Chapter Nine
Rick rolled his shoulders and sighed. The hours of forced inactivity behind the beautifully carved antique bar in Beauregard’s were about to get to him. He continued polishing the spotless mahogany surface as he nodded at the woman who had just sat down.
In less than two days he’d learned a lot, some from Earl and some from observation. He already recognized a few of the regulars and what they drank. Earl told him that the woman was the middle-aged Manhattan-drinking real-estate agent whose uniform was a never-ending collection of power suits. Only the colors changed. She came in every evening, had two doubles, smoked about a dozen cigarettes. What he learned on his own was that she apparently was going to give him a twenty-dollar tip and a suggestive look every night. She never spoke to anyone but the bartenders, never ate and she never talked on her phone, which was always at her fingertips, underneath the pack of cigarettes.
A little while later, the bourbon-swigging suburban dude in coordinated outfits that were probably chosen for him by a personal buyer showed up. Rick would bet money that the guy drove an SUV hybrid.
Thinking about them made him consider Sin’s question about why these people came here. As he looked around tonight, he pondered that question. He was working undercover at Beauregard’s for two purposes. As a cop, he hoped to find out who was manufacturing and distributing poisoned heroin and why. As Johnny Adams’s brother, he was determined to find the people who had murdered Johnny and bring them to justice, one way or another.
A waitress called his name and he realized she’d spoken to him before. He filled her drink orders and flirted a bit, then glanced at his watch. Sin had come on duty around seven o’clock. He figured she was working until midnight, which seemed to be her usual part-time shift.
She came to the bar and entered a drink order into the computer. He filled it for her and watched as she walked through the crowded tables in her section. She had a loose-limbed grace, thanks to her long legs and arms, but if she’d ever waited tables before, it had been a long time. Plus it was obvious she wasn’t used to walking in heels. Not even the clunky ones she wore. She had trouble when the room was crowded. Dodging customers and other wait staff while carrying a large tray was never easy, he’d already learned. But a skilled waitress like Nina had a sashaying way of balancing the tray and dodging people.
He wondered why Sin had taken such a low-paying part-time job, and why here at Beauregard’s. She wasn’t dumb and a place like Beauregard’s would not be at the top of the list for anyone, not even a down-on-her-luck hardscrabble waitress. As she dug for her dupe pad and took orders at a table, Rick went back to watching the customers and employees and thinking about the day before, his first day at Beauregard’s.
Meeting T-Gros Grossman the night before had been a lucky break. He shook his head. Had he only been at this for thirty-six hours? It felt more like a week.
After a lot of research and discussion, he, Larsen, and a few trusted fellow homicide cops had decided that targeting Anastase Beauregard was the smartest way to find out information about the bad dope. Even if Beau wasn’t involved, the smart money was on this area, the edge of the French Quarter. But maybe they’d all been wrong. Earlier this morning he’d told Lieutenant Larsen about T-Gros showing up at Beauregard’s to have a drink. Grossman, an entrepreneur who’d moved into the Metairie area and built a couple of clubs there, was rumored to be interested in giving Beau a run for his money in drug trafficking in the Quarter.
Rick hadn’t mentioned Sin Stone to the Lieutenant. He’d asked about getting more aggressive, telling his Lieutenant that all he’d done so far was learn how to mix drinks and get acquainted with a lot of people who spent time and an amazing amount of money drinking at Beauregard’s. Not to mention that he stuck out like a sore thumb. But Larsen told him to hang in there, assuring him that the best thing he could do would be to show himself as loyal and trustworthy to Beau.
Normally, when Rick went undercover, he was left to his own devices and made his own decisions, including his undercover story. Normally, his superiors trusted his judgment. But not this time. This time he’d been told what his undercover persona would be. He’d been told when and where to set up and he’d been instructed on the information he needed to gather.
He wasn’t an idiot. He knew that the only reason he was allowed to work this case at all was because he was suspected of corruption after the dope and the contaminated money were found on him. He knew he was being set up. His superiors were hoping that being inserted into the middle of what they believed to be the center of the poisoned drug ring would make him careless enough to incriminate himself. What disappointed him was that Larsen, who’d been his mentor through his entire career, wasn’t doing more to stick up for him. Although, he knew there was a ton of pressure on Larsen.
A waitress put an order in for four beers. He filled frosty glasses for her, and was putting four more glasses in to frost when he saw Sin out of the corner of his eye, entering an order into the computer. He glanced her way. Her hair looked a little tousled, as if she’d hastily run her fingers through it.
Bam! A vision pummeled him. Sin, her hair damp and tangled, her shiny clean face pink from her shower, naked on top of him, as he drove them both to climax. Oh crap, was he in trouble.
