Orfeo (14 page)

“Please,” she begged, her lip trembling and tears starting to form in those beautiful eyes. “You don’t need to do this, Earl. Please, I’m begging you.”

“I do need to do this,” he replied, the tic in his cheek pulsing now, moving he suspected in time with the far-off beat of Hades itself. “Both you and I know what you want.”

Across from them, Papa had tipped a little of the powder into the spoon and was heating it with a lighter. Ardyce’s face moved from misery to despair to anger, but her eyes betrayed her, fixed as they were not on Papa or Earl but the silver spoon and the slight curls of smoke that began to rise from the bubbling liquid it contained.

“Hold her,” Earl told Horse, brusquely. The large man moved to obey and, as he came to the bed Ardyce lashed out with her feet, screaming and scrabbling at his face with her nails. Batting these aside easily, Horse forced himself behind her and held her in place, one of her soft, white arms outstretched.

Earl watched, his face gnawed by strange emotions as he paced by the bed, observing Papa move to the pair with the needle before him. His left hand was itching like crazy in his glove, his body remembering things his mind chose to forget. For her part, Ardyce was no longer struggling, but instead lay there in despairing resignation as the elegantly-clothed black man came closer and sat beside her, taking her arm almost tenderly in his hand. Her face was miserable, but for a second Earl caught another expression in her eyes, a deep-seated hunger. Yes, he knew what she wanted.

As the needle penetrated her skin, so a flower of blood rose up for a moment into the syringe as Papa drew it back, a tracery of petals mingling with the yellow-white fluid. As he depressed the plunger, so Ardyce let out a small cry and then turned her eyes, fearless and full of sorrow, onto Earl.

“It’s okay, little moth,” Papa said gently. “Go with it. It’ll be easier that way.”

She turned her green eyes toward him. The drug was already coursing through her veins as the older man massaged her arm soothingly. Her lips parted as she watched him, and moments later a vague look of ecstasy began to suffuse through her face. Earl wished he could stab his
loa
through the eyes in that instant for daring to look on this most precious of women, but he was frozen to the spot, watching her and unable to believe that the moment he had dreamed of was almost here.

“My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,” she murmured. She lifted up her hand and tenderly stroked Papa’s cheek, staring at him with those glittering, green eyes. It was his turn to be confused now, and he looked back at Earl: for the first time that Earl could remember, the black, slightly rheumy eyes that faced him showed an expression of fear.

“Get out! Get out both of you!” Earl hissed. Both Papa and Horse moved away from the bed and obediently stepped toward the door as Earl took off his jacket and threw it to one side. “Make sure that nobody disturbs us—nobody!”

When Orfeo awoke, the world around him was gloomy and twilit. His body screamed in agony, but in the seconds following this grinding realization that he was, at least, still alive, he also perceived that he lay on a soft bed. The mattress was finer than the cot he was used to in his own garret, and for a moment he wondered if he had been brought back to Xanadu. “Ardyce?” he called out, lifting his head and groaning as pain seared through his chest which seemed to be tightly bound.

“So, you’re awake at last.” He did not recognize the voice—a young man. Where was he? Surely Earl wouldn’t have him beaten and then bring him into his home?

A motion attracted his attention and he looked in the direction from which the voice came, seeing a dark figure moving across the room. The stranger pulled at the curtains and the dim light was replaced by the day streaming in through the window. Lifting a hand to shade his eyes, Orfeo stared at the figure, a man of a similar age to himself and evidently with Creole blood that darkened his skin. The man was handsome, with a small beard at his chin but no moustache, and tightly cropped dark hair. He was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans and was a muscular build.

“I must say,” he continued, shaking down each curtain, “that this is the first time that old
bioque
has dared bring a young man into this house, no matter how good looking he may be.” This latter was said with one eyebrow raised. “I don’t mind Baptiste playing away, but I don’t like him rubbing my nose in it.”

“W-who are you?” Orfeo managed to gasp at last. “Where am I?”

