Mardi Gras Mambo Read online

  Outstanding praise for Greg Herren and Jackson Square Jazz

  “Fast-moving and entertaining, evoking the Quarter and its gay scene in a sweet, funny, steamy and action-packed way.”

  The New Orleans Times-Picayune

  “Herren does a fine job of moving the story along, deftly juggling the murder investigation and the intricate relationships while maintaining several running subplots.”

  Echo Magazine

  “An entertaining read.”

  OutSmart

  “A pleasant addition to your beach bag.”

  Bay Windows

  “Greg Herren keeps getting better . . . Jackson Square Jazz kept this reader guessing right to the end.”

  The Lambda Book Report

  And praise for Bourbon Street Blues

  “This enjoyable book takes its pleasures in fantastic coincidences and the outrageous behavior of its larger-than-life characters. Herren offers a paean to New Orleans, and his fondness for the streets, the sights and smells are lovingly rendered on every page . . . an entertaining, Big Easy read.”

  Philadelphia Gay News

  “Upbeat prose compounded of humor, caustic observations of Bourbon Street tourists and far-reaching subplots recommend this first novel.”

  Library Journal

  “Crackling with all the steamy heat and erotic adventure of New Orleans, this is a sexy gay noir for the twenty-first century. I couldn’t put it down!”

  William J. Mann, author of Where the Boys Are

  “Herren’s characters, setting and dialogue make the book seem absolutely real.”

  The Houston Voice

  “Herren’s sassy, amusing mix of sex and sleuthing marks the debut of what promises to be a titillating series.”

  Richard Labonte, “Book Marks,” Q Syndicate

  “Bourbon Street Blues shines as the first installment in a delightful new suspense series. You’re bound to enjoy it. And then you’ll want more.”

  Michael Craft, author of the Mark Manning and

  Claire Gray mystery series

  “Greg Herren gives readers a tantalizing glimpse of New Orleans.”

  The Midwest Book Review

  Books by Greg Herren

  BOURBON STREET BLUES

  JACKSON SQUARE JAZZ

  MARDI GRAS MAMBO

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  MARDI GRAS MAMBO

  GREG HERREN

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Outstanding praise for Greg Herren and Jackson Square Jazz

  And praise for Bourbon Street Blues

  Also by

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE - Nine of Cups

  CHAPTER TWO - The High Priestess, Reversed

  CHAPTER THREE - Three of Wands, Reversed

  CHAPTER FOUR - The Moon

  CHAPTER FIVE - Queen of Pentacles

  CHAPTER SIX - Ten of Wands

  CHAPTER SEVEN - Four of Swords

  CHAPTER EIGHT - The Wheel of Fortune

  CHAPTER NINE - The Magician Reversed

  CHAPTER TEN - King of Swords

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - Page of Swords, Reversed

  CHAPTER TWELVE - The Chariot, Reversed

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Knight of Wands, Reversed

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - The Lovers

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Four of Cups

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN - Ten of Wands

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - The Devil, Reversed

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Justice

  CHAPTER NINETEEN - Seven of Wands

  CHAPTER TWENTY - The High Priestess

  EPILOGUE

  Copyright Page

  You got a lot to learn about life in the Quarter.

  —from Vieux Carré by Tennessee Williams

  This is for Aunt Julie.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, there are any number of people to thank for the support, kindness, and friendship that made the writing of this book much easier. But the difference with this book, opposed to the others, is that it was written in the face of several personal tragedies—and without the support, well wishes, and love, not only of my circle of friends, but also the unbelievable kindness of strangers, I would not have been able to make it through the last eighteen months, let alone write this book. So, to begin with, I would like to thank all of those complete strangers and friends of friends whose kind e-mails and cards helped both Paul and I make it through the horrible summer of 2004. May the Goddess shower you all with blessings.

  I would like to single out my editor, John Scognamiglio, and everyone at Kensington. Your compassion and understanding was more than any author could have expected or asked for. Bless you, John—you have no idea how much it meant to me.

  Anne Rice, her staff, and her son Christopher also, through their generosity and kindness, helped to reaffirm my faith in the ultimate goodness of human beings.

