Authors: Sharon Sala
Anson shrugged. “I’m fixing the place like Delle wanted, and putting in some air conditioners, too. It’s damn hot inside.”
“It’s been hot for as long as I’ve been alive,” Sam muttered, still pissed at Anson for what he’d done.
Anson looked up, his eyes narrowing in a warning Sam recognized. “Don’t challenge me,” Anson said softly.
Sam stared back until, to his shame, he was the first to look away.
Anson shifted his focus to Chance, but he refused to meet his father’s gaze. He grinned, knowing they’d been properly cowed.
“Well, now. Let’s talk about what’s up today. Chance, I want you to check the grow sites up north. Sam, you take the ones to the East. If either of you see anything off, let me know. Last time I was up north, I swore someone had been there. It could be some Cajun up the bayou decided to snag a little weed thinking it wouldn’t be missed, but I’m not running a charity. Pay attention. When you come back, there’s a shipment of bamboo to get ready. The invoices are on the clipboard in the shed.”
The brothers glanced at each other and then walked away.
As soon as everyone was otherwise occupied, Anson got a flashlight and headed for the attic. When he opened the door, the movement sent dust motes swirling. The heat in the highest floor of the old mansion was basically unbearable, but he didn’t intend to linger. Sweat beaded almost instantly on his upper lip, and soon ran out of his hairline and down the middle of his back, as well. He wiped his face with a handkerchief as he moved farther inside, wrinkling his nose as he went.
The musty smell came from the accumulation of centuries: old furniture, dressmaker’s dummies from at least three different eras, a half-dozen chests, Christmas decorations from the family before them, boxes and boxes of crap, and a multitude of old paintings from his long-dead ancestors.
He caught a glimpse of movement that made his heart skip a beat before he realized he was looking at himself in a full-length mirror. He stared, then frowned and looked away from the signs of visible aging on his face.
The single window facing the East was covered in grime, leaving the room and contents in a sepia-colored half-light. He walked the length of the attic and back, ducking a birdhouse hanging from the low ceiling, and what looked like a handmade wind chime. He hadn’t been up here in years, but he seemed to remember playing in a small storage space his mother had called a cubbyhole. After pushing a few chests and boxes around, he finally found it and got down on his knees to open it only to find that it was stuck. He pulled harder on the little knob, then harder again until it finally opened up with a loud squeak.
As he peered into the darkness, he thought again about what he was planning and for a few seconds contemplated the idea of relenting on revenge. But then, he heard a loud bang as one of the workers dropped something downstairs, remembered the gun going off in his face, and shifted focus.
Hell no. I won’t let this go.
He aimed a flashlight into the darkness, saw even more boxes inside, and began pulling out everything he could reach until he’d cleared away a large space. Satisfied, he pushed the door shut, shoved a chest back in front of it, and headed downstairs to check the progress in the kitchen.
The workers were down to the subflooring.
“Hey, how much longer in here?” he asked.
The foreman stood up, wiping sweat off his face as he eyed the room.
“We’ll lay all the new wood tomorrow, then your tile the day after. I picked it up before I came out this morning. It’s in the hall if you want to make sure it’s what you ordered.”
Anson liked playing lord of the manor almost as much as he liked being drug boss. He strode back into the hall, opened a box, and pulled out a tile, running his hands over the smooth surface as he admired the pattern.
Fleur de lis
was a damn fancy design for a kitchen floor, but that’s why he’d picked it.
“Yeah! It’s the one,” he yelled and then went out the front door, pausing on the verandah to assess the grounds.
He hadn’t looked at Wisteria Hill from this vantage point in years, but it was a reminder of the prestigious family into which he’d been born. It looked rough now, but it could and would look good again.
He glanced at his watch and made a mental note to have Chance put that belly mower on the little tractor and knock down some of this grass.
It was nearly noon. He was hungry, but not in the mood to eat alone. As soon as the workers stopped for lunch, he got in his truck, drove into New Orleans through the old part of the city, then down a narrow one-way alley, and parked behind a certain two–story brick building. The back stairs creaked at every step as he ascended. He knocked twice and waited.
