Mardi Gras Mambo (29 page)

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Authors: Gred Herren

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Just your typical American family.
Frank hugged me, and I held on to him for longer than was probably necessary. “I love you,” I whispered in his ear, and he nuzzled my neck for a moment. “I was so worried. . . .”
He squeezed my hand as Storm escorted Misha out into the waiting area. There was an awkward silence for just a moment, and then Papa stood up and walked over to Misha. He looked tiny next to his hulking Russian son, and then he stuck out his hand.
“I understand our wives convinced you not to tell me who you are,” he said gruffly, his voice thick with emotion.
“Yes, sir.” Misha's big hand swallowed up Papa's, and then they were hugging, and Misha picked him up off the ground.
He really doesn't know his own strength
. They walked off together to a far corner of the room and started talking.
“Venus is inclined to rule it a justifiable homicide,” Storm said. “Pending the autopsies, of course.” He went on to say that they'd found a high-powered rifle in the killers' hotel room, and they were pretty certain it was the rifle used to kill Sasha. They were running the ballistics. They were Russians, and it probably wouldn't take long to tie them to Kafelnikov's gang. Maman took Storm aside and started whispering to him, and every once in a while Storm would look over at Papa and Misha. Undoubtedly, she was enlisting him in the new conspiracy of silence.
Nobody mentioned Colin's name, which was really a blessing.
I sighed in relief. Apparently, it was all over.
I was so tired.
As we walked out of the police station into the crowded streets of the Quarter, I took Frank's hand. “Are you okay?”
He gave me a frigid smile. “I'm fine. Perfectly fine.” His jaw clenched. “I am going to hunt him down and kill him.”
I stopped. “Frank—I know. I know how you feel.” I took a deep breath. “And I understand how you feel. But we can't—we
can't—
do this. We can't let this affect us and who we are as people.”
Frank glared at me. “He kept me hostage for two days, Scotty. He's responsible for your uncles' deaths. And”—he choked up—“and I thought he loved us, Scotty. I loved him.”
I led him over to the curb and sat him down. He looked crazy in his smeared body paint and ragged sweatpants. “I know, Frank. I know it hurts.” But it didn't; I still felt nothing. But I knew it had to be said. “But we have to somehow, someday forgive him for everything.”
“I'll never forgive him,” Frank said darkly.
I held him for a moment, and he clung to my arms. “Let's go home, babe,” I said finally. He nodded, and we both stood up. “We're going to be fine. We still have each other.”
He squeezed my hand.
Since Mom and Dad's place was a crime scene—I briefly wondered where their massive stash of marijuana was hidden, but Venus had always known about their habits, so that probably wasn't going to be a problem—I offered them my apartment. “I can just stay upstairs with the boys—with Frank,” I said and winced. Mom and Dad wanted to go get some things out of their apartment, and Maman, Papa, and Misha had a lot, obviously, to talk about. So, Frank and I walked home alone.
It had stopped raining, and the ground was slick and wet. The streets were crowded with people, singing, shouting, and laughing. “It's kind of weird,” I said as we headed past the cathedral. “I mean, seeing all these people carefree, in costume and having a good time.”
Frank shrugged. “Don't you like what I have on?” He pirouetted clumsily and grinned at me.
I laughed and kept walking. I was too tired to really laugh, probably from all of the adrenaline that had ebbed and flowed through my body over the last two days.
Maybe that's why I'm so numb,
I thought.
I'm too tired to feel anything.
Every muscle in my body ached, and all I really wanted to do was take a hot shower and go to bed with Frank. “I'm sorry Mardi Gras turned into such a nightmare,” I said out loud.
“Scotty, it's never your fault.” Frank laughed. He kissed me on the cheek. “How can you take the blame for any of this?” He gave a bitter laugh. “Doesn't matter whether you bought Ecstasy from Pasha or not—he still would have wound up dead—and all of this would have blown up in our faces.” He sighed. “Christ, Scotty, even the jobs were faked.”
“I know.” I shrugged. “Unemployed again. Maybe they need a dancer at the Pub for tomorrow.”
“Oh, no you don't.” Frank pulled me into a hug and squeezed me tight. “You aren't going back to stripping. I can move downstairs and we can split the rent. I've got my pension from the FBI, and maybe you can train people again. Or we could get jobs with another agency.”
