Mardi Gras Mambo (15 page)

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Authors: Gred Herren

BOOK: Mardi Gras Mambo
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Overindulgence, in food or drink.
Perpetual Peter Pan, a refusal to accept adult responsibility.
A dangerous journey, possibly across water.
I stared at them. Nothing like getting bitch slapped by the Goddess—
perpetual Peter Pan, my ass!
I swept the cards up and wrapped them back in the blue silk cloth, then shoved them into the old Cuban cigar box I kept them in, and slid it under the couch.
Apparently, the Goddess didn't want to help.
I got up from the table and walked out onto my balcony. The sun was struggling to shine through thick clouds. It was probably going to rain again. The air was thick with moisture. Decatur Street was full of people carrying go-cups with their necks weighted down with beads. They were all laughing and joking, shouting at others, as they staggered around. Every once in a while someone would shout drunkenly, “Happy Mardi Gras!” and a cheer would go up from one end of the street to the other. I stood at the railing looking down and watching. I smiled involuntarily. The tourists were annoying, sure, but I always thoroughly enjoyed watching them. Most of them probably spent the rest of the year weighted down with the mores of their communities, doing the nine-to-five thing, being responsible adults. Coming to New Orleans for Mardi Gras was their chance to be kids again, to act crazy and do things adults weren't supposed to do, let off steam, and just go nuts before returning to their straightlaced world of work, kids, and church.
A group of what were probably college kids caught my eye, and I turned to watch them. There were six of them; three guys, three girls, most likely couples down from maybe Baton Rouge. The girls were dressed in tube tops and low-waisted jeans that looked like they were going to walk out of them at any minute. Two of them showed tattoos on their shoulders, and all three had their navels pierced. The boys were wearing football jerseys tucked into baggy jeans, and one of them was Abercrombie-and-Fitch-catalogue handsome, with clear skin, thick hair hanging down into his eyes, and wiry muscles. They all had huge plastic cups about half full with beer. They were laughing and joking and hanging on each other, just giving each other shit and having a great time. I watched them cross Barracks Street and walk in front of the black iron fence running around the old Mint.
Probably frat boys from LSU,
I thought, and as they got closer I saw that the other two were just as good-looking as the catalogue model guy, just not as flashy. Their walks had that straight-boy swagger to it, that particular wide-legged gait with their pelvises thrust oh so slightly forward, conveying the sense of privilege that automatically came with being straight white boys from well-off families. All six of them were drunk, which meant they'd either all pass out or puke (or both) before the night was over. The girls walked behind the guys, and then they stopped in front of a guy leaning against the fence almost directly across the street from my building. One of the girls pulled a string of beads over her head and tried to give them to the guy, but he just brushed them off. The girl shrugged, her friends laughed at her, and then they moved on down the sidewalk.
I turned my attention to the man who didn't want beads.
The guy against the fence was wearing a black and gold Saints baseball cap pulled down low over his forehead, so I couldn't see his face. Despite the warm mugginess and stickiness, he was wearing a black leather jacket zipped shut over black slacks and boots. He stood there, staring across the street, every so often turning his head and gazing up and down the street before turning back to stare at the building on the other side of Decatur from where he was standing. I stood there, staring. I'd seen someone else act like that. . . .
And then I remembered. It had been hot, and I'd been tired, and the guy across the street had been Frank, before I knew him and he was still with the Feds. He'd been watching my front gate, trying to blend in and not be noticeable, but still watching everyone coming up and down the sidewalks.
Which was exactly what this guy was doing.
A cold chill went down my spine, and I realized I was still in my underwear. My first instinct was to wake up Frank and Colin, but then I gave myself a mental slap across the face.
You're a licensed private eye now
, I told myself.
Quit expecting them to do all the dirty work. Not five minutes ago you were thinking about trying to solve the case on your own to prove yourself to them, and at the first sign of trouble, you're going to run and wake them up? Sheesh—some private eye you are!
I went into the bedroom—the boys were still sleeping, still twined together—and pulled on a pair of jean shorts and a dirty Tulane sweatshirt that didn't smell too bad. I shoved my wallet into my pocket and grabbed my keys and went down the back stairs. The courtyard was deserted; Millie and Velma had either taken their guests inside or moved on to whatever party they were going to. By the time I got to the bottom of the steps, I had my plan of action. He hadn't been watching the balconies—he'd been watching the gate. I would go in through the back door of the coffee shop—one of the privileges of living in the building—so he wouldn't know I'd come out. I'd get a copy of the paper, some coffee, and sit in a window seat and watch him, see if I could find out what he was up to out there. If he was watching my building, he had to be trying to keep tabs on us. I doubted seriously anyone would be trying to keep an eye on Millie and Velma. But why, and for what purpose? He could be a cop—Venus trying to make sure we didn't skip town or something—but during Mardi Gras, the police force was stretched notoriously thin for parade duty. Locals always joked that during Carnival was the best time to commit a crime because the cops were all tied up with the tourists. Could they afford to spare the manpower to watch us?
