His playfulness wasted on Emily Truly, she maintains her quest. “How’d you pick me out of the crowd?”
He leans into her, dipping his head until it lines up with her neck, causing an unwarranted moan to escape her, her skin tingling under his refreshingly chill breath. Closing his steel blue eyes, he inhales indulgently. “I could smell it all over you from the moment you walked in.”
Emily exhales, fighting her primal instinct, pushing him away. “Easy loverboy,” she forces words between them. “This just keeps getting more and more interesting.”
A loud clatter interrupts their moment as William Truly and Officer Sam Marks, still garbed in full Lancelot gear, enter the establishment. The metal links in his costume offer up a ruckus, as well as comedic relief to the majority of the lounge patrons. Their heads bob up and down, weaving to and fro in search of Emily and Aubrey.
“Here comes the cavalry,” Emily mutters, watching them spot Aubrey, the easiest mark with her extravagant get-up.
Max turns to her, his hand extended. “I know the back way out.” Emily looks to him then at her roundup party, indecisive. “It’s your call,” he encourages hopeful, keenly putting the ball in her court.
Still disgusted with the whole crew of experts, she shrugs her shoulders, putting her hand in his. “Why the hell not?”
“Atta girl!” he beams, stealthily leading the way.
CHAPTER 8
Detective Tony Gronkowski pushes his cruiser to the limit, hugging every curve in the road leading from the quaint Louisiana suburb back to the heart of New Orleans. Lights blaring and sirens wailing, he radioes dispatch. “327 to headquarters,” his voice urgent.
“327…go ahead,” a female dispatcher responds.
“I need an address on one Angelo ‘G-Lo’ Tulane,” he reads the name from his notes on his portable laptop car mount, standard in every patrol cruiser in the city. “He has ties to the local mob kingpin…Vincent ‘Vinny’ Gambini.”
“Running the search now, Detective. Patching you in. Should be on your screen in minutes,” she assures.
“Bring you a Starbucks if you can turn minutes into seconds,” he entices.
“I’ll do my best.” She chuckles.
He lays on the horn, yelling out his window at the driver in front of him. “Sirens and flashing lights mean pull the hell over, lame brain!” He maneuvers proficiently around the startled driver. “Sorry about that,” he addresses dispatch. “How the hell do these people pass their driver’s exam?”
“Angelo Tulane…5782 LeBlonde Drive,” she reports, the information rolling up on Tony’s screen.
“You’re a gem,” he encourages.
“Just doing my job,” she dismisses. “And Detective, I’ll take a Chai Latte, extra shot, skim milk, with a dash of nutmeg.”
He searches for a pen attempting to write down her order in the midst of maneuvering in and out of traffic. The sound of horns honking and tires skidding flood through the dispatch radio. “What the hell happened to a good old-fashioned cup of black coffee?” he sputters, his notepad flopping off the steering wheel, his unsteady hand creating illegible chicken scratch.
The dispatcher giggles. “Be safe, Detective.” Click! goes the radio.
Moments later, Tony pulls up to the Tulane residence, a dingy bungalow in a seedy area of town. His lights and sirens long since muted, he climbs out assessing the scene. One light shines dimly in what appears to be the living room of the dreary abode. Making his way to the front door, Tony pulls his side arm from its holster, preparing to enter, which all of a sudden seems easier, what with the lock broken and the door loosely ajar. He stands to the side of the casing, gently pushing it open with his foot, securing himself against the building. With no movement from inside, he quickly shifts his body, peering in, his gun aimed and cocked. As he rounds the door, his sidearm leads by a slim margin.
A heavy boot assertively connects with the iron piece knocking it from his grasp. The gun tumbles across the floor as Tony engages with a familiar form. By the time she recognizes him, his shirt collar is already wound in her hands, her body following its preconceived momentum to the hard wooden surface below. Her boots plant into his abdomen, propelling his body airborne.
“Ugh!” His lungs release as his back slams against the floor.
She opts for a shoulder roll into a kneeling position at his side, inspecting him, her expression scolding. “Dammit, Gronkowski. You have got to quit sneaking up on me.”
