Up we went. After ringing a buzzer, we waited in an area on the second floor that had been recently upgraded. New brick pavers tiled the landing. The door itself looked fairly new and clean and was opened by a guy who looked like a contemporary of Zachary Jones. About the same age and demeanor, except this guy must have tipped the scales at over 250, and every ounce looked like solid muscle.
He didn't speak but stood waiting until I said, "I was told to ask for Zachary." Then he opened the door wide, and we walked in.
Cat grabbed the back of my arm, and I had to shake her off. "Geez, Cat."
We were led toward the back of the place where a bank of video screens lined the wall. On each screen was one kind or another sports event going on—football, basketball, ice hockey, car races, and one with a green screen with white letters that looked like an odds sheet.
Zachary Jones sat facing the screens, chewing on the end of a pen.
All around us, people were clicking away at computers and holding animated phone conversations. It was busy as an anthill.
The young guy who'd led us in spoke. "Mr. Jones, someone to see you."
Zachary swiveled around. He looked surprised to see us, but there was no flair of recognition in his eyes. "Hello," he said. "How can I help you?"
"We'd like to place a bet on a horse race," I tried to sound like I knew what I was talking about.
He grinned. "Oh, great. Well, Dan here can help you with that."
Dan, the guy who'd answered the door, gestured and said, "Right this way—"
I interrupted him, standing my ground. "I was told to ask for Zachary." I was pretty sure my voice shook.
Zachary leaned his elbows onto his knees and laced his fingers together, looking up at us. "And you are?"
"Um, Priscilla McGillicuddy."
"Do I know you?" he asked. "You seem familiar to me?"
"No," I said, hoping it didn't sound phony. "I never saw you before in my life."
"Who told you to ask for me specifically, Priscilla?"
"Slim," I said. "Slim Conner."
"Slim?" Zachary asked. "How do you—did you know him?"
I pretended not to know what happened to Slim and just shrugged. "Just seen him around here and there. You know."
"Huh." He stood. "I'm glad to help you." Then he led us to a computer station and sat down behind it. "Tell me."
"Well, we…" How was this sort of thing done?
Thank God for Cat, who'd found her voice and her confidence. "There's a filly running in the fourth today at the track. Gypsy Lady. She has good odds, and we'd like to place a cash bet on her."
He nodded, sizing up the two of us and held out his hand.
I fished around in my jeans pocket and pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill, which I laid on the small table, smoothing it out with my fingers. "There ya go."
He stared at it. Then he looked up at us.
"That's your bet?"
"Well—" I looked at Cat. "Yeah."
After a beat, he began to laugh, and my face went hot. "What?"
Cat cleared her throat. "It's not enough?"
He stopped laughing after a bit and said, "Well, if you want my honest opinion, you and your twenty dollars would have a lot more fun making the trip out to the actual track. They take bets like this there."
"Hmmph." Cat narrowed her eyes at him. I could tell he'd gotten off on the wrong foot with her. She yanked her purse around and unzipped it, reaching inside and bringing out another twenty-dollar bill, this one in better shape that the one I'd given him. "What about now?" she said. "Will you take our money now?"
He studied her a minute and laughed a little before reaching for the forty bucks. "Sure," he said. "Why not? Who knows? You girls might roll this into something major and wind up being my best customers one of these days."
He explained the process to us. Our bet was on Gypsy Lady, a three-year-old filly, to place in the fourth race. If she came in second, the odds were such that our $40.00 would miraculously become $640.00.
"Really," I said, totally amazed.
"But if she runs anything but second," Zachary went on, picking up the two twenties, kissing each one, and then waving at us. "Buh-bye."
He laughed again. "I want to thank you girls for coming in. You made my day. It's been a while since I took a bet like this one, and it'd be a real kick in the pants if you win. So good luck."
I suddenly remembered why we'd come. It wasn't to gamble—Mama would have died if she knew—it was to get answers.
"We'll be sure to thank Slim for sending us, and if you see him first, tell him we said, 'Yat.'"
"Not likely I'm gonna see him anytime soon. You didn't hear?"
I batted my eyes until Cat poked me in the side. "Hear?"
"Slim's dead. Got knocked over a couple of nights ago out in the bayou."
Both Cat and I took in an exaggerated breath. "What? Slim Conner?" I gasped.
"You sure 'bout that?" Cat whined.
"Pretty sure," Zachary said. "They're saying it was murder."
"Oh, my," I said. "When was that?"
"Tuesday night," he answered. "Out where he worked. The Mansion at Mystic Isle. It's across the river over in Jefferson Parish."
"Wow," Cat said.
"How'd you hear about it?" I asked. "Were you there?"
He nodded. "I sure was. There was some big shindig going on, and I'd forgot all about it till I got there and saw my lady who I see over there wasn't working, so I turned around and came back here. But I was there for a little while. Slim, he wasn't working at his usual place then either. And, believe me, I wanted to talk to that man."
"You needed to talk to Mr. Conner about something?" Cat asked.
Zachary nodded absently while he clicked a few keys on the keyboard in front of him. "Oh, yeah, I needed to talk to him about 52,000 somethings," he said absently.
The noise I made in the back of my throat caused him to look up at me. "Money? Was it money? Did Slim owe you $52,000.00?"
His face was serious. "Your friend Slim was a real deadbeat, and I was a fool for letting it mount up like that. He even stiffed me on the interest payments." He smirked. "Now I know you ladies would never do something like that. Would you?"
We both shook our heads.