I opened the back door to the coffee shop, which opened into a narrow hallway with the bathrooms and various offices and storage rooms opening off it. I walked up into the main room. There was a young guy with multiple tattoos and facial piercings typing away at a laptop in a back corner, but he was the only customer in the place. Darcy, a multitattooed, pierced, and dreadlocked lead singer for a local Goth band was working, and I got an iced mocha at the counter, grabbed a copy of
Gambit Weekly
, and sat down at a window table. I glanced out. He was still there. The same routine—eyes locked forward on the gate, every few minutes looking away to scan the street, and then back to the gate. I started flipping through the paper, trying to glance out the window every few seconds without being obvious. I felt kind of silly trying to hide behind a newspaper and be inconspicuous, but he didn't seem to notice me. I was about a third of the way through my drink when he glanced at his watch and turned to walk back up Decatur deeper into the Quarter.
I got up and walked out, spotting him turning the corner to walk up Barracks into the Quarter. I ran to the corner, dodging the festive partyers, and caught sight of the ball cap crossing to the other side of Barracks near the parking lot of the Richelieu Hotel. I tried to dodge around a crowd of drunks wearing those ridiculous hats that hold beer cans with tubes running down to the wearer's mouth, and by the time I finally got around them and looked again I saw the cap going around the corner at Chartres, toward Jackson Square. I started running, drawing some stares, and slowed down to a stop when I reached the corner of the Richelieu Hotel and peered around to see up the street. There was no sign of him. I jogged down the block and looked up and down Governor Nicholls Street, to no avail.
I'd lost him.
Nice work, Sherlock,
I thought, as I stood there, scratching my head. How had he disappeared so completely? I hadn't been that far behind him; he must have ducked inside somewhere. I walked back down to the corner of Barracks and Chartres. All the houses were closed up and quiet. The balconies were deserted. The corner across from where I was standing was a private house and still. The other corner was an art gallery, also closed—which left the Richelieu Hotel. I walked back to the entryway of the big reddish brown building and went into the lobby. I looked around. There were people all around, talking and laughing. There were plenty of ball caps—Yankees, Dodgers, Alabama, Ole Miss, even Michigan—but no Saints.
I walked up to the front desk. “Um, excuse me?”
The young uniformed black woman gave me the big smile of a service employee who took pride in her job. She was slender, and her hair was cut very short. “Yes, sir? How may I help you?”
“Did you see a guy come in here”—even as I spoke, I realized how silly I sounded—“wearing a black leather jacket and a Saints baseball cap?”
Her smile faded a bit for just a moment as she assessed whether I was crazy, but it was probably not the strangest thing anyone had ever asked her. One of her eyebrows went up, and amusement danced in her eyes, and I realized I'd probably become one of her cocktail party “crazy Mardi Gras” stories. “No, sir, I don't believe I did. Should I keep an eye out for him?”
“Thanks, but no need.” I gave her my best smile and walked away. There was a man sitting in a wingback chair wearing black jeans that looked kind of like the ones the guy had been wearing, but he had no jacket or cap, just a white T-shirt that read
Fuck you, you fucking fuck.
I sighed and walked back out onto the sidewalk. I looked up and down Chartres. He couldn't have known I was following him, so . . .
I stopped at the corner to toss my coffee cup into the garbage can, and that's when I saw it.
The cap was sitting on top of the pile of garbage inside. Looking around to see if anyone was watching, I reached in and grabbed it. I turned it over and over in my hands. It was just a Saints ball cap, one that could be bought anywhere in the city. There was no name written in magic marker on the inside—that would have been too much to hope for. It seemed relatively new. In fact, the price tag was still on the underside of the bill, but it didn't tell me anything, just the price—$12.95—and the tag was from one of those pricing guns any number of small stores in the Quarter use. I sighed.
Well, he might not have been watching the gate,
I reasoned as I walked back home, feeling kind of stupid about the whole thing.
He might have just been waiting for someone, and that's just where he was standing. But he looked like he was up to something—and I lost him
. Stupidly I'd keyed in on what he was wearing. Some detective I was! I had no idea what he looked like and couldn't even really describe his physical stature. He was taller than those young girls, but that didn't mean anything. The jacket was kind of shapeless.