  Julie Smith and Lee Pryor, as always, were there for moral support as well as offering the use of Casa Mysterioso whenever I needed it.

  Ellen Johnson, Robin (the best person to stand next to at a party) and Lou Ann Morehouse, Arin Black, Karissa Kary, Steve and Katherine Ecton, Errol and Peggy Scott Laborde, Jane Hobson (who I still owe lunch), Dani Hero, Ellen Johnson, Mark Fernandez, Doug Brantley, Susie Hoskins, Michael Sartisky and Kathy Slimp, Priscilla Lawrence, Denelle Cowhart, and everyone else at the Tennessee Williams Festival also were incredible bedrocks of support.

  Pat Brady is not only an amazing talent as a writer, but an incredible friend. I am so proud to know you, Pat. Thank you so much for everything.

  Bev and Butch Marshall are two of the most delightful people I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. May the Goddess always be with both of you. I’ll have dinner with you two any time.

  Mark Richards helps me keep my sanity on a regular basis. Thanks for not only getting me through the last two years, but also for suggesting the ending for this book.

  Jean Redmann, Felicia Wong, Heidi Nagele, Noel Twilbeck, and everyone at the NO/AIDS Task Force not only do great work for the New Orleans community, but are also incredible people I am proud to call my friends. Also deserving of mention are the members of the CAN Project staff, who have always been there for me: Roberto Rincon, Eric Johnson, Darrin Harris, Jill Boschini, Tyson Jackson, Chris Rothermel, and James Swire, as well as the volunteers and the Sparq guys. You have always made me smile no matter what insanity was going on in my life.

  Also with the CAN office I have to single out Mark Buchseib (Sparqy) and Aika Mongi for special thanks.

  Jay Quinn, Ian Philips and Greg Wharton, Carol Rosenfeld, Marika Christian, Trebor Healey, and Victoria Brownworth also deserve crowns in heaven. Thank you so much for always taking my calls—no matter what time of day or night I dial the phone.

  David Rosen is one of the most intelligent and kind people I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. And for his equally wonderful partner, Robb Pearlman, blah blah blah.

  Of equal importance are the following people: Darren Brewer, Harriet Campbell Young, my neighbors Michael and John, Val McDermid, Kelly Smith, Marianne Martin, Bill Cohen, Bill Palmer, John Morgan Wilson, Jim Gladstone, Michael Kooiman, Carrie Anderson, Lisa Anderson, Felice Picano, William J. Mann and Dr. Timothy Huber, Dr. Faith Joubert, Nikki and Betty, Jack Carrel, Sheila Wilkinson, Cherry Cappel and Beth Blankenship, Johnny Messenger, Eddie Coleman, Jimmy Carrera, Greg Helm-soth, Drew Zeigler, The Fabulous Deb and everyone at Garden District Books, Philip Rafshoon, Dorothy Allison, Jewelle Gomez, Amie Eva
ns, Jess Wells, Michelle Tea, Katherine Forrest, Ellen Hart, Patrick Califia, Poppy Z. Brite, Dexter Brecht, Terry and Kathy Verrigan, Joy Bollinger, Melinda Shelton, Susan Larsen, Diana Pinckley, Philip Tettleton, M. Christian and Sage Vivant, Karen Kern, Jeffrey Jasper, Steve Soucy, Dan Boyle, Toni Amato, Dawn Lobaugh, Karen Bengtson, Lea Young, Kiki Reineke, Linda Ireland, Margaret Coble, Val McKay, Dix de la Marie, Marda Burton, Kenneth Holditch, Laura Lippman, Chris Wiltz, Ayelet Waldman, Melanie McKay, Lawrence Schimel, Charles Flowers, Patrick Merla, the folks at the Publishing Triangle, Patricia Nell Warren, Betty Berzon, Timothy J. Lambert, Becky Cochrane, all the people who post on my blog, and all the kind readers who have e-mailed me over the years.

