Bad Moon Rising (16 page)

“I don’t fuckin’ care how messy it gets, Mr. DiAngelo.
Splatter his brains for all I care. My brother doesn’t deserve this kind of
treatment.”

“Spence screwed up big-time, Tyron. We both know that.”

“Spence would never have gotten caught if it hadn’t
been for that bitch.” He slammed his glass down and clenched his fists. “I’m
gonna kill that whore when I find her.”

“Any progress there?”

He shook his head and paced to the plateglass window
where he looked down at the river. A pair of barges crept by, along with the
Delta Queen,
radiantly white in the
overcast day.

“Somebody’s got to know somethin’. Melissa knows.

Bitch. I got this gut feeling that’s why she lit out.
Maybe Shana contacted her—”

“Shana’s a bright girl. I doubt she would put her
friend in that kind of position.”

“Those bitches were joined at the hip. Eventually,
when Shana felt the dust had settled, I’m sure she would contact her.” He
turned back to Marcus. “You got to know somebody who could help me find her.”

“I can’t afford to get my contacts in deep shit,
Tyron. You know that.”

“What about Senator Strong?”

Tyron knew the minute he made the blunder that he had
crossed the line. And if there was any man alive who you didn’t want to piss
off, it was DiAngelo. His dark eyes bored into Tyron like a drill bit.

DiAngelo stood, shifted his silk suit on his
shoulders, and slid his hand into his breast pocket, causing Tyron to take a
step back and swallow hard.

“How many times have I told you about that, Tyron?”
Marcus withdrew a lighter and relit his cigar, his gaze still drilling Tyron. “You
are never to discuss my relationship with the senator. Not with me
...
or anyone.”

“Sorry. I forgot.”

“That kind of brain fart will get you buried in the
bayou ... what’s not first eaten by the gators. Nasty business, that
...
getting eaten alive by gators.”

Sweating, Tyron nodded. He’d attended such a hit once,
a drug dealer who thought pocketing a goodly portion of DiAngelo’s money was
worth the risk of getting caught. Tyron still awoke occasionally remembering
the man’s screams, his thrashing about as two of Marcus’s men bound his arms
and legs and tossed him onto the muddy shoal, laughing hysterically as the
gator crept out of the water and snapped off the man’s head with one quick
chomp.

“Need I remind you that you’ve grown wealthy off the
senator and his cohorts? Their appreciation of our girls and good coke, not to
mention my financial backing, is paying for this apartment and that Viper you’re
driving. If I go putting the finger on Jack for favors, and he gets caught, me,
you, and half the elected officials in Louisiana will go down the drain with
him. Got it?”

He nodded. “Got it.”

“You gonna have that kind of brain fart again?”

“No, sir.”

A smile slid over Marcus’s mouth. It wasn’t friendly.
A little like a snake charming a terrified rat before he swallowed it whole.

“Get over this Shana bitch. She’s gone. Face the fact.
Your brother got stupid. Even more stupid than you, Tyron. Besides
...”
He moved closer. “I do believe your
obsession with Shana has more to do with your pride than it does concern over
your brother. Then there’s the matter of your unrequited love for her.” He
shrugged. “We both know it simply isn’t smart for a pimp to go soft on one of
his girls. Screws up his logic. Gets in the way of business.”

His face growing hot, Tyron lowered his eyes. “She was
special.”

Marcus grunted a condescending laugh, then turned for
the door, paused, and looked back. “By the way
...
I understand someone beat the hell out of Damascus.”

That image brought the smile back to Tyron’s face. “Just
a friendly reminder to keep his nose out of my business.”

“Just be sure you don’t kill him. I don’t want your
stupidity to call attention to me. Besides
...
I’m enjoying his suffering. Good payback for all the hell he brought me during
those racketeering trials.”

Tyron laughed. “Enjoy it better than ‘Blue Suede Shoes’?”

DiAngelo’s face turned dark and his jaw knotted. “Ain’t
nothing better than ‘Blue Suede Shoes,’ you stupid fucker. Apologize to the
King before I blow out your mash-for-brains.”

Stepping back, Tyron threw up his hands and looked
toward the ceiling, his voice raising an octave as he said, “I apologize. I
didn’t mean nothin’, Mr. Presley.”

DiAngelo left the apartment, slamming the door so hard
the photograph of Elvis on the wall cocked to one side.

One
hundred miles off the Louisiana coast.
Hurricane
Holly had lost some of her oomph. Still, as a tropical storm, she drove with
tremendous force, slashing rains, and terrible thunder, submerging streets and
whipping stop signs as if they were perched on flexible rubber.

Arriving at his apartment, stiff, sore, and semilucid
from the morphine the doctors had pumped into his veins the last two days, J.D.
stopped just inside the threshold. At first, he thought he had somehow walked
into someone else’s place.

The air smelled of floral room deodorizers and pine
disinfectant. He could see his reflection in the polished wood floor. Instead
of his old drapes, which reeked of smoke, there were frilly cafe curtains on
the windows. Nothing fancy. But they lent a definite hint of homeyness to the
usually stark place.