Stupid, stupid, stupid,
I berated myself as I climbed the stairs and unlocked my back door.
Colin was pouring himself a cup of coffee when I walked back in. “Where'd you go?”
I didn't answer at first, conducting an internal monologue about whether or not to tell him I thought someone had been watching us. Then I imagined the Scotty-is-such-a-cute-little-whack-job look he'd get on his face, and I made up my mind. “I just wanted to get some air.” I shrugged. “Where's Frank?”
“Still sleeping.” Colin yawned. “You want some coffee?”
“Sure, let me get my cup.” I got my cup from the living room and refilled it while Colin splashed the liqueur into it. I took a sip and smiled at him.
“You sure you're okay?” Colin asked.
“I'm fine,” I said, and we walked back into the living room, where we sat down on the couch together.
He draped a leg over mine. “You ready to have fun again tonight?”
I grinned at him. “Yeah.” And then I thought,
Yeah, not saying anything was the smart thing to do. It was nothing, just my overactive imagination playing tricks on me again—it has been a rather rough twenty-four hours.
“I just hope the cops aren't here waiting for us when we get home,” Colin teased.
I stiffened. “Colin, that wasn't my fault.”
“Easy there, bud!” He held up his hands defensively, a big grin on his face. “I knew when I signed up for this there'd never be a dull moment with you around, darlin'.”
“Yeah,” I said crossly. I looked into his face but could tell he was still in a teasing mood, and I didn't want to hear it. I pushed his leg off me and stood up. “I think I'm going to go lie down for a little while.”
“Scotty—”
“Don't worry about it.” I stalked down the hall, pulling my sweatshirt over my head and sliding under the covers on the bed. Frank was still sound asleep, and I lay there beside him for a moment, staring at the ceiling, and then Frank moaned a little bit and rearranged himself so that our bodies were entangled. I felt his warmth and relaxed a little bit. After a few moments, I felt myself getting a little drowsy. I closed my eyes.
I'll apologize to Colin later,
I thought as I drifted off.
And everything will be fine. We'll have a good time tonight. . . .
You'd think I'd have learned by now.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Wheel of Fortune
the ups and downs of fate
 
 
 
“There.” I stepped back from Frank's back. “You're done.”
He turned around, looking down at his body. He looked incredible, even more so than usual. From the top of his head to where his legs disappeared into his boots, every inch of exposed skin was covered in gold body paint. The glitter I'd mixed into the paint sparkled and shimmered in the light from the chandelier overhead. Every muscle seemed to jump out with even more definition than usual. Oh, yes, I had been right to pick out these outfits. We were going to stop traffic. I stepped back and gave him a good, long, appraising look. The paint covered his scar, which gave his face a more benign look. He's a very handsome man with the scar—it gives him a rugged, masculine, testosterone-driven don't-fuck-with-me look—but he must have been amazingly gorgeous before he had it, when he was a young man. For a brief moment, I tried to picture him as he must have looked at eighteen.
Frank tugged at his swim trunks a bit in the crotch and gave me a sheepish look.
“I don't know if I can go out in public looking this—this
exposed
.” He sighed. The trunks were a lycra-cotton blend and covered us like another layer of skin. Not much was left to the imagination—which was the whole point. “I feel like I'm practically naked. What if, you know, I get
excited?
”
“You'll be even more popular,” I teased.
“It's Mardi Gras,” Colin said as he handed Frank a go-cup full of orange juice and vodka. The glitter on his shoulder caught the light and flashed red, blue, and yellow at me. “You look
fabulous”—
he was imitating my voice again—“and everyone's going to want you.”
The crap I have to put up with! Why does everyone always like to tease me?
“Yeah, whatever.” Frank looked at himself in the mirror, tugged at the crotch again, then reached inside and adjusted himself a bit. He took a drink and grinned at Colin. “Good drink.”
“Thanks.” Colin saluted us both with his own cup. “I have to say, we all look pretty good.”
He was right; we did look hot. I didn't grow up in New Orleans for nothing, after all. I definitely know how to pick costumes that worked. I picked up my own gold-painted hat with the two lightning bolts sewn on the sides and placed it on my head. I looked over at the boys. Damn, they were absolutely gorgeous. I said so and said another prayer of thanks to the Goddess. I am so blessed.