  A special thanks goes out to Eric Russell and the Gay-Straight Alliance at Manchester High School in Richmond, Virginia. You kids taught me the true meaning of courage in the face of fundamentalist Christian horror. May the Goddess shower you all with blessings, and remember—no one can make you feel bad about yourself unless you let him or her. Meeting you kids made me so proud. Never lose sight of who you are.

  Anyone I may have forgotten, my humblest of apologies. I’m not as young as I used to be.

  I love you all.

  PROLOGUE

  Last night I dreamed it was Mardi Gras again. It seemed to me I was standing inside an iron gate, watching one of the night parades go by. The sidewalks in front of the gate were crowded with people, all shouting, with their grasping eager hands up in the air. Out beyond the edge of the curb, I could see people sitting in lawn chairs. Still others were up on ladders, with coolers and plastic bags of booty piled around them on the ground. Fathers and mothers were holding up babies, while black kids with the crotches of their pants down around their knees walked behind the crowd, weighted down by the ropes of beads around their necks. Beads were flying through the air, some getting caught and tangled in the branches of the towering, gnarled oaks lining the avenue. The heavy upper branches of those oaks also blocked out the glow of the ancient street lamps, so the night seemed even darker than it should. I could hear a marching band, playing a recent hip-hop hit, and the strange clicking sound of the baton girls’ tap shoes on the pavement. The air was heavy with the fragrance of hot grease, corn dogs, and the strange, melted yellowish-orange substance the vendors put on nachos that purports to be cheese—but no one is really sure what it is. A group of flambeaux carriers was passing by, dancing that odd little circular dance they do, their propane tanks popping and hissing, throwing long and twisted shadows that also danced inside the iron fence I was behind. Right behind them a huge float pulled by a tractor was coming and the crowd’s shouts became louder, more desperate, more pleading. On the float’s front was a huge white clown face, its bright red lips parted in what passed for a smile but seemed to me to be a frightening leer. The masks on the float riders glowed supernaturally at the hordes begging them for generosity in the strange light cast by the moon when it cleared the thick clouds in the cold night sky. I stood inside the black iron fence, my arms wrapped around me against the cold as an increased sense of menace and dread built inside me. Something bad was going to happen—

  Oh, get real, Scotty!

  If I do have bad dreams, I don’t remember them when I wake up. I’ve certainly never been troubled in my sleep, even though crazy things always seem to happen to me. I’m just one of those people, I guess. For whatever reason, the Goddess has decided to throw some wild stuff at me—she always has, even when I was a kid—and what can you do? I just don’t think I am one of those people who is destined to have a nice, normal, quiet life. Maybe it’s because I was named Milton Bradley at birth. Yes, that’s right. Milton Bradley. My older brother started calling me by my middle name, Scotty, before I started school, and thank the Goddess, it stuck. Can you imagine how cruel the kids would have been to someone named Milton, let alone Milton Bradley? And then of course there’s the gay thing. I was lucky—my parents are pretty liberal and are delighted to have a gay son—like it somehow proves how truly cool they really are or something. They are pretty cool, actually.

  But I was talking about dreams. Sometimes the Goddess does speak to me in my dreams. I’ve always had this slight psychic gift all my life—see what I mean about not being normal? Usually I have to read tarot cards to focus the gift and actually see things. But that’s been changing over the past year. I’ve started having visions, which never happened before, and I even communicated with a dead guy a couple of times. But on those rare occasions when the Goddess speaks to me in a dream, I kind of have to pass out first—or be knocked unconscious—rather than fall asleep. (She apparently has a rather bizarre sense of humor.) But I haven’t been dreaming about this past Mardi Gras, thank you very much. If I did, I feel pretty certain the dreams would be fricking nightmares. But then again, who knows? I mean, after all, the reality was worse than anything I could dream up—and I’ve got a pretty vivid imagination.

  I was really looking forward to this past Mardi Gras. It had been a while since I’d been able to just kick up my heels, put everything aside, and just party till I dropped. Well, it had actually been since the last Mardi Gras. My three favorite times of year are Southern Decadence, Halloween, and Mardi Gras—not necessarily in that order. Mardi Gras comes first every year, forty days before Easter. Southern Decadence is next, over Labor Day weekend, and I certainly hope I don’t need to explain when Halloween is.

