids.
“I just want to eat and go to sleep,” she whined as her eyes stung with tears. For half a second, she thought about going down to the ground floor and banging on the landlord’s door until morning, but that would only frustrate her more. Sighing deeply, she stuck the wrapped sandwich into her bag, propped her arms on her knees and laid her head on them. It was only six hours until the landlord woke up. She’d pay the rent, the late fee and the lock fee and get back into her apartment. Meanwhile, she’d do her best to sleep on the stairs.
Or, she could go downstairs and beg Rick for his couch again. She caught a tiny movement out of the corner of her eye. A roach! She vaulted up off the stairs, a shudder wracking her tired body. She had a much better chance of getting some sleep on Rick’s couch than she did out here in the darkened stairs with roaches lurking around. As she walked down the stairs, she wondered if he’d take an almost fresh ham and cheese po’ boy as payment.
She knocked on Rick’s door and waited, but nothing happened. She knocked again and listened. Was he asleep or had he not gotten back yet? It was after four o’clock in the morning. Was the private party still going on? After beating on the door until someone in another apartment yelled that they were about to call the cops, she gave up. Sinking down to the floor of the second-floor landing, she tried again to go to sleep.
But she’d seen a roach on the stairs, so now she was skittish. She kept thinking she heard or felt their tiny feet. “Five hours,” she reminded herself in a whisper. The landlord would be up in five hours. She wrapped her arms around herself and prepared to wait.