Chapter Eleven
Rick took a last look around Beauregard’s, then stepped outside and closed and locked the door. This was his second night and the second night in a row he’d worked more than eight hours, coming in at noon and working through until three a.m. He chuckled wryly. Three o’clock quitting time was a myth. By the time he checked everything, ran the computer reports, and locked up, it was closer to four than to three.
Looking at the locked door and the key in his hand, he wished he could curl up and sleep behind the bar. It was a nice idea, but impossible in reality, because the cleaning crew came in from five to seven. Anyhow, the walk was fifteen minutes at most. He’d get home, drink some juice and be asleep within a half hour, even with the lingering essence of Sin Stone. His longing for sleep morphed into a longing to see her again.
As he turned to walk up Rampart to the hotel, a man fell into step beside him. It was Alfonse, his buddy from the back room, whom he and Miller had ambushed behind Beauregard’s. He swallowed a sense of apprehension and took a breath to speak, then he heard more footsteps. He listened. At least two more men. Was this it? For the first time in his undercover career, had he been made?
His muscles tensed, not enough for the men to notice, and his brain kicked into hyper-drive. Everything suddenly seemed brighter and clearer and time seemed to slow down. He was facing big odds—three to one. Whatever Beau’s men were up to, he prayed that he could at least hold his own.
“Evening, gentlemen. Nice out tonight, isn’t it?” Rick said, fingering the keys in his pocket. They wouldn’t make much of a weapon, but he could wrap his fist around them.
“Yep,” one of the men said. “Real nice.”
“Guys,” Rick tried again. “I appreciate the thought, but I’m just up the street here. I don’t need an escort.”
“Mr. Beauregard thinks you do,” Alf said. “Mr. Beauregard is concerned about you.”
Rick glanced over at the big man, his heart pounding, but Alf just kept walking, his eyes ahead. Rick looked around, but the streets were deserted. It was four o’clock in the morning, and the sounds coming from Bourbon Street had muted a little. Most of the quieter side of the Quarter had closed down. He knew where he was, and knew that the hotel was only three doors down. He also knew that he’d never make it if he made a break for it. He decided to bluff, which probably carried about a twenty percent chance of success, if that.
“Well, Alf, I hope you’ll thank Mr. Beauregard for me, but truly, I can take care of myself. Sorry you had to be up so late. You can go home. Bye now.”
Alfonse turned toward Rick, and as he did, the other two took up positions on either side of him. “Sorry, Richard,” Alf said, “but I’m afraid we can’t do that. Mr. Beauregard, as I said, is concerned about you. He appreciates what you did for him tonight, getting rid of the undercover cop.”
Rick shrugged and tried to step around Alf, but Alf moved just enough to block Rick’s way. “Hey, man. I was glad to do it. I want to do what I can to protect Mr. Beauregard’s right to have a nice card game in his own club. So let him know it was my pleasure, okay?”
He tried again to step around Alf. This time Alfonse put a hand out. He didn’t touch Rick, but Rick felt the heaviness of his hand anyway.
“You know, Mr. Beauregard likes to keep tabs on the people who work for him.”
Rick stiffened. Here it comes. Without turning his head, he gauged the other two men. They were big—real big. “That makes me feel real safe,” he said. “Thanks, Alfonse.”
“You see, Richard,” Alfonse said, “Mr. Beauregard likes to personally approve all the hiring and firing that’s done in his club.”
“Look, Alf,” Rick said. “You and me, we’re buds huh? I mean we took care of that cop together, right? So what say we—”
The two men grabbed his arms and dragged him off the sidewalk and into an alley. He knew he couldn’t win, knew it was impossible to break their holds, but he had to try. As their iron fists tightened on his arms and shoulders, he kicked out, but Alfonse stepped neatly out of the way, and Rick ended up on his knees with both arms twisted behind his back.
Alfonse nodded at the men and they lifted him up, just enough so Alf didn’t have to bend down to slam his fist into Rick’s belly.
