by Wendy Rosnau
"The yacht is ready," Miandera supplied in her husky voice. "All Porter needs is a destination. Where will you search first?"
"I have a phone call to make, then I'll decide." Salva stopped and reached into his pocket for his cell phone. Seconds later he heard the voice of a man he had hoped never to talk to ever again.
"Crawford's Boat Tours."
Salva didn't identify himself. All he said was, "She's missing." It was a long shot, but he needed to ask anyway. "Have you seen her?"
"No. Don't tell me the bitch is on her way back here?"
"I don't have a confirmation on that just yet, but she is gone."
"Still empty-headed?"
"Yes."
Salva turned away from his mother's questioning gaze. He didn't want to think about what would happen if Kristen stopped taking her medication and started to remember. He only knew for all concerned, he had to get her back before that could happen. And he had to do it while keeping Miandera on a short leash. There were things he hadn't told her. Things his mother must never find out.
"What about your kid?"
"Gone, too," Salva answered.
"In your line of work it doesn't pay to have weaknesses, Maland. The bitch is your weakness. You should have had your fun with her, then killed her."
Salva didn't want to hear what he should have done. Three years ago he had simply taken what he had wanted and damned the consequences. It had always been the Maland way. His little princess had, indeed, become his weakness. But he wasn't prepared to give her up—not at any cost.
"She'd only come here if she started remembering. Let's hope Little Krissy stays stupid."
"You have my number. Day or night, call me if you see her." Salva disconnected the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. Facing his mother, he said, "Tell Porter we'll hold one more day. If I haven't received a ransom note, and Kristen still doesn't turn up on the island, I'll head for St. Petersburg."
"And the Blu Devil? What of our plans for him?"
"We put them on hold for the time being."
"On hold? But we've already done that too many times. You promised—"
"Be patient a little longer, Mother. A Maland's promise is his honor. I give you my word that the Blu Devil will die. But first, I will see that Kristen and Amanda are brought back to the island. And, if there is punishing to be done, I will see to that, too."
* * *
Chapter 2
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The dockside stench could curl a sensitive nose at twenty paces. The tourists who frequented the waterfront in Algiers, looking for a taste of culture, complained it griped their bellies and killed their appetites, too.
Blu duFray had grown up on the docks and, as a seasoned fisherman, he rarely noticed the ripe odor or the refuse and floating beer cans as he unloaded his day's shrimp catch off the Demon's Eye—his favorite among the fleet of seven aging shrimpers he owned.
Today's heat had crowned one hundred, a humid hundred that had forced Blu out of his T-shirt well before ten that morning. He wiped away the sweat clinging to his neck and glanced around, noting he and his crew were the last to unload their day's catch. By now the others were either on their way home or on a bar stool at Cruger's.
Out of the corner of his eye Blu saw something dark move and he turned in time to see a nun perch herself on a crate outside Thompson's Fishery. She looked miserably uncomfortable as she fidgeted in the hot sun. She damn well should be, he thought, noting the way the black habit hid all but her small, round face.
He shook his head, sure she had been sent to sting his conscience and make him feel guilty. Well, it wasn't going to net her more than a heatstroke, Blu determined. Everyone knew the Blu Devil didn't own a conscience. And he sure as hell hadn't reformed like the hungry-for-a-story journalist at the New Orleans Times-Picayune had claimed. But whether he had or hadn't, the damage was done. Since he'd rescued those six kids from a slave trader last year, he'd been plagued weekly by mission-minded angels harassing him to donate a few extra crates of shrimp to their soup kitchens.
Frankly, Blu was fed up with the whole damn situation. Yes, he'd saved those kids, but there had been a reward, compensation for his trouble, and he hadn't been shy in accepting it. Still, his picture had been plastered on the front page of the newspaper along with a lengthy article playing him up as some kind of modern-day hero.
Well, the nun had made a trip to the docks for nothing unless she had a few extra pounds to sweat off, because his pockets were empty for whatever charity she was selling. No one on this side of the river except for Spoon Thompson—the wholesale crook Blu was forced to sell his shrimp to—could afford to ante up weekly for a tax write-off.
