by W E DeVore
“First, I doubt you’re packing anything that would scare any woman. Second, I’ll risk it.”
She heard him walk through his condo and down into the alleyway outside, listening to him list all the words he claimed had been used to describe his genitals.
“Glorious, a revelation, perfect, magnificent.... shit.”
“See, Derek? That last one I believe,” she said, laughing slightly.
“No, Q,” he said after a brief pause. “I’ve got to call an ambulance. Something’s happened to Julie.”
“Who?”
“Kyle’s sister. Someone’s beat her up. I can’t get her to wake up.”
◆◆◆
By the time Sanger and Q got to Quarter, the ambulance had arrived with an investigative unit in tow. Despite her vehement objections, Ben had insisted on taking the meeting with Charter Real Estate alone and rejecting the deal flat out. The Cove was not for sale. Period. Sanger was going to have to find another way to close his case. Ben didn’t want any part of it, even if it meant he’d have to watch himself crossing the street.
Q followed Sanger onto the sidewalk and glanced into the back of the ambulance to see an EMT speaking in a low voice with a very shaken Asian woman with long blond hair. Her arm was already in a sling and half of her face was swollen and bloody. Q shivered and quickly caught up to Sanger at the gate to the orchid-lined alleyway that led to Derek’s condo.
Sanger spoke to one of the uniformed officers who pointed towards the curving staircase that led up to Derek’s second-floor apartment. Derek sat on the velvet fainting couch in the middle of the large, open room which constituted the entirety of his furnishings. His feet were bare and, as usual, he was dressed in a fitted long-sleeved shirt and black jeans. Agent Jeffries sat next to him, wearing a black button-down shirt Q recognized as a member of Derek’s wardrobe, not Jeffries. Her toned legs were crossed in front of her, knees leaning into Derek’s legs.
Sanger looked down at Q with a peeved expression.
“Don’t look at me,” she replied. “It was your idea.”
The officer questioning Derek stopped speaking when he saw Sanger, who flashed his badge and told him he’d take over.
“What happened?” he asked Derek.
“I went downstairs to look for a note from BBB like Q asked me to and found Julie. She must have let herself in. She has the code for the gate. She was on the ground, half dressed. What she was wearing was torn. How could he do this to her?”
“Who?” Sanger asked.
“Who do you think?” Derek exclaimed. “Her fucking husband. He beat her up and then dumped her on my doorstep like a motherfucking piece of trash!”
Derek stood up and started to pace, running his hands back and forth over the top of his head, making his hair stand up at irregular intervals. Without warning, he doubled over and screamed. His rage filled the room, making the tall windows rattle in their casings and the strings inside the grand piano vibrate in sympathy.
Jeffries went to him and he shoved her away.
“Get away from me!” he yelled.
Q glanced around the room at their audience and called out, “Yo, Cincinnati. You want to dial back the crazy? Come make me a cup of coffee.”
He looked at her and as soon as they made eye contact, his eyes flooded with panicked tears. She closed the distance between them and took his wrist in her hand, violently pulling him towards the kitchen at the back of the apartment. Once the swinging door had closed behind them, Derek collapsed to his knees, his weight pulling Q down to the floor with him.
She leaned against the side of the butcher-block island in the middle of the room and held him to her. “Listen to me, Derek. Tell me five things you can see.”
He shook his head against her.
“It will work, Cincinnati. Trust me. Five things you can see. Tell me,” she said forcefully.
“The windows, the tile, the legs of the barstools, the garbage can, your leg,” he whimpered into her t-shirt.
“Four things you can hear. Tell me.”
“Your voice. The cardinals outside. The street cleaners. The refrigerator running.”
“Three things you can touch. Touch them and tell me.”
He reached out his hand. “Your hair. The floor. My ring.”
His body settled against her.
“Two things you can smell.”
“Your perfume. Breakfast.”
He looked up at her and she smiled at him. “One thing you can taste.”
He licked his lips and said, “I’d rather not say.”
Q giggled at the implication. “Better?”
Derek nodded and stood up, moving to the espresso maker on the counter. Q slid up onto a barstool and watched him make their coffee. “I didn’t really want a coffee, Derek. I just wanted to get you out of there.”
He looked over his shoulder and nodded. “Thank you.”
He exhaled loudly and turned on the coffee grinder. When it was done whirring, he said, “My dad, the drunk - he used to beat my mom. Me, too.” He carefully spooned the finely ground coffee into the espresso basket and continued, “I shouldn’t have written this album. Why did I do this to myself?”
“What does the album have to do with it?” she asked. He stared at her for several minutes and she began to shake her head. “The sample in Contagion?”
