Concierge

by Stella Barcelona

  “Four. Gabe introduced me to the team yesterday.”

  “I always saw two with Andi, but never thought there were more than that. Guess it makes sense. Shift has to change. They always packing, even when they’re in the compound?”

  “Yeah. Especially when they let in lowlifes like you. And I’m pretty sure the big guy had his shirt tucked in so you’d see it. He’s uptight, but not that uptight.”

  Richie went to a window that overlooked the courtyard, used his index finger to give himself about an inch of a view, and said, “Yep. There’s one out there.” He shut the drapes, took a bite out of his sandwich, chewed for a while, and walked back into the kitchen. He sat on a stool. “Creepy to be under lock and key, huh?”

  “Nah.” Pic bit into the banana as he leaned against the counter. “They’re here for Andi. They’re not worried about me. And trust me, I’m damn happy to be here. Been too sick to care that I’m locked in.” He jiggled the last of the banana in the air. “Other than soup, this is the first thing I’ve eaten in days. Right now, I’m just thrilled not to feel like puking.”

  Half the sandwich gone, Richie studied him as he chewed. “Glad to hear you’re feeling better, because you look like shit. That guy might’ve broken your cheekbone when he decked you.”

  “That’s the least of my problems. Man, when Gabe found me, I passed out.” Pic swallowed the last bit of the banana. He opened the fridge, eyed its contents, then reached for a glass and poured orange juice into it. “Want some?”

  “Nah. Any beer?”

  Pic turned back to the fridge. “No. How about apple juice?”

  Richie made a face. “Not without vodka.”

  Pic opened and closed the kitchen cabinets. “Sorry. No booze here. Thanks for coming. You’ll get a message to Monica for me?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” Richie gave Pic a slow grin. “But wouldn’t you rather give her the message in person?”

  His heart rate immediately accelerating, Pic swallowed a large gulp of orange juice. “Think she’d want to see me?”

  “Hell, yeah. After I saw you on Sunday morning, I told her you were back. She’s been jonesing to see you. I was looking for you to tell you that. Gabe finding me last night saved me searching for you today. I’m damn glad, because I sure as hell don’t have time to play matchmaker.”

  “Tell me where she is. I’ll go by later today.”

  “Really?” Richie stretched, then rotated his neck, giving Pic his trademark grin. “Later? Why not now?”

  Like a soft breath of wind gently blowing soap solution through a bubble wand, the reasons formed. And just as easily as bubbles burst and disappear into nothingness, the reasons why Pic shouldn’t walk out the door now evaporated as he looked into his friend’s questioning eyes.

  He was staring at his grisly, street-wise friend, who smelled of bar smoke, stale alcohol, and peanut butter, but Pic was remembering Monica, one of the last times he’d seen her. They’d been in Crescent Park, and it had been a hot August day. She’d made a wreath of green clover stems and small, white pompom shaped flowers. She was wearing it in her blond hair. She’d been sitting so close, he could smell the fresh greenery as the breeze carried it to him. Together, they’d been daydreaming about one day having enough money to get a place together.

  “You said you’re feeling better,” Richie prodded.

  “Yeah, but it isn’t even daylight yet.” Glancing at the draperies, where a narrow slit would have shown daylight but now only revealed darkness, he added, “And I’d have to at least let Gabe or Andi know I was leaving. Which means waking her or bugging him.”

  “Why? You answer to them now? Like you’re their kid? Or are they prison wardens?”

  “Nah. It isn’t like that.” But it is. Isn’t it? “It’s just that they’d be worried if I left now. Like I said, I’ve been really sick. Promised them both I’d stay put for a while. Not go out on the streets.”

  “Monica’s at my place. You know–off of St. Claude.”

  “Thought you lived on North Prieur Street. Off of Esplanade. Behind the dry cleaners.”

  “Nah. I moved since you were last in town. I’m a few streets away from there now. It’ll take you fifteen minutes or so to walk there. Max twenty. Spend a few minutes with her, then get back. You’ll be back in an hour. Before anyone misses you. Come on,” Richie said, standing. “Let’s go.”

