Mardi Gras Mambo (28 page)

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Authors: Gred Herren

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“Well, go on, get it over with. Shoot me.”
“That is not the plan.”
The plan? What the fuck?
Yet it was still a relief to hear him say it. I hoped Frank was on his way with the cops or Colin or anyone. I swallowed.
“So, what exactly is the plan?” I asked, keeping my voice steady. It wasn't easy.
He frowned at me. “Shut up.”
Behind him, in the hallway, I saw the door to the staircase leading to the shop slowly start to open. It had to be Frank, back with the cops or someone.
Thank you, Goddess.
I smiled at Blue Shirt.
Keep him distracted; keep him talking; keep him from turning around and seeing that someone is coming.
“Are you the one who killed Sasha and Pasha?” I asked, willing myself not to look at the door to the staircase. “Why? Why did you do it?”
“I said shut up.” He glanced quickly at his watch, an annoyed expression on his face, waving the gun at me again.
Frank stepped through the door, and I almost fainted with relief. He was holding a gun. His face was grim and twisted with anger.
That didn't bode well for Blue Shirt.
Keep him talking,
Frank seemed to say with his eyes.
“What I don't understand is why,” I went on. “I mean, why does Viktor Kafelnikov want them all dead so badly? I mean, is he really that crazy that he can't stand being rejected?”
He gave me an odd look.
“Kafelnikov?”
There was a little pop, and he got this surprised look on his face before pitching forward onto the floor. He fell in slow motion, seeming to take forever. The gun fell out of his hand and went clattering across the floor. I watched it go, bouncing until it started spinning around and around before finally coming to a rest.
My legs gave out and I sat down on the floor with a bone-jarring thud that shook the room.
Thank you, Goddess, oh, thank you.
Frank picked up the gun and ran across the room to me. “Are you okay?” He knelt down, his eyes concerned. He cupped my chin in his hand and examined my face. “He didn't hurt you, did he?”
“No.” My mouth was incredibly dry, and I started to shake a little. “I'm okay.” I nodded and gestured to everyone else. “Untie them . . . make sure they're all okay.” I looked at White Shirt and felt gorge rise in my stomach and looked away. Frank was untying my mother. As soon as my mother could stand she threw her arms around Frank and squeezed him with a death grip, showering his face with kisses, and then was on her way across the room to me.
“Um, Mom, if you don't stop squeezing me you're going to break a rib,” I said, but I was squeezing her just as hard.
“Oh, Scotty.” She wiped tears out of her eyes. “When he had that gun on you—oh, dear Goddess.” She let me go and walked over to where Blue Shirt's body was lying. She launched a hard kick into his ribs. “May you burn in hell for all eternity, you monster.”
I couldn't help it. I laughed.
After everyone was untied and we were all talking a million miles an hour to each other and making sure we were all okay, Frank shouted, “Attention!”
We all shut up and turned to look at him. “Venus and the cops are on their way.” He waved his cell phone. “I just called them, so we need to get our stories straight.”
I stared at him.
Get our stories straight? What the hell was he talking about?
“Let's go out on the deck, okay?” He turned and walked through the kitchen. Dumbly, we all followed him. Once we were all gathered out there and seated, I said, “Frank, what are you talking about? Why do we need to get our stories straight?”
He turned to Misha. “What do you think, Misha? Do we need to get some things straight?”
“Misha?”
My mother stared at him. “But why—I don't understand. I thought—” She looked at me for help.
“I know, I know, Mom. You need a scorecard,” I said. “He's been pretending to be Sasha.”
“Please understand, Cecile. I was trying to help my brothers.” The tears started coming out of his eyes again. “It was so horrible being in Russia. And seeing what was happening to Pasha. I knew we had to get out of Russia. That is why I wrote to our American family. But I couldn't tell Mrs. Diderot the truth, the
full
truth. We had a plan, you see. My brothers and I decided that the best way to save us all was for me to come to America. We pretended that we'd fallen out, to protect
me
from Kafelnikov . . . and by then, Pasha was so deeply involved with Kafelnikov we knew he could never get away alive. Kafelnikov forced him to kill, to bind him even closer to him. He forced him to be involved in the drugs, the gun smuggling—so that there was nothing he could do to get away. So, I wrote to Mrs. Diderot. Everything else just went from there.”
“Did you marry Sylvia just to get out of Russia?” my mother asked.
He shook his head. “Americans,” he said with a smile. “It was her idea—so I could stay in the country. At first, we tried to keep it a secret, but people would wonder why Sylvia had a Russian man in her house. I do love Sylvia. She is sweet and funny and kind, and she has been very good to me.”
