Mardi Gras Mambo (26 page)

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Authors: Gred Herren

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“She knows now.” I was so tired of the whole mess I just wanted to scream. “In fact, she knew from the beginning there were three of you.” And to myself, I added,
And if everyone had just been honest with everyone, maybe Pasha and Sasha would be alive right now. Fucking secrets and lies. When exactly did my life become a plot borrowed from
All My Children
anyway?
There would be time for confronting the family later—once Frank was safe and whoever was killing off my uncles was behind bars.
That
was going to be one hell of a family meeting.
“So, where are these Russians? Did you recognize them?” I asked.
“At the Devil's Weed. I went down the inside staircase and heard someone talking on a cell phone in Russian. I figured, how many Russians can there be in New Orleans? I took your spare keys from your parents.”
I sighed. Mom and Dad had my keys hanging on their kitchen wall with a sign over it that says “SCOTTY'S SPARES.”
He continued, “So I followed him. He kept speaking in Russian on his phone; it didn't make any sense to me. He didn't see me, so I followed him into the hotel, the one there on the corner. That's where they are staying.”
“The Bourbon Orleans?”
He nodded. “That must be where they have Frank. I know the room.”
Velma rubbed her hands together. “So, I say we go get him.”
“Velma—” I didn't know what to say. I was incredibly touched she wanted to go help rescue Frank, but at the same time it would be dangerous. I wasn't even sure I was up for it. When it came to rescuing, it was usually Frank or Colin rescuing
me.
I decided to try Colin's cell phone one last time. I said a quick prayer as I dialed, but I knew even as I said the words in my head that it wasn't going to work, that there wasn't going to be an answer.
Sometimes I hate being right.
It was up to me, and me alone.
I was going to go get my man. Or die trying.
“Stop thinking like that,” I said out loud, shivering. I rubbed my arms to get the goosebumps to go down.
I walked over to the French doors leading to my balcony. I peered through the curtains. The guy was still there, leaning on the fence watching. I narrowed my eyes.
“Misha, Velma, come here for a minute,” I said, turning to them. They joined me at the window. “See that guy down there? The one leaning against the fence?”
“In the ball cap? Yes,” Misha replied. Velma nodded.
“Want to ambush him? He's watching the house, and I don't like that one bit.”
Misha frowned. “Why is he watching the house?” He gave a low growl in his throat.
“I don't know, but there's not a single good reason I can think of, so he must be up to no good. I say we go down and get him.”
Misha bared his teeth in a savage grin. “Sounds like fun.” He popped his knuckles. “You think he's maybe one of the people who killed Pasha and Sasha?”
“Misha”—I put my hands on his shoulders so we were looking into each other's faces—“we aren't going to
hurt
him, or anything. We just need to overpower him and get him up here. He might have some answers, some information we need.”
“If he killed my brothers, I will get answers out of him,” he said grimly, rubbing his big hands together.
I started to say we couldn't break the law by hurting the guy, but I stopped myself. I couldn't blame Misha for how he felt; the reality was if they'd hurt Frank in any way, I might not be able to stop
myself
from inflicting some damage on him. I smiled back at him. “And then we're going to go get Frank—you want to help me with that?”
Fuck
you,
Colin. I don't need your help—or your permission—and we are going to have a serious chat later,
I added under my breath.
Colin always said that the more complicated the plan, the more likely things were to go wrong. Bearing that in mind, I kept the plan very simple.
The tricky part was going to be getting Misha out of the apartment without being noticed. This is where Velma came in handy. She quickly explained something I didn't know—that in the shed at the back of the courtyard was a door that opened out into a small alley that came out in a parking lot on Barracks Street. We decided that Misha would go out that way, solving that problem. Velma and I would go through the back door into the coffee shop. Once we saw Misha on the opposite corner of Barracks and Decatur, Velma would go back out into the courtyard and come out through the front gate. She would cross the street and distract the guy, which would be the cue for Misha and me to make our move and subdue him. Velma was a little disappointed I wouldn't let her use her frying pan on him, but I promised her if he wasn't willing to talk after we dragged him back upstairs, I'd let her.
Simple, right? I said a quick prayer, we had a group hug for success, and put our plan into motion.
After Misha went out the shed door, Velma and I casually entered the coffee shop through the back door.
“This is kind of fun,” Velma whispered. I shushed her.
The coffee shop was pretty empty. The college girl who'd been working earlier looked at me funny when I came out of the hallway but didn't say anything. I headed over to the window tables and sat down at one right next to the door and peered out. I didn't see Misha, and I felt my blood start pumping a lot faster.
Come on, Misha,
I said to myself.
Where are you?
