Читать книгу Born to be Bad - Crystal Green, Crystal Green - Страница 8

WHEN GEMMA GOT BACK TO the Weekly Gossip that afternoon, she was pumped up, and it wasn’t just because she wanted to pitch the story of the decade to her editor.

Damien Theroux had done something to her. Flipped a switch, pushed a button…something to turn on the inner furnace.

Even now, as she sat in front of her editor’s desk, she couldn’t shake the feeling of Theroux’s thumb while it slid along her stomach, the drag of her silk top whispering out of her skirt as he tugged it toward him.

But this wasn’t the time for daydreaming, or for ducking into a restroom stall to press her fingers between her thighs to assuage the throb of excitement.

This was the time to finally rock and roll.

“So I trained for a couple of hours at Cuffs,” she said, relating the afternoon’s events to Nancy Mendoza, editor in chief, “and I’m in like Flynn with the head waitress, Roxy. The job is comparable to riding a bike. All those pizzas and beers I served in the past amount to a perfect cover.”

“Gemma…”

“I’m going back tonight, and that’s when I’ll really put the pedal to the metal. See, I want to find out about these ‘other’ dealings Lamont mentioned. We all know about the Damien Theroux in the papers, but what drives this man? How did he get into a life of gambling, drugs and prostitution? And if I could talk to people who know him and work for him, or sneak upstairs to chat with a couple of his girls—”

“Gemma!”

She stopped, mouth open to deliver another round of plans. From the corner of her eye, she could see through the office’s window. The other tabloid reporters punched away at their keyboards or stared at their computer screens.

She wouldn’t be one of their kind for much longer. No how, no way.

Nancy braced her hands against her desk, probably gearing up to break Gemma’s spirit. Again. It happened with every idea that didn’t exactly “fit” into the Weekly Gossip’s pages.

Holding up a hand, Gemma interrupted. “I know what you’re going to say. ‘Go back to your human-interest stories, Gemma.’”

“You’re good at them. Very good.”

“Is that why they’re referred to as ‘freaks and geeks’ pieces?” Gemma sighed. “Where’s the dignity for the subjects? And for me?”

Nancy’s brown eyes went soft with understanding. Every once in a while, when the editor tippled a drink or two at Friday happy hour, she’d lose her armor and tell Gemma that she’d never expected to work on a tabloid publication, either.

Funny. How many people actually did end up with the life they’d pictured while doodling on their Pee-Chee folders during high school algebra?

“Leave Damien Theroux for 60 Minutes or the newspapers,” Nancy said. Her brown hair was in a tight bun, and she was wearing her typical uniform of a crisp button-down and gray skirt. Her efficient manner had won her the nickname The General. “Theroux is beyond our scope.”

“An exposé on Theroux would take this publication places we’ve never been.” Gemma couldn’t help arguing. This story had reached epic proportions in her mind. “Imagine. We’re a national publication. If we could reveal even half of this city’s corruption to Molly Supermarket Mom of the Heartland, that would be the first step. The story would be picked up by more prestigious mainstream publications because, of course, it’ll be so well researched by me. A drop of water won’t even be able to slip through my reporting, the corroboration and evidence will be so tight. Heck, maybe we’ll even be getting calls from Bill O’Reilly or Diane Sawyer to consult on their shows….”

The four-star General hadn’t stopped her, and that was encouraging. Gemma allowed the dreams to dangle between the two of them for a moment as the editor covered her mouth with an ink-stained hand. The woman tapped a finger, deliberating.

Time for the coup de grâce. “Damien Theroux is Pulitzer material.”

Nancy uncovered her mouth to reveal a reluctant smile, miraculously devoid of black smudges. But the positive sign disappeared quickly.

“This isn’t our typical headline.”

“Dream big, Mendoza!”

The editor held up a finger. “If he sued for libel, he’d decimate us. Or maybe he’d do worse, based on his reputation. Rumor has it that he’s got ties to the mob.”

“I’m not afraid. And you’re not talking like a journalist.”

Pow. Gemma could see the damage in Nancy’s gaze. Any self-respecting reporter put the truth above all else.

