by Wendy Rosnau
"What do you think of my elevator, Jacky?" Joe finally asked.
Jackson grinned. "It's bigger than the dream, Joe."
"Yeah. You know how kids are. Ten-story buildings seem plenty big to an eight-year-old."
They shared a laugh while Lucky grunted and tipped up his glass of Scotch. Jackson eyed him, deciding that Lucky needed a new line of work—his job as Frank's soldier was killing him. He was thinner than usual, the chip on his shoulder bigger, and his eyes … his bloodshot eyes were the result of too much booze and not enough sleep.
Jackson asked, "How's life. Lucky?"
"It's a party, Jacky. One big party." He drained the Scotch. "Joey filled me in. So how long you staying?"
"For as long as it takes to get Sunni out of the hot seat."
Unlike Joe's suit-and-tie attire, Lucky wore jeans and a black T-shirt beneath a famous black leather jacket that had a history all its own.
"Have a seat." Joey motioned to the leather chairs in front of his eight foot polished oak desk. Jackson left Mac near the door and took a seat while Lucky headed for the bar.
"So what's with the dog, Jacky?"
"He's my partner," Jackson answered. "Can't find anyone who wants to work with me these days but an ornery dog."
"You saying he'll rip my throat out if you snap your fingers?"
"I don't know. Should we try it and see?"
As Lucky moved to the window behind Joey, carrying another glassful of Scotch, Jackson studied his slow gait, a gait that guaranteed he was in physical pain. Lucky was once as handsome as his older brother, but his street activities had earned him a number of visible scars. But the worst ones were hidden.
Joe, on the other hand, had only one visible scar, but ironically it hadn't come from an enemy's fist or knife. The day he'd told his father he wanted to be an architect instead of a player in the family business, Frank had split his cheek open.
"Sunni came to see me this morning," Joey began.
"And?"
"She explained why she'd offered the false information. I've discussed it with Frank. We feel her motivation was solely to benefit Silks, therefore we're willing to work around the problem."
"Which is?"
Joey smiled. "I hear her daddy can be noisy when he's unhappy. We don't want him making noise in Chicago, Jacky. You keep him in New Orleans and we'll be happy."
Jackson nodded. "Okay. Clide stays put. Done."
"Last night you told Joey you'd just gotten into town. This morning I checked that out and learned you've been here five days." Lucky turned from the window. "Why the lie? What's your game, Jacky? And who you playing with?"
Jackson rested his elbow on the arm of the chair. "My game is simple. Find Milo's killer, spring Sunni and head back to New Orleans."
"Why didn't you just come to me?" Joey asked.
"The truth?"
"Always, Jacky."
"I wanted to know who was involved for myself."
"We didn't kill Milo, Jacky."
"I know, but neither did Sunni Blais." Jackson watched Lucky head back to the bar. "About the alibi story…"
"We believe she's innocent, too," Joey said. "It made sense to help her and help ourselves in the process. Masado Towers doesn't need negative publicity."
"No, I suppose not. Can Williams prove the alibi story is a lie?"
"No."
"So now you know whose side we're on," Lucky said from behind the bar.
"The side you've always been on, bro. Frank's."
The blunt statement wasn't meant to start a fire. It was just open and honest. Joe and Lucky had never wanted to be Frank Masado's boys. They had wanted their own identities, their own lives. But being born to the family didn't leave them a choice and they all knew it.
As Lucky sat down a few chairs away from Jackson, Joey said, "You've had enough from the bar, mio fratello."
Lucky looked up. "I'm hurting today. Takes the edge off. And even if it didn't, you're my brother, not my mama."
Jackson grinned. Listening to the bickering felt like old times.
Finally, he decided to cut to the chase. "So who killed Milo?"
Joey's eyes traveled to Lucky then back to Jackson. "We don't know. The word on the street is that it wasn't—"
"Anyone we know," Lucky finished.
"Are you sure about that, Lucky?" Jackson persisted.
Lucky licked his lips in anticipation of tasting the alcohol he obviously craved. "If you think I'm guilty of sending that worthless piece of meat to hell, try to prove it, Jacky. Be my guest. Spin your wheels."