“So, you aren't gay?” I asked. Not that it mattered. I felt stupid after I'd said it.
He gave me a look. “Yes, but because I love men does not mean that I cannot love a woman.”
“Amen.” My mother nodded. When I looked at her, she shrugged. “Scotty, no one can control who they love. You of all people should know that.”
I nodded. When she's right, she's right.
“When I came to America, I came to the FBI and told them I have information on Kafelnikov—and that my brother wants out; he had even more information. They were interested . . . but by then Pasha was too addled with the drugs. He was useless to them as he was, so they came up with the idea to switch Pasha for Sasha, and bring Pasha to the United States to get cleaned up . . . and then Sasha would be brought over later. So Pasha got cleaned up but he doesn't want the protection program, so Sylvia and I brought him to New Orleans and set him up in Burgundy house.” He turned to me. “Pasha was your dealer, Scotty. I didn't know about the drugs again, or the Web site, but he used my name. I was here and not hiding, so we figured it easier for him to pretend to be me, that nobody know there were two of us. Then a few weeks ago Sasha's cover was blown, and they had to bring him to the United States. I didn't know what to do; they brought him to New Orleans. I don't know what they were going to do . . . they were trying to convince them to change names and disappear.” He shuddered. “Saturday night the FBI called me. They told me two of Kafelnikov's killers were in New Orleans, were seen skulking around Burgundy Street house, so I called Pasha to warn him.”
The phone call that upset him so much,
I remembered.
“He told me that I was paranoid, that everything would be okay, so I called Sasha. I tell Sasha to switch places with me—had to go to party but I was worried.” He sighed. “I didn't tell Sasha why; he was just happy to go with Sylvia. I came down to the French Quarter and see—” he stopped, looking at me.
“What did you see?” Frank prodded.
“I saw man in Zorro costume. I thought it was Scotty because Pasha told me what Scotty was wearing when I called.” He looked away from me. “I go in and find the body. I call the cops and came here, pretending to be Sasha.” He held up his hands. “And that's all.”
I swallowed. “I have to ask you something, Misha, something really important.” Every eye turned to me. I took a deep breath.
“Was Zorro wearing a shirt?”
The door opened, and Venus stepped through with an irritated look on her face. “Ah, the Bradley family. With corpses in the living room, no less.” She sighed. “All right, might as well all head down to the station to clear this mess up. Any objections?”
No one said anything. She looked at Misha, shook her head, and looked at me. “And this time, Scotty, you've managed to raise the dead. I can't wait to hear this story.” She walked over to me. “You need to stand up.”
“Why?” I looked at her in bewilderment.
“You have no idea how much I hate doing this.” She pulled my hands behind my back gently and placed handcuffs on me. “Scotty Bradley, you are under arrest for assaulting a federal agent. You have the right to remain silent. . . .”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Seven of Wands
the ability to hold one's own against adversaries
 
 
 
I waited forever for Storm to show up at the police station—it seemed to take hours.
Of course, getting from Uptown to the Quarter while the Orpheus parade was rolling is a nightmare. He finally came into the interrogation room, mopping his face with a handkerchief as he sat down heavily in a chair. He was wearing black tie, and I realized I'd pulled him yet again from a party. “Um, sorry,” I said.
He looked at me. “Don't be. The party was at Marguerite's parents'.” His wife's parents threw the
worst
parties. I'm not sure what it was. There were always interesting people, really good food, and lots of liquor, but they were interminable bores. I'd finally stopped going after the third time I was invited. He sighed. “Okay, baby bro, you're in some deep shit now.”
I nodded tiredly. I
had
assaulted Special Agent Vince Clay. Several times since Venus brought me in, some Feds had tried to get me to talk, but I refused to say a word. “I did it, Storm.” I then explained why.
He whistled. “Well, it's understandable, but I don't know if we can call it
justified,
Scotty. And that's not all.” He opened his briefcase and looked into it. “Scotty, there's a whole bunch of other shit they think you're involved in. I know you weren't, but I don't know if we can convince them of that.”
“It's Colin, isn't it?” I couldn't keep the bitterness out of my voice.
“Why do you say that?” He finally looked at me.
“Because I am pretty sure he killed Pasha Saturday night. I'm also pretty sure he had Frank kidnapped last night; those two thugs at Mom and Dad's worked for him.”
The man who had held a gun to my mother's head had been working for Colin.
I wanted to throw up.
“Did you talk to Frank?” I asked. “How mad is he?”