The guy didn't seem to have noticed anything; he was still standing there, every once in a while scanning the people walking up and down Decatur Street. A few eternal moments ticked by, and then I saw Misha across the street. His eyes met mine, and I nodded. “Velma—”
She'd already gotten up and was heading across the street. I sat there, barely breathing, hoping against hope she'd be okay, and then she was there, right in front of him, shielding the coffee shop door from his line of sight.
“Attagirl!” I grinned.
I got up from my window table and ran out the front door. Just as I did, Misha shouted.
That wasn't part of the plan,
I realized, and started running across the street. Velma threw herself at the guy. She pressed him back into the fence just as the guy turned his head and stared at Misha, eyes widening in recognition. He shoved Velma away and she fell into the street. Then he started to reach inside his coat—it all seemed to happen in slow motion. I ran across the street just as the guy's hand came out . . . and I saw that he was holding a gun, and he was aiming it at Misha . . . and without stopping to think, or even being aware of what I was doing, my heart pounding in my ears, I leapt into the air and kicked him in the wrist. I wasn't even aware that I was yelling. His wrist slammed into the iron fence and the gun flew into the grass on the other side. A jolt of pain went up my leg, and I fell, landing on my side on the ground, all the breath being knocked out of me, and I felt even more pain.
I hope I didn't break a rib or something,
I thought, wincing a bit, still not able to believe I had actually kicked the gun out of his hand. He crumpled to the sidewalk clutching his wrist, his eyes staring at me in shock and anger as Misha came running up. I got to my feet and stared at him, rage coursing through me.
“Shut the fuck up,” I said crossly as Misha grabbed his arm and locked it behind his back. I reached through the fence and my fingers closed around the barrel of his gun. I slipped it into the back of my pants after making sure the safety was on. I helped Velma to her feet. “You okay, Aunty?”
“I'm fine.” She got right in the guy's face. “No thanks to you, asshole. Is that any way to treat a lady?”
“Fuck you!” he spat at her.
Misha threw a good, hard punch to his jaw, and his entire body went limp and he sagged back against the fence.
“That's for not treating the nice lady with respect, asshole,” Misha said, rearing his fist back for another punch.
People were staring, I realized, as I grabbed Misha's arm. “Stop, Misha, no!” Misha was too strong, and for a moment I was afraid he would throw me aside and keep beating on the guy. But then the rage in Misha's eyes faded, and he dropped his arm.
“Help me,” I said. “We need to get him inside, remember?”
Misha nodded, knelt down and picked the guy up like he didn't weigh anything, and threw him over his shoulder.
A small crowd had gathered, watching us across the street. They parted for us, their faces white with shock, their mouths open as we walked across the street, and I unlocked the gate. “Happy Mardi Gras, y'all.” I gave them a smile. “Nothing to see here. Have a great time!” I stood aside as Misha carried him past. I gave them all a brief nod and then shut the gate behind me.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Devil, Reversed
removing the chains of bondage
 
 
 
The guy moaned all the way up to the apartment.
I led the way, hoping he wasn't moaning loud enough for Millie and her guests to hear. I wasn't quite sure how I'd explain this to them. I can usually think pretty quickly on my feet, but what on earth could I say about having a Russian carrying a man with a swollen wrist up the back stairs?
Excuse us, ladies, sorry we bothered you, but it's nothing to be concerned about. Oh, his wrist is swelling up? He's a little drunk is all and fell on the sidewalk. Call an ambulance? Um, no, I think he's going to be okay. Just some ice and ibuprofen and he'll be right as rain.
Yeah, right.
All I could do was pray they wouldn't hear us. By the time we'd gotten him inside my apartment and Misha had set him down on the couch, his wrist was swelling up really bad. Looking at it made me queasy and also made me feel bad. I still couldn't believe I'd leapt through the air like that, let alone maybe broken this guy's wrist. I
hate
violence. Even though I know it's sometimes necessary, I tend to avoid it whenever humanly possible. I left Misha to tie him up while I dashed into the bathroom to look for the pain pills prescribed for me when I'd had my wisdom teeth out the year before. I'm a pretty quick healer, so after the first day of misery and swelling I hadn't had to take any more of the pills. I said a quick prayer as I dug through the medicine cabinet, asking the Goddess to forgive me for resorting to violence. I couldn't remember exactly where I'd put the little brown bottle of pills, but I knew I hadn't thrown it away; you never throw away perfectly good prescription pain pills. After a few moments, I found it hidden behind a half-used can of shaving cream. I shook two out into my hand and filled a glass with water.
The guy glared at me when I walked back into the living room. Misha had done a good job of tying him up with an extension cord—maybe too good of a job. The cord looked a little tight and painful to me. “Here, open your mouth. This is Demerol.”
