Mardi Gras Mambo Read online

  I sighed. Nope, no reason I could see not to enjoy the rest of the holiday. We had our costumes, we had our drugs, and we were safely out of it.

  But my mind, damn it to hell, just wouldn’t let it go. We were detectives. Wasn’t investigating what we were supposed to do? Okay, Frank had been a longtime Fed, and Colin, well, I didn’t know how long he’d been in the business, but certainly longer than me. Look at everything they’d been able to find out, while all I wanted to do was go to sleep! Some detective I was. What exactly did I have to contribute to this team, anyway?

  The Goddess speaks to you; that’s what you bring to the team.

  I got myself a cup of coffee and spiked it with Bailey’s Irish Cream and headed into the living room. My gift isn’t exactly a science: sometimes the Goddess talked to me in dreams, sometimes I could focus on my tarot cards and get answers. Sometimes the messages that came to me through the cards didn’t make sense—until it was too late to matter. Sometimes I misread them and realized it later. Sometimes they didn’t tell me anything. It could be annoying, but you can see why I didn’t set up a table in Jackson Square and take money for it.

  I sat down at my coffee table, lit two white candles, and got out my tarot deck. I took another hit off the joint and pinched it out. I started shuffling, thinking about how cool it would be if I could solve this case without any help from the boys, prove to them I was a valuable asset to the agency. Not that they ever made me feel like I wasn’t, but sometimes, like I said before, they would give each other that annoying Scotty-is-such-a-cute-little-whack-job look.

  I closed my eyes and held the deck in my hands. I said a quick prayer to the Goddess. Please, Holy Mother of us all, please tell me through the cards the answer to my question and help me to see the truth. I opened my eyes and laid out the cards, then started slowly turning them over.

  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 ga
te, 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 vo
dka. 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.