“While I was living on the road, I tried to find out what happened. There was nothing in the news. Ponti probably decided the public didn’t need to know about it. I saw my own name in a few headlines. ‘What happened to Rusty Diamond? Vegas performer disappears halfway through 18-month engagement at Caesars. Casino managers scrambling to find a replacement.’ Et cetera. After three months of living in motels, I ended up back in Ocean Pines. I’ve been there ever since.”
He stopped talking, spent and revolted by the tale. Monday and Prosper remained silent. Rusty glanced from one to the other, failing to meet their eyes. He had a feeling neither would ever look at him in quite the same way again.
Without glancing up, Prosper asked, “Did the girl recover?”
“I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?!” Prosper almost shouted.
Stepping over to the chair where he sat, Rusty kneeled.
“Judge me all you want, old man. I deserve your scorn, and worse. Write me off, never speak to me again. But right now we have to think of Marceline. I think I know where she is. How to find her, and get her back. And I need your help.”
26.
Anne Guillory’s leggy frame reclined along a blue velvet sofa in the conservatory. Feet on a pillow, she faced north, gazing out at the rear grounds as a curtain of peach-orange sunlight streamed in over her left shoulder.
The conservatory was quiet, except for a soft purr from the humidifier. Kept at precisely 82.5 degrees, an ideal temperature for the many plant and animal lifeforms amassed within, the humidifier puffed out tiny clouds of vapor that dissipated before they left any trace of condensation on the panes.
All fifteen birdcages were covered with sheets, which explained the silence. If undraped, the cages would rattle and shriek with conjoined bedlam. Guillory often enjoyed sitting in here alone, listening to the crazed orchestra of birdcalls. If she closed her eyes, she could envision herself someplace far from central Louisiana and all its disappointments. She might be in Peru, or Ecuador, or some uncharted tropical region where one’s missteps vanished into the overgrowth and were never thought of again.
This afternoon, however, she didn’t want the birds to carry her off to any imaginary refuge. She needed to be alert, focused on her immediate problems and their most economical solutions.
“Lower,” Anne Guillory said, closing her eyes as she issued the command.
Pierre Montord did as he was told. He dropped his fingertips an inch, finding exactly the spot below her third cervical vertebra that most needed his attention. He’d been massaging her neck and shoulders for the past hour. The task didn’t bore him. Each small murmur of satisfaction stoked his desire by incremental degrees. He’d stand here, responding to her directions and honing in on tender areas, until she was ready to move things to the master bedroom upstairs. At least that’s how their arrangement normally progressed. But nothing about today was normal, and Pierre couldn’t quite envision how it might end.
“It’s final?” he asked quietly. “You’re absolutely sure this is how to proceed?”
Guillory didn’t answer him. She had no desire to speak at the moment, or to be spoken to. Pierre’s most valuable qualities seldom intersected with the needs of her mind, and right now her mind needed only to process data uninterrupted. She required his hands, not his mouth.
They were impressive hands, if oddly delicate on such a solidly built man. His nails were manicured to glossy perfection, at Guillory’s insistence. The hairless skin stretching from his knuckles to the wrist of his right hand contained a splotchy reddened patch indicative of ink removal. The tattoo once there had depicted a snake coiled around the letter V.
The tattoo was more to Pierre’s liking than the nail gloss, but he gladly made some allowances for the privilege of serving Anne Guillory in a range of vital functions. Left to his own devices, Pierre would gnaw his nails down to the cuticle, unconsciously mimicking the self-grooming habits of the Louisiana muskrat, one of his favorite members of the Cricetidae family of rodents indigenous to the state.
If only things had gone differently. If VECTOR had been granted adequate time to flourish with proper funding and personnel, they most certainly would have employed the muskrat as one of many warriors in a righteous campaign against the despoilers of the Gulf’s most vulnerable wetlands.
It wasn’t to be. Hell, they never even got close to launching an opening salvo. But that was all ancient history by now. With a little luck, and smart application of the money accumulated from their arrangement with Abellard, VECTOR might one day rise again.
“I asked you a question. Are you quite sure—”
“Please shut up and go back to that spot you were working on before. No, to the left. That’s it.”
A vintage Bakelite phone on the bamboo coffee table rang. Guillory rotated on the sofa to glance up at Pierre.
“Why don’t I check caller ID in the great room?” he asked.
“Just pick it up.”
Pierre did as he was told.
“Hello? Yes, Mr. Abellard. I believe she’s available. Hold the line.”
Covering the mouthpiece, he whispered, “What exactly are you going to tell him?”
Guillory grabbed the receiver and nodded for Pierre to resume his handiwork on her tendons.
“Hello, Joseph.”
“We’re on,” Abellard answered gruffly, not bothering with any preliminaries.
“I’ll be frank. You’ve caught me off guard. That’s not what I was expecting to hear.”
“Told you I make good on my deals.”
“I’m not sure I want to know just how this delivery was obtained, Joseph. In light of some recent newsworthy events.”
“If you’re worried that incompetent piece of shit Sherman’s involved, you can scratch that. Motherfucker hasn’t shown his face for two days. No answer on his phone neither. He’s on the run.”