“I don't know. I'm kind of soured on the whole private eye thing,” I said, kissing his neck. “But we don't have to decide now. We don't have to decide anything. Let's just try to forget about it all, shall we?”
The fourth-floor apartment felt strange once we walked inside. It seemed quiet and empty. Frank checked the closets; Colin had apparently left everything behind. “I guess we can take this stuff to Goodwill,” Frank said, going through Colin's half of the closet.
“I'm taking a shower.” I walked into the bathroom.
If that's how Frank copes, let him,
I decided.
But I don't want to think about Colin anymore.
I didn't want to think about him ever again. There was no response, so I stripped off my clothes and climbed into the hot spray. I soaped up my body and luxuriated in the hot water coursing over my aching, tired muscles. All I wanted to do was get into bed and sleep for two or three days. Forget Fat Tuesday—I never thought I would think that—but I just didn't care about missing it.
I just wanted to stay home and hide.
I got out of the shower and dried off, put on a pair of Frank's sweatpants, and walked out into the living room. Frank was sitting on the couch, flipping through the television channels with that angry look on his face. “Frank, let's go to bed, okay?”
“How could he do it to us?” Frank asked. “That's what I don't get. How could he tell us he loved us, how could he have slept with us night after night, spent so much time with us every day, and we never had the slightest idea of who he really was?”
I curled up next to him on the couch and put my head on his shoulder. “I guess we'll never know. I'd like to think he did feel something for us, but . . .” My voice trailed off. “He even fooled Mom. Mom liked him, and she's always right about people. There's a first time for everything, though.”
“And the Blackledge Agency thing,” Frank went on. “I mean, I checked them out. But he was really smart there, using an agency that really exists. I mean, no one would ever think to check, right?”
“Not in New Orleans. This city's a magnet for con artists.”
Frank kissed the top of my head. “Well, let's go to bed.”
“No more thoughts about hunting him down and killing him?”
“Okay, I won't do it,” Frank replied, his voice hard. “But I can't promise not to think about it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The High Priestess
a caution not to speak of that which must remain secret
 
 
 
Needless to say, I didn't sleep well.
The bed seemed empty with just the two of us in it, and no matter how much I cuddled up to Frank, or how good his big, strong arms felt wrapped around my waist, I couldn't fall into a deep sleep. My mind just wouldn't let anything go, wouldn't relax,
couldn't
stop thinking
.
Frank was somehow able to fall asleep—probably from exhaustion—but as much as I hoped his even breathing might lull me to sleep, it didn't happen. I just lay there all night, drifting off for a little while, but then waking up again. Around three in the morning I got very sad and started crying. I held it in a bit, just sniffling a little and letting the tears roll down my face. I didn't want to wake Frank. Angry as he was, I believed that if he saw
me
crying, he'd get even madder than he already was.
And then he'd probably have a stroke. He wasn't far from it.
A couple of times I slipped out from under Frank's arms and went down to my apartment. Mom and Dad were asleep. They always went to bed early on Lundi Gras; Fat Tuesday was the only exception they ever made to their never-get-up-before-noon rule. I smoked some pot, hoping it might help me sleep or at least relax me somewhat. My muscles were all knotted up. I tried to do a reading with my cards. But the Goddess wasn't responsive. I was on my own.
Shouldn't I have known? Shouldn't we have figured it out sometime over the last five months? What kind of psychic gift do I have, if I can go to bed every night with a sociopathic murderer without any conscience and not have the slightest idea? What the hell is wrong with me, anyway? He could have slit our throats at any time in our sleep.
Maybe that was unfair, but I couldn't help thinking that way.
But then again, I'd never felt endangered. Not once.
And then I remembered that incredible megawatt smile, the way his face would soften sometimes when I'd see him watching me, or Frank, and I started to cry again.
He couldn't have been acting. He had to have feelings for us. We were more than just a cover story. No one is that good of an actor.
But then that other insidious voice would whisper,
But of course he's a good actor. He wouldn't still be alive if he weren't. He's very good at what he does. Do you really think you're the first person he's ever deceived, fooled, lied to? He leaves scorched earth in his wake, lives destroyed, shattered, ended. How many people do you think he's killed? No, he never loved you and Frank; he was laughing at you the whole time—at your naivete at playing private eye, at your innocence and blind trust.
I
hated
that voice. Was it any wonder I couldn't sleep?