The door opened, revealing a tall, thin woman wearing a long, yellow sundress. She had a black patch over one eye and wore her very curly hair cut close to her scalp. He eyed the stiletto knife in a scabbard at her waist, but frowned when she barred the doorway.
“What do you want here, Anson Poe?”
He didn’t like being challenged like this, but was well aware she knew how to use that knife, so he took a roll of money out of his pocket and flashed it openly.
“The same thing any man wants here, Lisette.”
Lisette Branscum lifted her chin defiantly. “Last time you were here, I told you never come back.”
He stood his ground. “Last time I was here, I made a mistake in judgment. I was hoping we could get past that.”
“Last time you were here, you put one of my girls in the hospital. You’re no good for my business.”
“Like I said, it was a mistake. A man can reform.”
She stared at him without comment.
He tried again.
“I had a hankering for one of Jean-Luc’s shrimp po-boys, and for dessert, a blow job compliments of your pretty Corinna.”
“You can go downstairs and order your food in Frenchie’s like everyone else, but you are no longer welcome upstairs.”
Anger rolled through him, flushing his already sweaty face. This challenge felt too much like the shot that knocked the hat off his head. He wasn’t going back to the little café she ran on the floor below. He wanted the special treatment she gave to the second-floor guests. He put the money back in his pocket and spit on the step between them.
Her eyes narrowed. She took a step back and swung the door shut in his face.
Inside, he was seething, but he knew she’d gotten the insult loud and clear. He stomped back down the stairs to his truck and drove out of the alley. Yet one more person who’d crossed him and was going to wish she hadn’t.
He picked up some barbeque instead from a local diner, and just for the hell of it, he drove by Brendan’s apartment on his way out of town. When he saw the SUV parked in the usual spot, he pictured them all happy and cozy inside the fancy air-conditioned apartment, eating and laughing, maybe laughing at him.
He took the next turn and headed home, eating as he drove. But when he got to the turn-off leading to Wisteria Hill, he drove past and farther up the road. The workers would go on without him for a while. He had more pressing matters to which he needed to attend.
****
Voltaire LeDeux lived as far off the beaten path as a man could live, which was just far enough for strangers to get their asses lost and suffer the consequences. He was, for all intents and purposes, anonymous. He had no birth certificate, because his mama had birthed him all by herself in the bed in which he now slept. He’d never been to a public school in his life, and the one time someone had come to insist his mother was breaking the law by keeping him at home, she’d run him off the property with a shotgun. He got the message he weren’t welcome and never went back.
As a result, he’d never been listed on a census. He didn’t have a social security number because he’d never worked. He existed entirely from the food he hunted or grew.
His clothes came in trade for his services, and while there wasn’t a woman living who’d been willing to live such a meager existence, Voltaire did not do without sex when he wanted it. He did favors for people who did favors for him. That’s how it worked. And that’s why, when he saw Anson Poe pull up in his yard, he got up from the bench on what passed for his porch, and waited for his approach.
“Hey, Voltaire, long time-no see,” Anson said and handed him a small package. “For when you’re in the mood.”
Voltaire took the marijuana, laid it on the bench and then walked over to a small bucket sitting in the shade.
“You got a bucket in that truck?” Voltaire asked.
Anson went back to the truck, got a small plastic bucket out of the truck bed and handed it to Voltaire, who dumped the contents into Anson’s bucket.
“Crawfish. I thank you, Voltaire. That’ll be good eating.”
Voltaire nodded and only then pocketed his weed. He would accept a gift, but he had to give one in return. He lived his life by never being beholden to another man.
“I have business,” Anson said, carefully eyeing the leather-faced man with the small, black eyes.
Although Voltaire looked innocent enough, he knew the man was always armed, most usually a hunting knife he used for skinning gators.
“Take a seat,” Voltaire said, indicating the bench he’d just vacated.
Anson set his bucket aside and pulled out the wad of cash he was carrying. “What I need will require payment to others to make it happen.”