There was a reason he never dated anyone while he was on an undercover assignment. Getting involved with someone when he was not who he said he was, was a risky business. It could be dangerous for him and her. He’d vowed before his first undercover assignment that he would never take that chance and he never had.
The real-estate lady stood and looked at her watch. She caught his eye and with deliberate movements placed a bill under her drink glass. Then she blew him a kiss. He nodded goodbye, wondering how long it would be before she tried to collect on all those twenty-dollar tips.
“She’s not shy about what she wants, is she?” Sin said.
“What? Who?” He knew the answer, but he wasn’t in a good mood, and he was pissed at himself and Sin for the daydreams he’d been having.
“Her.” Sin gestured with a slight nod of her head. “It’s obvious that she wants you.”
“No shrink, no gigolo,” he muttered as he finished her drink order and placed them on her tray.
“Ah, but no saint either,” she murmured and sent him a wink as she hefted the tray.
“Hey, bartender,” an annoyingly familiar voice said. It was Fred Miller, a fellow detective from the Eighth Precinct. He looked like an idiot working a theme park in a denim jacket and cowboy boots. He leaned against the bar and hooked a thumb around his silver belt buckle.
Working to keep his face impassive, Rick addressed him. “Help you, Sugarfoot?”
Miller leaned forward with a grin, apparently completely missing Rick’s sarcasm. “Hi-ya, sailor. New in town?”
Rick gave him a glare that he knew had melted larger and more dangerous men in the interrogation room. He lifted his chin a fraction, sending a message he thought surely even a dolt like Miller would not fail to read. “Aren’t you mixing your metaphors a bit?” Rick grated between clenched teeth.
“Huh? Mixing what?”
“Never mind. Can I fix you a drink?”
Miller smirked and pulled out a stool with a swagger. “Sure, honey,” he drawled. “Give me a draft.”
Rick drew the beer and set it in front of his fellow cop. What was Miller doing here? If Miller was his contact, Rick was in for weeks of unrelenting jokes and innuendo. If he was lucky, Miller was working on another aspect of the case, or maybe a different case altogether. After a glance around to be sure no one was close, Rick spoke to Miller in a whisper. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Miller drank a long swig of beer, then wiped his upper lip. “Had a hankering for a night on the town.”
Rick glanced down the bar and saw that Sin, who was back and entering another order, was frowning at Miller. Granted, the man did look like he was on his way to a Most Idiotic Halloween Costume Contest. When Sin saw Rick looking at her, she rolled her eyes and looked away. Had she made Miller as a cop? He didn’t think so. Miller was good enough to fool most people. But her expression had not been amused or surprised. Her frown had seemed more puzzled. Had she seen Miller before? Did she recognize him from somewhere? That was all Rick needed at this point, for her to say something about the new bartender being chatty with a cop. The thought he’d had the night before came back to him. What if she was spying on him for Beau?
“Hey, Richard.”
It was Bobby. There was an odd note in his voice. “Yeah?” he answered, turning to look at the boy.
Bobby was pale, maybe even a little green. “Man, I’m supposed to serve at the private party back there tonight. I don’t know how to make all those drinks. What am I going to do?”
“Private party?”
“Yeah. Earl said Beau’s having some people in.” Bobby swallowed and tried a smile, but couldn’t quite bring it off. “Some special people. You think he’ll mind if I don’t know some of the drinks?”
The naïve hope in the teenager’s voice hurt his heart. “Did you think about what I said last night?” he asked him.
Bobby nodded weakly. “Yeah.”
“Well?” Bobby hadn’t told Rick how old he really was, but he couldn’t be more than fifteen, sixteen at the most. A hot rage simmered inside Rick. Bobby was just a kid. What the hell was Earl thinking, assigning him to a backroom party?
“Come on, Bobby, you know you’d rather be at home. How much would it take to get you a bus ticket?”
“Aw, man. You sound like my old man. I’m not going home. He wants me to graduate. I’m sick of school. I’m ready to get out into the real world.” His voice cracked with anger and frustration.
“Yeah?” Rick clenched his jaw. It was time for some tough talk. He just hoped Bobby would listen. “Well, Bobby, the real world is back there, in that private party. If you want the real world, you go ahead and see for yourself if Beau will mind that you don’t know your job.”
Rick saw the struggle in the boy’s face. The need to prove that he could take it warred with the very real fear of what he would face behind those curtains. No. The kid wasn’t ready.
“I—I can do it,” Bobby said tremulously. Rick grimaced to himself. “I could. I just, don’t feel too good tonight.”
