“I won’t fight you on that,” Abellard said, “but the boy does make himself useful. And you done come close enough, so stop moving.”
The smile vanished with that command. Rusty stood several feet in front of the desk. He was hoping he’d created just enough distance from Antoine to buy himself some added reaction time, if needed.
“Look, I appreciate you seeing me. I’m an old friend of Marcie’s and I’m worried about her. Figure you must be too, considering the circumstances.”
Abellard looked bored, like what he was hearing had no connection to him whatsoever.
“Circumstances,” he muttered. “What the hell you know about my circumstances, as they relate to Marcie or any other damn thing?”
“I know she took a little vacation without telling anyone, and I know her well enough to know it wasn’t by choice. I’m here to find out where she is, make sure she’s OK.”
“And who exactly are you to be taking such an interest in her welfare?”
“Just what I said, an old friend.”
“Girl’s got a lot of friends. So what?”
“I’m a friend of the whole family.”
“Bully for you, man. How come she never mentioned you, being so close?”
“Maybe she did. You don’t know my name. I’m Rusty Diamond.”
“That supposed to mean something? She never mentioned you, chump.”
“That’s not really the point, is it?”
More silence. Rusty motioned to a metal folding chair positioned in front of the desk.
“Mind if I sit? I’m not looking to waste your time.”
A brusque nod and Rusty seated himself. It seemed like a workable position. He was close enough to the desk to use it for leverage with his feet, in the event that launching backward in attack or self defense became useful.
Abellard retrieved a dead cigar, half smoked, from a crystal ashtray on the desk. He revived it with a lighter, taking his time to get an even burn.
“I’m guessing you don’t know much about me,” he said between puffs.
“That’s true. And I really don’t care to find out.”
“If you did know the first thing about me,” Abellard continued, “you’d play this all different. From the jump, it’d be a whole ’nother game.”
“I won’t argue with that. If I knew a better way to make contact, I’d go that way. Time doesn’t give me the luxury of mapping out alternatives. A pregnant woman’s been missing for almost a week. Not the kind of situation that lends itself to a leisurely approach. So I came to you direct.”
Rusty noticed a slight flinch at the word pregnant. This reference to Abellard’s unborn child elicited the first reaction suggesting that the man might feel slightly off-guard.
“Fuck all that. You still ain’t explained why it’s your damn business. I ain’t saying Marcie’s gone, or sitting easy in our sun room waiting for me to come home. I’m asking why my woman’s on your goddamn radar?”
“I did explain it. We go way back, she’s important to me.” Feeling only icy disinterest and wanting to puncture it, Rusty added, “From what I heard, she ain’t your woman no more.”
Abellard’s right hand clenched, but he quickly relaxed as if realizing too late he’d conceded a point. He placidly withdrew the cigar from his mouth and tapped an ash into the tray.
“Look,” Rusty said, “you might try thinking of me as an asset instead of a threat.”
That striking face rearranged itself again, this time into an expression of pure charismatic mirth. Rusty heard a low chuckle from Antoine. Apparently both men found the notion of being threatened by him pretty amusing.
“I’ve been doing a fair amount of legwork,” he pressed on. “Asking around, racking up some names to talk to. No one has a fucking clue where she is, and I’m running out of names. You’re not of any particular concern to me, Joseph. You’re just the next one on my list.”
“Well, ain’t that a motherfucking relief.”
“I’m asking you straight. Do you know where she is? Is there anything you can tell me?”
“Anything I can tell you? No, no. Let’s start talking about what you can tell me. See, there ain’t nothing about Marcie that don’t concern me. Girl catches a sniffle, I’m all over it with the best goddamn doctor in the state.”
“I get it. You care about her. So if you don’t know where she is, you must be just as scared as I am.”
Abellard pointed a thick finger in his direction.
“Put you and me in the same shoes one more time, you gonna regret it. You ain’t shit to her, understand? I don’t care if you used to know her or what the fuck. I’m doing everything I can to bring the girl home safe and sound.”