*
Just about the time Lusinda managed to doze off, she heard the heavy front door open and halting steps on the stairs accompanied by grunts and groans. Within a few seconds, Rick’s head appeared. What was with him? Was he drunk? She watched him as he climbed. He was bent over, staggering, holding on to the banister.
“Aww, Rick, honey. Must have been a great party. Did you have a few too many? Need any help?” she drawled. But even before she’d finished talking, she realized that something wasn’t right. Rick wasn’t drunk, or at least not just drunk. She sat up and frowned as she studied him in the dim light from the neon sign across the street. Her heart jumped into her throat.
“Rick?” There was a dark stain across the side of his face and down his neck. His left fist was clenched against his belly.
She stood and reached out to help him, but he ignored her. He did his best to pretend he was fine. “What are you doing out here?” he asked, his voice tight and strained.
“What happened to you?” she interrupted. She slid her arm around his waist.
“Don’t,” he said. “Nothing wrong with—” But he put his arm around her shoulder and leaned on her. She wavered under his weight, but managed to help him over to his door.
“Give me your key,” she said.
He pulled away and dipped into the pocket of his jeans. He got the key out of his pocket, but he couldn’t hold on to it.
Lusinda caught the key before it fell. It was slick with blood. She got the door open, then put her arm around his waist again and tried to guide him to the couch. After a brief and very weak resistance, he let her push him down onto the vinyl. He leaned his head back against the arm.
She turned on the lamp and looked at his face. There was a lump over one eye and a bleeding cut near its corner. His nose was bloody and a cut on his lip was spilling blood down his chin and neck. That was where the blood on his hand had come from. And he had a scratch on one cheek.
Once she got him seated on the couch, she fetched a wet washcloth from the bathroom. When she handed it to him, he buried his face in it, hissing as the cold cloth touched the cuts and scrapes.
She waited while he ran the cloth over his face and pressed it hard against the places that were still oozing blood. When he gingerly rested his head against the back of the couch again, she took a deep breath, but before she could say anything, he moaned.
“Sick,” he whispered, then struggled to his feet. When Lusinda tried to help him, he lurched past her and stumbled into the bathroom where he bent over the toilet and retched. Once he was done, he grasped the edge of the lavatory and turned on the cold water full blast. He splashed his face and sluiced out his mouth. Then he cupped a palm and took a drink. He coughed and gagged a couple of times, but he didn’t throw up again.
Lusinda hung back outside the bathroom door until he was done washing his face. Then she slid her shoulder up under his arm and led him to his bed. She turned down the covers but before he could flop down onto the bed, she stopped him. “Wait. Your clothes are filthy.”
He groaned and started to say something, but didn’t. Instead he turned his back, dropped the filthy white jeans and pulled the black T-shirt over his head. He sat carefully, clad in nothing but his briefs, and started to bend over to take off his shoes, but she put a hand on his bare shoulder.
“I’ll do it.” She knelt and took off his shoes and socks. “Okay. There you go.”
It took him a couple of minutes, and several groans and gasps, but he finally got settled back against the pillows. “You stay put,” she said. “I’m going to get the wet cloth out of the bathroom.” He didn’t argue, so she hurried into the bathroom, rinsed the cloth in cool water and brought it to his bedside. She scrubbed at the dried blood that was left on his face and neck so she could tell where he was hurt. Besides the scratch on his cheek, cut over his eye and one on his lip, he had a few scrapes along his jaw and neck and his knuckles. Finally, after a couple of trips to the bathroom sink to wash out the cloth, she’d cleaned up almost all of the blood. Then she sat back and took a serious look at him.
His battered face was pale and kind of green in the light from the bedside lamp, and his eyes were squeezed closed. It frightened her that someone, or judging by his injuries, several someones, could overpower him so easily. As she studied his face, it seemed to get an even whiter shade of pale. “Are you getting sick again? Should I get a bowl?” she asked.
He shook his head fractionally.
“Want some water or juice?”
“No,” he muttered.
Lusinda sighed. It hurt her, seeing him so beat up and hurt. If she dared, she’d crawl into bed beside him and hold him. She wanted to tell him everything would be okay and that no matter what happened, whatever he might find out about her, he needed to understand that she cared about him and she didn’t believe that he could have done all the things he was accused of.
