Black Delta Night

by Jessica Speart

  “Why doncha come inside?”

  I walked into a hallway lined with ornate smoked mirrors that reflected the light from a gaudy chandelier.

  “Your friends are in here.”

  Billy Paw walked before me with such a loose gait that it appeared his bones were about to collapse beneath his flesh. He led the way into a living room that featured a white sofa as long as a train caboose, along with two white chairs and white wall-to-wall carpeting. Royal-blue drapes fringed with gold tassels gave the decor a retro seventies feel. But best of all was the sight of Woody and Virgil, looking like two peas in a pod that belonged in a very different sort of vegetable patch.

  “You kin wait in this room with your friends while Mr. Sergei finishes his other business. I’m sure he’ll be with ya’ll in just a minute,” Billy Paw informed us, and then bobbed back down the hall out of sight.

  I breathed a quiet sigh of relief, happy to know that Billy Paw wasn’t the person I’d traveled to meet. Sergei Galinov was the name Mavis had mentioned; this had to be the same man. Well, if I was going to wait, I might as well be comfortable. I planted my rear end on one of the lily-white seats.

  Neither Virgil nor Woody uttered a word; their body language said it all for them. Both men self-consciously shifted their feet, as if afraid they might leave a permanent stain on the carpet.

  It wasn’t long before Galinov sauntered into view. Surprise, surprise. He turned out to be an overweight Russian version of Elvis. A pile of jet-black hair, slicked into a greasy pompadour, was accompanied by fuzzy sideburns. A short-sleeved sequined jumpsuit showcased his hefty, jiggling paunch, and the outfit was offset by gold chains that hung heavy as shackles around his neck. The man’s eyes were hidden behind a pair of you-can’t-see-me-but-I-can-see-you dark glasses. Galinov didn’t belong in Memphis, but in a Vegas nightclub act.

  As he approached, I noticed his arms were extensively tattooed with designs as elaborate as Russian icons. One illustrated the Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus, while another portrayed Christ with a halo encircling his head. Incorporated among these images was a crown of thorns dripping blood, and a scorpion bearing an enormous stinger. A pair of manacles were tattooed around his wrists.

  Galinov’s other arm was thrown across the shoulder of the man walking beside him. I tried to catch a glimpse of the man’s face, but Galinov’s heft blocked my view. However, I had no trouble seeing the woman who followed behind them. A tall, stunning blond, her cheekbones were so sharp they could have been used for slicing meat.

  “Go to the Velvet Kitty and whatever you want is on the house tonight. Okay?” Sergei buoyantly offered in a thick Russian accent. “Have fun with one, two, even three girls if you like. Tatyana, you make sure my friend here enjoys himself.”

  Galinov didn’t bother to look at the statuesque woman who nodded, as if it were simply understood.

  “In other words, ya’ll want time to check out my credentials.”

  The words barely made a dent. It was the voice that imploded inside me, bringing my heart to a painful halt.

  “Sniff around all you want, Sergei. You’ll find that my money’s good. Hell, come down to my club in N’Awlins and partake in the same hospitality.”

  My brain shouted for me to breathe before I passed out, and I took a few shallow gulps. The stranger must have sensed he was being watched. Tilting his head, he casually looked back over his shoulder. That was all it took to jumpstart my heart. The thick tangle of curly black hair, the nose as sharp as a hawk’s—the man’s hooded eyes met mine and, for a brief second, their brooding darkness flashed with fireworks. The next moment, the mask fell back into place. Only a telltale twitch revealed he’d been caught as much by surprise as I was.

  I was glad to be sitting down; otherwise, my legs might have given out. My fingers dug into the chair so hard I was surprised that it wasn’t crying. The love of my life didn’t miss a beat as he focused his attention back on Galinov.

  I’d last seen Jake Santou in Miami the evening we broke up. But he’d continued to haunt my thoughts each day since—and every single night. I sat spellbound now as he once again walked out the door, this time with a long-legged blond on his arm. What was he doing in Memphis? How did he know Sergei? Had he become corrupt? And, lastly, who was the babe? I was forced to quickly gather my wits as Sergei approached with a disarming smile.

