Bad Moon Rising (15 page)

Beverly
gave her a tight smile. “The doctor just informed us
that they’re keeping John a couple of days for observation. He took a hard
crack to the head, it seems. There’s really no point in you remaining here. The
morphine they gave him for pain has pretty well knocked him out.”

“Why don’t you simply say what you mean, Beverly? You want me out of here.”

“I wouldn’t be so crass as to put it that way, but,
yes. I think it’s best that you leave.”

“Why?”

“John has his family with him. Besides
...
it’s obvious that he wouldn’t be in
this situation had it not been for you.”

Holly looked away. “You don’t beat around the bush, do
you?”

“Not when it comes to John’s welfare
...
and happiness. He simply doesn’t need
more complications in his life.”

Holly looked away. Beverly was right, of course. The
same thoughts had drummed through her head these last few hours.

Beverly
sat up straight, her fingers clutching her purse and
her eyes sharp as chips of green glass. “Look
...
Miss Jones. Let me point something out, just in case you’re getting the wrong
idea about John’s interest in you. He’s a sucker for losers. Since his family
was murdered, he’s taken on the role of savior for any down-on-her-luck woman
who stumbles into his office with a sob story.”

Her gaze raked Holly and the short, tight dress she
was wearing. “It’s quite obvious what you are, Miss Jones, so I wouldn’t take
John’s interest in you for more than what it is.”

She turned and walked away, and Holly stared after
her. Beverly’s parting shot disturbed her more than she wanted to admit to
herself. She was right, of course. With John’s kiss and touch, she had wanted,
briefly, to believe otherwise. With one brush of his lips on hers, her wall of
restraint had crumbled. Why?

She hadn’t allowed herself to get close to a man emotionally
and physically since she had put the life behind her. Not that there had been
many men. A date here and there. A potential relationship when she had lived
briefly in Dallas. But always, when recognizing so much as a hint of emotional
charge, she had bolted, convincing herself that no man would accept her
past—all of it—and forgive her for it. But the fear had gone even deeper than
her fear of rejection. She simply wasn’t—and never would be—willing to put the
life of a man she loved in jeopardy.

“Miss Jones?”

Holly blinked and looked up into Helen’s eyes. “Are
you all right, dear?” Helen sat down beside her. “You’re quite pale. Should I
get a nurse? Perhaps you need something to relax you. You’ve been through a terrible
ordeal.”

She shook her head. “I’m fine. Really.”

Helen extended her hand, a key in her palm. “John’s
apartment. He wants you to go there. In fact, he ordered you to.”

Holly looked at the key, wanting to refuse it. But
what choice did she have? It was that or return to Melissa’s apartment. While
she had to return to retrieve her things and Puddin’, the idea of staying there
after what had happened unnerved her more than she wanted to admit to herself.
Hesitantly, she accepted the key, curling her fingers firmly around it.

Helen smiled. “Go home and get some rest. John will be
out for some time.”

“Right.” She nodded and smiled, relief easing the tension
in her spine.

Helen dug into her purse, extracting a wallet, and
money from it. “Knowing my son, his refrigerator is stocked with little more
than cold pizza and beer. If you wouldn’t mind, perhaps you can pick up a few
things for when he comes home. Something healthy. Meat that isn’t out of a can
and some fruit and vegetables.” She chuckled. “You know how mothers are. I’ll
rest easier knowing that when he gets home he’ll have something decent to eat.”

Holly accepted the money—five one-hundred-dollar
bills. “This will buy a lot of fruit and veggies, Mrs. Damascus.”

“Buy something for yourself. Fix the place up a bit.
Just, please
...”
She cleared her
throat. “Don’t tell him I gave you this money. His stubborn pride, you see. He
never allows me to help him. Says he’s a grown man and can stand on his own two
feet.”

Holly laid her hand on Helen’s. “You love your son
very much.”

“John is my pride and joy. While Eric may have been
born with steely ambition and will no doubt excel in politics, John was gifted
with intelligence, and most importantly, a conscience. For a man who has
prided himself on his ethics and kindness, he’s seen more than his share of
sorrow.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I, dear.” She stood. “I’ll have my driver take
you to John’s.”

Tyron Johnson, aka Dr. Yah Yah, was an Armani-suited
hoodlum
and practitioner of all things
voodoo, partly because he feared the hex himself, but mostly because he
enjoyed the surge of power he experienced believing that every time he poked a
pin in a doll he was delivering excruciating pain to the enemy of the day.

He had never snuffed a man personally, although in his
younger days, he had come close to it. Somehow beatings were more pleasurable.
It was the pain he enjoyed inflicting. A dead man couldn’t suffer.

Tyron had turned thirty-five the day before, and he
was still feeling the effects of celebrating. His head hurt like hell and his
stomach churned, as if he was on a boat in choppy water. He had called his
mother and father in California the night before and enjoyed hearing their
pleasure over the news that he had been promoted to vice president of the
DiAngelo Investment Corporation.

It was bullshit, of course, but what they didn’t know
wouldn’t hurt them. As if they could be proud as a peacock over their son
being a pimp.

What mattered to them was that he sent enough money
home every month to keep them well fed, clothed, and sheltered, not to mention
the occasional vacation to Palm Springs to rub elbows with movie stars. The
only downside to the conversations were the references they made to his past
and how proud they were that he had managed to pull his life out of the gutter
and become a success.

As a juvenile delinquent, he had spent most of his
teenage years in lockup. He had nearly driven his old lady to suicide with
despair, as had his younger brother, Spencer. Now, it went without saying that
they never mentioned Spencer when they spoke. As far as they were concerned,
Spencer was dead.