“Call me a glutton. Any attention is good attention,” he mumbles, accepting her hand, pulling him into a standing position. He arches his back, waiting for his spine to give into the urge to snap at its juncture with his shoulder blades. “Aw…that’s the spot,” he sighs. Taking note of Gina’s company, bound, gagged and tied to a chair sitting in the middle of the living room, he tilts his head accompanied by an arched eyebrow. “What do we have here?”
“Detective, meet Angelo Tulane,” Gina introduces sarcastically. “G-Lo and I go way back,” she spews, grabbing up a cattle prod strategically placed on the coffee table in front of his chair. “Don’t we, G-Lo?” she taunts, jamming the prod into his bare chest, releasing its voltage across his skin. He shudders, his head jarring up and down, his screams camouflaged by the duct tape gag wound tightly across his mouth and around the back of his neck.
“Never thought I’d see this side of you, DeLuca,” Tony quips, folding his arms over his chest contemplatively.
“Alarmed?” she reasons.
“Nah,” he answers swiftly. “Turned on, maybe. Not alarmed.” He grabs a chair from the kitchen securing it under the front door, barricading them in. Returning to the living room with one for himself, he sits legs astraddle the seat, elbows propped on the back as if he has come to watch the show. “Do it again,” he encourages, his intention to make the guy squirm, divulging whatever information Gina may be attempting to draw from him. Angelo Tulane pleads with his eyes, fighting against his restraints, his mumbles high-pitched. “Oh, look at him,” Tony mocks in his most pitiful tone, tapping Gina on the leg. He pushes off his chair approaching Angelo. “I think he wants you to let him go.” Tony gets in his face, stooped down, bracing his hands off of his knees. “You want a little mercy, G-Lo?” Tony taunts looking directly into his eyes, no sign of mercy in his expression. His mind unwillingly concocting snapshots of Angelo Tulane and his partner, Manny Briggs, holding Gina down, taking turns raping her, causes his jaw to twitch, his teeth grinding together furiously. He moves his mouth close to Angelo’s ear, seething, “I say fry the fucker. Until his eyes roll back into his head.”
“Gronkowski,” Gina summons, attempting to call him off.
Tony’s body shakes with pent-up adrenaline at the brutal images conjured in his mind. He bolts upright planting his boot into the chest of Angelo Tulane, knocking him backward, the chair crushing his arms bound behind him. With great precision Tony follows the chair to the floor, burying his knee into Angelo’s face.
“Tony!” Gina yells. “I need him conscious.”
Tony stands, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, silencing a multitude of profane insults digging at the tip of his tongue. He pulls Angelo upright, his elbow accidentally making severe contact with his mouth before walking away.
Gina eyes him, her hand agitatedly placed on her hip. “Are you through?” she asks.
“I’ll take over where I left off when you get what you need.” He paces heatedly.
She walks to Angelo, ripping the duct tape from his lips. His neck, limp from its run-in with the floor and Tony’s knee, fails to hold his head up as it hangs to the side. “You ready to talk?”
“Not until he leaves,” he gasps short of breath, blood trickling from his mouth and nose. “You said all you want is information.” He pauses, his chest heaving up and down. “You won’t kill me. He w
ill.”
“I’m not gonna kill ya, you stupid son-of-a-bitch,” Tony reprimands. “I kill you, I lose my badge. I’m taking you back to the Pen.”
“No, he’s not,” Gina consoles. “A deal’s a deal. You give me Manny Briggs, you keep your life and your freedom,” she reiterates. “Just like we agreed before he came barging in.” She glares at Tony. “As usual.”
“You get rid of him. I’ll give you Manny,” he agrees.
“How about you give us Manny and we’ll put in a good word for ya at the Pen,” Tony bargains. “Or if mum’s the word, you can spend a few nights in a jail cell with a six-foot-four, two-hundred and fifty-pound Bubba who just so happens to be hung like a horse until you’re begging to talk to us in exchange for a new roomie.”
“Gronkowski,” Gina beckons, nodding her head toward the door, demanding his immediate departure.
