Fat Tuesday(129)

"Mr. Basile," the madam said, catching his sleeve as he rushed past her on his way out, "you'll be very conspicuous gate-crashing Pinkie Duvall's party dressed like that. Would you care to borrow a costume?"

Burke didn't have a moment to waste, but he saw the advisability of taking the time for her to locate him a costume. He paced her office, cursing the system that had once again let him down, and at the same time thanking it.

The delay uptown gave him an opportunity to do one better than arrest Duvall.

It gave him a chance to kill the bastard.

The pain in Remy's back had receded to a dull ache. A bruise was beginning to appear on her cheekbone, but the swelling was minimal.

These aches and pains she could tolerate. What she couldn't abide was the thought of her sister being abused by Bardo.

Burke had sworn to see to Flarra's safety first, even before arresting Pinkie. He would keep that promise if he could. But what if, in spite of his valiant attempts, he'd failed? She had. Pinkie had readily seen through her pretense. Maybe Burke had had no better success than she.

Maybe he'd been unable to persuade the district attorney and the attorney general to act swiftly.

because she didn't know otherwise, she had to assume that he'd failed, which meant that saving Flarra still rested with her. A telephone.

That's all she needed. She had met the first challenge of figuring a way out of the master bedroom she now had a key. The next step was finding an available telephone.

As soon as she felt it was safe to try the key, she did so. The lock slid open with hardly a click. She paused, waiting, her heart pounding in her ears, but when nothing happened, she pulled open the door.

The hallway was clear. She immediately checked the foyer table at the top of the stairs where there was usually a telephone, but, of course, her husband hadn't overlooked that detail.

She crept along the corridor until she reached the top of the stairs.

Before stepping onto the landing, she paused to consider what she would do if she were confronted by one of the house staff. Their loyalty lay with Pinkie, not her, because all of them were former clients whom Pinkie had saved from years of incarceration, if not death row.

None would grant a request from her without clearing it with him first. Errol? What if she met her bodyguard? Could she persuade or trick him into assisting her? He wasn't terribly bright. Maybe she could manipulate him into sneaking her out. She hadn't forgotten what happened to Lute Duskie, the bodyguard who'd allowed her to escape to Galveston.

The thought of duping Errol wasn't very appetizing, but she would do what she had to and try to protect him later.

Bolstering all her courage, she stepped onto the landing.

But that's as far as she got. There was a man posted at the foot of the staircase, but it wasn't Errol.

She ducked back out of sight before he noticed her. Where was Errol?

Why had he been replaced? And then, of course, she realized why. He had been derelict in his duties at the Crossroads. Had he paid for that mistake with his life?

Whether he had or not was irrelevant to her present problem. Could the new man be cajoled into helping her, or was he steadfastly loyal to Pinkie? She favored the latter. He was new. He would be eager to impress his boss.

The only advantage she had was in their not knowing that she now could leave the bedroom. And how much longer would she have that luxury?

When would Pinkie discover the key missing from his coat pocket?

Before he did, she must come up with another plan. Trying not to let this setback defeat her, she tiptoed back to the master suite and locked herself in.

How long had Burke needed to set into motion the juggernaut he claimed would crumble Pinkie's empire? How long before he was arrested? And what was going on with Flarra in the meantime?

If only she knew that Flarra was safe ... but she didn't. So she continued to fret until she heard approaching footsteps. She quickly lay down on the bed, drawing her knees to her chest. She stared vacantly into near space, as though she had lost all hope.

Pinkie rushed into the room, and drew up short when he saw her lying there lethargically. Had he missed the key? Had he expected to find her gone? Apparently so, because when he saw her, the wrinkles of worry on his forehead smoothed out and he smiled.

He moved to the bedside and gazed down at her."Guess who I heard from this afternoon?" Remy didn't respond or even react as though she'd heard him."Sister Beatrice," he continued in that same pleasant voice."She called from the academy where Bardo picked up Flarra, ostensibly to escort her to our party. By this time, he has introduced your beloved baby sister to the pleasures of the flesh.

By morning, who knows? Sometimes Bardo's passion gets out of hand."

She drew her knees up closer to her body and buried her face in the pillow. Laughing softly, Pinkie went into his dressing room and locked the door behind himself. Twenty minutes later he came out dressed as Henry VIII.

"You don't seem to be in a very festive mood, Remy. I'll make your excuses to our guests."

He paused on the threshold."Oh, by the way, it's only a matter of time before we track down your lover, but I've given strict instructions that he's not to be killed until it can be done in your presence, and only then after he's watched you being f*cked by all the personnel of the N.O.P.D on my payroll, which, I assure you, is no small number of men and women. That should be quite an evening."