Читать книгу Close To The Edge - Kylie Brant - Страница 11

Lucky walked down Bourbon Street, taking in the familiar sights. T-Bone was on his regular corner, clad in silver clothes with silver paint covering his face, neck and hands. The pose he struck was so still he could have passed for a discarded store mannequin. He was one of many street performers who dotted the corners, depending on the largesse of tourists for their living. By the looks of the small crowd gathering, T-Bone was having a good night.

Jamming his hands into the pockets of his jeans, Lucky strolled up and stared at the unmoving man. T-Bone did an excellent job of ignoring his presence.

“How does he stand so still?” one woman wondered aloud. “He hardly seems to be breathing.”

“Oh, that’s easy, ma’am.” Lucky smiled wickedly. “See, T-Bone here is deaf and dumb. Mostly just dumb.” He thought, he was almost certain, he saw the man’s eyes flicker. Warming up to his story, he donned a thick good-ol’-boy accent and told the crowd, “How I know that is, we’re cousins, him and me. You can’t see the family resemblance ’cuz of the silver paint and all. Not that we look all that much alike because, well,” he looked around at the rapt people, and lowered his voice conspiratorially, “T-Bone here is the ugly one in the family. Our granny used to have to tie a pork chop around his neck just to get the dogs to play with him.” There was a snicker, and T-Bone’s lips compressed a fraction. “Plus he’s lazy as a tarred hog, so standin’ around on street corners is about all that boy is up for.”

“Damn you, Boucher, keep on trash-talking me and I’ll stomp a mudhole in you.” T-Bone dropped his pose and stepped down from the upside-down bucket he was perched on. The tourists, giving him a wide berth now, hurried away. The man looked after them mournfully. “Now why’d you want and go and do that? Some people appreciate art.”

“So maybe they’re headin’ for a museum. Hey, have you seen Remy today?”

T-Bone gave him a crafty look. “What’s the information worth to you?”

“I’ll let you keep those bills in that box there.” The cigar box in front of T-Bone’s bucket was filled with a few bills and coins. He knew the bulk of the money would already have been placed for safe-keeping in an inner pocket sewed inside T-Bone’s shirt.

The other man made a sound of derision, but he was careful to shove the box behind him with one foot. “Yeah, I saw Remy earlier. Maybe an hour ago. He was in some hurry, too. I think he was working.”

Lucky nodded. At ten o’clock at night, he’d expected no less. “Which direction was he headed?”

With his eye on a couple of pairs of tourists headed in their direction, T-Bone abruptly lost interest in the conversation. Climbing back up on the pail to assume his position, he jerked a thumb in the opposite direction and said, “That way. Now beat it before this next group gets here. And don’t be telling people no more that we’re related, either. Out of all the lies you told there, that was the worst.”

“From what I hear of my pauvre defante maman, we just might be.” Lucky chuckled at the man’s muttered epithet and headed down the street and around the corner in the direction he had indicated.

The streets were still full of people. Tourism would be brisk for another couple of months, then slow until Mardi Gras. Unlike some of the city’s residents, Lucky didn’t mind sharing his city with the visitors. He understood their fascination with the place. There was a slight air of decadence to the city that never failed to intrigue. Beneath a thin veneer of polish there was an aura of decay that could never be completely disguised. The city fathers preferred to believe it didn’t exist. But as one who’d spent more than his share of time living on these streets, he could attest that it did. In spite of it, or perhaps because of it, he’d been drawn to the city from the first time he’d come here from bayou country when he was nineteen. He’d never wanted to live anyplace else, although there had been plenty of times when just living had been a constant struggle.

Lucky looked up in response to some calls overhead, and took a second to grin appreciatively at the sight of scantily clad women enticing passersby in to the strip club where they worked. Their faces were painted as garishly as the flickering neon sign out front. They couldn’t tempt him, however. He needed to find his friend, and the sooner the better.

He stopped at a corner where an elderly black man was playing a mournful jazz tune on the sax. He waited until he was finished, and set the instrument down. “Lucky. Where y’at?”

“Hey, Grayson. I’m lookin’ for Remy. Did he come by?”

“Saw him a while ago. Looked to be in a hurry, too.” The old man’s wrinkled face took on a thoughtful air. “Maybe forty-five minutes ago. Headed that way.”

Lucky’s gaze followed the old man’s gnarled finger. Dropping some money into his box, he continued on his way. “Next time bring me foldin’ money, not rollin’ money, Boucher,” the man called after him. He hunched a shoulder in response.

The farther he strayed from the tourist destinations, the narrower the streets became. Many of the streetlights had been broken out long ago. What appeared as a slightly seedy reminder of a bygone era in the French Quarter deteriorated into indisputable roughness in this neighborhood. There was a time when Lucky had belonged on these same streets, had known them as well as he knew his own reflection in the mirror. Even after three years, they still felt like home.

He stepped into the street to avoid tripping over the body sprawled across the sidewalk in front of a tavern. In doing so, he almost missed Remy altogether. A barely audible sound caught his attention. He turned and scanned the area. Spying the alley ten yards away, he backtracked and crossed close enough to it to peer in.

Two men were on the ground rolling in the dirt, trading blows. Although the interior of the alley was too dark to identify either of them, Lucky did recognize his friend’s style. He sent a quick glance up and down the street to assure himself there was no law enforcement in the area, and then stepped into the alley. Leaning a shoulder against a bordering building, he waited.

The other man with Remy was no slouch when it came to street fighting, Lucky noted. His friend seemed to have his hands full. He winced a little when the stranger sent a fist into Remy’s face, nodded in approval when his friend countered with a double eye-gouge. Niceties of battle were rarely used in back alleys. Lucky should know. He’d spent enough time in them.

His casual air was shattered a moment later when the stranger rolled away to pick up a large brick. One moment he was raising it threateningly above Remy’s head, and the next he froze.

“Not a good idea, mon ami.” Lucky pressed the tip of his knife closer against the man’s throat. “I suggest you set it down. Slowly.” When it appeared the stranger needed a bit more convincing, he exerted enough pressure to have blood welling from beneath the blade. With exaggerated care, the man set the brick to the ground.

Looking at his friend, Lucky inquired, “How much does he owe?”

Remy wiped a smear of blood away from his mouth, and grunted. “Two hundred. But you should just leave me to finish him with that brick.”

“Two hundred?” The man started toward Remy until the pressure of the knife stopped him. “That whore wasn’t worth the hundred I got quoted, much less two.”

“It’s an extra hundred for my trouble, Cap.” The familiar address was its own kind of slur, uttered as it was while Remy was expertly removing the man’s wallet, extracting the money he sought. “It’s not healthy in these parts to welch on a debt owed. These are people it doesn’t pay to antagonize.”

“You’re gettin’ off easy,” Lucky affirmed. He stepped away, keeping the knife ready in case the man decided to be stupid or brave.

The stranger cast a sullen glance at the two of them before taking the opportunity to back away. When he’d exited the alley, Lucky wiped the knife blade on his pants leg and bent to replace it in the sheath strapped above his right ankle. “How long you been doing collections?”