“My. Such an unexpected breach of protocol must prove worrisome.”
“No, I ain’t worried. I’ll find him, and he’ll have plenty to answer for when I do.”
Anne Guillory held the phone in place for a moment, savoring the crack of two fused vertebrae as Pierre pressed on just the right spot with his thumbs. A real talent of his, finding the right sensitive spot. On top of which, he was a fairly accomplished chef who was willing to do all manner of housework. He earned his keep. That was why she’d kept him around all this time, despite the tremendous deficit to her professional reputation their liaison had cost her.
“I’ll spare you some pointless legwork, Joseph. You won’t need to look for Mr. Sherman. I can tell you exactly where he is at this moment. More to the point, I can promise you he’s beyond the reach of incarceration. So if you’ve been sprouting gray hairs over what he might divulge under the pressure of a police inquiry, you can relax.”
She waited as Abellard let a moment pass before replying. Guillory had the impression the time was spent attempting to erase any note of surprise from his voice.
“I’m sure you’ll be more specific,” he said, “so I know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“He’s safely out of the way, and fulfilling a purpose beyond any I imagine he ever dreamed himself worthy.”
Guillory’s breath caught as Pierre bore down fiendishly on a sensitive nerve. She shot him an admonishing glance saying: That’s too hard and you know it. He responded with a winsome grin saying: No it isn’t, and you know it.
“Sherman’s not a problem,” she said sharply into the phone, cutting off a string of full-throated protestations from Abellard. “You can take my word for that, or see for yourself. But if you can regain a measure of calm, there’s something more important I have to tell you.”
Pierre’s hands slowly stopped moving as he listened to one side of the brief, tense conversation that followed. He heard Anne Guillory tell Joseph Abellard that the Lavalle woman was safely interred right here on the property, as she had been for almost a week. This wasn’t n
ew information. The professor had divulged as much in a similar conversation less than twenty-four hours ago. Now she added a new bit of intel, casually informing Joseph Abellard that the man who executed the abduction was none other than his own wayward employee Claude Sherman.
Immediately after this revelation was aired, Guillory had to yank the receiver away to spare her ear the volcanic barrage of obscenities that followed. From his position behind her, Pierre could hear each word as if it was being shouted inches from his face.
“Joseph,” Guillory tried to interject. “Joseph! Calm down. I told you she’s been treated perfectly well. If anything, she may end up missing the level of comfort she’s been afforded here.”
A silence followed. Pierre could no longer hear any emanations of wrath coming through the phone.
“Let’s pare things down to their most vital components. You deliver what’s owed to me and I release her into your care. We sever our arrangement and don’t cross paths from that point onward. Agreed?”
Abellard grumbled some more in reply. Guillory covered the receiver and glanced up at Pierre with an amused glint in her eye.
“Can you hear him panting? Like a Bull Mastiff in heat.”
Pierre didn’t share her mirth, shaking his head with disapproval.
“I told you this wasn’t a good approach,” he said. “If you could occasionally listen to—”
Guillory raised a silencing hand.
“Could you repeat that, Joseph?”
“Tonight, goddamnit!” Abellard roared, loud enough for Pierre to hear plainly. “Have her ready for me. And tell that fuckin’ pretty boy not to try anything that makes this go another way.”
The line went dead. Guillory handed the phone back and briskly stood, no longer interested in a neck massage.
“Appraise me of the girl’s condition.”
“Looks fine,” Pierre said with a shrug. “She’s given up on her little hunger strike.”
“That wasn’t destined to last long, was it? Go out and make sure she’s presentable. I don’t have to tell you to employ the usual precautions.”
“Why’d you tell him Sherman was the one who grabbed her?”
“Two reasons. He’s clearly distracted by wondering where Mr. Sherman is at the moment, and I want him focused on more pertinent matters.”
“What’s the other reason?”
Guillory looked at Pierre with a kind of disappointment he’d seen in her face before. It reminded him of his days as her student at Tulane, when she’d had to explain an academic point he should have figured out on his own.
“Think, darling. When I told Joseph the truth about Miss Lavalle’s predicament yesterday, who do you think he assumed performed the abduction?”
“I don’t care if he thinks I did it.”
“I care, given the chances of him looking to settle that score. I thought it best to remove you from the line of fire, but don’t thank me now. I’m sure you’ll find some creative way of doing so later, when this tiresome episode is behind us.”
With that, she turned and walked out of the conservatory, her stockinged feet padding silently across the planks.
“Does he really think we’re letting her go?” Pierre asked as she stepped into the main house.
He got no answer from Anne Guillory.
27.
Joseph Abellard tried to calm himself after getting off the phone. The walls of his cramped office at the Carnival felt tighter than ever before. Either that or the suppressed wrath boiling within him had stretched his corporeal frame to new dimensions. He was working very hard not to physically wreck the office.
Viewed in sum, the call went about as intended. He’d expressed the primary message clearly enough. An exchange was going down tonight, one which would erase all outstanding debts and conclude his business dealings with Guillory. Abellard would deliver a new batch of viable embryonic stem cells, one he’d personally procured in Shreveport this very morning.