Of all the strange and disturbing things that Derek had used on his album, that was the one that made her sick every time she heard it. It was the voice of a man screaming at someone in pure rage. Telling them they’re nothing, over and over.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” she asked.
Derek closed his eyes, confirming her suspicions.
“What did he do to you?”
He turned, leaning against the counter. “Something that can’t be undone, apparently.”
Folding his arms, his eyes moved beyond her to stare out the tall windows and the narrow balcony beyond.
“You know what happened to me, right?” Q asked.
He nodded slightly. “Yeah. Just the basics, what was on the news when Ben was in jail. That letter from BBB filled in a few too many details for my taste.”
“Mine, too,” she replied. “After it happened, I didn’t think I’d ever get to the other side of it. But I did. It feels like it happened to another person now. Not to me. But every once in a while, something will happen that I should be able to handle. Something that I should be able to blow off, and I just can’t. And I just spiral down into the darkness.”
Derek watched her and said, “I’m sorry, angel. Sorry that someone did that to you.”
“Yeah, me too. I’m sorry he hurt you.”
“Yeah, me too.” He winked at her. “This falls under your NDA, you understand?”
“You can just ask me not tell anybody, Derek,” she replied.
“Please don’t tell anybody.”
“You got it.”
“Aren’t we a pair?” he said, sad. “A wounded man-child and a broken archangel.”
“Who you calling broken, asshole?” She stuck her tongue out at him and he laughed. Q hopped off the barstool. “I’m going to go get Sanger. You ok, now?”
“I’m always ok,” he replied.
She closed one eye and squinted at him. “Not always, Derek.”
“No, I guess not,” he agreed. “It’s my fault, Q.”
“What is?”
“Julie.”
“Did you hurt her?” she asked flatly.
“No, but...”
“Then it’s not your fault, you hear me?”
“How can you so sure?” he asked, shame washing over him.
“Lots of women cheat, Derek,” she said. “Very few men beat them for it. Most just ask for a divorce and fuck their way through a few strip clubs.”
He laughed. “My god, you’ve been hanging out with Charlie a lot, haven’t you?”
“Yes, yes I have.” Q walked to the kitchen door and leaned her body out into the open livin
g room. “Hey, cowboy. You want to come on back?”
Sanger asked, “Everything ok?”
“Sure, you know rock stars. They’re like babies, only more annoying and not cuddly.”
When she returned to her barstool, Derek slid a white cup overflowing with cappuccino foam across the counter to her hands. “I like to think I’m pretty cuddly, Q.”
“Yeah, I bet.” She sipped her coffee. Sanger and Jeffries soon joined them. Sanger sat on the barstool next to Q and Jeffries slipped her arm around Derek’s waist.
“You alright there, Destroyer of Worlds?” Jeffries asked him.
Derek kissed her forehead. “Yep.”
Sanger pulled out his phone to take notes. “The uniform outside said that Mrs. McMillan is saying she doesn’t know who attacked her.”
“She’s lying, Spot,” he replied.
Sanger pursed his lips in annoyance. “No shit. But you’re going to have to give me more than that.”
“When we were waiting for the EMTs, she came to,” Jeffries said. “I came downstairs when Derek didn’t come back to bed right away and found them. He ran upstairs to get some ice, and I tried to assess the damage. Dislocated shoulder, broken nose. Probably an orbital fracture. When she woke up, she told us, ‘Chris knows.’”
“Chris is her husband, right?” Sanger asked.
Q nodded. “Yes. And he’s good for it, Sanger. If that man calls me a slut or a cunt one more time, he’s going to find out what I’m good for, too.”
Sanger grinned at her and stood up. “Rex is on his way. We’ll head on Uptown and pay Mr. McMillan a visit.”
“I don’t suppose he could be persuaded to resist arrest?” Q asked.
“I can’t guarantee that, but you know the NOPD. We’re pretty clumsy. I hate when domestic violence suspects trip and fall down the stairs while they’re cuffed, but it keeps on happening.” Sanger kissed the top of her head and started to leave the room. Glancing at Jeffries, he said, “Make sure they get to the Orpheum ok, will you?”
Jeffries nodded, and Sanger left.
“You call Kyle?” Q asked Derek.
“I can’t,” he said, visibly ashamed of himself.
“You can, and you will. Right now,” she said, glancing at her watch. “He probably hasn’t left for rehearsal yet. Call him and then we’ll leave.”
“No rehearsal today, angel. We’ll pick it back up tomorrow.”
Jeffries said, “We should get a uniform to take you home.”
Q shook her head. “No, it’s lunchtime in the Quarter. I think I can manage not to get myself killed walking down Royal. But don’t tell Sanger that, or you’ll have an argument on your hands.”