  It had been six months since he’d seen the first girl who’d ever made his heart race, and he had a lot of talking to do with her. And the fact that he felt like he couldn’t go to her suddenly wore thinner than snakeskin. “Okay. I’m going. But help me think of a way to do it. Because if I leave, that guy in the courtyard’s gonna alert Gabe, then Gabe’ll be here in a second, and ask me where the hell I’m going, and then he’s going to argue with me until I end up staying.” And fuckitall, but the big guy could argue.

  “Aw hell. There’s no way out. It’d just be better if I wait till this afternoon, prove to both Andi and Gabe I really am feeling better, and tell them I’m going. Gabe might insist on going with me—”

  “Dude, if you wait till later, you could miss out on seeing her.”

  Heart pounding with that dose of reality, Pic asked, “What do you mean?”

  “Meaning she’s not staying in New Orleans too much longer. I told her I’d give her the bus money out of here. Up to her when she leaves, though. I doubt she’s gonna stick around on the wish that she might see someone who’s too sick or too much of a wimp to come to her when he’s got an opportunity.”

  “Fuck!” Pic paced through the kitchen. “Tell her to stay. Don’t let her leave. Tell her I need to talk to her. Tell her—”

  Richie shrugged. “Look, I’m tired. Bedtime’s fast approaching. Last night was good, but there’s five more nights of Mardi Gras and I’ve got a lot of work to do between now and then. Whatever you have to say to Monica will definitely mean more coming from you—”

  “Then help me.”

  Together, they came up with a plan. A half hour later, Pic was punching his brass-knuckled hand into the other, as he jogged down a quiet, residential block of Kerlerec Street with Richie’s banjo on his back. About five feet ahead, an orange cat ran across the street, turned to look at him when it pounced onto a stoop, then puffed itself up into a fat ball in the lighted doorstep of a pink cottage. Even with the hood of Richie’s sweatshirt pulled over his head and the leather jacket zipped up to his chin, Pic was freezing.

  Richie’s tennis shoes were about a half-inch too small, and the big toe of Pic’s left foot nudged against the tip. Each inhale brought the stale scent of Richie’s barroom-soaked clothes. Each exhale was a vapory plume. Morning light was breaking the blackness in the night sky, but the streetlights were still on. In the five blocks that he’d walked from Andi’s house, Pic had only seen two cars, and those had been on Esplanade.

  Focusing on the route that Richie had given him, Pic repeated it to himself. Cross Esplanade—done. Turn left on Kerlerec—done. Take a right on Bourbon. With houses crammed together, this stretch of Bourbon Street looked nothing like the barroom and strip-club stretch that was on the other side of Esplanade. It was quiet. On Mardi Gras day, even the predawn hours would have people on the streets. But right now, there wasn’t a soul in sight.

  As Richie had reminded him, Bourbon became Pauger Street about a block or so over Esplanade. The fact that Pic had gotten confused about the most direct way to get to Urqhart Street had cracked Richie up.

  ‘Dude-you’ve been in Texas too long. If you go up Esplanade the whole way, you’ll be going way out of your way. The streets all bend with the river. It causes directions to go haywire if you go off track. I’m happy to stay here a couple of hours or so, but no longer. So hurry up, take the most direct route, and get your ass back here.’

  As long as he lived in New Orleans, Pic swore he’d never get used to the bendy streets or even the naming system, which Pic sure as hell knew better than most people. So he followed Rich
ie’s directions, step for step. Once on Pauger, he’d cross over Saint Claude and go the few blocks to Urquhart Street, take a right, then go a few more blocks before getting to Richie’s place.

  By his guesstimate, when Bourbon became Pauger, he had twelve more cold blocks to go. When he got closer to Saint Claude, there’d be more cars. But right now, he was in Sleepy-ville, where there weren’t barrooms and the smaller houses in the cramped neighborhood were nothing like the ornate stretch of mansions in Andi’s stretch of Royal Street. Fat drizzle drops started and then it was raining, hard. In a few seconds, he’d be soaked, but he didn’t care. Because in just a few minutes he’d see Monica.

  Given what had happened to him the weekend before, he was on high alert. He was focused forward, going at a slow jog that was almost too ambitious for his gunk-filled lungs, when a black van pulled alongside him.