Gemma continued. “Even if I’ve only worked with you a couple of months, I know we’re both more than the Weekly Gossip allows us to be, Nancy. This is our big shot, and you can depend on me to get it right.”

“You’re not brassy enough for this.”

Gemma gulped, hearing the judgment of her first real editor on the day she’d gotten fired. You’ve got no guts, Duncan.

With more humility, she said, “You should’ve seen me this afternoon. You would’ve been proud. I gave Theroux as good as I got from him.”

“Oh, Gemma.” Nancy leaned over her desk, more a budding friend than an editor. “Right now, I just want to tell you to go back home and forget about this. We’re talking about the underworld, here. It’s not the Lalaurie haunted house or a story about UFOs. This is real.”

Gemma pounded on the arms of her chair. “So is my need to investigate this man.”

She pressed her lips together, regretting the outburst.

Yes, she was desperate. Among other things, she hated the way her family defined her career. Years ago, when she’d been an eager cub reporter at the Orange County Register, they’d bragged about her in Christmas newsletters. Now, they told their friends that she was “in between jobs.” And that was true enough, because she didn’t intend to write below her ability forever.

“Hey.” Nancy reached out, laid a hand on Gemma’s. “You all right?”

Actually, no. She hadn’t been since she’d gotten canned at the Register. What a blow—being scooped on a pivotal story about a sleazy politician because she’d been too mousy to pursue every angle.

“I’m fine,” Gemma said, forcing a grin, “if you give me a chance with this. I won’t let you down.”

Nancy sat back and expelled a huge breath. Behind her on the white wall, Weekly Gossip covers screamed headlines: “Miracle Baby Saves Whale!” and “Wronged Wife Takes Gory Revenge on Hubby!”

Tilting her head to an almost beggarly angle, Gemma burned with hope. Please say yes.

The editor crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ll give you two weeks to turn up something solid and marketable on Theroux. Something explosive we don’t already know about him. And if it looks good…”

Gemma’s pulse started racing.

“Plus,” Nancy added, “you keep your day job here, writing about your ‘freaks and geeks.’”

At this point, Gemma would’ve agreed to do a naked Irish jig on a float during Mardi Gras. “Will do!”

When she stood, latent doubt twisted through her conscience. She was about to go undercover to dig up some dirt on an unsuspecting man. A man who’d touched her with arrogant heat, and burned her body from the inside out this afternoon. There would be no straightforward questions, no honesty with him.

Once again, his hungry gaze consumed her, making her blood sing.

Did she really have the guts to layer lie upon lie to him? To disrupt a man’s life by offering it bare for the world to see? Was she really that ruthless?

Sure. If rumor was correct, this bad boy deserved his comeuppance. Reporters lived to see justice dealt to men like him. Right?

Right.

Gemma opened Nancy’s door, newly invigorated. “Needless to say, I’m working nights now. I can’t come over for a movie and daiquiris tomorrow.”

“I guess I’ll have to keep Russell Crowe all to myself, then.” Nancy waved Gemma out. “Go. You’ve got a story due. And, Gemma? As your friend, I’m telling you to be careful.”

“I’ve got it under control, chica. Chill.”

Then, with a tiny wave, she left, heading straight for her desk.

She’d actually gotten the green light for this story! Sort of. More like a yellow light, but she was still ready to go.

Even if she ended up ruining Theroux’s life.

Somewhat torn, she arrived at her workstation to find it cluttered with more than notes for her most recent project.

Every office has a pain in the ass, and Waller Smith was the designated hemorrhoid for the Weekly Gossip. A snore ripped out of him while he slumped in Gemma’s padded chair, his ash-blond hair ruffled and in sore need of a cut, his scuffed Bruno Magli knockoffs propped near her keyboard, his gumbo-stained button-down and crumpled tie as washed out as the green of his bloodshot eyes—when they were open. When she’d first met him, her first impression had been of a sun-cooked Robert Redford. But Gemma now knew better.

She managed to ignore him while simultaneously guiding his feet off her desk.

