Big Money (Austin Carr Mystery) (24 page)

“That’d be a shame.”

“I know,” Sangster said. He loved the house in Algiers. He also loved the French Quarter and everything it had to offer, from its great bookstores to its countless musical venues, its food and its women. Especially its women.

“Then don’t let that feller ruin it.”

“There’s only one way I could be sure he won’t, Burke.”

“By killin’ him?”

Sangster nodded.

“And I’m not going to do that.”

“Got to be another way, then.”

“That’s what I’m going to think about.”

“Well, gimme a shout if you need me,” Burke said. “I got guns that I know
will
shoot.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Ken.”

After his neighbor left, Sangster walked to one of the front windows and stared out. He had known someone would find him sooner or later, but he’d hoped it wouldn’t be his old boss, Primble. Now he was either going to have to deal with the man, take care of him or move on and make a new life somewhere else. The only problem with the third one was he knew Primble wouldn’t stop looking. He had too much invested in Sangster just to let him go, and if he could find him—or have him found—once, he could do it again.

The problem with the second option was that he didn’t kill anymore.

So the only option left to him was number one, deal with him.

From his vantage point, he could see his mailbox, one of those big metal ones mounted on a pole and fitted with a red flag. When the flag was up, something was in the box. The flag had not been up in the three years he'd been living there, because nobody knew where he was to send him mail. He didn’t even get junk mail because he’d instructed the post office never to deliver it.

Then why was the flag up now?

He went out the front door and down the walk to the mailbox. He saw that the door was slightly ajar. He hadn’t thought about things like booby traps and trip wires for over two years.

That first year he’d kept expecting to find death around every corner, but eventually he was able to relax and start living a normal life—not “again,” because he couldn’t remember when he’d actually lived a normal life. Certainly not growing up. How normal could it have been to constantly be trying to avoid parents in his own house? And certainly not since he killed his first man at fifteen. So surely it had only been the past two years that he could call his life normal, by conventional standards.

Now, as he stared at the mailbox, he had to summon back some of those old instincts. He examined the pole and the box on the outside, then used his fingers to search for wires of any kind. Finally, after pressing his ear to the box and listening intently, he eased the door open and looked inside. There was one single brown letter sized envelope inside. He studied the interior of the box for several seconds before reaching in to remove it. Now that he was holding it he had to be concerned that it might be a letter bomb. How could he have existed all those years having to deal with this kind of fear every moment?

He ran his finger over the envelope carefully before slipping his thumb under the flap and unsealing it. It came open rather easily, indicating it hadn’t been sealed very long ago. Inside was a single piece of white paper with two handwritten lines on it:

I’m at the Lafitte House

if you want to talk.

It was signed:
E.P.

He folded the note and put it back in the envelope. As he turned to go back to the house, he swiped at the red flag to put it back down. As it came down it made a connection with a wire and a puff of smoke leaped into the air. Sangster took one step away from the box and watched the smoke rise and dissipate. Primble’s sense of humor. He just wanted to show Sangster that he could be dead at that moment.

Instead of going back to his house he walked across to Burke’s.

FOUR

“What are you going to do?” Burke asked.

“I’ll have to handle it, somehow,” Sangster said.

“You think he’s here to kill you?”

“I think he was here to get me back,” Sangster said. “Failing that, he’ll have me killed.”

“Not kill you himself?”

“No,” Sangster said, “Primble doesn’t kill. He has others do that for him.”

“Like you?”

“Yes,” Sangster said, “like me...at one time.”

They were seated in Burke’s kitchen, each with a Blackened Voodoo beer bottle in front of them. It was early, but they both thought the occasion called for it.

“He said he had guns with him,” Burke said.

“I believe him.”

“How many do you suppose?”

“At least two.”

“And you plan on takin’ them out?”

“Not if I can help it.”

Burke leaned back and regarded his friend across the table.

“You said you don’t kill for a livin’ anymore.”

“That’s right.”

“How about to survive?” Burke asked. “Could you kill then?”

Sangster stared at his beer bottle.

“I don’t know, Burke,” he said. “Are you a religious man?”

“No,” Burke said, “not in any way you’d understand.”

“Do you believe men have souls?” Sangster asked. “Souls that tell them what’s right and what’s wrong? Souls that make them feel compassion?”

“You’re confusing a soul with a conscience, son,” Burke said. “I know you told me you woke up three years ago and discovered you had both, but maybe it was just one.”

“Which one?”

“That’s for you to figure out. If you decide it’s a soul, then you might not want to put any black marks on it. But if you decide it’s a conscience—well, you can kill and still have a conscience.”

“Am I kidding myself, Burke?” Sangster asked. “A hitman is all I’ve ever been. Can I be a hitman who won’t kill?”

“A hitman is what you used to be, son,” Burke said. “Just like a cop is what I used to be.”

“You’re still a cop, you old coot,” Sangster said. “You’ve told me that a hundred times.”

“Have I?” Burke asked. “Then who is the one kiddin’ themselves?”

FIVE

Bourbon Street at midnight was a world unto itself.

The club doors were wide open, scantily-clad girls stood in windows and doorways, enticing men to come inside. One girl was riding on a swing, in and out of the window of a gentlemen’s club. There were frozen Margarita bars on almost every corner, and almost every storefront—T-shirt shop, club, restaurant—and alcove had an ATM machine.