"Lucky…" Joey nailed his brother with narrowed eyes. "Unless you want him all over you, back off."
"Him on me?" Lucky snorted. "He can try, but the only way he'd get the jump on me is when I'm hurtin', and then only if he played dirty."
Jackson pulled the knife sheathed at his hip so fast Lucky didn't make a move until it was too late and the wicked blade rested on his jugular.
"God, Jacky! What the hell are you doing?" Joey was on his feet in an instant.
"I'm playing dirty, Joe. What's it look like I'm doing?"
"Dammit, Jacky, that's my brother you're tickling with that thing!"
Before Joey could step around the desk, a low growl filled the room and all eyes moved to Mac as he stalked toward the desk, his lips peeled away from his long, impressive canines.
"Jeez! Call off the dog, Jacky."
Surprised, though not willing to admit it, Jackson watched as Mac turned into one mean son of a bitch—he was a healthy Nine-lives Lucky on four legs. It was the first time the dog had shown any aggression since they'd been teamed up together. Mostly Mac slept, ate and, when he felt an energy surge, chewed up something. "I guess I don't need to snap my fingers," he joked.
"Not funny, Jacky." Joey swore. "This isn't smart, bro."
"If I live through this you're dead," Lucky growled, barely moving a muscle.
"Dammit, Lucky, shut the hell up." Joey's eyes flashed a warning at his brother, then at his friend. "I gave you that Hibben, you son of a bitch. Don't use it on my brother. I'm only going to say it this one time."
It was true the knife had been a gift. A gift Joey had surprised him with on Jackson's eighteenth birthday. "Mac, back off," he ordered. And then, as his partner backtracked three feet, his growl dying slowly, he released Lucky and hurled the expensive Hibben across the room toward the west wall. The deadly knife nailed the mirror behind the bar dead center and shattered glass fell with a loud crash.
Lucky scrambled out of his chair just as the door burst open and Mr. Muscle rushed in waving a sawed-off shotgun. But be didn't get a chance to use the Lupara before Mac was airborne. Ninety-eight pounds of angry dog hit the stout guard square in the chest and knocked him off balance. A half second later, Mac was all over him, shredding his suit jacket.
Jackson went for the Lupara on the floor. As he reached for the gun, Lucky said, "Go for it, Jacky. Give me the excuse I don't need."
Jackson spun around to see Lucky aiming a .25 caliber Beretta at his head.
"Dammit!" Joey shouted. "Lucky, pocket that damn thing, then get the hell out of here before you make a mistake you can't live with."
"You want me out?" His look of disbelief matched his mood.
"You need to cool off," Joey insisted.
"Me? What about him? The son of a bitch went for my throat, Joey."
"You were going for mine the minute I walked in the door," Jackson countered.
"Both of you shut up," Joey demanded. "Jacky, sit the hell down. Lucky, go stick your head in a bucket of ice and cool down. Take Gates with you and put him in a new suit."
That wasn't going to happen with Mac standing on is chest. Jackson snapped his fingers and said, "Mac, take a break."
The dog backed off, but instead of taking himself out of the picture entirely, he remained by the door, his eyes glued on Lucky's every move.
Lucky lowered the Italian-made automatic, then suddenly grinned at Jac
kson. "You've gotten faster, mio fratello." He nodded appreciatively. "That's good. Now I won't worry about you so much."
"You've gotten slower," Jackson countered. "Get rid of the booze, bro."
When they were finally alone, Joey said, "You still drinking beer or do you need something stronger?"
"Beer's good."
"I need a double." Joey crossed to the bar and stepped onto the broken glass to retrieve the drinks and the Hibben.
"You don't drink in the middle of the day," Jackson said as he made himself comfortable in the chair once more.
"Normally I don't need to. Don't do that again, Jacky. Lucky can be a pain in the ass, but he's my pain in the ass. And he's the best reason I've got to get up in the morning. Don't mess with him again."
"He needs to get off the booze."
"That's not news." When Joey returned, he took the chair next to Jackson and handed him first the Hibben, then the beer. "Let's clear the air. You tell me what you've got, and I'll see what I can add to make this mess go away faster."
