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Authors: Gred Herren

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BOOK: Mardi Gras Mambo
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CHAPTER THREE
Three of Wands, Reversed
mistakes may be made through carelessness
 
 
 
We stumbled out of the Parade at five-thirty in the morning.
The sky was starting to lighten, but it was still a dark gray outside. There was a slight rain with a cold wind. There weren't many people still out in the street, but street cleaners had yet to come by, so the gutters were still heaped high with trash. I was drenched in sweat from dancing for almost seven consecutive hours without much of a break. The residue of the Ecstasy in my system was still making my skin hot and sensitive, so when the cold wind hit me as I stepped down onto the damp sidewalk the immediate shiver I felt went right down to my spine. I was in a lull—Ecstasy makes you high in waves. There's an initial high that lasts for several hours, and during those hours the waves take you so high it's almost indescribable; it's like you're flying up in the clouds. You just feel beautiful and happy, and the world is a wonderful place. After that initial high wears down, you're still a little high, but you can stand still without bouncing and can take a break from the dancing—but the waves still come to sweep you up into outer space again. As it wears off, the waves don't last as long and aren't as intense, and the time in between them becomes longer and longer. Sometimes they'll still be hitting you in the afternoon of the next day, and I had a feeling this stuff was so strong we'd still be riding waves well into the next evening.
I grabbed my thin cape and wrapped it around my shoulders in a vain attempt to protect my hot skin from the cold wind. My feet ached and my lower back was sore from the dancing and my socks were soaked completely through. My legs were also exhausted. My boots had rubbed raw spots on my lower legs and a blister had formed on the back of my right heel. Although it was only a walk of about eight blocks, I knew if we tried to walk home, we'd get sick from the cold and the rain—and that would effectively ruin the rest of Carnival.
“Let's grab a cab,” I suggested, through chattering teeth.
“Good idea,” Colin replied, and he and Frank huddled close to me on the corner as I looked up St. Ann. With a prayer of thanks to the Goddess, I saw a black and white car heading toward us with the telltale United minibillboard on its roof. I waved, and it crossed through the intersection and pulled over. We piled into the welcoming warmth of the cab, and Frank shut the door behind us. I gave the driver the address and she pulled back out onto Bourbon Street.
“You boys have a good night?” The driver was a slender woman with shoulder-length brown hair who looked to be maybe in her early thirties. There was a statue of the Blessed Virgin on her dashboard. She looked in the rearview mirror at us and smiled as she turned up the heater. “Nice costumes.”
“Thanks. We had a great time,” I replied, rubbing my arms to try to warm them. “You have a busy night?”
“Eh. So-so.” She laughed. “Dumb drunk tourists! I wish I had a dime for every one of them who forgot where they were staying tonight.”
I laughed with her. Surviving the hordes of tourists during Mardi Gras always forms a common bond for locals in town during the madness. “I hope this rain lets up.”
“It's supposed to get up into the seventies and be sunny later.” She shook her head. “Y'all are my last fare. I'm going home and sleep as long as I can.”
We chatted about inanities as she maneuvered around pedestrians staggering down Bourbon Street. Colin was running his left hand up and down my thigh, and the leg Frank had pressed up against mine on the other side was shaking slightly. I gave him a reassuring smile and he gave me one of his sweetest ones. I wanted to lean over and give him a kiss. When we got home we were going to have some incredible sex, and as far as I was concerned we couldn't get there fast enough. . . .
Damn, that was some
good
Ecstasy!
“Did you hear about the murder up on Burgundy?” the cabbie asked as casually as she had discussed the weather forecast, as she turned right onto Esplanade.
“Murder?” That got my attention. Had I heard that right? On either side of me, the boys stiffened. “No. What happened?”
She shrugged. “At a house up by the Rawhide, on Burgundy. Some guy—I don't know who—got killed. Shot, 'swhat I heard. They had the street closed off for a while.” She shook her head. “The crime in this city is really getting out of hand.” She started rambling about our ever-rising crime rate, the usual litany all the locals go through whenever something bad happens in our neighborhood or to someone we know.
I closed my eyes, a sinking feeling in my gut.
No, it couldn't be,
I tried to convince myself.
That would be too much
. I tried to close my mind to my external senses and empty my thoughts to try to commune with the Goddess, but she was silent. Unfortunately, I can't summon my gift at will, or even how it will manifest itself to me. It used to be that I just read the tarot cards and she would speak to me through them. But in the last year, the gift had changed. The cards still worked, but recently I started having visions about what was going on, dreams that showed me the path to follow for the truth.
I've even communicated with the dead. Now that was an experience—one I hope I won't have again, at least not for a while.
But if the Goddess isn't willing to talk to me, there's not a damn thing I can do about it.
You can see why I usually keep it to myself. Both Colin and Frank know; they've witnessed it in action. My family knows; my brother Storm refers to it jokingly as my “psycho gift” and teases me about it. But you know how people are about differences—they'd think I was some kind of freak or something if I told them about it, so I generally don't. But this time there was nothing—no sense of anything. I tried to relax, but when we turned the corner onto Decatur I saw the white SUV parked illegally at the corner and knew for a fact I was screwed. The SUV belonged to Eighth District Police Detective Venus Casanova, who I've gotten to know far better than either of us would prefer. Don't get me wrong—for a cop, Venus is incredibly cool, but the only times previously we've come into contact were when I'd found a body. I hadn't found one this time, but it didn't take any psychic ability to figure out Misha was dead, and somehow the police knew I had been there last night. Their presence at my front door made me think they wanted to talk to me pretty badly, probably badly enough to take me down to the station.
And I still had nine hits of Ecstasy in the change pouch of my wallet in my right boot.