“You’re not making a deal with this bastard, DeLuca,” Tony argues. “He’s gonna talk, one way or another. I’m taking his ass back to Angola. He’s going to the front of the line.” He turns to Angelo. “You hear that? Numero uno on death row. You’re gonna fry, you sorry piece of shit, mother…”
“Dammit, Gronkowski!” Gina lunges at him, her hands pushing off his chest. “Get out!” Her eyes desperate. “You’re in way over your head. You come in here with all your macho lingo, slinging people around, barking orders, trying to take over. All you’re doing is messing shit up.” She flings her arm in Angelo’s direction. “You’re not taking him anywhere. You’re not doing anything.”
“But we got him, DeLuca. Trust me, the son-of-a-bitch will talk.”
She laces her hand in his shirt collar, her face only inches from his, her lips hard-pressed, “I told you before, this is not Vanguard PD. I don’t play by the rules anymore.”
The look in his eyes morphs into understanding, hurt. “You sound like them. The system let you down? I’m the bad guy…is that what you think? You used to be one of us.”
“I can’t go back.” She pushes him away. “Now get out!”
He cocks his head, gnawing at his lip, scanning her eyes, her expression, something, anything—a sign of remorse, apology. After finding nothing, he sorely gives into an agreeable nod before letting himself out.
Gina sits down astraddle the coffee table, leveling off with Angelo Tulane. “Spill it,” she orders.
He smirks. “You sure were a sweet piece…”
His words interrupted by the cattle prod conveniently mashed against his undeserving manhood. His body convulses, jarring the chair against the wooden floor. “What was that?” Gina jeers, continuing to hold fast the juice button, delivering volt after volt. “You got one more opportunity to save yourself, jackwad.” Her teeth grinding, her tone venomous, “Don’t mess it up or I’ll be forced to cut it off and let you bleed like a stuck little pig.” She smiles harshly. “How fitting.” She pulls her finger off the trigger, waiting momentarily for him to regain his wits. She encourages him, abrasively slapping the side of his face.
“They cut me out of everything,” he gasps. “Said I didn’t have what it takes. And Manny…he didn’t bat an eye. Took the opportunity and the money…lots of money, and left me in the dust.” He spits blood from his mouth, clearing his vocal passageway. “He lives like a king. Nice little cottage on the water. New car. Boat. All the bitches and blow he wants. Throws me a bone every now and then. Just enough to keep me quiet. Cocksucker.”
Gina jabs him with the cattle prod, delivering a short jolt. “Watch your mouth.”
He jumps with the shock, smirking. “That’s right, I am in the presence of a lawyer lady.”
She jabs him again. “Don’t call me that.”
“Alright. Alright.” He winces, groaning in pain. “I live like a rat. Scrounging for every meal. Every penny. Hiding out in the sewer.” His eyes track the cramped, dingy residence.
“Okay, okay,” Gina interrupts, drawing out the words as if she’s bored out of her mind. “Get to it, G-Lo. Unless you want me to call my friend back in here.”
He nods his head toward his key chain hanging off a hook by the front door. “Safe deposit box. Bank downtown. His address, deed, social security number.” He spits more blood from his mouth his speech beginning to gurgle. “Son-of-a-bitch gave it to me for safe-keeping.” He laughs.
She hops up from the coffee table, nimbly identifying the key and works it off the chain. She stops, turning back to him. “Why are you still in New Orleans? In the States? You’re an escaped con. It’s only a matter of time before someone connects the dots.”
He smirks. “For all they know we didn’t escape…only transferred. If you go to the Mississippi State Pen, you’ll find two poor saps identified as Manuel Briggs and Angelo Tulane.”
“ETNA,” she whispers, knowing who is responsible and powerful enough to arrange such an exchange. “So, you’re a free man,” she concludes.
“Yeah, real free,” he scoffs, fighting against the restraints. “Don’t suppose you’re gonna cut me loose,” he says, already knowing the answer.
She ponders, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a knife. “Tell ya what,” she bargains walking to him, clicking the knife open and laying it directly, tauntingly in front of him on the coffee table. “Might take some ingenuity, but it can be done.”
He grins, thinking he’s outsmarted her, his mouth ungagged.