Sangster loved Bourbon Street, but tonight he could hear the music and voices floating on the air the two blocks to Chartres Street, where he was entering a small club just off of Jackson Square. He wore a pair of black cotton trousers, black T-shirt and a charcoal grey sport coat.

Sangster only came to the French Quarter a few times each month, sometimes during the day to prowl the used bookstores, other times late at night like this to hear the music. He had discovered the small Club Celestine—a distinctly Creole name—only a few months earlier, and this was his third time there.

Sangster was not a seafood lover, so he usually ordered either jambalaya or etouffe, both with chicken. Crawfish was something he had never even considered tasting and had never understood people’s obsession with shrimp or crab legs.

He placed his order for jambalaya this time and an ice cold bottle of Abita, and settled back to enjoy the music which, tonight, was a Zydeco band.

“You came back,” a woman’s voice said.

He turned his head and looked up at her. She was tall, dark-haired and slender, probably thirty-three or thirty-four. Her green dress left her shoulders bare and the hem hit just above her knees. Certainly not risqué, but there was enough bare skin to be interesting. She had a long upper lip that kept her from being beautiful, but he doubted she ever got any complaints. The overall effect was extremely attractive.

She had spoken to him the last time he was there and, rather than be rude, he had bought her a drink. But he’d left the club alone that night, with the vague feeling she’d been disappointed. It wasn’t that he didn’t find her appealing—he certainly did—but years of killing people had left him ill-equipped to deal with the living, especially women. He could seduce a woman if his intent was to kill her or to use her to get to someone else, but in the real world he was rather inept at the dance that men and women took part in.

“I was sitting over there alone when I saw you come in,” she said. “May I join you?”

“I, uh, already ordered,” he said.

“So have I,” she said, “but they can bring my plate over here. May I?”

He didn’t know how to refuse, so he finally just said, “Sure.”

“I’ll get my drink.”

As she hurried back to her table to pick up what looked like a martini, he thought back to how his day had started with Primble appearing on his doorstep. Having turned his ex-employer away he probably should have remained on Algiers for the evening, but he had already planned this trip into the Quarter and didn’t want to let the man be the cause of his changing his plans. Besides, he didn’t think Primble’s men would come after him—at least not so soon. His former “handler” would at least want to wait a few days to see if Sangster would call him. (Primble called himself a “Handler.” Sangster had always thought of him as more of a “Manager” or “Agent.”)

The woman returned with her drink and sat down. Sangster stared across the table at her, trying to dredge up her name, which he was sure she had told him last time.

“You don’t remember my name do you?” she asked.

Sangster had an excellent memory. It had served him well for years, freeing him from having to write anything down, like names, addresses or instructions.

“Of course I do.”

“Well,” she said, “I won’t make a liar out of you by asking you to tell me what it is. Your name, on the other hand—well, you never told me your name last time, did you?”

“No, I didn’t.”

She raised her eyebrows, as if to say, “What about this time?”

“Stark,” he told her, because he had never killed anyone while using that name and it was on the driver’s license in his pocket. “Richard Stark.”

“Stark?”

“Is there something wrong with that name?”

“No, no,” she said, “it’s a good name, strong, masculine, but not too testosterone fueled. I like it.”

“I’m glad.”

When the waiter came over, the woman said, “Could you bring my order over here, please? The gentleman was nice enough to ask me to join him.”

“Yes, Miss.”

When he walked away she looked up at the small stage, where the group was beginning to assemble.

“Do you like Zydeco?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, “quite a bit.”

“So do I.”

“Quite a coincidence that we’re here again on the same night.”

She sipped her drink and eyed him over the rim of the glass. “It’s not really such a coincidence.”

“No?” He wondered if she was going to tell him something he didn’t want to know.

She shook her head. “Uh-uh. I come here almost every night.”

“I see.”

“So any time you come here, you’ll probably see me.”

“There are bigger and better clubs in the Quarter,” he said. “Restaurants that serve better food. Why this one?”

“I happen to own a small piece of this one.”

“Oh.”

“So tell me, what are the better clubs with better food?”

“I put my foot in my mouth. Sorry.”

“That’s all right,” she said, with a smile. “After all, you’re here. You must like the music and the food.”

“I do,” Sangster said, “but mostly I like the size.”

“Yes,” she said, “it is...manageable.”

That was a good word for it, Sangster thought. The club was manageable. He was able to enjoy his food, the music and see everyone in the room. The other larger, more crowded clubs and restaurants offered too much possibility of danger.

The waiter reappeared carrying their plates, and they leaned back to allow him to set them down. He noticed that the lady had ordered shrimp creole. He could smell the spices across the table. But his own jambalaya looked more appetizing to him.

The group began to play, making conversation impossible, so they ate and enjoyed the music together.

SIX

Sangster found himself laughing.

He hadn’t laughed in a very long time. They finished their dinner, had some dessert, more drinks, more music, and he was laughing.

Her name was Lily. He remembered while they were eating. He saved it, though. Wouldn’t say it until later, when she was convinced he had forgotten. It was then Sangster realized he was not only laughing, he was being playful.