  Fuck!

  He stopped dead in his tracks. Hesitated a second. Turned. Glanced into the driver’s side window. The driver—with a black and gold New Orleans Saints baseball cap over his ski mask—did a military salute as another guy climbed out of the passenger side.

  Fucking hell!

  Pic shifted, swiveled, and turned. He leapt into the street, and ran towards Esplanade. It was the way he’d come and it was a busier street. More cars. More likelihood he’d see someone who might deter these assholes. Two men, about ten yards away, stepped out of the shadows and blocked his path.

  “Sure hope you’re wearing your knuckles now, because we have ours,” one of the two called. Calmly. Low tone, but high on threat.

  “Yeah. We’ve got a green light as long as we don’t break your pretty-boy face.”

  Pic didn’t waste his breath on words. With two of them ahead of him and one so close behind him that he could almost feel his breath on his neck, Pic swiveled and leapt for the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. He ran in the opposite direction, and realized the van had been backing up to their position. He ran like his life depended on it.

  How the hell am I going to fight off three men?

  Someone did a flying tackle from behind. Pic yelled as he went down. Or he tried to, but horror drowned his voice. What started as a yell came out as a breathy grunt of fear. He landed in the middle of the sidewalk, face down, with the guy on his back.

  One of the men grabbed his arms and pulled him over so that he faced the sky. The guy who had landed on Pic’s back rolled off and grabbed his feet. As he struggled against the two of them, he realized the only sound in the street was his heavy breathing, his grunts, and the low engine hum of the nearby van. Another of the men moved over him with shiny silver duct tape, sealing his mouth. As Pic looked down, the needle-end of a syringe captured his attention. He twisted to avoid it. Turned. Jackknifed his abdomen, but couldn’t break free.

  He felt a prick in his neck and immediately started feeling woozy, as though his limbs were too heavy to move.

  “Hurry,” one of the men said. “Get him in the van.”

  They lifted him, walked a few steps with him, and threw him inside. He landed with a thud on the hard floor. Richie’s banjo, which had been knocked loose from his shoulder, landed with a thud next to him. The doors closed. “This one’s pretty. Even with the black eye you laid on him the other night.”

  The man who’d been driving—the one with the baseball cap—came into view and looked down at Pic, as he said, “Tom. Get into the driver’s seat and get us out of here.”

  Pic looked straight up, because he suddenly was too loaded to move his head. As he felt the van move, he watched three men study him.

  “Great looking,” one of the men said. “Blue eyes. Square jaw. Tall. What do you think? Concierge will pay us ten thousand apiece?”

  “At least. He was worth the extra effort. He’s so pretty, I’m betting Concierge will use and abuse him for a while before selling him,” another one answered.

  Concierge? What the fuck?!

  “Yeah. Plus he’ll go in the sperm pool before he gets sold.”

  Pic’s stomach roiled with oily terror twisting his gut. As he wondered what in the living hell he’d fallen into, he realized whatever they’d shot into him had paralyzed him. Feeling like he was weighted to the floor with the force of invisible lead, he couldn’t move his arms or legs. He could hear. He could see. But his vision was tunneling while their words became garbled. He fought to stay conscious. At least awake, he had a shot of escaping. Passed out, he was as good as dead, or worse. Sounded like dead would be preferable.

  Run run run.

  Not a chance in hell. Pic couldn’t move so much as a finger. His heart pounded hard enough to feel every painful beat. Panic and fear seeped like black tar into his every cell.

  Pic felt pressure at his belly. Heard the slip of the zipper at his fly. Felt the pull of his jeans as someone drew them down his legs. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. Concierge will want to see this one fuck. And be fucked.”

  Help me. Someone. Help me.

  Bathed in icy sweat, he felt shudders racking him from the inside out.

  Help.

  Me.

  His pleas were silent. And hell, even if they weren’t, there was no one to hear or give a flying fuck about him now.

  Andi…Gabe…God. Help me.

  “Concierge and I have a special deal on this one,” the baseball-capped guy said. “You’ll get paid your normal rate for a choice fair-haired male, and I’ve got bonus money for each of you. Big bonus money.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “This kid isn’t simply merchandise. He’s bait. By taking him, we’ve created a distraction for the security team that surrounds something near and dear to the Concierge’s heart.”