  “So! You are my first federal agent who wants to be bought off. That is good. Please don’t take offense, but first I must check you out.”

  What does this guy want, to see my driver’s license?

  Galinov pulled me to my feet, and his pudgy hands methodically began to frisk me.

  “What the—” I angrily sputtered, and jerked away.

  Sergei instantly stopped. “So sorry. But this is the only way to make sure you are not wearing a wire. I understand if you don’t want me to do this. But then any deal is off, and you walk out of here right now.”

  Damn! I reluctantly resumed my place and let his fingers continue their journey. The sound of heavy breathing took me by surprise. I looked over and saw that Virgil was watching intently. Terrific. Galinov then removed the .38 from the back of my pants and handed it to Billy Paw.

  “No guns are allowed inside. You can retrieve it when you leave.” Having finished, he took hold of my hand and kissed it. “It is wonderful to meet you, Rachel. I may call you that, no? And you must call me Sergei. Now, let’s go talk where it’s more comfortable. Except for you, Billy Paw,” he pointedly added. “You wait in the kitchen.”

  Billy Paw shuffled off with what appeared to be a slightly resentful gait. Then Galinov led the way, keeping me by his side as Virgil and Woody followed behind. We ended up in a duplicate of Elvis’s Jungle Room, complete with the custom stone waterfall and green shag-carpeted floor and ceiling.

  “Here. Come sit by me.” Galinov patted a space on the sofa beside him. “I see you’ve noticed that my house is an exact replica of Graceland. It is because Elvis is my idol.”

  I sat down and felt the seat jiggle beneath me. Galinov’s knee was bouncing away a mile a minute.

  “My friends here tell me that you think you can be of help,” Sergei began.

  “I believe I already proved that last night,” I asserted. “Not only do I know when and where state agents will be making their runs along the river, but I can also provide information on protected areas for finding paddlefish in closed states. In addition, you won’t have to worry about me being on your tail.”

  “But I might like that,” Sergei blatantly flirted. “Of course, I’d be willing to pay extra for that service.”

  Wouldn’t you know I’d wind up with a lecherous version of Elvis in his later years?

  “Well, we’ll just have to see about that,” I parried, flashing my best Mata Hari smile.

  “Then it’s settled! Welcome to my family.”

  Virgil leaned forward and finally spoke. “Yeah, but her cut ain’t coming outta our pocket, is it?”

  Sergei’s smile twisted into a blood-chilling sneer. “Listen, my friend. Be glad that you have a pocket at all. You know the rules. Make the wrong move, and I cut you open in search of caviar.”

  Though the words had been softly spoken, they hung heavy in the air.

  “Now, let’s celebrate, shall we?”

  Sergei shepherded us into a kitchen that was part Graceland, part Brady Bunch, and pure 1970s Americana, where we sat at a counter.

  “Billy Paw! Bring out the vodka and caviar!”

  A bottle of chilled Stoli was placed in front of us, along with a bowl of caviar nestled on ice.

  “Let me do the honors.” Sergei poured the vodka and then spooned some roe onto a toast point for me. “Tchornaya ikra. These are black pearls from the Caspian Sea, the best beluga in the world. Enjoy.”

  I took a bite, expecting to relish the same exquisite buttery flavor I’d tasted at Vincent’s. Instead, my palate was hit with an earthy tang. Sitting nearby on the counter was the tin they
’d been taken from. The sea-blue lid featured a sleepy sturgeon on a blanket of roe. Czar’s Choice. Removing a few of the eggs, I placed them at the base of my thumb and took a lick. There was no doubt about it; Sergei was attempting to take my measure.

  One good turn deserved another. Placing a few of the eggs on my napkin, I gently pressed down. Yellowish oil oozed onto the fabric in a small, greasy pool.

  “Somebody must have sold you a mislabeled tin. What you’ve got here isn’t beluga but osetra caviar.”

  Sergei’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Woody and Virgil inched away, their glance silently wishing me good-bye. I was beginning to wonder if I’d made a fatal mistake when Galinov exploded in a belly laugh and lifted his glass in salute.