He just kept glaring and kept his mouth closed. “Look, I'm sorry about your wrist, but you were pulling a gun and it looked like you were going to use it, okay? This isn't poison or anything. It's Demerol. To lessen the pain in your wrist.”
He just kept glaring.
I shrugged. “Suit yourself, bud. If you'd rather be in pain, that's your call.”
“I'm not taking anything!” he spat the words out.
“Okay, whatever.” I put the glass of water and the pills down on the coffee table.
He swallowed. “You three are in a lot of trouble,” he said, with a snide grin. “You've got no idea how much trouble you just bought yourselves.”
“Won't be the first time,” I shrugged, “nor the last.” I looked at his swollen wrist and felt a pang of guilt. I hadn't had to kick him so hard. I walked back into the kitchen; dumped some ice into a rag, which I knotted; and brought it back and put it on his wrist. “Now, you want to tell me why you were watching my apartment?”
He didn't reply.
“Okay, fine, be that way.” I reached inside his jacket and felt a wallet inside an inner pocket. I worked it free and flipped it open. My heart sank. “Oh, fuck.”
“What's wrong?” Misha asked.
“He's Homeland Security.” I tossed Misha the badge. “Special Agent Vince Clay.” I sank down on the couch and buried my head in my hands. This was not good, not good at all. Yes, we were definitely in for it now. Why the hell was Homeland Security watching the house? I could understand
today,
but they'd been watching the house since Sunday, maybe earlier.
I gestured to him. “Velma, how long have they been watching the house?”
She thought for a moment. “I first noticed on Saturday night, before you guys went out. I wasn't sure, and when I checked again there wasn't anyone there.”
Saturday night, before Pasha was killed.
What was going on?
And then I remembered. That night when I'd picked up the drugs, someone had been watching Pasha's house. I thought I'd been wrong—the guy had wound up going into Rawhide—but maybe I had been right. The Feds had to know the triplets were in New Orleans, and they were under federal protection. That would explain why someone had been watching the Burgundy house—although they'd done a pretty shitty job of protecting Pasha. But why had they started watching
my
house on Saturday night? They would have had no idea who I was after I showed up at Pasha's. I looked back over at Special Agent Vince Clay. He had a really weird look on his face, a kind of smirky grin. “How's the pain?”
“Better,” he mumbled.
“Why were you watching my house?” It couldn't hurt to ask, even though I was pretty sure he wouldn't answer me.
He goggled at me a little bit and then looked away. “Wasn't watching for you.”
“Then who were you watching for?” Someone had been watching the house before I'd even known about the triplets, which sent a stab of fear through my heart.
None of this made any sense....
Then it came to me, and I sat down hard on the coffee table.
Colin. What if
Colin
was the one they were after? He'd said he'd been an agent with the Mossad—Israeli commandos. What if Colin hadn't told me everything? What if . . .
My head really was starting to hurt again.
Okay, then. I stood back up. I needed to get him to a hospital to get that wrist looked at, but how to do it? As soon as he was out of our power, he'd get people to come after us. I dialed Venus's cell phone, but the voice mail clicked on after one ring, so I hung up. He was tied pretty securely—maybe it would be okay to leave him for a while—and if Colin should
finally
come back and find him, well, good enough for him. Let
him
figure out what to do with Special Agent Vince Clay of Homeland Security. But, on the other hand, I couldn't just leave him there, injured. He should have the wrist looked at, at the very least. Finally, with a sigh, I called 911. As I waited for someone to answer, an idea came to me. I grinned. When the operator answered, I said, “Hi, I think we need an ambulance.” I gave her the address. “There's some guy passed out drunk in front of my house and his wrist is all swollen. I think he might have broke it when he fell down.”
“Ambulance is on its way, sir.”
“But he isn't passed out, Scotty.” Velma said.
“I'll take care of that,” Misha said, slipping one of his forearms around and under his chin. The guy's eyes goggled, then his face turned red, and then he went limp. “Sleeper hold.” He grinned at me. “I learned in Russian army.”
I knelt down and untied him. “Come on, Misha, help me get him downstairs. Velma, you're going to have to stay with him until the ambulance comes.”
She went into my kitchen and came out with a frying pan. She gave me a grim smile. “I'll keep him quiet; don't you worry about that.”
Misha reached down and swung him up into his arms effortlessly, without even grunting from the exertion. I gaped at him. It's not like Special Agent Clay was a small man; I figured he had to weigh at least 180 pounds.
Wow, he's really strong. But then all of them were.
Someone had shot Pasha from the inside of the house, but he'd had that place locked up tight, and he wouldn't have let just anyone in.
He had to have known his killer.
Venus would have said if someone had broken in—and she wouldn't have really needed to question me; obviously, I had been let in. They had it on tape.