The shift of position awakened him. He blinked at her, focusing. “Duncan.” Then he stretched, a canary-eating grin on his face. “Kissing up to our chief again?”

“Anything to get your panties in a wad, Smith. I believe you’re in my chair?”

Waller acted surprised to be sitting there. “Well, pardon my butt.”

Yawning to a stand, he offered her the seat with a grand gesture. Then, with deadline purpose, she pretended to get to work, but Waller wasn’t leaving.

“What can I do for you?” she finally asked, giving him a smile that one usually reserves for a salesman who rings the doorbell during dinner.

“Reaching a little high for your talents, aren’t you?”

The comment felt like a sucker punch. “Aren’t you the last person to be judging talent? Since you don’t have any yourself, I mean?”

An indefinable emotion passed over Smith’s face, and Gemma wanted to take her smart-ass comment back. Actually, that really wasn’t true. He was exasperating, and deserved a return helping of everything he dished out.

Not that Smith probably cared about what she’d said to him. He had a way of not giving a tinker’s damn about anything.

“Duncan, congratulations. You’re growing a spine. Now all you need to be a decent reporter is the ability to read lips, which I was doing a few minutes ago. Ah, the miracle of office windows.”

“You…?” Gemma stopped herself, remembering some sort of happy-hour rumor about Smith having a deaf sister.

With the smug laziness of a sunning gator, he leaned against another reporter’s empty desk. “It’s easy to distinguish the name ‘Theroux’ on a woman’s lips. So you overheard him and a crony arguing today?”

“You tell me.”

“Yes, you did. And you think, sweet little thing, that you’ll be the one pen-slinging warrior who’ll hit his heel and bring him down.” He shook his shaggy head. “Another well-meaning crusader bites the dust.”

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“Sure, but there’s always enough time to write about sleaze and sex at my desk. I’m more interested in how you’re going to survive.”

Gemma accessed her waiting story in the computer. “How adorable. You’re fixated on my safety.”

“I said I’m interested.”

His meaning dug into her skin. She whipped around in her chair to face him. “You’ve got your own assignments, so don’t even think about mine. Concentrate on those cheating wives and crimes of passion. I’m busy.”

For a second, it seemed like Smith himself wanted to be writing about more than tabloid fodder, too. But this was Waller Smith, the guy who wandered in an hour late every day, then alternated power naps with every other sentence he punched into his computer. This was a “reporter” who mindlessly reached his word count, collected his check and called it a day.

He proved Gemma right by shrugging and ambling away, but not before he said, “Watch your back, Duncan. In every direction.”

Was that a warning about Theroux or Smith?

Feeling surrounded, Gemma cleared her mind and attacked her story.

She’d get her man. No matter what her co-worker—or her conscience—said, Damien Theroux was all hers.

AS THE SUN CHASED THE RAIN from the sky, then disappeared beyond the horizon itself, customers walked into a swanky, jazz-soaked restaurant two blocks off the well-worn paths of the French Quarter.

Some came to Club Lotus to eat the contemporary Creole food—the almond-crusted soft-shell crab, the turtle soup, the shrimp remoulade. Some came to listen to a saxophone mixing with a moody bass guitar.

But the ones who’d received crystal markers etched with a panther from the bartenders who worked in Damien Theroux’s other establishments had come to gamble.

The process was easy, just like the city itself. If you had a lot of money—or if you didn’t mind losing what you had of it—you would be invited to the hidden game room. On designated nights, you would dress in elegant clothing, stroll through Club Lotus and its tables of curious diners, go straight back to the waiting elevator. There, you would drop your crystal marker down the chute and wait for an employee to send up the car.

After taking the elevator down, feeling your pockets weighted with money you hoped to double, you would emerge into another world—one that not every person was fortunate enough to frequent.

In Theroux’s gaming establishment, you would find burgundy walls lined by mahogany wood, a fortified room with a small window where you would exchange your money for chips and ceiling fans that cut into the smoke from gratis Cuban cigars, the Cristal and brandy fumes. You would scent the sweat from gamblers who weren’t having much luck.