  “You’ve got what you Americans call ‘balls,’ Rachel Porter. I like that! We will work well together. Now drink up!”

  Woody and Virgil simultaneously lunged for their glasses.

  “Billy Paw, bring out the real beluga now!” Sergei’s eyes twinkled at me in amusement. “I believe you’ve earned it.”

  After the bowl had been set down, I reached to take the proffered sample from his hand. But this time Galinov brought the caviar-covered toast point to my lips.

  “Open,” he softly commanded.

  I did so, and he slipped it into my mouth. The buttery eggs were even better than those I’d tasted earlier this evening. I followed that up with a sip of the ice-cold vodka, which easily slid down my throat.

  Neither Virgil nor Woody had touched the eggs, but focused on their Stoli. I silently raised a questioning eyebrow. Galinov noticed and laughed, covering my hand with his own.

  “What can you expect? They are barbarians.”

  I glanced over at the Hardy brothers as Virgil’s eyes burned angrily through me. After a few minutes, I stood up to take my leave. I knew it was time to go home.

  “We will do this again soon, Rachel,” Galinov promised, as Billy Paw returned my gun.

  Virgil and Woody followed me out the door. I walked quickly to my vehicle but a fist dug hard into the small of my back, pressing me up against the Ford. A hot breath tinged with vodka slithered as venomously as a rattler along my ear.

  “Just remember that snitches get stitches,” Virgil angrily whispered. “Don’t try pulling anything funny, Porter.”

  Fear nipped at my flesh as I knocked the hand off my back and spun around. Virgil’s piggy eyes were ablaze, accentuated by his unruly eyebrows.

  “The next time you sneak up with a threat, you’ll live to regret it,” I warned heatedly.

  But Virgil didn’t budge.

  “Woody, call off your attack dog!” I warned.

  “What are you trying to do? Get us killed? Just leave her the hell alone,” Woody nervously muttered and pulled Virgil aside.

  I got in my Ford and headed straight to the Blue Mojo.

  The owner, Malcolm “Boobie” Baylford, was there when I arrived. Boobie was decked out in a red suit, with his hair pomaded against his dark skin. I slapped his upraised palm in greeting and then headed directly for the bar.

  “Hey there, darlin’. What’s up this evening? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he observed, slipping onto the next stool.

  Santou’s face danced before me in the room’s dim light—perhaps a little more creased for wear, but with the same smoldering intensity.

  “I believe I have, Boobie,” I admitted, unable to brush the vision away. “Someone from my past.”

  Boobie took a drag on his cigarette, and the smoke sensuously transformed into Santou’s lopsided smile. “Did this apparition happen to speak to you?”

  “No, he just floated by. Though we did exchange a glance.”

  “A man you used to be with, huh?” Boobie surmised. “Damn if that ain’t the worst kind of apparition. What you need is a special concoction in order to get your mojo working.” Boobie hopped off the stool and walked behind the bar.

  I drank what he made without any question, then another as the yowl of a blues guitar sliced through the air. A male voice wailed of betrayal and insecurity as I nursed my drink like a long-lost lover. All the emotions I’d kept pent up for so long now rose to the surface. Like a genie, they pushed their way out of the bottle, unleashing all my hurt, vulnerability, and sorrow.

  When I went home that night I tossed and turned, my dreams tormented by visions of Santou making love to a beautiful blond.

  Fourteen

  I woke to a throbbing headache and the sensation of a warm body lying beside me. Had Santou snuck into my bed, like a thief in the night? Rolling over, I came nose to nose with something that was wet and had bad breath—Dog was soundly snoring with her head on my pillow.

  Dragging out of bed, I showered and dressed before having my morning fix of sugar cereal. Dog joined me in the kitchen with a yawn and a long, lazy stretch. Oh, what the hell. At least she deserved a decent breakfast. I scrambled a couple of eggs for the pooch.

  Terri’s room was empty. No problem; I knew where to find him. Dog and I traipsed down to Vincent’s. The two men were draped in original Sophie kimonos, dining on eggs Benedict. Terri gave me half of his fancy Egg McMuffin, which I gratefully accepted.