  “There’s a heart in that chest?”

  Pic heard a harsh laugh. “Good point. Here’s what’s going to happen now. Regular operations are called off. We need to get ready to move in and get the prize. Once we deliver, we’re winning the lottery.”

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Andi

  “Tyre, grabbing some shut eye. Going dark. You and Marks are on task until the a.m. meeting.”

  Andi heard Gabe’s voice as he climbed the stairs to her studio. From the doorway, he gave her a lingering glance. “All good up here on the upper floors. Ms. Hutchenson will be fine until then as well. She won’t need you. If there’s an issue, yell. Over.” He paused, then touched his watch. “That part about you was an assumption. Am I right?”

  Hand hovering over the table where she’d just completed reorganizing, for the umpteenth time, sketching pencils, leads, brushes, sharpeners, and erasers, Andi hesitated, glancing at the serious set to his jaw and absorbing the intensity in his eyes as he stared at her from the doorway. Running the variables through her mind as she debated the pros and cons, there was no doubting the look in his eyes. Was she emotionally ready to take this to the next logical step? Or, would she freeze again?

  God, please, no.

  Somewhere along the way, her subconscious made the decision for her. She gave a slight nod. Gabe’s shoulders relaxed.

  “Is Pic okay?”

  “Yes. Tyre reported that Richie left about ten minutes ago. Pic returned to bed. Agent Lamonte is arriving in Mapleton as we speak. Her partner will be there by noon. They’re up to speed on Operation Pic.”

  The last time Gabe had appeared in her studio, it had been four-thirty, right before he went to meet Richie. She’d known when he returned to his room, because every now and then, she’d heard a word or two of his conversations with Lamonte, Ragno, or his men as he worked. “You had a good idea on suicide counseling resources. I found someone he talked to. Might help us get a picture of Pic’s mindset before his mother’s murder. Lamonte will start tracking down that lead ASAP.”

  She glanced at the skylights, where the inky blackness of the night sky was fading to charcoal gray. Fat raindrops pattered on the skylight, then increased in tempo so that she had to raise her voice to be heard over the cacophony. �
�I lost track of time.”

  “Five forty-five. Weather forecast says rain. Then cloudy today. Going to be in the high thirties most of the day. How’s the sketch coming?”

  “Come see.” He crossed the room to where her easel was set up. Together, they looked at the sketch of the Creole townhouse on Esplanade Avenue.

  Shading techniques gave the appearance of light glinting off the steep pitch side-gabled roof with multiple roof dormers. Clean, straight lines of decorative parapets formed its borders. She’d captured the asymmetrical arrangement of the arched openings at ground level, as well as the roughness of the brick exterior, softened by the curves of the scrolling wrought iron lining the balconies. It was when she got to the scene that should be on the right—about a block and a half down Esplanade Avenue—that things started to get blurry in her mind. She’d left that section blank.

  “Nice.” Gabe cocked his head. Andi smelled soap on his skin, and a fragrance that was all him. The real essence of Gabe Hernandez was fragrant warmth. Reminiscent of pine, with a trace of muskiness. “You decided to start with the house this time, rather than the street.” There was no censure in his voice as he leaned closer.

  “Now I’m getting to the hard part. I figured I can obsess about the oak tree that should go here,” she said, pointing, “at least until noon.”

  “When we talked about what you saw on Saturday, you said that, at first, the tree blocked your view.”

  “Until I went around it,” Andi reminded him. “That tree will give me at least two hours of time-wasting detail. More, if I start obsessing about the bumps, ridges, and swirls in the bark.” As she stared at her third attempt at sketching the scene she’d witnessed on Friday, Andi was almost ready to admit defeat. “You were correct all along. The problem is, last Friday I wasn’t on Esplanade for all that long. I had only been there for, at most, ten minutes when it happened. I was still in scouting mode. Looking for a setting I might paint at a future date. So my brain doesn’t have the images to focus on,” she said. “All I have is brick and wrought iron. Oak trees. And shadows from clouds racing across the sky. Those are the things I was picking up on.”