Around five-thirty I walked out onto the balcony and sat in one of the chairs with a joint. The sun was starting to rise; the darkness of the night was beginning to lighten. The air no longer felt cold and damp. I sat there and smoked the joint, watching a freighter pass by on the river, heading out to the Gulf of Mexico. Down past the turn in the river, coming up toward the city, was a massive cruise ship, and I smiled. Every year, RSVP Cruises has a big boat dock at the foot of Canal Street on Fat Tuesday, disembarking thousands of gay men ready to party. Even as I sat there, Zulu was lining up on Napoleon Avenue in Uptown, and Rex was lining up right behind it. Yet now, the night was peaceful and quiet. I just sat there.
No matter what was going on in
my
life, Fat Tuesday was going to go on like it always does. In a few hours, the streets would be packed. People were probably already out on the parade route, drinking and getting ready. All over the city, alarms were going off, and people were putting on their costumes. All through the Quarter, lights were coming on as people dragged their tired asses out of bed to get ready for the party they were throwing, for the guests who would arrive wanting mimosas and screwdrivers, Bloody Marys and Irish coffee.
Where are you now, Colin? Are you out of the country? On your way to your next job? Are you thinking about us? Or are we already forgotten, just two more on the long list of people you've used and lied to?
I pinched the joint out and walked back inside through the window. I'd only turned on one light in the living room, and as I set the roach in an ashtray, I happened to glance over at the television and caught my breath.
The picture frame on top of the TV was empty.
I got up and walked over to it. I picked up the wooden frame, held it in my hands, staring down at it.
It had held a picture of the three of us in our Halloween costumes, down in the courtyard. Millie and Velma had taken it, all three of us in our harem boy clothes, and we were all laughing, huge smiles on our faces, our arms around each other. It was my favorite picture of the three of us because we all looked so happy, even with Frank's arm in a sling.
He had left his clothes. He had left his toiletries. He had cleared out, taking nothing with him—
except the picture.
He had to have cared on some level. He climbed the side of Jax Brewery to rescue me back in October. If he didn't care, he could have just left me there to die.
I started crying again, wiping at my face and hugging the frame to my chest. He
wanted
to remember us. That had to mean something, didn't it? It wasn't all a lie; we'd meant something to him. After a few minutes I put the frame down on the coffee table and went back to bed. Frank was lying on his side, and I curled up behind him, putting my arms around him. He leaned back into me, and I closed my eyes.
Fat Tuesday dawned sunny and clear, the sky blue and free of clouds. The Universe chose to smile on New Orleans, and it was absolutely gorgeous outside. I'd set the alarm for seven, and when it went off I reached out and shut it off. Frank sat up, wiping at his eyes. “Hey,” he mumbled at me. We'd talked very briefly before going to bed about whether we were going to participate in Fat Tuesday and finally had decided to just set the alarm and see how we felt when we woke up.
“Hey—did you sleep well?” I peered closely at his face. The bruise was still pretty bad but was starting to fade a bit. If we did go out, the masks I'd picked out for today would cover up the bruise.
He shrugged. “Okay, I guess. But I'm wide awake now.”
“Do you want . . .” I let my voice trail off.
He threw the covers back and stood up, stretching, the muscles in his back, shoulders, and arms rippling. He was wearing a gray pair of Calvin Klein boxer briefs that hugged his butt. “You know something?” He turned and looked at me. His jaw was clenched again. “I don't want to let that fuck ruin my first Fat Tuesday.”
It's a little late for that,
I thought, as I stood up and yawned. “Why don't you get in the shower? I'll go start some coffee and get our costumes together—if you're sure.”
He nodded. “I'm sure. I don't want to sit around here all day and just think about it, you know?” He walked into the bathroom. He had a point; I sure as hell didn't want to sit around sulking all day and feel sorry for myself. I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and started the coffee, then headed down the back stairs. Our costumes were hanging in the bedroom closet. Mom and Dad were awake, smoking away in my living room. The entire apartment reeked of marijuana, and I made a mental note to make sure to leave the windows open after they were able to get back into their place. Mom and Dad already had their costumes on. They were going as two of the Ten Commandments; Mom was
Thou shalt not kill
and Dad was
Thou shalt not commit adultery.
They and eight of their friends were going as the complete set. Basically, they looked like slate tablets with the words carved into the front. “How are you doing, son?” Mom asked, offering me the joint she was smoking.
“Good as can be expected, I guess.” I shrugged.