She said her goodbyes and headed out into the French Quarter sunshine. An irresistible desire to soak up as much of her hometown’s energy as possible filled her to capacity and she decided to go have a quiet lunch by herself at her grandmother’s favorite courtyard café. She wandered down Royal towards Jackson Square when her phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out, not recognizing the number but answered it anyway.
“Q? It’s Wanda Jacobs. Mike’s wife?” said the voice on the other end. “I wanted to give you something of Mike’s.”
Q was taken aback. “That’s very generous…”
Wanda interrupted her before she could continue. “I’m finishing up at the store and Tommy was here a little while ago, helping me with a few things and he mentioned you loved the chimes. The ones that hung on the door at the Emporium? Well, they’re yours, baby.”
She grinned. “I do love those things. But you don’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I do. Mike could have laid there for another day at least if it wasn’t for you. You know how that neighborhood is. Anyway, I’m leaving the store now,” Wanda continued. “Look, there’s not much left here. I’ll leave the back door unlocked. Just come by and get what you want, then lock up when you leave. Sound good?”
Q thanked Wanda and hung up as she approached the small bistro that was her destination. She had just been seated in the courtyard and was rigorously examining the menu, trying to decide which decadent treat to eat for lunch, when she heard the chair beside her scrape against the paving stones.
She looked up to find Urian Galanos sitting beside her, a threatening leer spreading across his perfectly chiseled features.
Fuck.
“Beautiful girl,” Urian said. “It’s nice to see you.”
“So, you keep telling me,” she replied. She held up her hand to stop him from speaking. “Yes, I know. You’d like us to be friends. That’s not happening.”
Urian exhaled, examining his words before speaking them out loud. “I need your help.”
“I’m not gigging with the Beasts anymore, Urian. You need to call Charlie if you need a band for your next wedding.”
He smiled and waved at his wife, who was seated several tables away. QT and the Beasts had played their wedding two years ago and Q was certain she was on an FBI mafia watchlist because of it.
“That’s not what I need your help with.”
Of course, she’d known as soon as he sat down, Urian was probably stopping by her table to pump her for information on how much trouble his crew was in with the ATF, but she’d decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, just to be on the up and up.
The waiter approached their table with a basket of bread and Q ordered a glass of wine. Taking a bite of bread, she said, “I can’t help you.”
“You don’t know what I need help with,” he purred in his thick Mediterranean accent.
“The ATF?” she guessed.
He stared at her hard. “Now, why would I need help with that?”
Q shrugged and tore the piece of bread in her hand in two. “Maybe because you started dealing guns in addition to drugs and then killed Mike Ackerman when he was late with your cut.”
“I didn’t kill Mike,” he said. “He did that all by himself.”
“It didn’t look that way to the ATF,” she lied. “The crime scene wasn’t right. They’re going to figure it out. Whatever you did, they’re going to figure it out and I’m not getting in their way. Still think you need my help?”
“I don’t deal guns,” he spat in slow, measured words. “You tell them that.”
She took a bite of bread and replied, “You tell them that. I’m not your secretary.”
Urian leaned forward and gestured for her to do the same. Whatever he was about to say, he didn’t want to do it. His mouth pinched itself closed and he forced it open with his tongue. “Mike, he wanted to go into business. My business. Only with guns instead of drugs, girls, gambling.”
Q’s jaw dropped. “It was his idea?”
“Yes. And it was a terrible one, but that’s what he wanted. I made the introductions and walked away, but he didn’t like the people I introduced him to. He went elsewhere. My acquaintances weren’t happy.”
“Then why does the ATF think you’re involved?”
“Mike moved one piece for me as a favor. He owed me money. But he saw it as an easy way to get money, I think. He was always looking for easy ways to get money. Selling weed here and there. Gambling too much here and there.” Urian sat back and glanced around the restaurant to make sure no one else was listening. “He got in over his head. My colleagues went to his store to express their displeasure about his choice of suppliers for his weapons. He got scared. He made a stupid bet to get the capital to buy his way out. People like that, they don’t let you out, but he didn’t ask my advice. And then he owed me money. A lot of money. And I was going to have to make an example. I can’t let someone slide. Even a nice old man who made me laugh.”
“So, what did you do?”
“I warned him,” he said. “I told him to expect a visit from my men around eleven the night he died. To get good and high. Smoke some weed. Take a Vicodin or something. Drink some wine. It would hurt less. But he had to take his beating or pay. No exceptions.”
When she gave him a horri
fied scowl, he continued, “I wasn’t going to hurt him bad. I told my men to go easy. Told them he was sick, and I didn’t want a dead body on my hands. Told them to break his nose, or maybe his arm, but nothing permanent. Toss the place, then leave.”
“Toss the place for what?” she asked.