Wait! What was she thinking? The very idea of those thoughts going through her mind stunned her. She was a police officer. Not only had she taken an oath to serve and protect, she had taken an assignment to find out the truth about Rick Easterling—no matter what it was—and if he was corrupt, have him brought to justice.
She stiffened her back and took a fortifying breath. There was nothing to be gained by giving in to her ridiculous urge to take care of him. She was a cop and she had to act like one, even if the only person judging her was herself. “Okay,” she said. “Now, what happened?”
For a few seconds, he didn’t respond. All he did was lie there with his eyes closed. Finally, though, he opened them and glared at her. “What are you doing here?” he mumbled. “Lose your keys again?”
“No. I didn’t lose my keys again. I—”
“What?” he grunted. “What’d you do this time?”
“I forgot to pay my rent. The landlord changed the lock. Satisfied?”
He inclined his head.
“Good,” she said. “I’m so glad. Now, what happened to you?”
He didn’t answer. The muscle in his jaw worked.
“Really? Not as accommodating when you’re not the big hero protector?”
He peered at her out of the eye that wasn’t cut and bruised.
“Well?”
“Not your problem,” he said, and licked the cut on his lip, then grimaced.
“Not my—You bastard!” She bit her lip to keep from yelling at him. The fear and concern that she couldn’t control was making her angry. “Tell me who did this?”
“Why? What are you going to do, rough them up for me?” Rick laughed harshly, then caught his breath and winced.
“Damn it, Rick. Stop it. Stop acting so tough. I would if I could, you know. I’m trying to help you.” She threw up her hands. “Or, I can go to sleep on the couch and you can sit here and bleed.”
Rick closed his eyes and leaned his head back again.
“Okay, fine,” she said, doing her best not to feel sorry for him and failing miserably. Despite her warning to herself, she still wanted to gather him into her arms and comfort him. She wanted to kiss his cuts and bruises and make them better. But it was clear that he didn’t want her help.
“How did I guess you’d pick the tough-guy option? Bleed all you want, you stubborn mule. I’m going to sleep.” She turned away, holding her breath to keep from crying, not just because he was hurt, but also because he wouldn’t accept her help.
“Sin.”
His voice was so soft she almost didn’t hear him. She turned around.
“Sin. I’d appreciate…some help.”
She pressed her lips together for a brief moment, until her eyes stopped stinging. “Great. I guess there won’t be much sleep around here tonight,” she grumbled. “I’m going to see if you’ve got anything I can put on those cuts so you don’t get an infection.” She went into the bathroom and grabbed a clean washcloth. In a cabinet under the sink, she found a bottle of isopropyl alcohol.
She poured alcohol onto the cloth, then handed the bottle to Rick and sat beside him on the bed. “Scoot over,” she said. “I’m about to fall off. I need to be able to reach you.” She dabbed at his lip with the alcohol-soaked cloth.
“Ouch,” he gasped, jerking his head back.
“Seriously?” she chuckled. “You just got the crap beaten out of you and you cry over a little sting?”
“No,” he said, but when she started to dab at the corner of his mouth again, he winced away.
“You’re a big baby,” she said. “Are you ready to tell me what happened?”
He lay still with his eyes closed and didn’t protest any more as she cleaned his cuts and scrapes. He still hadn’t answered her question either, but she let it go—for the moment. “I’ll be right back. I think I have a couple of bandages in my bag.” She fetched the small strip bandages and took care of the worst places on his face. Then she sat back and looked at him.
“That’s a little better,” she said. “You look like a prize fighter the day after. A prize fighter who lost. Want me to bandage your knuckles?”
He shook his head.
“Did Beau do this?”
His eyes flew open. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I heard he was mad about you giving that kid money to get home on.”
“Yeah? Who told you that? Beau himself?”
Lusinda frowned at him. “No. Why would Beau talk to me?”
“That’s a good question,” he grunted.
“What are you talking about?”