Blu glanced at the nun once more and found her staring straight at him. Oh, hell, she was working him, all right. She had her eye on his shrimp.
Again, he cursed the unwanted publicity he'd received. If he had known how much trouble those kids were going to cost him, he would have never… No, that wasn't true; Taber Denoux had earned his iron cage, and those scared kids had deserved a happy ending.
He was all done questioning his actions. He may not like it, and most of the time he didn't, but long ago Blu had accepted that a higher power navigated his path. Oui, he was all through questioning why it had been him who had discovered Denoux's merchandise that night. In all honesty, he'd felt good seeing those kids reunited with their parents, but he'd also been eager to accept the sizable reward.
Yes, indeed, the Lord did work in mysterious ways—he didn't owe the bank his soul any longer, his men had regular pay checks, and he no longer had to work a second job.
An hour later, the shrimp unloaded and the boat cleaned, Mort said, "If that's it, you mind if I take off for a while? I got something to do."
"You got nothing to do, mon ami," Blu drawled. "What you got is a few bucks in your back pocket and a memory burning your insides."
Mort grinned. "She had a pretty smile."
"I can't argue with that."
"If you were me, what would you do?"
Blu had no authority over Mart after hours. He'd been the oldest of the kidnapped kids Denoux had planned to peddle on the slave market—the only one who'd had nowhere to go after Taber Denoux had been put out of business and hauled off to jail.
It wasn't as if Blu had any regrets inviting Mort to join his crew. The kid had turned out to be a hard worker. He'd easily earned his wage, plus room and board. But from the beginning Blu had made it clear that Mort was expected to take care of himself. He didn't want the responsibility or the aggravation of keeping tabs on a teenager. He'd made it clear he didn't preach morals, give advances, or advice—hell, that would be like Satan giving a lecture on the benefits of reading the Bible.
"You got something more for me to do?"
Blu shook his head. "No. Cross the river and take her someplace quiet."
Crossing the river meant catching the ferry and heading for New Orleans or taking the Crescent City Connection. The girl in question with the pretty smile worked at a hot dog stand along the Riverwalk.
"I'll see you later then," Mort promised.
"Oui. The Nightwing is all yours tonight. I'm staying at the Dump, again. I got payroll to finish," Blu explained.
The Dump—rather, the building in discussion—had been a purchase Blu made with some of the reward money he'd received for his "heroic deed." The rundown two-story on Pelican Street, a few blocks from where he'd grown up, seemed to be a good investment at the time.
He wasn't so sure of that now, though it had certainly pleased his mother and sister. They had been after him to settle down—preferably with a nice girl.
Blu had laughed out loud on hearing that, then promptly told them both that "settling down" was for old people, and that "nice girls" were for saints not devils.
He glanced in the direction he'd last seen the nun, but she was no longer there. Relieved the heat had driven her off, he pulled on his gray sleeveless T-shirt and jumped from the
boat. Swearing as a burning pain shot into his left leg, he reached down to rub his thigh through his worn jeans as he headed toward the fishery.
The bullet wound, courtesy of the Denoux ordeal, had been slow to heal. The doctor had told him the infection he'd endured for the four days he'd kept the kids alive had resulted in permanent tissue damage and that he would always walk with a limp.
The minute Blu walked through Thompson's front door, Spoon looked up from his desk and grinned. He was a short, wiry little man with gray hair and insightful green eyes. In his fifties, twice married and single once more, Spoon had stepped into his father's shoes in much the same way Blu had; the only differences between the two men was their age and which side of the desk they worked on.
"A good catch today, duFray. You doubled my boys."
"Always do."
Blu's blunt reply didn't offend Spoon. The duFray Devils were top-notch, and no one in Algiers would argue that fact, or that Blu duFray was the number one reason why his fleet was still in business.