You would search among the one-armed bandits for the tables—blackjack, poker, roulette and craps—picking your game for the night. As the music of clanking chips and slot songs urged you on, you would settle at that poker table, knowing you were bound to win.

A hostess might ask if you needed anything, but she wouldn’t be talking about women or nose candy. Not at Theroux’s place. You were here to win money, to take advantage of the high-dollar markers that legal casinos didn’t offer.

No limits.

Tonight would be your night.

An hour into your game, as your pile of chips grew into several columns, you would see the man himself walking the exposed upper floor, trailing his hand along the railing, dressed in a tailored suit as black as his reputation. When he nodded, you would return the gesture.

After all, you would be taking Damien Theroux’s money home, and he deserved your appreciation.

DAMIEN TORE HIS GAZE FROM the nodding man at the poker table and strolled to a corner of the upper floor, where Jean Dulac, a childhood friend who wore a ready smile and Armani threads, awaited him. Jean’s dark brown hair was spiky, a bit wild, but the man’s pedigree was much slicker. He was the son of the local mob boss.

“I see that tonight’s bird knows you’re here,” Jean said.

Damien didn’t need to look at the poker tables again, but Jean did, locking on to the latest retired CEO to grace the room. Gerald O’Shea, former chief executive officer of Havishau Corporations, had gotten rich off the sweat of his employees by helping himself to a few generous bonuses while bankrupting the company. Consequently, the peons who’d worked for him were suddenly left without jobs or retirement accounts.

Men like O’Shea were the reason this gaming establishment existed. Damien took their crimes personally.

“I kind of like this moment. The calm before the storm that sweeps the bird into its own trap.” He extracted two cards from the lining of his Versace jacket. “See. Twenty-one, Jean. I hit the big hand this morning.”

His friend ignored Damien’s reference to a ritual—superstitiously drawing cards at the crack of dawn to predict if the day would be a winner…or a loser.

“Don’t underestimate your feelings. I’d say you relish this, Damien.” Jean shook his head. “Too much, if you ask me.”

“Who did ask?”

“Sorry for having a history with you. I thought maybe I was allowed to give a damn, considering we used to raise some hell together.”

“You’re worried?”

“Concerned.”

“I’ve got Roxy for that.” Damien shot a sidelong look down at Jean. “As long as you and your papa get a cut from tonight’s take, there shouldn’t be a problem. Life remains good.”

As Damien focused on O’Shea again, he could feel the burden of his friend’s gaze on him. Jean had helped him through Papa’s mortification, his suicide, the years of poverty when he and his mother had eaten ketchup mixed with water—soup, she’d called it—and beyond.

In fact, Jean was one big reason Damien was able to run the gaming room during this, its first year, with minimal suffering. Armand Dulac, Jean’s father—and a few key local law-enforcement officials, among others—took a percentage of Damien’s profit and made sure he was left alone to do business. Since Armand had mentored Damien from poverty to success, the good-old-boy network took care of Theroux, spreading the word that he wasn’t to be touched.

Jean leaned on the railing. “I wish you would get out of this pattern, Damien. Me? I have no choice. I’m to take over for the old man one day. But you don’t need the money from gaming. Not with your other holdings.”

“You know my other businesses don’t take care of O’Shea’s or Lamont’s ilk. Here, they get what they deserve.”

Here, Damien took the money the CEOs had stolen from their companies. Here, he made certain the screwed employees got their cut.

Jean’s pause was ripping at Damien. His judgment hurt.

“All of this won’t bring your father back,” Jean said.

“Nothing will.” Damien stuffed his twenty-one—ace of spades and queen of hearts—back into his jacket. “But watching O’Shea take a fall right now makes me feel a lot better.”

As Jean sighed and said his good-nights, Damien dismissed his faint sense of guilt and felt the first stirrings of comfort. He’d set up O’Shea, to be sure, researching him, making certain one of his bartenders would present the man with a crystal invitation, then hoping he would be tempted to increase his ill-gotten savings by showing up tonight.