“Forget about him, son,” Dad said. He tried to give me a hug but his costume wouldn't really let him, so he just rubbed my head. “He fooled all of us, I'm afraid.”
“He didn't fool
me,
” Mom said. “I knew there was something not quite right about him.”
I just looked at her. She had the decency to blush. I walked over and kissed her cheek. “I love you, Mom.”
She stroked the side of my face. “Don't let this change you, my baby.”
“I won't. I promise.” I gathered up our costumes and went back upstairs.
My original idea for the Fat Tuesday costumes had been to go as zebras. We had all gotten square-cut bathing suits with a zebra pattern on them. We'd made hats to go with them, but the body paint was going to be a pain in the ass and I'd decided not to bother with that. Instead, I decided to go with what had originally been intended to be our Lundi Gras costumes. They were a little more elaborate but a little less intensive than the Mercury costumes from Sunday night. I'd gotten David to make each of us a very short pleated skirt that barely covered our butts. Mine was gold, Frank's was green, and Colin's was purple. We had wreaths for our hair that matched the skirts. We also had vests in the same colors as well as capes, and, of course, elaborate matching masks. We were, basically, going as the Spirit of Mardi Gras. As I walked up the stairs, I decided what we'd do was switch them out. Instead of being just one color, Frank and I would mix the pieces so we would be decked out in the colors of the day.
Frank was sitting in the living room when I got back upstairs. I dumped all the pieces of the costumes into an easy chair. He was holding the empty picture frame, and there were tears on his face. “Are you okay?” I asked him.
He nodded and put the frame down, wiping at his face. “Yeah, I'm fine. I'm still mad, though—I don't know if I'll ever not be mad at him.” He sighed and stood up. He had a towel wrapped around his waist. “But I'm not going to let him ruin our day—or our lives. He's dead to me now.”
“Frank—” I hated hearing him talk like that.
He held up his hand. “Scotty, please.”
I pointed at the frame. “He took the picture, Frank. He left everything else, but he took that. Why do you think that is?”
“Don't defend that bastard to me,” Frank snapped. “I don't care what he took or what he didn't take. If—and when—I ever see that worthless prick again, I'm going to tear him limb from limb.”
“Frank, please.” I put my arms around him. “We're both entitled to be hurt and angry—I'm not saying we aren't. And I'm not defending him—there's no way anyone could ever defend what he did.”
Pray for a brave heart.
“But life never hands you anything you can't handle. It's
how
you handle it that makes the difference. Now, it would be easy to let this poison us both, change the people we are . . . but I'm
not
going to give him that kind of power over me. I'm not going to be someone else from now on. I'm still Scotty. And you know what else? We still have each other, don't we? And that's the most important thing, Frank. He can't ever take that away from us—
unless we let him.
”
“I know.” He nodded, tightening his own grip on me. “I love you, Scotty.”
“I love you, Frank.” I kissed his cheek. “Now, I'm going to go get in the shower.”
When I walked back into the living room, toweling my hair dry, Frank was sitting on the couch. He had on his little green skirt, his green sandals, a yellow vest, and the purple mask was pushed up over his head. He'd laid out the gold skirt, the purple vest, and the green mask for me. Frank had also made me a large cup of coffee liberally laced with Irish crème. The leftover costume pieces were piled in a corner of the room. I just looked at them for a minute while putting on my costume. They looked so sad, so forlorn. When I'd planned these costumes—
no, don't go back there, Scotty. That's a bad place. Don't ever go back there. Just focus on going forward, the here and now.
Frank whistled. “You are such a hottie, Scotty.” He picked up the roach I'd left in the ashtray and lit it, taking a deep inhale.
I stared at him in disbelief. “Frank—”
He gave me a lazy grin. “Now, there's nothing wrong with a little recreational drug use, is there? Seems to me I've heard that before someplace.” He offered it to me, and I took it, inhaling deeply.
“Frank, you aren't doing this because—”
He waved his hand. “I'm loosening up, Scotty.” He took another hit and started coughing, smoke spewing out of his mouth. “I was thinking while you were in the shower. And you're right. Life doesn't give you anything you can't handle; it's all in
how
you handle it. And I've decided I need to take the stick out of my ass and relax and enjoy my life.” He waved his hand. “I've wasted a lot of my life being, I don't know, hung up about things. And I'm going to try to change that. I'm going to try to be more like you.” He grinned a little weakly at me. “You're pretty smart, you know that?”

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