Beverly
dashed around him, out of the rain, and stopped, her
gaze sweeping the room. Her surprise immediately turned into annoyance. “Seems
Miss Jones has been busy.”

“Apparently.” He tossed his cigarette butt out the
door just as Puddin’ appeared from under a chair and began to circle his legs.

Beverly
, her arms burdened with a grocery sack, moved to the
kitchen where a colorful ceramic chicken had roosted on the countertop. A
Crock-Pot sat near it. As she lifted the lid, the aroma of stew wafted through
the apartment, causing J.D.’s stomach to growl. A diet of hospital Jell-O had
left him feeling ravenous.

He hadn’t seen Holly since his first night in the emergency
room. Nor, according to Beverly, had anyone else. In his lucid moments, he had
called his apartment, getting no answer, and his panic had mounted. The idea
that she would be out on the streets looking for Melissa and putting her life
in jeopardy had caused his blood pressure to soar, which had resulted in their
pumping enough sedatives into his system to send him disembodied through a
spiralling universe. Now, however, relief that Holly was apparently okay left
him feeling bone weary from exhaustion.

He limped to the kitchen where Beverly was glaring
into the fridge, stocked so heavily with food there was no room for the staples
Beverly had bought. She slammed the door and turned to face him.

“Seems someone has set up housekeeping.”

He opened the freezer door, inspected the frozen veggies,
then reached into the array of different-flavored frozen confections,
extracting a grape Popsicle.

“She’s manipulating you, of course,” Beverly said.

“I hardly think stocking my fridge with Popsicles is
manipulation.”

“Come on, John. Look at this place. It looks like something
out of
Better
Homes and Gardens.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

He reentered the living room and eased down on the
futon that was now festooned with colorful, plump pillows and a
mulberry-colored chenille throw. A vase of sunflowers sat on the coffee table,
beside an assortment of magazines—
Better Homes and Gardens
and
Southern Living.
A ceramic ashtray boasting a
grinning gator sat beside them. No doubt about it, Miss Jones had been busy.
She’d turned his apartment from shabby to ... froufrou. Not exactly congruent
with his mood and personality these days, but he had to admit to himself that
the woman’s touch not only amused him, but also pleased him.

He sucked on the Popsicle and watched Beverly simmer.

She moved to the bedroom door. “I thought Miss Jones
was destitute. If that’s the case, I wonder where she got the money for all
this.”

He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Turning, she glared at him with an expression that was
unusually vindictive for the Beverly he knew. “What do you think I mean? How
else does a hooker get her money?”

“That’s not very nice. I’m surprised at you.”

“I can’t believe you would become involved with a
woman like her, John.”

“I’m not involved. Besides, what I do with my personal
life is none of your business.”

“Gee, that sounds familiar. Seems that was your pat
excuse when I warned you that Laura was going to turn your life into a
shambles.”

“Don’t bring my dead wife into this.” He rubbed his
throbbing temple. “Get a grip before you piss me off.” Shooting her a warning
look, he added, “If you paid as much attention to your own relationship with my
brother as you do to my business, maybe you wouldn’t be so miserable.”

Color drained from her face. Her eyes widened and
teared.

Regret slammed him. “Hey, I’m sorry. Come here,
sweetheart.”

She sat down beside him. He put his arm around her and
pulled her close, so her head nestled on his shoulder. He kissed her brow. “I’m
sorry. I shouldn’t take out my frustrations on you. I know you only want the
best for me.”

“I love you, John.”

“I know.” He stroked her hair. “I love you, too.”

Lifting her head, she gazed into his eyes, the subtle
scent of her perfume making his body tense. “I mean, I really love you. I’m in
love with you.” She lightly touched his bruised cheek. “I’m sorry if that
offends you.”

“It doesn’t offend me, Beverly. You’re not confessing
anything I don’t already know.”

“I would leave Eric in a minute if I thought—”

“It’s not going to happen, honey.”

“Patrick loves you so much—”

“I’m not in love with you, Bev.”

He felt her stiffen and lurch with a sob. Holding her
more tightly, he said, “You and the kids mean the world to me, sweetheart. I’m
here for you when you need me. You know that. Hey, you wouldn’t like being
married to me anyway. I’m moody and sloppy and generally pissed off at the
world. I couldn’t keep you in the lifestyle that you’ve grown accustomed to.
You’re champagne and caviar and I’m warm beer and Vienna sausages. You enjoy
garden parties and I hate ‘em.”

She gave him a watery smile. “I could learn to like Vienna sausages.”

“No, you couldn’t. It’s one of the reasons we never
hooked up in college. You were meant to be a socialite. You’ll make the perfect
senator’s wife one of these days.”

“I once thought those things could make me happy,
John. But they don’t. I’m only happy when I’m with you. Please
...
” She cupped his cheek with one hand. “Give
us a chance.”