She grabs up the duct tape, shoving its sticky backing harshly over his mouth, silencing any rebuttal. Winding it around the back of his head, she makes a snug circle several times before tearing the roll free. “You remember ‘Tommy Boy’ Fontaine?” she asks, digging inside the pocket of Tony’s oversized jeans she still sports. “‘The Rat,’” she refers to Tommy Boy’s well-earned moniker after giving them up in court. She unfolds the crumpled newspaper clipping ironing it out with her hand. “They found a rat trap on his mother’s tombstone. They cut off his pink ears and pointy nose, and gouged out his beady eyes. Strands of his hair meshed together.” She shrugs her shoulders. “I guess that’s their interpretation of the tail.” She slaps the obituary clipping off his chest, letting it fall into his lap, face up. He jerks his head down at the crinkly piece of black and white copy, his eyes squinting, searching for the rest of the story. “Wonder how creative they’ll get with you?” Gina taunts, nonchalantly walking out the door, ignoring his groans, his pleas, the legs of his chair grinding and shifting against the hardwood floor attempting to break free.
Tony, failing to heed her warning in its entirety waits at the curb, leaning against the front of his police cruiser. He jolts to attention seeing her safely exit the shady residence. Her mind and body at dangerous odds, she jumps into the passenger seat. Tony follows suit, piling in under the steering wheel. He looks at her concerned, her manner somewhat zombie-like.
“Drive,” she says, looking straight ahead.
He turns over the ignition. “Where to?”
“Bank on Main.”
He pauses, reasoning, “It’s two in the morning. They’re not going to be open.”
“Even better,” she confirms. “Just drive, Gronkowski. Please.”
He obliges, pulling out onto the roadway, his eyes darting back and forth from the reflective white lines and Gina. Her breathing labored, her chest visibly rises and falls with increased momentum. With a shaky hand, she unsuccessfully attempts to calm her bouncing knee. Instant beads of perspiration lace her forehead trickling down her cheek, coming to rest at her jawline.
“Are you bleeding?” Tony demands, suspicious she is about to morph into Vigilare.
“Uh-uh,” she grimaces, clenching her teeth, grabbing at her stomach. “Pull over,” she pleads, pushing at the window release, hungry for air.
Tony jerks the cruiser off the blacktop, forcing it as far up over the curb and into the grass as he can, than
kful traffic has died down to a few stragglers in the wee morning hours. Gina pushes the door open, rolling out onto her hands and knees, her body convulsing with a series of guttural hurls. Tony hops out making his way to her. He kneels at her side his hands busily trying to find something to do to help her. “Aw dammit, Gina,” he consoles, rubbing her back.
Momentarily her body comes to rest. She sits back on her heels, collecting and spitting the excess from her mouth into the grass. Grabbing at her shirt tail, she wipes it briskly across her lips. “Sorry,” she says realizing she still wears Tony’s oversized t-shirt.
“It’s seen worse, trust me,” he comforts, searching inside his patrol car for a bottle of water, unsuccessfully. “Here,” he says, handing her an energy drink. He shrugs, an apology for the unconventional beverage.
Gina shoots him a half-hearted smile. “At least it’s not a protein bar,” she references his other must-have when patrolling. She takes a sip, swishing it around before clearing her mouth of further debris. Tipping her head back, a moan escapes her quivering lips as she holds back the urge to scream. Her hands clenched into severe fists resting on her knees, forcing the veins in her arms to pop to the surface. Tony watches her, waiting, hoping she will confide in him instead of pushing him away. With the stroke of his hand along her back, tears fall uninhibited. She looks to Tony, her saturated green eyes a mixture of pain and rage. “I should’ve killed the mother fucker,” she confesses, her teeth lightly jarring together, her jaw quivering. “I wanted to. I wanted to cut him open from his neck to his navel, and listen to him blat.” Her teeth grind painfully as moisture escapes from every orifice on her face. “They took everything from me. Lon, Braydon.” With his name she sobs, her diaphragm contracting, quickly propelling her abdomen in then out repetitively. She jams her fists against her stomach coercing it to stop, a wail releasing itself from her strained vocal chords, the tone reminiscent of a wolf mourning the loss of a member of his pack. “My body,” she shudders with the sentiment, remembering their vile touch. “My soul. They took it all. I got nothing left.” Subconsciously she reaches to her neckline for her crucifix, her hand coming up empty, remembering the Hell Hound took that too.
2 Brooklyn James Page 8