“So how come you ended up here in the first place?” Rick asked him, hoping the answer was not what it often was for runaway kids.
Bobby scowled. “My old man was leaning on me all the time. Didn’t want me to grow my hair, didn’t want me out on weeknights. He was treating me like a kid. Embarrassing me, you know, in front of my homies, talking about being home by twelve, and stuff like that. I don’t need that, man.”
Rick almost grinned in relief. If the kid were telling the truth, the worst thing waiting at home for him would probably be a couple of months of grounding. But just to be sure—“He ever pop you one, you know, hammer on you?”
Bobby shook his head. “Not really,” he said, looking curiously at Rick. “He didn’t abuse me, if that’s what you mean. He’s an okay dad most of the time. He just can’t understand I’m grown-up. I’m shaving, man.”
Rick believed him. Unless Bobby was a psychopath, which he wasn’t, he didn’t have the sophistication to pull off that good a lie. Rick let the grin reach his mouth this time. He fished several twenties out of his jeans. “Here. One of these days, you’ll figure out how lucky you are to have an old man who’s an okay dad most of the time. In fact, he’s probably worried sick right now. Why don’t you take this and catch the bus?”
Bobby looked at the money, then at Rick.
Rick heard Miller hailing him. “Yo, bartender!”
“Go on,” he said. “I’ll take the party. What’d Earl tell you?”
Bobby shook his head. “Nothing except I’d be bartending and to do what I’m told.” He turned away.
“That money’s for a bus ticket.”
“Yeah, man,” the boy said, smiling faintly, then turned back around. “Uh, Rick, thanks.”
Rick nodded, then turned to Miller, clenching his jaw.
“Hey, sweetheart, I could use another beer.” Miller smirked, but his next words were serious. “What the hell’s up with giving money to the kid?”
Rick swept the counter in front of him with his cloth, then lifted Miller’s beer and wiped beneath it. “He needs to be at home,” he muttered, then louder: “Get you anything else?”
“Yeah. Can a guy get a massage around here?” Miller drawled, then laughed.
“Sir,” Rick said very distinctly. “If you’d like, I could recommend another bar.” He stared at Miller meaningfully.
“Hell, no. I’m in on a high-stakes poker game here. Just biding my time. No problem.” Miller winked.
“Poker game? Is that the private party I’m bartending?”
Miller shrugged.
“Anything else besides poker?”
“Nope. Nothing weird tonight. Probably the kinkiest thing you’ll see is Mr. Beauregard kissing lots of Ben Franklins goodbye.”
“So what’s your angle? Have you done this before?”
“Nope. I managed to get an invitation to the game. The Lieutenant is hoping I’ll get asked back. Just a little extra insurance on the side for finding out about the dope. Maybe I’ll hear something.”
“I don’t get it. I’m already here.”
Miller drained his beer and set the glass down. He smiled and leaned in, as if he were telling Rick the punch line of a dirty joke. “Word is, they might pull you.”
Rick laughed. “Come on, Miller. Nobody’s saying that.”
Miller shrugged, just as Earl came up to Rick. “Where’s Bobby? Already back there?” he asked.
“He’s sick,” Rick replied smoothly. “I’m filling in. Got somebody to work out here?”
Earl cursed fluently. “Sick? We’re not running a day-care, Easton. Kids don’t get to play sick and go home. What are you anyhow, a freaking school nurse?”
“I can stay out here—” Rick started, crossing mental fingers that Earl didn’t agree.
“No. No. I’ll grab somebody to work out here. You go ahead and work the game.” He jerked his head toward the dark curtains, where Miller was just disappearing.
Rick followed Miller, wondering what he was going to find in the back of Beau’s tonight.
*
Lusinda stepped up to the bar in time to see Rick disappear behind the dark green curtains and Earl frown in his direction. Well, well. Rick had decided she needed rescuing when she had a chance to get back there, and now he was getting to go without her. What if he figured out who was distributing the toxic heroin before she had a chance to prove he was a crooked cop?
“Earl,” she called.
“What?”
“Where’s Rick headed? I thought he was on duty out here tonight.”
Earl’s wide mouth turned down in a frown. “You got an order? Get it into the computer and don’t be worrying about what anybody else is doing.” Earl headed down the bar to where an impatient man was snapping his fingers.
“Do you know what Rick’s doing back there?” she muttered to Nina.
“What?” Nina asked distractedly. She was counting the drinks on her tray and comparing them to what she’d written on her dupe pad. “Damn it. Rick?” She looked up. “Where’s Rick? He gave me a bourbon and cola. I needed a bourbon and soda.”
“That’s what I’m saying. Rick just headed back behind the curtains. What do you think’s going on back there?”