Who would he have let in?
I shook my head. It was crazy, what I was thinking. I had to focus on Frank.
And if I was right, it didn't solve the problem of who'd killed Sasha. I was inclined to think it was the Russians—maybe they didn't know Pasha was dead and mistook Sasha for Pasha. It was an easy mistake to make; I myself had trouble telling them apart without looking closely, and the shooter had been outside and at some distance. Yes, it could easily have happened that way.
Sasha died because he was pretending to be Misha.
Wait a minute. There was no reason for the Russians to want Misha dead. Sasha and Pasha, yes, but not Misha.
I sighed. What a fucking mess.
We headed down the stairs, down the passage, and then out the front gate. Misha wasn't even breathing hard. He gently placed Special Agent Clay face down on the sidewalk. I have to say, if you didn't notice the swollen wrist, he looked just like any other passed-out drunk on a Quarter sidewalk. A couple of people stared as they walked by, but I just grinned and shrugged. “Doesn't know his limits, I guess.” They nodded and kept walking.
I turned to Velma. “Okay, you know what to do.”
She showed me the frying pan again before hiding it behind her back and leaning against the gate. “I'll konk him a good one if he comes to.” She nodded. But I heard the siren, and then the ambulance came around the corner and rolled to a stop. As the paramedics climbed out, I pointed to the guy.
One of the paramedics, a chunky girl in her early thirties, took his vitals. “Yes, he's probably just drunk.” She sighed. “I am so sick of Mardi Gras.” She looked at his wrist, prodded it a bit, and then shrugged. “No, it's not broken but it's pretty badly bruised.” She barked out a short laugh. “Good thing he's out like a light; otherwise he'd be in some major pain.”
I nodded and watched her and the other paramedic strap him onto a gurney and run him over to the back of the ambulance. I waited until he was inside and it had started moving down Decatur, its siren blaring, before I walked into the coffee shop and joined Misha.
I glanced over at the counter. The college girl was staring at me—but then she'd seen quite a bit of me over the last hour. I smiled and nodded, and she turned away. I looked back at Misha. “Okay, let's go.”
We walked back outside and headed down the sidewalk, pushing our way through the crowds. It was after five now, and although the air was thick with moisture, it hadn't started raining again—and the crowds were coming back to the streets. I heard someone say that Orpheus was going to roll after all; they'd just made the decision to brave the rain. And the costumes were coming out. We passed a couple dressed like Glenn Close and John Malkovich in
Dangerous Liaisons,
a Cleopatra, some cave people, and a guy dressed as an old K&B drugstore. At the corner at Royal there was a group in black tie and masks, their women dripping with sequins, their masks incredibly elaborate with huge feathers. I was walking so fast I was almost running. The closer we got to Bourbon Street, the thicker the crowds became, until I was dodging around people, bumping into others. I cut up Royal Street, ignoring the drunks on the balconies yelling down and tossing beads to other drunks. I stopped at the corner of Royal and St. Ann and stared down the street at the Bourbon Orleans. The second- and third-floor balconies were packed with people. The street was also packed. I turned to Misha. “You're sure the Russians are there?”
Misha nodded. “I'll show you.”
The Bourbon Orleans is a historic hotel and might even be a national landmark. It's been there forever, standing at the corner of Bourbon and St. Ann. It was originally built as a convent and served as a soldier's hospital during the Civil War. Sometime after that, it had become a hotel enormously popular with gay tourists, because it stood at the corner of the big gay section of the Quarter. Its long wraparound balconies on the second and third floors helped—people love our balconies, standing up there above the crowd and partying while looking down at the hordes of people in the streets. It was pink for many years until it was painted a kind of grayish green, when the Wyndham chain bought it. It had recently undergone an extensive renovation and now had two bars on the first floor on Bourbon Street. One of them, Napoleon's Itch, supposedly was a gay bar but I'd never gone inside. It was on the wrong side of St. Ann for me; I hated crossing that invisible barrier between gay and straight Bourbon Street.
Misha walked down St. Ann with me right behind him. We pushed through the crowd in front of the doors of Oz and fought our way inside. It was dark inside, Donna Summer was wailing, and hugely muscled guys in glowing thongs were dancing on the bar. The dance floor was packed, and so was the area surrounding the bar. Straight women were pushing dollars at the go-go boys. Misha pushed his way to the staircase and I followed him up and out onto the balcony. The St. Ann side was not nearly as crowded as it was closer to the corner and over on the Bourbon Street side. We made our way out to the railing and Misha pointed across the street. “That room.” The balcony doors were shut, as were the curtains; it was the only room on the floor with its doors shut. The lights were on, though. I counted the doors. It was the third room from the corner.

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