Luck had played a big part in Tyron’s life. Had he not
taken on the part-time job of running drugs for Marcus DiAngelo, he wouldn’t be
in the prestigious position he was now. Marcus had recognized his potential.
Took him off the streets and out of the ghetto-gang threads, dressed him in
style, and gave him a taste of the good life. Classy whores and clean coke.
Parties with movie stars and politicians, pockets stuffed with
five-hundred-dollar bills, and gold-trimmed automobiles that made the babes
drool when he drove by.

All thanks to Marcus DiAngelo, who owned Tyron’s body
and soul and half the politicians in five states. The man had clout. Lots of
it. And because of that, Tyron carefully watched his P’s and Q’s. DiAngelo wasn’t
a man to cross. If he played his cards right, Tyron suspected that he would be
in line to take over DiAngelo’s territory should he decide to retire. So what that
he had to kiss DiAngelo’s ass and put up with his peculiarities. Everyone had
their little quirks.

DiAngelo’s happened to be his adoration and obsession
with Elvis Presley. He had five million dollars tied up in authentic Elvis
memorabilia. Autographed photos. Cars and motorcycles that had belonged to the
King. Sweat-stained jumpsuits he wore in Vegas. A house in the Caribbean that had once belonged to Elvis. The damn toilet seat that Elvis had been
sitting on when he croaked.

Elvis, Elvis, Elvis.

He’d decorated his house outside of New Orleans identically
to Graceland, right down to the tacky Jungle Room. “Blue Suede Shoes” had
become his national anthem. He played or sang it constantly, even owned a pair
of blue suede shoes that had reportedly been worn by the King during a concert
at the White House.

Whatever flipped the wop’s switch. It was no skin off
Tyron’s nose.

Yes, life was definitely good. Most of the time.
Today, however, was an exception.

As he relaxed in his art deco chair, he closed his eyes
in bliss as Honey performed oral sex on him. Blow jobs were her specialty. She
could suck a man’s entire soul out through his penis. Send him to la-la land
with a twist of her tongue.

God knows he needed a bit of relaxation after reading
the letter from his brother, Spencer. Spence, doing life in prison, had been
gang-raped twice in the last week and the prison officials still refused to
offer him refuge from the tormentors. Spence was considering suicide. Something
needed to be done about the problem and quick.

As if Tyron didn’t have enough on his plate, what with
his girls getting murdered, opening up that old kettle of rotten fish again.

Cops were sniffing around him like a dog on a scent
and J.D. Damascus wasn’t helping any. No doubt about it, he was going to have
to call in the big guns, so to speak. Not that he liked asking DiAngelo for
favors. DiAngelo’s favors came with strings attached. But since it was more
than apparent that the wrong man had been executed for the French Quarter
murders, things were going to get ugly again and the last thing he needed was
the police snooping too deeply into his business. The idea of sharing the same
fate as Spence freaked him out.

Honey lifted her eyes and stared at him. “You got a
problem or what?”

Apparently, he did. He had gone limp as a noodle— what
with his mind being bothered by thoughts of his brother and Damascus. His face
began to burn as she smirked at him, as if the problem was his fault. It was,
of course, but he didn’t appreciate her pointing it out.

“Maybe I just don’t like looking at your ugly face,
bitch.”

He punched her in the eye so hard she sprawled on her
back on the floor, making a mewling sound as she grabbed her face. Standing, he
stuffed himself into his trousers and zipped up his pants, giving her a kick in
her ribs for good measure.

“Just for that, you ain’t gettin’ a fix. See how you
like that, bitch.”

She rolled to her hands and knees, her stringy blond
hair over her already swelling face. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “Please—I
gotta have it, Tyron. I’m hurting.”

“Should have thought about that before you got smart.
Now get the hell out of here.”

The door opened and Marcus DiAngelo walked in, five
feet three inches and pushing two hundred pounds. He stepped aside as Honey,
one hand plastered to her eye, ran from the room.

“Problems?”

“Bitch is gettin’ sloppy is all.”

“She’s getting expensive. She’s costing us six hundred
a day. Is she worth it?” Tyron shrugged.

“I don’t think so.” Marcus dropped onto the sofa and
crossed his legs as he lit a cigar. “From my understanding, she hasn’t turned a
trick in days. Too damn strung out to do her job.”

Tyron knew what that meant, and Marcus was right. It
was a shame to lose a bitch with Honey’s talent, but the bottom line was, when
one of the girls couldn’t meet her quota because she was home shooting up and
so damn stoned a john wouldn’t touch her, she had outlived her usefulness.

“I’ll take care of it,” Marcus said. “I’ll have Vince
deliver a cocktail that will blow her mind, literally.” He chuckled.

Well, if she had to go there wasn’t a nicer way to do
it, Tyron supposed. She’d be dead before she hit the floor.

“So what’s up?” Marcus asked. “Your message sounded
urgent.”

Tyron poured himself a glass of V8 juice. “I got a big
favor to ask.”

Marcus smiled.

“It’s Spence.” He gulped his juice. “He’s having some
problems.”

“So you mentioned.”

“Damn warden won’t do nothin’ about it. Got it in his
mind that Spence deserves this kind of brutality.”

“You’re asking me to shake him up a little. Right?”

“You know, put the fear of God into him.”

“That might take some doing. Lot of strings to pull,
know what I mean?” He scratched his head. “I could speak to Mr. Carrelli. He
isn’t known for being subtle, however. It might get messy.”