“He's pretty mad,” Storm admitted. “Apparently, on Sunday night he had gone to get water and was on his way back to the dance floor when he saw Colin walking out of the bar talking on his cell phone. He followed him to a meeting with the two guys, and Colin saw him. They overpowered him and held him at the Bourbon Orleans until you”—he grinned at me—“broke him out. Nice work, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“Apparently, Colin's real name is Abram Golden. He's a former Mossad agent, who's apparently gone rogue. He works for the highest bidder. Money is the only thing that matters to him—he doesn't care about politics.”
“I can't believe it,” I whispered.
“I can't either,” Storm said, shaking his head. “He fooled all of us, Scotty. I—I thought of him as a member of the family. We all did.”
I wished I could feel something. I just sat there, numb, like I had since I'd been brought in. It was weird. I should have felt
something,
right? Angry? Betrayed? Sad? Heartbroken? Deceived? Something—anything—would have been better than the numbness, the sense that not only could I not feel anything, but I never would, ever again.
“Apparently, he was working for this Kafelnikov person,” Storm went on, “to kill Sasha and Pasha—and no one can find Colin. You were the last person to see him. He went out the French doors and just vanished.”
“Sasha and Pasha were both dead,” I said. “His job was over, and the two guys—the dead ones—he just abandoned them.”
No honor among thieves or murderers, apparently.
“What about Angela Blackledge?” That was something I didn't understand.
Storm sighed. “There apparently is an Angela Blackledge, and she does operate a worldwide investigation and security company, but she claims that Abram Golden—or Colin Cioni—whatever—never worked for her, and that she never opened an office in New Orleans. That was his cover, apparently.”
“Great.”
No career now, no job, no boyfriend. I'd been lied to, manipulated, and Frank's life had been put at risk—hell, my whole family's lives had been put in danger. Colin was long gone before those guys broke into my parents' house. Even if he had wanted to protect us, he was gone and there was no one holding their leashes.
Why wasn't I angry? Why was I feeling so empty?
“Bring them in,” I said. I just wanted the whole thing to be over with.
They questioned me for hours. I offered to take a polygraph. It was pretty obvious to me at first that the federal agents couldn't believe anyone could be as stupid as I apparently was. It took hours to convince them, rather humiliatingly, that, yes, indeed, I was that trusting and naïve and stupid. They finally agreed to drop the assault charge down to a misdemeanor. I would plead guilty and get probation. It meant losing my chance at ever getting a private eye license, but I didn't really care at that point. Finally, it was all over and done with, and I tiredly walked out into the lobby of the police station. All I wanted to do was go home and go to bed and pretend none of it had ever happened. But my night of surprises wasn't quite over yet.
The last people I expected to see were my grandparents.
Papa and Maman Diderot were sitting on a bench in the lobby. Maman's head was down on his shoulder, her eyes closed. He had his arm around her shoulders. She was still wearing the dove gray suit she'd had on earlier that day. Papa, as always, was wearing a three-piece suit of charcoal gray, the vest buttoned over a crisply starched white shirt. I stood and looked at them for a while. They really looked cute, this sweet older couple sitting on a hard wooden bench in the police station, while cops walked in front of them leading disheveled drunks in handcuffs. Papa's pinkish scalp glowed in the overhead lights, and the silver gray hair on either side of his face was combed perfectly. I felt reasonably sure they never expected to spend their Lundi Gras evening in a police station. But, then again, my mom's been their daughter for a long, long time—probably nothing much surprises them anymore. I watched his face, looked at the lines etched into it. I saw the resemblance to Misha around the eyes and wondered if Misha and I had any similar features. I hadn't really thought to look. Maman always said I was the “spittin' image of Papa when he was young,” which I'd always found a little distressing. I walked over to them. “Hey,” I said, smiling at them. “What are you two doing here?”
Papa stood up and threw his arms around me. He's a little shorter than I am, maybe five seven, and as he's gone gray, the bourbon and fine food has been catching up with him, causing him to develop a bit of a potbelly that looks almost silly over his spindly legs. I was stunned. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had any physical contact with him, and he was holding me pretty tightly. I looked over his shoulder at Maman, who was smiling. She winked at me and then held a manicured finger to her lips. I gave her a questioning look, and she shook her head from side to side. Finally, after what seemed like an awfully long time, he let me go and said gruffly, “You know, son, I've gotten used to meeting your parents at jails, but this is a new one for me.” His eyes twinkled a bit. “Not only your mom and dad, but my grandson and his partner? If we're not careful they're going to name a cell block after us.” He turned to Maman. “What do you think, dear? Would a Diderot cell block be fitting?”
She shrugged. “God knows we've spent enough time in police stations. Certainly more than I ever thought I would.” Her eyes twinkled as she spoke, taking some of the sting out of her words.