“Well,” the man said, coming to take up a seat near to the bed, “I don’t need to ask who you are. Baptiste has told me all about you. You were beat up something bad, though I reckon you ain’t such a peeshwank as all that. Mind you, from what he told me you showed yourself up as a real cooyon.” He paused and looked around the room and Orfeo followed his gaze, taking in the finery of the bed and the gracious furniture. When the young man had completed a survey, his gaze returned to Orfeo and fixed him there. “I’m Emile,” he said, finally answering Orfeo’s question. “Baptiste brought you back here the other night, and I’ve just been making sure that horny old bastard doesn’t creep in here to jack off over such a pretty young thing, for all that he tells me you’re thoroughly heterosexual.” A slight sneer of distaste played across Emile’s lips as he said the final word.

“Other night?” Orfeo asked, lifting a hand to his head. “How long... how long have I been here?”

“You’ve been out cold for two days. Baptiste got the doc in pretty much immediately, and he fixed you up alright. You may not be quite as pretty as you were before, but I think the worst of it should pass.” Emile paused and stared at Orfeo intently. “And you are
definitely
straight, aren’t you?”

Barely able to follow what the other man was saying, Orfeo nodded his head in confusion. “Oh well,” Emile muttered. “What a waste—such a pity. Anyway, I can’t sit here chatting all day. I’ll tell Baptiste you’re awake and he can decide what to do next with you.” Standing he began to walk toward the door but paused before exiting. “I think even in your current condition that horny old toad won’t stand a chance if you take against him.” With a smile he was gone.

After he had left Orfeo collapsed backwards into the soft bed, his fingers moving across the bandages. His ribs burned and ached but he was becoming used to the pain. Two days? It was clear that Horse had intended to damage him severely, but Orfeo felt inside that nothing had been injured permanently. Instead, his thoughts turned immediately to Ardyce: what was happening to her? He had to find out.

Not willing to rest for a few moments, he struggled to lift himself up and turned sideways in the bed. He was naked beneath the sheets and realized that he had been cleaned and tended to very effectively. With a wry smile, he wondered whether Baptiste or Emile had rendered that attention. Stumbling to the mirror he nodded grimly when he saw himself. His face was covered in a number of cuts while one eye was swollen and his nose appeared to have been broken—a fact he confirmed when he gingerly lifted a hand to touch it. Yet it was not as bad as it could have been—he had seen worse himself when running with gangs.

A television was placed near the end of the bed and, after searching for a remote, Orfeo switched it on and sat down tentatively on the bed, trying not to move his torso too much. The news was dealing with the damage reports caused by Hurricane Emily in Yucatán several weeks before, with the presenters speculating on whether this would be a particularly boisterous season for storms. Orfeo, however, was not interested. Instead he flicked through channels, looking for news programs that might shed some light on the abduction of Ardyce.

“I see you’re finally starting to recover.”

Looking up, Orfeo saw Baptiste standing in the doorway. The older man was dressed in some kind of silk dressing gown and stared at Orfeo with frankly appreciative eyes. Looking away, Orfeo caught sight of himself in the mirror, his strong, muscled chest wrapped around with white bandages, the rest of his skin ebony and shining. His cock rested between his thighs, thick and heavy. Suddenly embarrassed, he pulled a sheet across his lap.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Baptiste remarked with an amused smile. “Whatever Emile may have told you, I wouldn’t have taken advantage of you. Well, not so much. How are you feeling?”

Orfeo nodded to himself before answering. “Better, I guess. Where’s Ardyce? What’s happened to her?”

“I see,” Baptiste muttered with a sigh. “So much for the small talk. Where she is, you know as well as I do. She’s still in Hades, as far as I can tell. As for what’s happened to her...” His voice trailed away and he shrugged.

“I have to get to her.”

“You have to get to her? Now? In the state you’re in?” Baptiste’s bonhomie suddenly disintegrated and he looked angrily at the young man in his bed. “You were lucky not to get yourself killed—and me too, for that matter. Sousson-Pannan, Baron Kriminel indeed,” he spat. “The only person nearly to meet Samedi that night was you.”