This was not a good thing. I was going to have to call Storm and get him out of bed. And I would never hear the end of it.
The cab pulled over in front of the white SUV and I shakily handed the cabbie a ten, waving off the change, saying thanks and “Happy Mardi Gras” to her as Colin opened his door and started to step out. Frank did so on the other side as well. I had just climbed out as Venus and her partner, Blaine Tujague, stepped out of the SUV and started walking toward us.
Not a good sign.
“Detectives,” Frank said, folding his arms, “happy Mardi Gras.”
I could see that both his and Colin's pupils were still highly dilated.
Which also meant that mine were too.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Not good, not good at all. I closed my eyes and tried to focus. Fortunately, I was still between waves.
“You guys have a good night?” Blaine asked. He was smiling. He was a great-looking guy of about thirty, about five nine with thick hair the same blue-black as Colin's, but his was straight and parted on the right side. I think he's gay. At least, I think I've seen him around in the bars a few times, but then he could have been working undercover looking for drugs. You never can be sure in the Quarter. He was wearing a thick, wool navy blue trench coat over gray wool slacks. He joined Venus on the sidewalk.
“Yeah,” I said. “Quiet night for you, I hope?”
Venus shook her head. She's a tall black woman, quite striking, with smooth, dark skin and almond-shaped eyes, her hair cut close to the scalp. Even in her overcoat you got a sense of coiled muscle and strength. “No offense, Scotty, but I was kind of hoping I'd never run into you in a professional capacity again.” She was holding a large cup of Circle K coffee and gave me an enigmatic smile.
“Yeah, well.” I bit my lower lip. “No offense, but that makes two of us.”
“What's all this about?” Colin interrupted. He folded his arms and started bouncing to try to keep warm. “Can't we go inside and get warmed up? We're not exactly dressed for the weather.”
“I need Scotty to come with us to the station.” Venus took a sip from her coffee. “You two can go on in.”
My heart sank. The nine hits in my sock were burning a hole in my leg.
“You didn't answer his question,” Frank replied, coming to my rescue. “Scotty, you don't have to go with them. He isn't under arrest, is he, detective?”
She shook her head. “Not at this time. We just want to ask him some questions.”
Okay, that was a good sign. “Then I'm afraid I'm not going with you,” I said. One of the great things about having activist parents is they get arrested
all
of the time. Their rap sheets are probably about a mile long. They've been arrested so many times that it's kind of unusual when they go to a protest and don't wind up behind bars. The New Orleans police department is very well acquainted with Mom and Dad—and I am sure their FBI files would make pretty fascinating reading. Storm, Rain, and I were well versed in what the police can and cannot do, and our civil liberties, almost from the day we learned how to talk. We certainly knew our rights by the time we were old enough to carry protest signs. They used to drill us before protests. In my head, I could hear my mother's voice: “If you are not under arrest, you are not obligated to go with the police. You are not obligated to talk to them about anything, even if you are under arrest. They'll try to make you feel comfortable, like chatting with them will clear everything up and then they'll be on their merry way, but don't fall for it. If you don't talk to them, they'll tell you it'll make you look guilty. Don't fall for that, either.
Looking
guilty and
being
guilty are two entirely different things, and if you've done nothing wrong, there's no reason for you to talk to them unless and until they tell you why they want to talk to you in the first place.”
Rain swears her first words were “I want a lawyer.” She might not be wrong.
This so totally and completely sucked it wasn't funny. I hadn't killed Misha—then again, I didn't know for a fact it was Misha who'd been killed—but there was also no way in hell I was going down to the Eighth District police station with nine hits of Ecstasy in my boot. Some overzealous ADA could see that as “possession with intent to deal.” And that would mean the loss of my private eye license; quite possibly the Blackledge Agency's license to operate in Louisiana, if not some jail time. This sucked! To make it worse, my refusal to cooperate would only serve to make Blaine and Venus even more suspicious of me than they already were. The cops can make your life miserable when they want to, and even when you're cleared they don't have to apologize or correct any of the damage done. It was easy for my mother to say, “Don't talk to the police,” but the times she'd been arrested hadn't been for drug possession—or suspicion of murder, for that matter.
I tried again as Blaine and Venus exchanged a glance I didn't really like. “Give me a break, Venus! I'm tired and I'm freezing to death. I sure as hell don't want to go down to the station dressed like this for who knows how long, okay?” I gestured at my tights, boots, and bare chest, for added emphasis. “These boots are fucking killing me! Why don't we all go inside, let me change into something else, and then we can talk in my nice warm apartment, okay? I'll even make coffee. If you still want to bring me down to the station, then I'll come down with you. Deal?” And I'd have Frank or Colin call Storm to meet me down there.
Venus relaxed a little. “That's fine. But we want to talk to you privately.” She glanced at Frank and Colin. “No offense, guys.”
“No.” Frank's teeth were chattering. “Don't do it, Scotty.” He was scowling, and I didn't need my gift to know what he was thinking:
I knew the Ecstasy was a bad idea and would land us all in trouble.
I dug my keys out of my boot and felt my wallet still tucked into my sock
.
The wallet seemed to be radiating heat against my ankle.
The Goddess smiled on me that time, and I managed to keep my hand steady as I unlocked the gate and led our little party down the passageway to the back stairs. I could hear movement in my landladies', Millie and Velma's, apartment, which meant they were awake. This was both a good and a bad thing. Millie is a lawyer—that was a good thing—but they'd both be pissed about this mess, especially if we'd woken them up. They both hate being woken up early in the morning, and when Millie is pissed at you, it's probably a good idea to pack a bag and leave the country until she's over it. I unlocked my door and stood aside for everyone to troop into the apartment. I turned up the thermostat, and Colin went into the kitchen to start coffee. I started toward my bedroom, but Blaine stepped in my way.
BOOK: Mardi Gras Mambo
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