  Mardi Gras last year had been really fun—I hadn’t had to work my wiles as a go-go boy and, frankly, don’t remember a whole lot of the ten days leading up to Ash Wednesday. I know that I had gotten a windfall of cash and invested in a pile of Ecstasy, which I started taking the Thursday night before Fat Tuesday. The rest of the weekend is kind of a blur. I know I met a lot of hot guys, danced a lot, and woke up on Ash Wednesday feeling like something the cat had dragged in, chewed up, and spat out. Boy, was that fun!

  I didn’t get to enjoy Southern Decadence last year. First off, I’d been broke and had to get up and dance on the bar to make enough money to pay the rent. If that wasn’t enough, I had to foil a dangerous conspiracy, got kidnapped—it’s a long story I won’t bore you with right now. Halloween had been fun, but not as much fun as I’d anticipated. My boyfriend Frank had been shot in the arm the week before, and since he was still really not in much shape to party and dance all night long, we’d just costumed, gone out, and come home early. So I was really looking forward to Mardi Gras. I wanted to go out in fun costumes, meet lots of tourists, hang out with the locals, and just grin and shake my ass on the dance floor all night long. Things had, actually, been going pretty smoothly. I couldn’t complain about anything. I was back living in my building on Decatur Street, my two boyfriends lived upstairs from me, and they had never experienced Carnival before—Mardi Gras virgins. I wanted them to have a great time. I wanted it to be special. But then, I’m getting ahead of myself.

  So, I’ll just share some facts. My name is Milton Scotty Bradley, but my friends and family call me Scotty. I’m five feet eight, have curly dark blond hair, and weigh 165 pounds, give or take—it depends on my diet. I am in pretty decent shape; I used to teach aerobics and was a personal trainer, and every once in a while I supplemented my income by dancing in a thong in the gay bars. But that was all in the past. Now I’m a private eye in New Orleans. Yes, that’s right, a full-fledged fedora-and-trench-coat-wearing private eye. Okay, it may seem like a weird career change for an ex-stripper and personal trainer, but it just kind of presented itself to me. I can’t imagine there are a lot of us out there. But what do you do when something drops into your lap without warning? Treat it as a message from the Universe and go along for the ride, that’s what. When I got involved in that conspiracy thing during Southern Decadence, I showed a flair for law enforcement. A Fed I met on that case, Frank Sobieski (more on him later), recommended I get a private-eye license. I was tired of being a personal trainer, and that little adventure, although having its scary moments, was kind of fun, so I figured, what t
he hell? So here I am, licensed and bonded, and working for the Blackledge Agency office here in New Orleans. There are two other dicks (I love saying that) in the office with me, Frank Sobieski and Colin Cioni.

  Oh, yeah, Frank and Colin are the two boyfriends I mentioned earlier.

  That’s right—I have two boyfriends. That’s kind of a long story, so I’ll give you the short-and-sweet version. I met both of them during Southern Decadence. Colin was working undercover on a case for the Blackledge Agency, and Frank was in town working on getting to the bottom of the conspiracy thing. In one of those things that could only happen to me, Colin’s cover was working as a stripper at the Pub with me during Decadence. So we met dancing on the bar, were attracted to each other, and I took him home with me. The next day, I met Frank when he showed up at my apartment, because I’d wound up with an important piece of evidence for his case—it had been slipped into my boot while I was shaking my ass to earn dollars. We also hit it off. I liked them both, and they both liked me. I was going to have to choose between them. I couldn’t. Who could? Frank is six feet three of solid, thick, lean muscle. He clips his receding hair, and it’s a hot look on him. He was a blonde before that, and he has steel blue eyes that seem to pierce your very soul. There’s a rather nasty-looking scar on his cheek that makes him look really mean when he isn’t smiling. He got the scar early in his career with the FBI but won’t tell me how he got it. He also trims the hair on his massive chest (his nipples are really sensitive) and ripped stomach. There’s no body fat on him anywhere. And he has the most beautiful ass. . . .