She pressed her lips against his. They were trembling
and soft. Warm and moist. As her hand slid around the back of his head, she
pulled him closer, deeper into the kiss.

The front door opened.

Carrying a sack of Brahms’s ice cream, Holly stood in
the threshold, rain drizzling down her face. Her gaze collided with J.D.’s as
he raised his head, shoving Beverly away out of reflex.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize
...
I mean, I wasn’t expecting you home for
another couple of hours.”

She moved to the kitchen as Beverly, her expression
smug and her eyes sparkling with rekindled hope, stood and straightened her
blouse.

“I thought you might enjoy ice cream for dessert, what
with your ulcer.
...
I’ll just put it
away and get out.”

“Beverly was just leaving.” He flashed Beverly a look that made her snap up her purse and tuck it under her arm.

Holly slammed the freezer door so hard the chicken on
the countertop clattered. She turned and gave Beverly a look cold enough to
chill boiling water. “Please, don’t leave on my account.”

“Wouldn’t think of it.” Beverly allowed her a tight
smile. “I really must go. I have to pick up Patrick from school.”

As she exited the apartment, slamming the door, J.D.
winced. The Popsicle had begun to drip on his jeans, and he tossed the
remainder into the gator ashtray as Holly leaned against the kitchen doorjamb
and crossed her arms. Her pitch-black hair flowed over her shoulders. Her jeans
were tight and faded, and she wore one of his Saints T-shirts, tucked into the
jeans.

“It’s not how it looks,” he said.

“Oh?”

“There’s nothing going on between us.”

“Come on, Damascus. She had her tongue thrust so far
down your throat your tonsils were gyrating in delight.”

“So I had a weak moment.”

She shrugged. “It’s really none of my business, is it?”
He stood and moved toward her. “No, it’s not.” She turned back to the kitchen,
proceeded to stir the stew in the Crock-Pot as he joined her, pressing close to
her back and sliding his arm around her waist. Her hair smelled like magnolias
and her body felt damp from the rain. He felt her stiffen as steam rose off the
stew in a hot, moist cloud. “Miss me?”

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Why didn’t you come back to the hospital?”

“Busy, as you can see.”

“Place looks nice. Where did you get the money for all
this?”

She lay down the wooden spoon, her back rigid. “Where
do you think? What, no comment? You’re imagining I went out and turned a few
tricks, Damascus?”

“I like it better when you call me John.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“You’re a beautiful woman, Holly.”

“Answer me.”

“I really don’t care where you got the money.”

She tried to move away. He pinned her against the
counter, his body pressed hard against hers. “I don’t care,” he repeated,
nuzzling the warm skin behind her ear.

He felt the resistance that had turned her body tense
slowly leave her. “I’m sorry I hurt you. But the thought of Tyron touching you
.
..
made me a little crazy, I guess.
I got... confused, Holly. Hell, maybe I was jealous. I don’t know.”

Her head partially turned, her hair brushing his lips.
“Jealous?” The word was whispered, tremulous. Disbelieving. He didn’t blame
her. He’d been driven crazy these last few days thinking about it, the pang of
possessiveness that he felt over the woman whose soft body warmed his own in
that moment.

She turned in his arms. Her wide blue eyes looked up
into his, searching. Cautious. “Jealous?”

Pressing his lips lightly to her forehead, he closed
his eyes. “Maybe. Yeah
...
maybe. I
don’t know. You drive me crazy. When you walked out on me
...
I don’t know. Those few days were hell.
I kept trying to convince myself that you were nothing to me but another charity
case. Fine. Let you go. But somehow in a short space of time you filled up this
place and it wasn’t right without you.”

Christ, he felt tired suddenly. As if the confession
had drained what little reserve of strength he had. As if she sensed it, her
arms slid around him, held him close, her body bracing him, holding him. Her
lips brushed his cheek as she nestled against him.

“You’re exhausted, John. You should lie down.”

“No.” He held her closer, his hands rubbing her back. “Not
yet.”

“You’re trembling. Come on. I’m putting you to bed.”

He suspected that his trembling had little to do with
his weakness, but he followed her anyway as she took his hand and led him to
the bedroom. As she sat him on the bed, she dropped to her knees and untied the
laces of his joggers, her long hair sweeping over her shoulders as she removed
his shoes. The scent of magnolia lifted from her and he felt a heat rush
through him that had nothing to do with the dull aches in his body.

She tossed the shoes aside and looked up, her hands
drifting along his thighs, warm through his jeans. Her eyes were liquid indigo
pools in which he hungered to drown.

There was obliteration there—of his pain, his
memories. He touched her cheek. She pulled away. “Holly.”

“Lie down. Rest.” She stood, placed her hands gently
on his shoulders, and pressed him back, onto the bed.

He caught her hand—too tightly perhaps—and their gazes
clashed. “Don’t leave. Please. Lie here beside me.”

“I can’t.” She shook her head. “Please, John. Don’t
ask me.”