They looked at each other and grinned. They turned their backs to me, and each struck a double biceps pose. Their arms seemed to double in size, their lats fanned out, which made their waistlines seem to shrink by inches until they were almost nonexistent. Definition carved deep canyons into their backs, and the snug trunks seemed to barely cover their round butts. The trunks also rode a little low, barely covering the top of their cheeks. If they slipped down even the tiniest fraction of an inch, tan line and butt crack would be exposed for everyone to see—and drool over. That would happen later, I knew, on the dance floor. There's nothing sexier than a shirtless man on the dance floor showing a bit of marble-white cheek. The low-riding trunks were definitely tantalizing and hard to look away from. They were going to be incredibly popular again tonight. Finally, I got my camera and snapped a picture. “Now turn around,” I said, and they obliged, putting their arms around each other and mugging for the camera. We did the whole camera-costume thing—individual pictures, then me with Frank, then with Colin, before setting it on autosnap and taking some group shots.
“All right, are we ready?” I checked the little camera bag I had painted gold and tossed over one shoulder. I took inventory: house keys, ID, cash, joint for maybe later to relax a bit to help the descent from the drug heights. I had everything I needed. “You guys got everything? Check again to be sure.” They both rolled their eyes and checked their own little camera bags and gave me a thumbs-up. “Okay then.” I handed the boys their pills. “Okay, ready for blastoff?”
I usually don't like to take Ecstasy before leaving the house, but Frank had made that a condition of doing it again, which made perfect sense. No sense risking carrying it around, in case something happened and we got stopped and searched. Better to carry it on the inside. I could still remember the feeling of those pills burning into my leg while Venus and Blaine questioned me that morning. Better safe than sorry wasn't a bad idea. The joint was my little secret for later, and besides, it was just a joint; nobody gave a rat's ass about a little pot in the Quarter. There was always someone smoking pot on the balconies during Mardi Gras.
Frank looked at his pill for a minute, before popping it into his mouth and washing it down. He gave me a weak little grin. “All righty then.”
“It'll be fun.” I kissed his cheek. “Remember how much fun it was last night? Tonight's going to be even better.” I touched his ass and went on. “Everyone is going to be so jealous of me with my hot guys.” Sunday night was always fun on a nonholiday weekend—and during Carnival it was even better than Saturday night. Traditionally, Mardi Gras continued to build every night until Fat Tuesday. Every night the crowd got larger, louder, and more festive. Mardi Gras and New Orleans was working its magic on the tourists. Each day, they would be less and less inhibited, more relaxed, and even friendlier. That was the thing I loved the most about New Orleans. People for the most part were just out to have a good time and be friendly. It wasn't like that in other cities, but that, I guess, is just part of the magic of New Orleans. Guys who, in other cities, went out dancing with a major attitude and looked down their noses at everyone else came to New Orleans and seemed to leave the attitude back home. The crowd of gorgeous men out last night in the gay bars certainly hadn't seemed inhibited, and there would probably be even more of them out tonight. And we were definitely dressed to be noticed. I took my pill and washed it down with some of my screwdriver. “Let's go, boys.”
There was just a hint of chill in the damp night, and I shivered as I closed the gate behind us. It wasn't uncomfortably chilly, probably in the high sixties—the tourists from up north would think it springlike—but I would have preferred a few more degrees of warmth. The night sky was filled with clouds, and I could hear the dull roar of Bourbon Street seven blocks away. Bacchus was rolling down Canal Street about now, which made this the perfect time to get to the bars. Later, after the mad crush of the thousands on the parade route descended on the Quarter, the lines would be around the block to get in.
We started walking up Barracks Street, and some drunk girls in their late twenties whistled and cheered at us from across the street. I grinned, and Frank turned and gave them a bodybuilder pose, which led to more cheers, and Colin and I joined in. All four of them ran across the street, slopping their drinks out of their cups, and bestowed beads on us, each one reaching up to kiss us on the cheek as she placed her bounty around our necks. “You boys gay?” one of them drawled drunkenly. I placed the accent as Southern Alabaman.
Colin cocked his hat to her. “ 'Fraid so, ma'am.”
“Well, that's a goddamned shame. If you change your minds we're staying at the Wyndham. Room six fifty-seven.” She winked, then grabbed Colin's butt and gave it a good squeeze, and then they scurried off, laughing and hooting.
We looked at each other and started laughing, then kept walking. Several times we got stared at, but never in a look-at-those-freaks-Martha kind of way. Most people smiled, others yelled “awesome costumes!” and still others threw beads. Every time we passed a crowded balcony of partyers, we got requests to show more skin than we already were and got beads anyway after we declined. Some were more than happy to let us flex for them instead, before raining down beads on us. Both of the boys had these great big happy grins on their faces. It was like, somehow, they had no idea just how handsome and sexy they really were before tonight and all this appreciation for their oh-so-tender flesh. I watched them, returning smiles and saying “Happy Mardi Gras” to strangers like they'd lived here their whole lives. They were having a great time, like I knew they would, and we hadn't even gotten to the bar yet. And they were gorgeous men, and I loved them and they loved me right back.