"What's the story with Lucky?" Jackson asked.
"He's touchy about the murder, but not for the reason you might think. When he learned that Milo had approached Sunni with a partnership deal, he was upset. He confronted Milo and they threw some punches. He was also nervous because we didn't know at that point how Sunni would respond to Milo's offer. But Lucky didn't take out Milo and frame Sunni." Joey shook his head. "That didn't happen, Jacky."
Jackson tipped back his head and poured the beer down his throat, then took a minute to speculate. Finally he asked, "When and where did Lucky and Milo face off?"
"Milo's turf."
"The Shedd?"
Joey nodded. "Lucky knew better than to go after him there. There are rules, you know. Three days later, Milo's boys hit him when he was leaving the house."
"The house?"
"He won't stay under Frank's roof, or mine. He moved back to the house in our old neighborhood. He lay unconscious in the alley for two hours, Jacky. When he came to, he dragged himself back inside and called me. When I got there I thought he was dead. I called an ambulance. Ten days later, he walked out of the hospital with only one kidney. A week later Milo turned up dead. I know what it looks like, but Lucky didn't kill him."
"You know Lucky, Joe. You know he's a hothead."
"But he's also smart."
"He used to be smarter than a two-headed cobra. But he's half that man today, Joe."
"He'll pull it together. He always does."
"Let's hope it's sooner rather than later."
"So maybe it's good you're home. You can help me put him back together."
"What does Frank think?"
Joey snorted. "Frank's still Frank. For walking out of the hospital in ten days instead of five weeks like the doctor advised, Frank gave Lucky the Beretta he aimed at your head, and two cases of imported Scotch."
They talked for an hour, reflected on old times—speculated about the fixture and made some decisions concerning Lucky. When Jackson stood to leave, Joey said, "It's good to have you home, mio fratello. Come, let me show you around."
* * *
The clock on Sunni's desk read three o'clock, marking another wasted hour staring at the stack of paperwork on her desk. She squeezed her eyes shut, chastised herself for wasting precious time, then went right back to daydreaming.
My God, she thought, no man should be allowed to look that good naked. But there it was, the reason she hadn't done an ounce of work all day.
The truth was, her phantom lover was no longer a one-dimensional image. He'd grown legs. He walked. Talked. Had warm lips, and no doubt had the stamina of a bull elk, judging by the visible evidence that had been presented to her that morning. Groaning in frustration, Sunni forced herself to focus on the stack of bills in front of her. Five minutes later—two bills addressed and stamped—a shrill scream from the showroom brought her out of her chair like a rocket.
Moments later she tossed open the door and rushed from her office to see if her manager was all right. But nothing looked amiss—Mary was behind the sales counter waiting on a customer, and the room was dotted with hopefuls. But suddenly another scream sent Sunni's gaze to the left just as something dark dashed under the chemise rack. On recognition, she groaned, then muttered, "Oh, no … not him again."
As she muttered the words, Jackson Ward's partner scooted beneath a rack of slips, sent it spinning, then took off to find whatever it was he was looking for. Frozen a few feet from her office door, Sunni watched as he raced past the sales counter, nearly knocking Vetta Samanto onto her rich behind. She squealed, swung her purse, then dug in her heels and clutched the counter.
It suddenly occurred to Sunni that if Mac was there, then Jackson should be somewhere close by. As she scanned the store, she spied him outside in the lobby talking to Joey Masado. They looked like they were in deep conversation, so deep, in fact, that neither one was aware that Mac had wandered off.
She watched Joey suddenly turn and walk off. A second later Jackson turned his gaze around and locked eyes with her. For no sane reason that she could explain, Sunni took a moment to appreciate his broad shoulders in his butter-soft tan shirt, his flat abdomen and sturdy long legs.
Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, another scream from Vetta sent Sunni's thoughts and her eyes back to the counter, where the determined woman was taking another energetic swing at Mac's head as he raced past her. She missed him by a mile, only this time the swing was healthy enough to knock her off balance and drop her to her knees. As she went down she cried, "Save us, St. Christopher!"
Jackson arrived at Sunni's side seconds later. "Hell, I'm sorry. He was supposed to stay with me."