He pushed himself up to a sitting position, which turned his complexion a darker shade of green for a few seconds. “Just that you seem to show up everywhere I go,” he muttered, his hand pressing on his stomach again. “You are living in the same hotel as I do, and working as a waitress at Beauregard’s, where I work, and you lose your keys and need a place to stay the first night I’m here. Then tonight, son of a gun if you aren’t here again.”
“Are you freaking kidding me?” She was shocked and hurt by his accusations, but she reminded herself that shock and hurt weren’t part of her job description. She narrowed her eyes, trying to decide if he’d made her as a cop, but she figured if he had, she’d already know it. He hadn’t bothered to beat around the bush so far.
She wondered how to play this and decided that she didn’t want to beat around the bush either—at least no more than she had to. “If you’re accusing me of something, how about you come right out and say it. I’m not very good at puzzles.”
“Puzzles? Do I need to make it clearer? Are you working for Beau?”
She’d lost control of the situation and was in danger of losing control of her emotions. She stiffened her back and lifted her chin. “I have no idea what you’re accusing me of,” she said shortly, doing her best to keep her voice even. “Yes, I’m a part-time waitress at Beauregard’s. I know I’m not the world’s best waitress, but that’s the job I got and that’s the job I’m trying my best to keep.”
“Why?”
She blinked. “Because I need the money.”
“No. Why Beauregard’s?” He pushed himself up to a sitting position.
“I had to find a job fast, when—when my boyfriend kicked me out.” She looked down at her hands and waited to see if he bought her story.
He didn’t say anything.
It occurred to Lusinda that she had the perfect way of holding Rick’s interest, and it had nothing to do with what Carlos had told her. She kept her head down. “Okay. A friend of mine got some bad dope—and she died. I’ve heard Beau could be the one putting the bad stuff on the street.”
She felt his body stiffen. “You’re—?” He shook his head. “You thought you’d get a job at Beau’s to find out about the laced heroin? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”
Lusinda peered up at him through her lashes. She had him hooked with the talk of the bad dope. And she’d set the hook when she mentioned that she knew someone who’d died. Her heart rate tripled. “My friend died,” she said.
She’d thought it was a good idea to bring in the information about the bad dope, but he’d jumped on it faster than she’d expected. Given his suspicion about her working at Beauregard’s, she was concerned that he was testing to see if she knew something only a cop would know. But she was just being paranoid, right? The woman who’d been the first death from the bad dope had to have friends, didn’t she? How hard would it be to believe that Sin Stone was one of those friends?
“What was her name?” he asked, shifting positions gingerly.
“Maria Gomez,” she said. Maria had been the first person found dead from the contaminated heroin in the New Orleans area.
“Gomez. How did you know her?”
“We worked together for a while. Why?”
Rick shrugged, then grimaced. “Just seems pretty convenient. You lose your keys one night. You forget to pay your rent the next night. You work at the same place I do. You know someone who died from bad dope.”
“What are you saying?” she asked.
“Did Beau put you up to this?”
She stared at him. “Are you delirious or just an idiot, Richard East—” She stopped barely in time to avoid using his real name. To cover her panic at nearly giving herself away, she drew in a quick breath. “Okay, you got me. I moved in here over a week ago to spy on you, because Beau knew that you’d be wandering in to ask for a job two days ago.” She growled in frustration and threw the alcohol-soaked cloth at him. It landed on his bare chest with a wet thwap.
“Sorry I bothered you.” She went into the living room and grabbed her handbag. She’d been paid yesterday, so with tips, she had a hundred and forty dollars and some change. Probably not even enough to get back into her apartment.
She had no clue what she would do tomorrow—maybe call O’Reilly or catch a streetcar to her apartment. But she did know she had to do this. Whether it was for her assignment or for her own pride, she wasn’t sure. Probably both. Stomping back into the bedroom, she counted out fifty dollars and tossed the bills at him. A ten stuck to the wet cloth on his chest. Hard to miss the irony of that.
“There. Thanks for the use of the couch. I’ll be gone before you wake up.”