After Jack walked me back to the resort, and the shuttle took me to the ferry, I crossed over and walked the few blocks to our place on Dumaine Street. The air was crisp and cold, the sky clear, but I couldn't see the stars until I rounded the corner off the busy, well-lit thoroughfare of Decatur onto Dumaine, and the only lights were the amber glow coming from residence windows.
We rented a two-bedroom from Mrs. Peabody who owned the three-apartment complex where she, our neighbor Beauregard Taylor, and Cat and I shared the lovely brick courtyard surrounded by the building. I let myself into the locked gate. Light from Mrs. Peabody's place and our place spilled out into the courtyard. Beau's place was dark. He tended bar at Thibadeaux's on Bourbon Street in the Quarter and was probably getting extra hours during the holiday season.
Cat was snuggled on the sofa in her robe and slippers, watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas on TV. Satchmo was curled up on her lap but jumped down and ran to greet me when I walked in.
Cat turned. "How'd it go?"
I took off my jacket and hung it on the coatrack just inside the double French doors that led me into the living room. "It was pretty exciting." I sat down at one end of the sectional sofa and toed off first one boot then the other, rubbing one stockinged foot against the other. "I've seen Cajuns brawl before, but who knew those long-robed tree huggers would be up to holding their own." I patted the empty spot beside me, and Satchmo jumped up and curled up, his head on my thigh. I scratched his ears. "Jack got a few scrapes and bumps."
Cat grinned. "Did you kiss all the boo-boos and make them better?"
I sighed. "Not all of them."
On the TV set, the music swelled and the Grinch's heart grew. We both stopped talking to watch. We both loved this holiday favorite from childhood.
When the credits began to roll, Cat switched off the TV. "Did you have something to eat?"
"Not yet," I told her. "You?"
"Scrambled eggs and andouille sausage. Still some in the skillet." She got up. "Come on. We'll heat it up."
I carried my plate out to the Mission-style table we'd stripped down and refinished when we'd first moved in. Cat sat opposite me with a cup of her favorite Waterfall chamomile tea that she ordered off the internet by the case. I'd filled a glass with almond milk. Neither Cat nor I would have ever been called good cooks exactly, but we both did a mean breakfast. And tonight was no different. "This rocks, Cat," I said, chewing.
She fluffed her hair. "Why, thank you, ma'am."
"What's on your calendar for tomorrow?" I asked. "I'm off, and I was thinking I might go 'round to one of those disreputable betting parlors. You know, see if I can't catch me a killer?"
"You what?" She practically choked on her tea.
"You wanna go?" I asked.
"Heck, yeah," she said. "I'm going straight to bed and setting my alarm. I wouldn't miss this for the world."
* * *
I got up the next morning and called Stella. She said she was still getting ready for work and sounded rushed.
"I have a plan," I told her.
"Good to know," she said, sounding impatient.
"I'm going to place a bet with your client Zachary Jones and grill him about where he was and what he was doing the night of Slim's murder."
"Oh, Mel, not really," she said.
"Yes, really. I don't buy that Valentine had anything to do with this mess, and not only do I want to clear her, I feel like when the killer stole Papa's bag, it was almost as if he was stealing from me. Those kids need the loot from that benefit, especially Nicole. A match could come up for her any day, and if money isn't there to help with the bone marrow transplant, it could mess things up real bad. And I know you want to help, Stella."
She was quiet for a while, and I began to think she might not answer but then, "What can I do?"
"You can tell me where your customer Zachary Jones runs his illegal sports book."
She swallowed so hard I heard it all the way from across the river in Lafitte, over the phone connection. "What makes you think I know where he runs his business from?"
I didn't answer, didn't figure I needed to. I gave her time to come to the inevitable conclusion.
Finally, "It's over on Bourbon Street, above a bar…"
She gave me all the details, and I wrote down every word she said.
After I showered and dressed in what I hoped was appropriate wear for sleuthing, a pair of black jeans, black boots, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and a leather motocross jacket, I dug out my old pixie-cut black wig and put it on. It made me look like a thirteen-year-old boy, but at least maybe Zachary wouldn't recognize me. For good measure, I put on a pair of sunglasses to disguise my eyes.
I walked out of my bedroom to find Cat sitting on the sofa, waiting and wearing, honest to God, the exact same outfit, only with a blue long-sleeved T-shirt and long blonde glamour wig. It told me I'd chosen the correct wardrobe for the chore.
She stood and yanked down her jacket. "You ready?"
"You kiddin' me, chère?" I replied. "I was born ready."
We locked up and left.
* * *
Rue Bourbon, Bourbon Street. Obi-Wan Kenobi would have accurately described it as a wretched hive of scum and villainy. While I wouldn't have gone quite that far, Bourbon Street was definitely one of a kind. Cat and I pointedly avoided it most of the time, but of course when Jack and I started hanging out, I had to take him there. He'd heard all kinds of things about it. Most were true. He'd commented that even Times Square wasn't nearly so hedonistic. It was said to be Mardi Gras year round, and that there were places on Bourbon Street that never closed until the last partier had left the building, so people could drink and carouse around the clock if they wanted to.
Women with any common sense at all avoided going there alone at night, and even in the daylight, it could be a little iffy. I was definitely glad Cat had wanted to come with me.
The morning air was still brisk as it swept along the nearly empty sidewalks, quiet by Bourbon Street standards. Street sweepers had already made their rounds, so things weren't in a terrible state. The address Stella had given me for Zachary Jones's sports book was above a bar called Floozy's, just on the hetero side of the Lavender Line.
A confused and disheveled-looking guy sat on the curb in front of the bar, his head in his hands as a cop stood above him with one foot propped on the curb while he checked the guy's ID. The cop looked up as we walked by, his disapproval evident. Cat and I both smiled and went quickly into the bar before someone stopped to ask what a couple of nice girls like us were doing in a place like this.
The farther we went inside, the darker it grew. Tables and chairs were on one side, an old-style wooden bar on the other. A stale smell of beer and bar food permeated every nook and cranny.
An older guy sat at the counter nursing beers. Two middle-aged couples hovered over an order of wings and a few huge rainbow-colored drinks.
A woman behind the bar, leaning forward on her elbows, straightened as we walked up to her.
"Stairs?" Cat asked.
The bartender didn't reply until I said, "Looking for Zachary," then she pointed us to the back of the place where we found a flight of barely lit stairs.
I put my hand on the sticky bannister then pulled it off and looked at my palm before placing one foot on the first step. "So, here we go." I was suddenly nervous.
Cat was behind me, looking up, her eyes big and round. She gulped. "You first."