Voltaire leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. He knew all there was and more about Anson Poe. He didn’t want him for an enemy, but he wasn’t afraid of him either.
“Tell me what you need, and I will tell you how much it will cost,” he said.
“Payback,” Anson said.
Voltaire nodded once. “Revenge is costly. Kindly elaborate.”
“I want two fires set.”
“Name the places.”
“Frenchie’s.”
Voltaire’s eyes widened slightly. It was his only reaction to setting fire to what his mama had called a house of ill repute.
“And the other?”
“The Black Garter on a Saturday night.”
Voltaire stood. “Entering into a war with Grayson March will end badly.”
Anson unfolded his six-foot plus height as a muscle jerked at the corner of one eye. “Do you want the job or not?”
“This will cost much money.”
Anson opened his fist, revealing the wad of one hundred dollar bills. “There’s five thousand dollars here. If you need more, I’ll get it.”
“It will suffice,” Voltaire said, and held out his hand.
“Within the week,” Anson added.
Voltaire nodded once, then went into his house and shut the door.
Anson picked up his crawfish, got back in his truck, and headed home. Back on the main road, he caught a glimpse of a vehicle he didn’t recognize parked back up in the woods. Grayson March thought he was smart, having Anson tailed, but they couldn’t put one over on him. Not out here. This was his milieu, and there was more than one way to skin a fat cat like March.
****
Three days later
The endless days and nights of living two separate lives was finally wearing Brendan down. By the time he got off work, it was almost 3:00 a.m. He fell into bed and slept until Linny woke him up, usually sometime between 8:00 and 9:00 a.m. After that, he was up for the day, making breakfast for the three of them while planning what needed to be done before Claudette’s arrival.
Delle’s feet were at a painful stage of healing. The burned skin was beginning to slough off, and Brendan had to take her back to the doctor. The removal of dead skin and fresh bandages was a painful process that left Delle shaking and in tears.
On this particular morning, they had just returned from the hospital when Claudette met them in the parking lot. She was carrying a large tote bag, which she quickly slung over her shoulder and grabbed the sack of groceries from the SUV.
Brendan carried his mother into the apartment with Claudette at his heels and Linny tagging along behind all of them. They rode the elevator up together, and once inside his apartment, he settled Delle in bed while Claudette and Linny began putting away groceries. He gave his mother a pain pill, which she took gratefully, chasing it with a drink of cool water.
Once it was down, Delle fell back against the pillows. Despite the cool air inside the bedroom, there was a bead of sweat on her upper lip.
“Mama, I’m so sorry,” Brendan said softly.
She grabbed his hand, holding it against her heart. “You have nothing to apologize for, son. I just need to rest for a bit.”
He pulled a light cover up to her waist and then waited for her to fall asleep. As he sat, he thought of his brothers. Although they called daily for updates, they had yet to come see her. They were stuck in the middle of their father’s illegal trade, but aligned with their mother’s plight.
When she suddenly cried out in her sleep, he touched her arm and she stilled. It was eerie, looking at her like this, like looking at a body in a casket. Had it not been for the soft rise and fall of her breasts, she could have been mistaken for dead. Anson had beaten the life out of her, and the body had yet to acknowledge the death.
Linny slipped into the room and whispered in his ear.
“Aunt Claudette wants to talk to you.”
He tweaked her nose as she darted away and went to the kitchen where Claudette was preparing lunch.
“What’s up, Auntie?”
Claudette loved the title he had bestowed upon her and made no attempt to hide her affection for her sisters’ children.
“We will talk about your father,” she said and pointed to a chair. “Please sit. Linny is going to go play with the doll I brought for her today.”
Linny had just been dismissed and knew it. She skipped out of the room, anxious to give the doll and the small chest of doll clothes a closer look.
Claudette sat down to face him. Today she wore another loose dress, this time of green fabric with large white flowers in the design and had her dreadlocks tied back with a long black ribbon. She was a magnificent woman, and he knew she knew it.
He frowned. “Why do I feel like I’m going to get the third degree, and what about Anson?”