Rusty felt a heavy stillness settle over the room. He thought he heard a small gasp from behind him. Joseph Abellard had just revealed he knew Marceline was missing. A mistake yielded by anger, or a calculated admission?
“Back home with you, Joseph? From what I’ve heard, she doesn’t want any part of you. Not anymore.”
Rather than bristle at this claim, Abellard went a shade melancholy. Rusty found himself captivated by the man’s expressiveness. The emotional landscape conveyed by his face was remarkable not just for its range but for the swiftness with which it changed. He saw worry written on that face. A genuine worry that told Rusty he wasn’t the only one in this room concerned for Marceline’s well-being.
“Look, who she lives with,” Rusty said, “that’s her business. I’m not trying to butt in, and I know she wouldn’t want me to. I’m trying to put her father’s mind at ease, as much as my own. He’s about half-crazy with worry. I’m sure you can understand that.”
Abellard stiffened at the reference to Prosper. Rusty counted this as the third sore nerve he’d struck since the conversation started.
“I don’t want to hear about that old bastard, understand?”
“He doesn’t like you too much, does he? I can relate, believe me. Got plenty of personal experience with what a hardass he can be.”
“Motherfucker turned the police on me. Sheriff come out here, spent a damn hour asking the same questions.”
“I heard.”
“Oh, you heard, did you?”
Rusty nodded.
“From the NOPD. They’re tracking this thing along with the Vacherie Sheriff.”
In the silence that followed, Rusty saw something new creep into Abellard’s earth-toned eyes. Not the dismissive hostility, nor the breezy charm he’d glimpsed once or twice. Abellard was looking at him with a kind of sober appraisal, indicating he was being taken seriously for the first time.
“You told the Sheriff you haven’t seen her in, what, a month?”
Rusty wasn’t expecting a reply to that, and he got none.
“Look,” he continued, “whatever the situation is with Marcie and you, it’s none of my concern.”
“You’re goddamn right it—”
“I mean, it’s gotta be rough losing the woman who’s carrying your child.”
“Listen to me real good. Only reason we’re talking is I figured maybe you know something I don’t. Seeing as that ain’t the case—”
“Don’t be so sure,” Rusty broke in, throwing out the last arrow in his quiver. “That ugly scene at the hospital? I heard a thing or two about it. And that was a lot less than a month ago, wasn’t it?”
Silence held for a solid five-count, other than the muted sound of the juke through the walls. Abellard’s face assumed an expression Rusty hadn’t seen before, something of a mix between ashen shock and molten rage.
“What the fuck did you say?”
“I haven’t mentioned it to the NOPD. Not yet. Don’t see any reason to, as long as I know Marceline’s alright. Seems the hospital staff wanted to keep it quiet, but that may not be possible now. It’s up to you.”
With a kind of measured deliberation, Abellard ground out the cigar in the ashtray. He rubbed his fingers together, brushing away a few flecks of tobacco l
eaf.
“This detective I’m talking to, Hubbard. He seems to think you’re in the clear. Who knows, Joseph? He finds out a pair of security guards had to physically remove you when you started screaming at Marcie, just a couple days before she drops off the face of the Earth…he may just take a keener interest in you. You’re out of his jurisdiction, but all he needs to do is call the St. James Sheriff. You may want to set aside some time for more question—”
Rusty saw it happen, barely. But it happened way too fast, and he failed to react.
With a velocity unlikely for such a large man, Abellard launched himself across the desk, both arms outreached. Rusty pushed against the desk with his feet as hard as he could, tilting back his chair, but he was a fraction of a second too slow.
Abellard’s momentum carried him forward like a cannonball. All ten fingers reached Rusty’s throat at the same instant.