Nina shrugged. “Who the hell knows? Earl!” she called. “Who’s working the bar?”
Earl came over. “Whatcha need, sugar?”
“Bourbon and soda. This is cola. Where’s Richard?”
“Working the game. Bobby was supposed to, but he’s sick,” Earl said sarcastically.
“Bobby?” Lusinda said, surprised. “But he’s only—”
“Relax, Sin,” Earl said. “The kid’s gone. From what I just heard, your buddy Easton gave him bus money. That’s just one of the things he’s in big trouble for.”
“He’s not my buddy.”
Nina snorted as she hefted her tray. “No?” she scoffed. “Nobody’s missed the way you two look at and tease each other.”
“Tease? Trust me, I am not teasing. I can’t stand him. Earl, he gave Bobby bus money? What does that mean?”
“What do you think it means? He gave Bobby money to get home. Beau’s not going to be happy about that. He wanted the kid back there serving drinks tonight. He’s not sure if he trusts Easton.”
Lusinda studied Earl, but he was surveying the customers seated at the bar, probably checking how close to needing a refill they were. “Why wouldn’t he trust him?” she asked.
“See,” Earl said to Nina. “That’s what I’m talking about. She can’t stand not knowing what her boyfriend is doing every second.”
She felt her face grow warm. “Come on, Earl. Leave me alone. Nina’s the one who likes Richard Easton. She thinks his bod is hot.” She turned and sent Nina a smirk.
Earl and Nina were right, of course. She’d been watching Rick’s every move since he’d taken the bartending job. She hadn’t realized how obvious she’d been, though. She was failing miserably at her job. O’Reilly should probably send someone else in, someone with more experience. All she was doing was becoming a laughing stock. Not only was she failing at her undercover assignment, she’d apparently forgotten everything she once knew about waitressing. Although the diner where she’d worked could have fitted four trays on Beauregard’s one.
There was something else bugging her too. The more she was around Rick, the more he was getting under her skin. She definitely could not afford to get a crush on a guy who could be a crooked cop.
Lusinda finally caught up on her orders and got a minute to lean on the bar. She thought about the guy who’d been talking to Rick at the bar. He was another Eighth Precinct detective. She recognized him from some photos O’Reilly had shown her of cops she might run into around Beauregard’s or the Quarter. We might send one of them in to investigate a different aspect of Beau’s operations, O’Reilly had told her. We know there’s gambling going on behind the scenes at Beau’s, and we need dirt on him if they decide to bring him down and they can’t get any evidence on the bad dope angle.
From the way the Deputy Chief had talked, she’d been a little surprised to see Miller and Rick talking. It was apparently unheard of for undercover cops to communicate, especially about a case. Although, O’Reilly had mentioned that Miller got a kick out of harassing other undercover cops, trying to get a rise out of them. Miller called it on the job training for dummies. From the thinly disguised anger on Rick’s face, she was pretty sure Miller had been goading him about something, maybe his clothes.
Then there was the kid, Bobby. He couldn’t be more than sixteen and Lusinda had worried about him being in this kind of environment. But why would Rick give Bobby money for a bus ticket home? Not that it wasn’t admirable. But for Rick, who was supposed to be nothing more than a guy working as a bartender, it was stupid, wasn’t it? Wasting money on a kid he didn’t even know? Bartenders didn’t do that. Besides, there were hundreds of runaway kids in New Orleans and more arriving in the city every day. Granted, Rick had probably saved the kid’s life.
Her rogue cop, her subject, had done an about-face on her—again. There was no getting a handle on Rick Easterling. The other night he’d come to her rescue, then been rude and dismissive when she’d smarted off to him. And now he’d rescued one of the myriad teenagers who came to the French Quarter looking for something they didn’t have at home.
She caught a wave from one of her tables and headed off in that direction. A drunk, middle-aged man came barreling toward her, nearly knocking the heavy tray out of her hands. She struggled to keep it balanced as she dodged him. He plopped clumsily into his chair, nearly tipping it over. His wife scowled and called out to Lusinda to get her another Gin Rickey, a double this time. She took the table’s dessert order and turned it in, then fetched the woman’s drink and took another couple of orders on the way back to the bar. In between orders, she nibbled from a bowl of pretzels and peanuts and drank some juice.
Glancing toward the heavily draped back rooms, she sighed. Her back was aching and she felt as though she’d served more drinks tonight than all other nights combined. She’d collected a killing in tips, but she was working hard for them. It seemed that everybody had decided to come to Beauregard’s tonight and nobody was having a good time. The tension that hovered over the bar was thickening by the minute. It was going to be a long night.