I stared at them both and shook my head. Were these my Diderot grandparents, making a joke in a police station? And did he say “my grandson
and his partner”
? Was he actually acknowledging Frank? I was dumbstruck and unable to think of a single thing to say. Finally, I managed to croak out, again, “What are you two doing here?”
Papa sat back down next to Maman and patted her leg. “Storm called us to meet him here. Apparently we need to have a family meeting.” He waggled a finger at me and then patted Maman's leg again. “Your grandmother finally came clean with me before we came down here.”
I raised an eyebrow and looked at her. Again, she winked at me and shook her head slightly. “I finally told him the truth about Misha. I swallowed my pride and told him about his
son.
” She placed extra emphasis on the last word, and it didn't take a psychic gift to know what she meant by that. No word about there having been triplets, nothing about two of them having been murdered over the weekend. Papa didn't need to know any of that, after all, and why not embrace the one son who had survived?
More secrets, more lies.
I gaped at her and opened my mouth to say something, to contradict her, but stopped myself. What was the point in telling him now? Pasha and Sasha were dead; it would only hurt him. And he didn't need to know all that stuff about the Russian mob. He'd feel guilty, even though he'd never known they had existed—feel guilty about abandoning them to their fates in Russia. No, Maman was right. One son was all he needed to know about. And then I realized that sometimes secrets and lies were really for the best. There was no point in causing the old man pain.
Not to mention Colin's betrayal.
I sat down next to Papa, who patted my leg affectionately. I smiled at him. He was no longer the scary, opinionated, my-way-or-the-highway old grump I'd always seen him as. No, he was just a man who tried to do the best he could with his kids, who made mistakes, but underneath it all, he loved his family. It was all bluster and bark, because that was the only way he knew how to show affection.
I'd never be afraid of him again.
“You're going to be thirty this year,” Papa said, with a smile.
“And look at you! A licensed private eye, all settled down. I wasn't sure when you dropped out of Vanderbilt, but your Diderot blood is too strong.”
“Well, I don't think I'll get to be a private eye anymore, but what do you mean?”
“I was afraid when you dropped out of Vanderbilt you'd waste your life, son.” He squeezed my knee. “That's why I cut off your trust, you know. I didn't want you to just be a layabout, like your uncle Bayard.” His eyes darkened. My mother's only brother had never worked a day in his life, living off his trust fund and never once using his law degree. He drank a lot and was currently on his third wife. “But you worked, didn't you? I worried about it, you know, worried that you'd wind up living off your parents.” He sighed. “I wasn't so sure about the dancing thing, but you managed to make it work.”
“What?”
(He knew I'd been a stripper?)
“I have to say I admired that.” He looked at me shrewdly. “No skills, no training, but you found a way to make money and support yourself. I am proud of you, son.”
“You're
proud
of me?” My eyes welled up with tears.
“Of course I am, son. I love you.” He looked at me as though surprised I could have ever doubted it. “Besides”—he winked at me—“you're the spittin' image of me at your age. Handsome devil.”
I couldn't help myself. I started crying. I told myself it wasn't my grandfather's words but the release of all the stress I'd been under since Sunday morning.
“Here now! What's wrong? What did I say wrong, Maman?”
“Oh, honestly, Papa.” She opened her purse and handed me a handkerchief. I wiped my eyes. “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you said something
right
for once in your life?”
“Oh.” He put his arm around me and squeezed.
Slowly but surely, everyone came out. Mom and Dad came out first but weren't surprised to see the grands. Mom and Dad each hugged Maman and Papa. I remembered what Rain had said: this wasn't the first time, and the grands certainly didn't think it would be the last time. Apparently, they wouldn't have it any other way. As much as they fought and argued, as much as Mom complained about them, they loved each other and they were family. Papa was proud of Mom and Dad. I could see it in his face as he chatted with them. I just sat and listened, wondering about the craziness of my family. Apparently, Mom came by it naturally, from her parents. Papa was proud of his daughter—her spirit and her passion and following her heart into what he thought were crazy causes—and he supported her even as he disagreed with her.
That, I realized, was what
family
really meant.
Then Frank joined us. Papa clucked over the dark bruise on the side of his face after Mom introduced them. “It's a pleasure to finally meet you, sir,” Frank said.
“Can't think why we haven't before.” Papa glared at Mom and Dad. “I'm sure
some people
thought I wouldn't welcome you to the family, but anyone who can put up with my grandson is sure as hell welcome in my house.”
“Dad—” Mom started to say, but Maman hushed her, and she settled back on her bench, her eyes glittering. I knew the look; she and Papa were going to have a knock-down-drag-out as soon as they possibly could, he insisting that Frank had always been welcome on Third Street, she insisting he was an old homophobe who wouldn't have them in the house.

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