"Like I've always said, you got the nose for it. Your daddy had it, too. But I think yours is even better. They say you can't teach it. I sure as hell believe it. That's what makes your nose worth paying through the nose for." Spoon chuckled at his own joke.
Blu remained stone sober.
At twenty-five, he was the youngest fishing fleet owner in Algiers. But it wasn't Blu's age or ability that had sparked the number of outrageous wagers down at Cruger's Bar over the past few years—with his uncle Pike's help, Blu had taken over the duFray Devils at age eighteen after his father had unexpectedly died. No, the wagers had nothing to do with whether Blu was smart enough to step into his daddy's shoes, but whether the "old tubs"—as his boats were referred to—would be able to stay afloat, what with the inflated prices on repairs over the years by the marine yards and the decreasing wholesale prices on shrimp.
"Name your price, duFray," Spoon insisted. "Today I'm feeling generous." Blu opened his mouth, but the older man held up his hand. "I've offered to buy you out before, I know. But I'll say it again, mon ami, you're too young to be workin' like you do and gettin' paid half of what you're worth. If I was you, I'd lighten the load and—"
"You're not me."
"But if I was—"
"You got my tally ready?"
"I can appreciate you feelin' loyal to your daddy's memory, son. But if you would have taken my offer two years ago your reputation would still be worth a damn and your mama could hold her head up like she used to."
"Leave it alone, Thompson, or I'll head over to Paradise Point and sell my catch to old man Aldwin."
"That'll be hard to do. Ain't you heard? He's all washed up. Undersellin' me finally bellied him up. Either that, or that no-good worm of a grandson sucked him dry." Spoon grinned, obviously pleased with the other man's misfortune no matter what had caused it. "Besides, I heard you and Aldwin had a partin' of the ways a year or so ago. Don't suppose you'd care to set the record straight as to why that was?"
Blu had no intentions of trading information with Spoon Thompson. What had passed between him and Perch Aldwin was business of another kind. And it was too late to make amends—he'd already tried.
Spoon shook his head. "One of these days those old tubs of yours ain't gonna make it back in. Why don'tcha—"
"My tally," Blu reminded, growing tired of the sound of Spoon's voice and the same topic they argued over daily.
"Those old tubs are bleedin' you."
"Those 'old tubs' still top your catch any day of the week."
Spoon stood and came around the six-foot cypress desk. Side by side, the top of his egg-shaped head didn't reach Blu's massive shoulder. "It ain't the tubs, boy. Your nose is what's gettin' the job done. I've got the money and you've got the talent. Together we could go places. How about meetin' me at Cruger's in an hour and we'll settle this once and for all?"
"Save your money and your jaw, Thompson. I'm not interested."
"You're a stubborn bastard, boy. Ornery as hell, just like your daddy was. But one of these days you'll see I'm right." That said, Spoon picked up the tally sheet and handed it over. "I'm gonna keep askin'."
Blu eyed the tally, didn't like the figures, but knew it was the best he was going to get. He shoved the paper in his back pocket, then left without another word. Outside, he started up Bay Street, considering Spoon's offer, as he did at least once a week. He knew a number of independent fishermen who would jump at the chance to sell out to Spoon and go to work for him. And it would certainly lift a mountain of bills and worry from his shoulders if he did. But for thirty years the duFray Devils had been in business for themselves, and Blu couldn't get past the feeling that selling out to Spoon wouldn't only be selling out his father's legacy, but his men and their pride and dignity, as well.
A block from the waterfront, Blu realized he was being followed. He wasn't selling his fists to Patch Pollaro any longer, but the number of enemies he'd made working for the loanshark could easily explain the tail.
He picked up the pace and turned down Poke Alley—his limp always more pronounced at the end of a long day. He pulled the bandanna off his dark head and shoved it into his back pocket. His jeans were dirt-stained, his T-shirt a little better off since he'd worked most of the day shirtless. When he reached a deserted courtyard, he ducked inside. Minutes later, the tail crept past and Blu reached out and grabbed—his reputation for having the quickest hands in the fist business aiding him instinctively.