The chair toppled over on its hind legs, both men falling hard. Rusty took the full force of Abellard’s body weight driving him into the floor. He barely registered the concussive impact of his head against the tiles. It was overwhelmed by the pain in his lower back as the metal edge of the chair dug in.
Everything went white for a beat. He almost passed out. Then the chokehold on his windpipe yanked him back to consciousness.
“What’d you say, motherfucker?” Abellard shrieked, the words landing on Rusty’s face in a shower of spittle. “What you gonna do? Huh?”
Thrashing to no avail, legs kicking wildly, Rusty couldn’t speak. He didn’t try. All his efforts lay in wrenching those brawny fingers from their constrictive vise around his neck. He made no headway, feeling his oxygen supply nosedive to zero.
From the corner of one eye, Rusty saw Antoine back up against the office door. The guard bore an expression of silent shock at the scene unfolding before him.
The color of Rusty’s face deepened from red to purple, eyes bulging. A fiery hold constricted tighter around his throat.
“I…want to…help…”
“You ain’t doing nothin, punk!” Abellard roared, slamming his head against the floor in synch with each word. “You done said your last words up in here!”
Rusty barely heard him. His windpipe screamed in choking pain, eyes pouring tears that blinded him in the glare of the fluorescent lights above. The hammering of his heart grew more frantic, and he knew a blackout was only seconds away.
“Find…her…”
The plea died, strangled before he could complete it. A black veil passed over Rusty’s eyes as consciousness left him.
15.
Only not quite. The pain screaming across Rusty’s lower back kept him from passing out. His vision constricted like a tightened aperture and then flared wide. Squeezing his eyes shut, he went still and strained to summon a last reserve of energy to break loose.
Then he heard the security guard speak.
“He’s out,” Antoine said from his position by the door. “You choked the man out, boss.”
With those words, Rusty felt the grip on his throat retract. Oxygen filtered in slowly, but he remained still. Playing possum, at least for as long as it took to restore some semblance of normal respiration, struck him as wise.
He watched through slitted eyes as Joseph Abellard staggered upright. The casino boss leaned against his desk, breathing hard.
“Motherfuck,” he uttered in a half-whisper, staring at the outsized hands that almost squeezed the life out of the man at his feet. “Fetch Robert and Bones.”
Antoine didn’t require a reprise of that command. He quickly vacated the office, closing the door behind him.
Rusty tracked the motions of Abellard’s legs as he stepped around the desk and dropped into the leather chair like someone had severed a rope holding him upright. He sat for a long moment, motionless except for the heaving of his chest.
A mobile phone on the desk started ringing. Rusty heard what sounded like a displeased grunt before Abellard spoke.
“Professor. Wasn’t expecting we’d talk till this evening.”
From his prone position, Rusty fought against the numbing allure of slipping into unconsciousness. Only the pain in his lower back where the chair’s edge dug in prevented a total blackout. Vying for a close second with his back’s misery was the scalding of his throat.
“We’ve had this conversation before. I understand the urgency. We’re delivering tomorrow night, Tuesday noon at the latest.”
A series of muted agreements followed, as if Abellard was responding to a laundry list of commands.
“You’re worrying too much, Professor. I told you we’re good. Sherman’s on it.”
A pause elapsed, well over a minute. Rusty could hear Abellard’s breath growing more strained, as if he was experiencing physical pain. Figuring this was his best shot to free himself, he planted both palms on the floor in preparation to launch toward the door.
Abellard kicked the chair away from the desk and stood.
“Say that again. No, say those words again, Professor Guillory.”
He stepped around the desk and started pacing the office, forcing Rusty to lay flat.
“No, no, no…I need to hear it again, ’cause I know damn well I didn’t hear you right!”
Professor Guillory, Rusty thought, struck by the new tone in the big man’s voice—both outraged and pleading. I won’t have a hard time remembering that one.
The pacing gained speed. Abellard’s feet pounded the tiles and almost kicked Rusty in the face.
“I want to talk to her. Now! Put her on the damn phone!”