At the moment, a few of Damien’s employees were loitering behind O’Shea at the poker table, signaling the dealer as to what cards he held. The other table players also worked for Damien, and a hostess was keeping him up-to-date on O’Shea’s incredible run of good luck.

Incredible. Not really. Damien just wanted him to get cocky before the big fall.

Before he gave the signal to start bleeding the ex-CEO, he took a minute to remember his papa.

Damien’s boyhood hero lived on the back of his eyelids. At night, he’d only have to attempt sleep to see him again. Now, he pictured Papa—a kindly, sideburn-wearing man who’d taught him how to fish and play Hearts—standing on the opposite side of the table from O’Shea, dealing the cards that would ruin him.

With the slight lift of Damien’s index finger, an employee caught the signal. O’Shea’s luck was about to change.

Settling against the railing to watch, Damien’s jaw tightened, his hands fisted.

Someone came to stand next to him, waiting patiently to be noticed.

Damn it all. “Yes?”

When Damien looked over, he saw it was Kumbar, his stocky, dusky-skinned security pro. Next to him stood another security expert—a new guy who looked quite nervous to be in the presence of the big boss. As usual, Kumbar allowed someone else to do all the talking.

“Mr. Rollins is back,” the other man said. “Blackjack. He’s losing pretty big.”

Rollins. A neighborhood antique-store owner who’d been having financial problems lately. An honest man.

“How’d he get a marker?” Damien asked.

“I’ll check it out, sir.”

In order to emphasize his underling’s promise, Kumbar allowed himself the expansive luxury of a lethargic nod.

Damien shook his head. “People like Rollins aren’t supposed to be in here.”

But they always found their way somehow.

Thudding a fist against the railing while glaring at O’Shea’s table, Damien saw tonight’s victim frown as he surrendered his first pile of chips.

With a spark of satisfaction, Damien dismissed the security worker to check on Rollins. That left Kumbar.

“It’s things like this that bring a business down,” Damien said.

Kumbar gave a firm nod.

“Last night’s mark—you recall Lamont?—threatened to go to the press.”

Kumbar jerked a thumb toward Jean, who was saying his farewells to an attractive cocktail server on the floor. Damien knew what his right-hand man was asking: had he told his best friend—the mob boss’s son—about Lamont’s threat?

“The last thing I want to do is get a bird killed, Kumbar. I hesitate to even tell you. I’m certain Lamont won’t say a word. When I left him, he looked scared as a rabbit. No, I think more about what could happen if someone braver did tell the media about how this place really works. Where the money goes.”

Another Kumbar nod.

Damien didn’t want to say it out loud. He cherished his dark reputation; it kept him from being touched, destroyed by the competition. It was the more critical dealings Lamont had referred to that would get Damien into trouble.

It was what he did with most of the profits after the cash was shuttled out of the casino, taken to a counting house, then laundered through one of his souvenir shops.

“My image is what protects me,” Damien said instead. “I’d like it to stay as poisonous as possible.”

Kumbar glanced at the blackjack tables, and Damien’s gaze followed. There sat Mike Rollins, sweating, arms protecting a few scattered chips.

He shouldn’t go soft on him. That wasn’t how to run a gaming operation. Still, the way the older man slumped in his seat….

His father used to wear the same expression after he’d lost all his money, too.

“Go to him,” Damien said. “Get him out of here and find a way to give him back what he lost. Quietly, without him suspecting. Maybe someone shows up in his store tomorrow and buys that expensive white elephant he can’t sell. Make sure he knows he’s not welcome back.”

Kumbar took off to do his duty.

God, Damien thought, I’m an easy sell.

He couldn’t revive the interest in watching O’Shea get fleeced. Not now. But there’d be other crooked men, so the lack of entertainment didn’t bother Damien so much.

Instead, he decided to go back to Cuffs, because now that he thought about it, there was a certain new waitress there who might be able to take his mind off his troubles.

His body steamed up just picturing Gem James, with her pinned-up Brigitte Bardot hair, her wide blue eyes.

If he couldn’t watch O’Shea fall on his back tonight, he’d settle for a woman instead.