Locating an alternate source of the material had been a challenge. He’d resorted to pouring through copious bookmaking ledgers to find a client in the family planning profession. There was only one candidate, a degenerate gambler with his own clinic who’d lost over twenty grand last year on ill-advised college basketball wagering. Abellard called the man, said he’d wipe the slate in return for a favor. He didn’t mention specifics over the phone, just made the drive to Shreveport at sunrise.
Dr. Sidney Golden responded with shocked outrage to the proposed favor, but some physical intimidation proved sufficient to induce his cooperation. Several hours later, the quaking abortionist met Abellard in the clinic’s parking lot, handed him a cooler the size of a shoe box, and swore to never place another bet as long as he lived.
That cooler now sat in the back of Abellard’s Escalade, which Antoine should be bringing around any minute. Abellard would most definitely check to make sure everything was in order before leaving. He’d also be checking to confirm a snub-nosed .38 was hidden in the rear console, where he’d instructed Antoine to stash it with six rounds in the chamber.
Thus armed, he’d be prepared for whatever happened at Guillory’s house. And no matter what did happen, he’d be bringing his woman back home.
All good enough. But Abellard was still reeling from the one revelation he almost couldn’t believe had escaped him until a few moments ago, which Professor Bitch had disclosed with a smile he could almost see over the phone.
Fucking Claude Sherman. Abellard’s dirty job specialist. A traitor in his own house.
Ever since Guillory dropped the bomb twenty-four hours ago, revealing that Marceline had been under her watch all this time, Abellard figured it was that manicured freak Pierre who’d pulled the snatch. Made sense. He was a big, rangy bastard who seemed plenty capable of handling his business, despite the glossed veneer that made him look half a fruit. And Pierre’s connections to that weird eco-terrorist shit, about which Abellard knew little and didn’t care to learn more, probably gave him all kinds of deviant inclinations.
But no. Today Guillory nonchalantly said Pierre wasn’t the abductor. It was Sherman, a man on Abellard’s own goddamn payroll. The same motherfucker who’d continued to work in his employ the past week like nothing happened.
Sick, deceitful back-stabber. Stealing a pregnant woman from her bed as she slept. His woman—and yes, that’s what Marceline Lavalle was and would remain, regardless of any temporary falling out—held captive in conditions Abellard couldn’t even begin to conceive, despite Guillory’s velvety assurances of safety and comfort. Quite possibly rendered docile by drugs, all the while carrying his child in her belly.
Abellard could no longer claim he knew what he was getting into by agreeing to broker illicit human tissue for Anne Guillory. When presented with the scheme after making her acquaintance at some stuck-up charity bash at Tulane, he’d seen it as just another chance to wet his beak. No different in principle from the escorts he ran in the Quarter, the heavily stepped-on coke his boys slung all over the Lower Ninth, or the rigged games he used to soak compulsive gamblers right here in the Carnival.
A knock at the door pulled him from his incensed reverie.
“Come in!”
The door opened and Antoine’s bulbous head appeared through the gap.
“All gassed up, boss.”
“What about the console? Am I gonna find what I’m looking for in there? Don’t make me come back once I’m out the door.”
“It’s cool. Everything like you said.”
Abellard mulled the reliability of Antoine’s pledge, then nodded.
“Alright. I’ll be leaving before the hour’s up. Till then, no interruptions. Any little kind of mess, deal with it yourself.”
“You know we’ll handle business.” Antoine paused before asking, “Sure you don’t want backup, or at least a driver?”
“What did I say, motherfucker? Get your fat ass on that floor!”
Antoine grunted in affirmation and closed the
door, leaving Joseph Abellard with his rage and his plans for putting things right.
• • •
As he stepped out of the casino’s back office, still smarting from the rebuke about his weight, Antoine could only shake his head. Abellard had never been a particularly easy man to work for. Rarely more than two or three days passed without someone getting royally chewed out. It was part and parcel of working at the Carnival.
But things were different now. Something was eating the boss up inside, and it was making everyone’s life miserable.
Antoine crossed the casino floor to resume his post by the metal detector. As he passed the blackjack area, he gave a nod to Charles, the wispy-moustached dealer. Charles was scooping up the deck after winning a hand off the three players at his table.
The CAT Diesel man filled out his usual spot on third base. On his right was a skeletal woman who studied her cards as if they contained some hieroglyphic message for her rheumy eyes alone. At first base sat an elderly gent whose salt & pepper beard looked to be comprised of cracker crumbs as much as hair, nattering soft curses every time he lost a hand.
Charles had already cheated this trio out of a c-note collectively, but failed to savor any sense of accomplishment. How difficult was it to steal from wasted losers like these? He yearned for a chance to test his skills on a more seasoned crop of gamblers, but that type seldom frequented the Carnival.
Charles heard an angry grumble as he dealt from a freshly doctored deck. The bearded oldster on first base pointed a gnarled finger his way.
“I saw that, boy.”
Charles kept dealing, finishing with an upcard to himself. It was an Ace.
“Anyone want insurance?” he asked, ignoring the old man’s quaking finger.
Blind Shuffle Page 19