He went on, "Because if you did, well, I couldn't be responsible for any bad karma you might be creating for yourselves."
I didn't know what to say. Cat took hold of my hand.
"Well," I said. "I guess we better be getting on back home."
We both turned and hadn't taken more than two steps toward the door when Zachary's voice, harsh and imperative, cut right through us. "Stop!"
We both looked up at the only apparent exit, where Dan stood blocking the door, massive forearms crossed over his chest.
"Holy crud," Cat whispered. "We're gonna die."
But apparently not just then. Zachary stood and came around the computer station. "You forgot your receipt, Priscilla."
"Oh." Whew. "Thanks." I took it, and Cat and I double-timed it to where Dan was now holding open the door to let us out.
It was after ten thirty when we walked back out onto the sidewalk in front of Floozy's. Cat had an appointment at work, so she headed down to the ferry, while with my bet in mind, I splurged on a cab that carried me from Bourbon Street over to the Lower Ninth Ward and St. Antoine's Children's Home. On the way, I snatched off the sunglasses, took the black wig off my head, scrubbed my scalp with my fingers, and then fluffed up my hair.
Then I called Cap'n Jack. He was already hard at work in his office. "Hey, girl."
I sighed. Those words on another man's lips would make him sound like a player, but when Jack said them, it was an endearment. "Jack, could you do me one?" I asked.
"Anything," he said, and I knew he meant it.
"This Zachary Jones," I began. "Jack, the guy has admitted he was on the property the night Slim was killed. He insists he just showed up without an appointment, and when Stella wasn't available, he turned right around and left. I was wondering if the security footage might not have recorded his activities. Any way you might have time to take a look?"
"Huh," he said. "So he was here? I'll have a few minutes after I finish up reviewing the social director's agenda for tonight. Ring me back later."
"I have one stop to make then I'm crossing on the ferry. I'll see you soon, Bob," I said.
"Bob?" It took a minute. "Oh. Right. Bob Cratchit." He paused a few seconds before saying, "Why do I ever sign on for these things?"
I could hardly wait to see handsome Jack in his Bob Cratchit costume tonight at The Mansion's Ghostly Christmas Gala—and not only Jack. Several of my other friends would be appearing as characters from the Dickens classic.
After a couple of air kisses, we disconnected just as I arrived at St. Antoine's Children's Home.
My old friend and mentor, Father Brian, was shooting hoops in the courtyard with some of the boys. I sat down on a bench and watched. Brian was a good man. He was probably in his late forties. His shaggy hair had been grey since I'd first met him when I was graduating from high school. I loved him for his generous spirit, kind patience, and good humor.
After a few minutes, he looked over and saw me sitting there, and after dribbling the ball a few times, he bounced it over to one of the boys. "I'm gonna go talk to Melanie awhile," he said, "give you boys a little break."
He sat down beside me, his head turning as he watched the boys running circles under the hoop. "I heard about the terrible thing that happened at Mystic Isle on Tuesday. How grim. Did you know the man?"
I nodded. "Not all that well, but he seemed like a nice enough guy. He was funny. But I just learned that he wasn't all he seemed."
Father Brian shrugged. "Who of us really is?"
"He owed a lot of money to someone." I turned toward him. "A lot of money and to someone who might or might not be capable of killing him to get paid back by taking Papa Noël's gift bag."
Brian sat there a minute. "Did you hear that a bone marrow match has been found?"
"Really? That's great." But then I remembered all the money we collected to put toward Nicole's procedure was gone, taken from Slim's poor dead grip by some low-life, killer scum. Sure, I was being a bit dramatic, but when was drama called for if not now?
"The really bad thing about it is this woman's a missionary who's come forward and volunteered to donate, but she's leaving for her mission in Africa in a week."
I felt like crying but held it back. Father Brian was a sensitive soul and seemed to pick up on my emotions. He laid his hand on my shoulder.
"I just connect with these kids, you know." It was hard for me to talk about it. "They don't have anyone except you and the sisters."
"Well, and you and others who care about them."
"Yes, but they're not family. Not the kind of family a kid really needs. I had Mama, Grandmama Ida, and Granddaddy Joe. But I understand how vulnerable they must feel. When my father just up and left when I was five, even with Mama and my grandparents there to love me and support me, I felt like my world had turned upside down. I watched at the window for months, thinking he'd be coming home any day."
"These things are hard to understand." His voice was soft, kind.
"It's just due to that, I get how these kids must feel, on a smaller scale of course. I had more love when I was a kid than I knew what to do with. These boys and girls…they don't have that. And poor Nicole. She must be so scared and not have anyone to sit by her bed and…" I couldn't go on.
Father Brian seemed at a loss. "Sister Catherine is close to the child. We all do our best."
"I know you do, Father Brian. I just wish that money hadn't disappeared. She really needs it, especially now."
"We're making a plea to the congregation, but…" his voice trailed off.
"It doesn't look good?" I finished for him.
He shook his head, sending his unkempt hair falling down onto his forehead. His eyes were worried, a sentiment I shared with him.
"Man," I lamented. "I thought we had this covered. What kind of person would do that—kill Slim in the first place then take funds and gift cards intended for your kids?"
"Not a good person," he said. "And I want you to keep that in mind when you go running off trying to find the bag and get it back."
I just looked at him.
"Don't give me those big old innocent green eyes," he said seriously. "I know how you are, Melanie Hamilton. I also know it won't do any good to tell you not to try to track it down, so I'm just going to say a prayer you won't put yourself in danger to do it."
"A prayer, Father? How about if you say two?"