The scream that permeated the air jolted Blu's senses. He'd been anticipating a man, but the scream was definitely feminine. He spun the figure around and promptly let go of the nun he'd seen hanging around the wharf an hour ago.
"What the hell are you after, church mouse?" Blu demanded, staring into a pair of wide eyes the color of brown sugar. To go along with her pretty eyes was a delicate nose and a rosebud mouth that was too sexy for the profession she'd chosen. She was, however, carrying the appropriate prop—a thick black Bible.
The nun quickly regained her bearings and took two giant steps backward. "I need to talk to you," she said in a hushed tone. "I'm interested in… What I wanted from you was…"
Blu groaned, anticipating her request. "Save it, church mouse. I'm fresh out of cash, and my day's catch has already been sold. You're hitting on the wrong sucker."
"I don't want your money, or your catch," she responded. "And I'm sure I have the right sucker … uh, I mean, the right man."
"Don't you people get tired of holding out your hands like beggars?"
Disgusted, Blu curled his lip and pierced her with his well-known devil's stare—the one proven to make even the dockside roughnecks squirm—then turned away and started down the alley.
"Wait! Please, I—"
Dog-tired, his leg throbbing, Blu ignored her sudden pleading tone and kept walking.
"Hold it right there, Blu Devil."
Her pleading tone was gone. And the fact that she called him by name alerted Blu that this wasn't the normal charity harassment he'd grown accustomed to—most of the nuns he'd faced were shy and could barely look him in the eye. They had also addressed him as Mr. duFray, even though his devil reputation preceded him.
He turned just as she flipped open the fat black Bible and pulled out a small .22 derringer. Aiming it straight at him, she said, "I need your undivided attention. Do I have it?"
Blu stared down the barrel of the palm-size handgun. "You've got it, church mouse. What's this about?"
"Not a handout," she assured. "Information will do fine."
"What kind of information?"
"How do you know Salvador Maland?"
The question wasn't going to get an answer; Blu had never heard the name before. "I don't know anyone named Salvador," he admitted.
"Liar." She stuck the neat little pearl-handled .22 farther out in front of her. "You have to know him. He knows you."
"Plenty of people know me, fille, that doesn't mean I know them." Blu studied the gun,
the petite young girl, then the gun again. "Is that thing loaded?"
"It wouldn't do me much good if it wasn't. Does the name Kristen Harris mean anything to you?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Does she know me, too?"
Her hand started to shake, confirming she wasn't as tough as she was trying to make him believe. Suddenly her shoulders slumped and she let go of the Bible. When it hit the ground it made a wood-splitting noise and it was then that Blu realized it wasn't a Bible at all. It was a wooden box meant to look like one.
The nun dug a picture out from the folds of her skirt. "This is you, right?"
Blu took a step forward.
She shook the gun at him. "Stay where you are!"
Blu stopped, squinted at the picture. He decided it was definitely him. He was putting a hydraulic winch back together. He'd gotten good a repairing engines, too. And it took hours to repair nets and busted rigging, but his jack-of-all-trades ability was why he was still in business. "I guess that's me," he told the nun.
"I doubt there's two of you," she offered. "Besides, your name is on the back. And Sister Marian confirmed it's you." Her gaze followed his tall, broad frame up then down. "You don't exactly blend into a crowd, and everyone I talked to knew right where to find you."
No surprise there, Blu thought. He'd lived in Algiers all of his life. For the past twenty-five years his parents had owned duFray Fish, the fresh-fish market on Front Street. Then there was his stint with Patch Pollaro as hired muscle, not to mention last year's "heroic deed" that had gained him an altogether new fan base. Hell, yes, people knew him for one reason or another.
"Now what?" Blu forced his attention away from her sexy mouth. "What's next? You going to shoot me?"
"Not unless you do something stupid." She slipped the photo back into her pocket. "Show me your left hand."
The request had Blu arching his heavy black brows. "My hand?"
"Do it!" She motioned with the gun to encourage him.
Blu raised his hand for her to inspect.
"Turn it over."