"You are sooo … dead. Both of you," Sunni snapped.
She had no sooner issued the threat when several more screams had them both focusing on the far wall where the dressing rooms were located. All at once the doors shot open as if someone had just signaled the start of the Kentucky Duty, and a dozen Thoroughbred racers left the starting gate in various stages of undress.
"I'm ruined," Sunni groaned as she watched Mac belly-crawl from one dressing room to another like a sniper on a recon mission.
An earsplitting whistle from Jackson brought Mac's head up, his gaze locking on Sunni. As if he'd suddenly found what he was searching for—he bolted toward her like a runaway locomotive that had left the tracks.
"What's he doing?" Sunni asked, taking a step back.
"Hell, I don't know."
"What do you mean, you don't know?" She took another step back. "If he doesn't slow down, he's going to run me over."
Mac achieved warp-speed as he cornered the sales counter. Sunni heard Jackson swear, then she was swept off her feet into his arms and he was scrambling backward several feet.
Mac, who continued to race toward them, suddenly stiffened out his front legs, hauled on the brakes and began to backpedal to keep from colliding into them. At the last minute, he dropped his butt for drag and skidded to a stop mere inches from Jackson's feet.
Seconds later you could have heard a pin drop. Customers stood like statues, their wide eyes glued on Mac sitting in front of them wagging his tail.
It was Saturday, one of the busiest days of the week. There had to be twenty-plus customers in her little shop. Twenty-plus lost sales who would be issuing complaints to management within the hour.
Finally Mary broke the awkward moment by coming around the counter to help Vetta to her feet. The older woman turned to glare at Sunni, and she opened her mouth to apologize, but Jackson's heavy voice filled the room before she had a chance. "It's all right, folks, the excitement's over now. There was a rabid cat in the building. Our top K-9 was sent in to flush him." He set Sunni on her feet, then flashed his badge too quickly for anyone to dispute his story. "The cat's out of the store, so you can relax. The CPD thanks you for your cooperation, and apologies for any inconvenience we've caused."
His gaze touched on each customer
, then he stepped forward, retrieved Vetta's bag off the floor and handed it to her. As he turned, he said loud enough so everyone could hear, "In your office, Miss Blais? A moment of your time."
He took hold of her elbow and steered her into her office. When the door closed behind them, Sunni saw that Mac had followed them and was now wagging his tail. "You," she scolded, "don't you dare look happy. You're a bad dog. Bad dog!"
Mac lowered his head, his tail going still. Sunni instantly felt like an old shrew. "It's not all your fault," she modified, lifting her head to pin Jackson with an accusing glare. "I thought K-9s were well trained. I thought you said he was a veteran. Are you aware that he came—" Sunni held up her hand and measured an inch "—this close to breaking my lamp this morning? And minutes ago, my neck?"
"Since you brought that up. This morning, I mean. I—"
"No. I don't want to talk about this morning." Sunni closed her eyes and tried to calm down. Suddenly she felt a warm thumb brush lightly over her lower lip. She blinked her eyes open and took a step back. "Don't."
"Did anyone ask about that?"
"Mary. I told her I accidentally bit myself."
"Bad lie."
"I wouldn't have had to lie at all if you hadn't—" Suddenly a loud rap at the door broke her off. "Yes?"
The door swung open and her manager poked her head in. "There's a Detective Williams here to see you."
Sunni sighed heavily. "All right, Mary. Send him back." When the door closed she said, "That man grilled me for two hours, two different times already. What can I possibly tell him that I haven't told him? Maybe Joey changed his mind and decided to recant his alibi after all. He told me this morning he wouldn't, but—"
"Joe's sticking with the alibi. You don't have to worry about that."
The knock at the door made Sunni jump.
"Let me handle this," he told her.
Sunni nodded, rounded her desk, straightened her suit jacket, then said, "Come in, Detective Williams."
The door opened, and the detective stepped inside. He glanced at Sunni, then at Jackson. Grinning, he said, "The chief told me this morning that you were here. I can't deny I was surprised. Guess I had no idea where you ended up when you left town. Anyway, there's really no need for you to be here. I already told Chief Blais when I learned something I'd shared the info."