Orfeo bowed his head, ashamed of the taunt. When he lifted his head, however, his expression was one of fixed resolution.

“Thank you for your help,” he said. “I won’t get you into trouble again. I’ll get my things and go.”

Baptiste sighed, repenting his harsh words. “You’re not going anywhere, young man, not in that condition.” He came forward and, bending slightly, retrieved the remote control and turned off the television set. Orfeo was aware of the smell of his cologne as he leaned forward.

“You’re lucky. The doctor said that you have a couple of cracked ribs and severe bruising, but nothing serious seems to have been ruptured and there was no internal bleeding, which is fortunate. You’re a tough one, and that’s no mistake.”

“I’ve had worse,” Orfeo said, his eyes fixed on the blank television screen.

“Perhaps you have, perhaps you have,” Baptiste replied softly. “But in any case,” he continued, speaking in a louder tone of voice, “you have to rest here—
bed rest, completely—for a week! Doctor’s orders!”

Orfeo shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

Flinging the remote away, Baptiste collapsed into a chair and raised both hands to his head. “
Fils de putain
!” he hissed and glared at Orfeo who refused to look back at him. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

Again Orfeo made no motion.

“Do you have any idea of whom you're up against?” Baptiste asked, staring at him incredulously. “Do you have any idea of what kind of man Earl is?”

“I know that he’s a man,” Orfeo said very quietly.

Baptiste snorted. “A man who controls just about every crooked deal in New Orleans. Not a drug is sold, nor a whore traded, nor a palm greased somewhere in this city without Earl taking his cut. And as for those
loa
of his -” Orfeo sneered at this but Baptiste persisted: “As for his
loa
, let me give an indication of the kinds of people you’re dealing with. You were lucky with Horse. He could have pulled your head off with his bare hands if he’d wished. He’s probably the most loyal. He cut out his own tongue when he failed Earl and he’s been trusted muscle ever since. Snake...” Baptiste shuddered at the thought of the tattooed Hispanic woman. “Well, at least she’s easy to second guess: if she can get pleasure hurting you, then she’ll take it, but you can see when her temper’s about to blow.”

He drew closer to Orfeo and stared at him silently until the young black man returned his gaze. “But the one you’ve got to watch out for is Papa. In some ways he’s the worst of them all, worse even than Earl. Earl’s smart enough, more determined than anyone else I’ve ever known, but at least he kind of operates in a way that’s... well, human, I guess.”

Orfeo said nothing as Baptiste continued to speak. The old man’s hands were trembling slightly as he spoke, but he did not divert his eyes away. “Papa used to control the city till Earl tricked him, bought off his men. But I want to tell you a little story that illustrates the kind of man Papa is, the kind of man you’re up against.

“About seven years ago, I think it was, Earl was still having some problems running the city. There was a gang up in 9th District—some
Creole crowd, running loose, selling crack, trafficking, the usual. I think Papa had had dealings with them in the past, but they were a royal pain for Earl so he wanted them cleaned up. There was a guy in charge, by the name of Raoul, who got wind of it that Papa had been sent out for him, so he took a dozen of his most trusted men, armed them to the teeth and holed himself up in some slum building.

“That was his first mistake. Papa didn’t follow him to his stakeout, but instead tracked down Raoul’s family. This guy, Raoul, he was bad but he had some standards of decency, you know? Wanted to keep his wife and children out of it. Anyway, Papa goes into the house where his family lives. I think his mother was there as well, I can’t remember now. So the story goes, he tells the other guys sent by Earl to wait outside and goes in himself. Less than twenty minutes later, he came out with the head of the youngest—a girl. Ten I think she was, maybe eleven or twelve. He gives it to one of his men and tells him to deliver it to Raoul. Then he goes back inside.”

Baptiste paused, looking toward the window. His hands were shaking even more as he continued, but his voice was quieter, softer.