Abellard stopped talking abruptly, his large head nodding as he listened to what was being said on the other end of the call. He coughed out a few more muted grunts, then slammed the phone onto his desk with a curse.
Rusty took a last girding breath and prepared to rise in attack.
Three knocks on the door froze him in place.
“Get in here!” Abellard yelled.
Rusty saw the bottom of the door swing inward. Three pairs of legs stepped briskly inside, then it slammed shut. He recognized Antoine’s tree-trunk thighs and black leather shoes. The neat cuffs of some champagne slacks told him the bartender was one of the other two men. A pair of jeans over heavy work boots didn’t tell him much about the third.
“Damn,” the bartender rasped. “Didn’t take long, did it?”
“Listen up,” Abellard snapped. “This needs to go down quick. Bones, run over to the storage shed. Grab some heavy rope, plenty of it. And some fishing tackle. Load the skiff on the trailer and hook it up to my ride.”
“Who’s minding the bar?”
“Man, fuck the damn bar. Anybody still at the tables, show their asses to the exit.”
The bartender’s shiny wing tips rotated toward the door. Rusty heard the knob turn.
“And fetch a bottle,” Abellard said.
“Anything in particular?”
“Just grab something, motherfucker! I ain’t drinking the shit.”
The door opened and closed again.
One down, three to go, Rusty thought, deciding he wouldn’t make a move until the odds shifted further in his favor. His breath and heartbeat had returned to normal levels, and aside from his screaming back he was starting to feel significantly more pissed off than wounded.
“Robert, turn out his pockets,” Abellard said.
Rusty forced himself not to move as the man in work boots lowered himself to a crouch. He got a brief view of a broad bearded face, then felt himself being rolled over onto his stomach. Strong hands pulled his wallet from his back pocket before liberating his keys from the front.
The man named Robert tossed the wallet to Abellard, who flipped it open and emptied its contents. He examined Rusty’s Nevada ID with a curious scowl.
“What’s he driving?”
“Mustang,” Robert said, hefting the keys. “Hertz rental.”
“Find out which one, then pull it around back and meet Bones by the shed. Go with h
im, Antoine, and make sure all them suckers hit the door. We’re closing early.”
Antoine paused before asking, “What’re we doing with him, boss?”
“Homeboy’s getting an up close and personal view of Barataria Bay.”
A weighty silence greeted those words, followed by a low whistle from Robert.
“Damn,” he muttered, opening the door.
Abellard tossed the wallet to Antoine and said, “Put it back in his pants. No need for this to look like a robbery.”
“Hey, boss,” Antoine muttered uneasily. “You sure he’s out?”
“He is now,” Abellard replied.
Rusty sensed it coming a half-second before it happened. The toe of Abellard’s right foot swung at his temple like a wrecking ball. He braced himself, to no great gain, and never felt the blow that knocked him unconscious.
16.
A blinding wash of sunlight brought him back around. It was either that or the bumpiness of the unpaved road they were traveling. Rusty’s eyes blinked open. For several excruciating seconds all he could focus on was pain. His lumbar region burned like a hot poker was held against it. With some gratitude he concluded his breathing was coming more easily now than in the casino office.
The vehicle jostled again, front tires falling into a shallow gully. Rusty suppressed a wail and centered himself with a few deep breaths. He was in the backseat of what appeared to be a luxury SUV. A wreathed logo sewn into the fabric of the seatback in front of him told him it was a Cadillac. Most likely an Escalade, judging from the size.
It was moving at brisk speed, bouncing over such rough terrain that even the best German-made shocks did little to smooth out the ride.
Not very promising. We must be in the middle of nowhere, even by Vacherie standards.
Peering out a tinted window, he saw nothing but thick clusters of mangroves and the occasional sunbaked palm. Whoever was driving this vehicle was steering deep into swamp country.
“I’m saying it’s rash, that’s all.”
Blind Shuffle Page 10
