VenCo(89)

The skeletal patient on the bed nodded as enthusiastically as he could.

“Thank you, Gerard. I am in your debt, and you know I like to pay off my debts, especially when they are owed to such a handsome man,” he replied with a wink. He stood up from the bedside and walked towards the door. “I’ll stay out of your way,” he called over a shoulder. “And yours too,” he said to the nurse. “I expect the same in return.”

She hardened her lips and looked pointedly away as he moved past her.

After he’d secured the spoon or made sure the witch wouldn’t find it, he’d budget an hour for one last visit with his friend. He’d spend it reading Gerard love poems. Then he’d put him out of his ancient misery with a pillow.

Since he’d seen nothing through the old woman’s eyes but TV and small talk, he’d spent some time enjoying the house, the pool out back, and the pool boy cleaning it. Now he lay flat on his back in the sweeping master bedroom, unused since Hurricane Katrina, staring up at the massive chandelier he’d convinced Gerard to import from France when they had travelled abroad that one summer so long ago. That was the year they’d installed some extra play features in the room. He wondered if they were still there, after all this time. He reached behind the headboard, and his hand touched a leather strap.

“Oh, Gerard, you dog.” He laughed.

He closed his eyes, concentrating, listening with his whole body. He wanted to meet Lucky St. James again. He had a feeling she was more than she seemed, more than maybe she even understood. Playing with her might be an interesting project. But for right now, he needed to find her. Stella was likely asleep, but it was worth checking, since he’d already learned she kept odd hours. He would have only a few more hours before the connection was lost.

Orthopedic sandals walking down . . . Bourbon Street? If she was walking about in the French Quarter so late, she and Lucky had to be staying close by.

A pleasant-faced man with a shiny forehead saying good night.

An old set of rooms and the smell of chlorine and cleaner.

The girl! Asleep in her clothes on top of the bed.

Curving stairs. The TV turned on. The Golden Girls?

He was about to call it quits and go grab a shower when he saw a phone. She was holding a phone.

A message notification popped up. Stella opened it. Meena herself. Stella read it. And so did Jay Christos.

He smiled so big that his eyes popped open. He had it now: 369 Prytania Street, Burial Grounds Café.





28

Burials




“Oh, fuck me.”

Lucky stood on the sidewalk in front of Burial Grounds Café at seven forty-five in the morning. A man with his panting bulldog and a little girl eating a pickle stood beside her, watching the scene with quiet curiosity. The police were keeping people from getting too close to the glass on the sidewalk from the smashed-in window while a couple of workers hammered a sheet of plywood in its place.

A neighbour padded over from next door in furry slippers and a silk bathrobe. He had a folded magazine tucked under his arm, as if he’d been interrupted on his way to the bathroom. “Sweet Saint Joseph, what happened here?”

A ponytailed jogger answered. “They’re saying robbery. The cash register was broken open and all the silverware’s gone.”

“Of course!” Lucky yelled. “Of course it’s gone.” Distraught, she threw her hands up and paced in small circles, not caring that the jogger and Slipper Man took a step back from her.

A police officer, thumbs hooked on his wide belt, wandered over to talk to Slipper Man. “You live next door there?”

The man nodded.

“And you didn’t hear a crash?”

“Not a thing.” He shook his head for emphasis.

“Not the most elegant way to break in,” the jogger added.

“Well, actually, they broke in through the back,” the cop said. “Just lifted an old window and shimmied in. All this damage? Vandalism. There was no need to smash the front in like that.”

“All the silverware was taken?” Lucky asked.

“Who wants to know?” The cop walked over to her. “You the owner?”

Uniforms always made her nervous. Arnya had taught her that a uniform was just an easy way to spot a bully. Lucky shook her head. “I came because I heard they . . . they had antiques that I should check out.”

“You’re an antiques person, then?” He unhooked a thumb and patted his hair into place.

“Uh, yup. From Canada.” She wasn’t sure how being Canadian was protection, but threw it out there anyway.

“Well, now, I also have an interest in old stuff,” he said.

Right—now she recognized the look on his face. The softening around the eyes, the hardening around the mouth. He was checking her out.

“What’s your name?”

“Freya,” she responded. “So all this damage came after they got in?”

“Yup. Hard to understand why someone would throw a chair right through the front window like that.”

She couldn’t hear him anymore. All she could think of was Meena’s text:

. . . throw a chair through the front window if you have to!



“I . . . I gotta go. My grandmother is waiting for me.” She turned and bolted for the cab she saw parked in front of a brick church.