  “So, how’d your caviar lesson work out last night?” Vincent inquired.

  “Perfectly,” I replied.

  “Then why do you look like hell? Something’s wrong, and I don’t want you to lie about it.” Terri softened his words with a hug, and I instantly melted.

  I knew the professional thing was to not say a word, but I’d burst if I didn’t tell someone. “I saw Santou.”

  Terri nearly jumped out of his kimono. “You did? Why didn’t you tell me? He tracked you down and wants you back! I just knew it!”

  I held up a hand to evade further questions. “It was while I was working undercover.”

  Terri’s bubble instantly burst. “Oh dear. That must mean he was somewhere he shouldn’t have been,” he correctly surmised.

  “You got it. Do you know if he’s still working homicide these days?” I prayed that the answer would be yes.

  But Terri shook his head. “I heard that he’d left the police force.”

  It was just possible Santou had gone back to his former life of drugs and booze, having found a more lucrative way to pay for his bad habits.

  “I’ve got another favor to ask you, Vincent.”

  “You want me to beat the crap out of this Santou guy?” he volunteered.

  “No, but do you know anything about a place called the Velvet Kitty?”

  Vincent picked up his glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. “It’s a nudie lap dancing bar featuring Ukrainian and Russian women. Any further contact a customer wants happens in the back room. The club’s open twenty-four/seven and rakes in big bucks.”

  My stomach churned, and I pushed my plate away. “Where can I find the place?”

  Vincent supplied directions to the Mount Moriah area, east of Memphis, off Elvis Presley Boulevard.

  “You know, you really should drop by the school and brush up on your wrestling moves,” Vincent advised.

  “Better yet, keep a really big gun with you at all times,” Terri recommended.

  I don’t know what I expected to find at this time of morning. Maybe Santou. Maybe not. But I headed for the Velvet Kitty like a homing pigeon on a mission. It made sense that Galinov would be the owner; the Velvet Kitty was probably how he laundered his money.

  I’m only doing this because of the case. But my heart knew better. I had to discover what Santou was involved in, no matter where it led me.

  I drove through a strip of tacky stores and run-down bars before spotting the Velvet Kitty. The place would have been difficult to miss. Its neon logo featured a voluptuous cat with large, perky breasts. Beneath it was a sign that read, “Let Our Kitties Pamper You with 2-for-1 Drinks!”

  I parked my Ford next to a bunch of other cars, wondering who would be here at this hour. I received my answer as I walked inside to find a gro
up of unshaven rednecks lapping their drinks. The red walls matched their bloodshot eyes as a lanky brunette danced for their pleasures. The girl muffled a yawn while she listlessly ground her hips and lethargically whipped off her G-string.

  Galinov ran quite the class act. The place reeked of stale beer and perspiration. Even the floor felt sticky beneath my feet. I chose not to imagine what that could be due to. Relieved not to find Santou facedown at the bar, I turned to skedaddle, when my eyes lit on a woman sitting in a leopard-print booth. It was the long-legged blonde from Galinov’s place, still dressed in last night’s outfit—skintight black leggings, a little midriff top, and high heels. She also had a jacket draped over her arm.

  I had to find out what she’d been doing with Santou, though I was almost afraid to know. Taking a deep breath, I walked toward her. She carefully averted her gaze.

  “Hi. My name is Rachel. I saw you at Sergei’s house last night.”

  The woman’s head never moved; only her eyes cautiously slid in my direction. “Then, you are one of his friends?” she hesitantly asked with a Russian accent.

  “Let’s just say we’re doing business together,” I replied with a smile.

  A flicker of fear flashed in her eyes, which further piqued my interest.

  “Are you going somewhere?” I questioned, refusing to let the conversation drop.

  The woman visibly flinched.

  “All I meant was that you’re holding a jacket,” I softly observed.

  The blond shrugged in embarrassment. “My shift is over. I’m waiting for a cab to take me home.”

  “I’m leaving myself. Why don’t I give you a lift?”

  A pair of sad green eyes gazed at me in surprise. “Oh no. Please don’t bother.”

  “Don’t be silly. I insist—Sergei would want me to make sure you got home safe.”