I knew they'd get the true spirit of Mardi Gras, and I couldn't have been prouder.
We met David in front of the Clover Grill. He'd chickened out on the Mercury costume and was just wearing jeans and a white tank top. He just shook his head at us. “Look at you
whores.
” He shook his head again. “Once again, showing yourselves to be true representatives of the gay community—putting your best face forward. Is it any wonder people think we're all going to hell and are out to seduce their children?”
“Fuck you, David,” Frank said, winking at me, and I knew what he was thinking. I laughed.
Obviously, the Ecstasy was starting to hit him—and he was awful cute and sweet when he giggled like that. He really was a handsome man, and so was Colin, and I was so lucky to find these two guys to share my life with. A big burly bear walked by wearing just overalls with one strap down to reveal his massive hairy chest, and he smiled and I smiled back and said, “Happy Mardi Gras,” and he reached out and touched my chest and said it back to me. He moved on, and the crowd on the balcony at Lafitte's cheered. I looked over and saw beads raining down on a drunk fraternity boy holding his open pants up with one hand while he held a big cup of beer in the other and his girlfriend was catching the beads for him, and then a breeze came along, and the overpowering smell of frying grease from the Clover washed over me, but it smelled good, and I smiled at David and . . .
Okay, Frank wasn't the only one it was hitting.
We started up Bourbon Street, pausing under the balcony of the AMBUSHmag office. The fabulous drag queens up there cheered and tossed beads at us, and we waved and flexed for them, and a gaggle of hot shirtless guys in jeans walked by and grinned at us, and then we kept walking up the street, and there wasn't a line, so we paid our cover and went inside. When we got to the top of the steps I recognized the song playing, “Easy as Life,” by Deborah Cox, whom I just loved, and I dragged the boys with me out onto the dance floor.
“Nothing in life is ever easy, nothing in life will ever run true,” I sang along with Deborah, throwing my arms up in the air with joy. We started dancing, and then Deborah Cox mixed into another song. We climbed up on the stage and I stood next to a guy wearing jeans that were so low his big, hard dick was the only thing keeping them from dropping to his ankles, and we danced together. At some point he kissed me, and I just smiled back at him. The songs kept melting into each other, and I kept dancing, no track of time. This was some
fucking
awesome X. At some point, Frank made a signal that he was going to get some water, and I watched his head bob through the crowd on the dance floor. He kept getting stopped so people could grab his butt or pinch his nipples or stroke his chest and he had this huge smile on his face.
Then the next song was “I Want to Know What Love Is,” by Wynonna, and I went into performance mode.
“It's gonna take a little time,” Wynonna and I sang, and I raised my hands up toward the ceiling as the drum beat began, and the crowd down below me let out a cheer. I noticed Colin was dancing with some pretty young Hispanic boy who looked like he'd never eaten a French fry or cookie in his life, and I didn't know where David was; this Hispanic boy was totally his type. I kept dancing . . . and as the chorus crashed into gear, smoke flew out from the ceiling and the crowd cheered again and I was bouncing, jumping up and down. “I want to know what love is... . I want you to show meeeeee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee!!”
And I gave myself to the music and the dance.
The high stopped rather suddenly, as it is wont to do sometimes, but I was still dancing, moving my feet but not as crazed as I had been. I realized Frank still hadn't come back. I looked at my watch and was stunned to see it was two-thirty; we'd gotten to the Parade around eleven.
That's strange,
I thought, and turned to ask Colin if he knew where Frank was.
Colin was nowhere to be seen either.
I kept moving but started looking around the dancing bodies to my right, in case I'd missed them. No, they weren't on the stage, and I looked to the left. Not there, either. I squinted and peered through the flashing lights at the dance floor. It shouldn't, I figured, be hard to spot them, even if they'd taken the winged caps off. I mean, how many people in the place were painted gold?
But they weren't on the dance floor either.
Okay, this was beyond strange—this was fucking
weird.
They wouldn't have just left me, would they?
Of course not, I reasoned. They probably just went to get water or something, ran into some hot guy, and were probably in a darkened corner of the bar making out. I couldn't believe that both of them would just take off with someone without telling me, though. They never had before, after all, but other than last night, they'd never been on Ecstasy before, either. Maybe I should get down and go look around. But then what if they came back and I was gone? It had never occurred to me that we might get separated, so I hadn't come up with a contingency plan. That was, sadly, a real rookie mistake. You
alway
s have a contingency plan in case you get separated. It was entirely possible they'd hooked up with guys and were gone for the night.

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