I scrambled into the cafe. My hands shook like a sot recovering from a bacchanalian weekend.
The faint glow of late afternoon sun wasn’t enough that I could clearly read the wall. With the blade clutched in my right hand, I used my left fingers to travel along the numbers Mo had written on the wall. Which was the one I needed?
Mo had a long list of connections in New Orleans, and it seemed he’d written every contact number he had on the wall. I cursed myself for not paying better attention when Mo added each number to the wall. I knew that none would be listed by true names. There’d be some sort of code, something to indicate exactly who each number belonged to that no other person—particularly law enforcement—would recognize.
My finger crossed one that had been hastily scratched in pencil. Grocer PP 1127. The door to a memory flew open: Eloi Granger owned a store in Plaquemines Parish.
That was it. The only other person who hated Claude as much as Mo did right now was Eloi.
I lifted the receiver.
A tinny voice was on the line. “Number, please?”
“Plaquemines Parish 1127.” I struggled to control the quaver in my voice.
“Hold, please.”
A jangling erupted through the ear piece. And then another. As the third ring clattered unanswered my desperation grew even more frantic. My impulse was to drop the phone and run back to the club. I didn’t trust that Claude hadn’t somehow risen from unconsciousness and broken free of his binds. That was just the kind of evil that he was.
A fourth ring.
This is ridiculous. There’s no way he’s goin’ to answer. Even if he does he won’t come all the way to New Or—
“Breaux’s.” The greeting was abrupt. Not so much a word or greeting as it was a bark of acknowledgment.
I knew right away that it was him.
“Eloi? Eloi Granger?”
“Who’s askin’?”
“My name’s Deirdre. You delivered—I mean we met in—we met with Mo. You’re the grocer.” I wasn’t sure how exactly to call his memory to the fact that he’d delivered moonshine to our club without really saying it. I’d heard of phone lines in New York being listened in on by revenuers. I couldn’t imagine the state of Louisiana had gone to that great of an effort yet, but if they had, the Morets and Grangers were at the top of the list of bootleggers they’d be interested in listening to.
Even without wiretapping I couldn’t risk piquing the curious nature of telephone operators.
“I remember.”
“I need—”
He interrupted me without giving me a moment. “You’re gonna have to find someone else. I ain’t deliverin’ no more.”
“It’s not that.” I had no idea how to say it gently, so I tried the direct approach. “I was told that ye might like to finish a conversation with…with Claude Moret.”
“Who told ya that?”
I dropped my voice to a low mumble. There was nobody around to listen except for the operator. Claude was unconscious and bound. Mo was unconscious. Two of Claude’s men were bleeding on the floor of my club. “I have him here. He’s a little, um, tied up right now. In the other room.”
“Mo can take care of him.”
“They beat him up. It’s bad. He hasn’t woken up.” Desperation pushed tears into my eyes. My throat threatened to constrict. Be calm, Deirdre.
“Eloi, it was Claude. Yer brother and yer girl. He said as much.”
“I’m on my way.”
The line went dead.
I was left alone as the evening began its slow descent over the city. Fear kept me rooted in place.
The sound of kids venturing into the shadows of the buildings to play in the streets echoed from outdoors. From a distance, the muffled sounds of music slowly drifted through the summer air. Musicians along Bourbon Street ambled from their daytime hibernations to play long into the night.
The hot day was giving way to the sultry nights of New Orleans. Soon the streets would fill with revelers. Where the heat of day had driven the people indoors, leaving behind quiet streets, the night would bring some gaiety and boisterous summer fun.
Perfect, I thought. The crowds and noise, as well as the general chaos of a New Orleans summer night would make it easier to do what I knew was coming. I’d have to get rid of two bodies, likely three before the night was over. There was no way Claude Moret could be allowed to walk out of Finnigan’s End alive. He’d never allow Mo or I to walk away from this battle with our lives.
I comforted myself with a dark satisfaction. I’d made the right call, with Mo unconscious, Eloi Granger was the one other person who could help me face what I had to do. Before the night was over, I’d have one more murder obscuring any light that remained in my soul.
With a deep exhalation, I forced my nerves to calm and mind to focus.
I retrieved a length of twine from behind the cafe counter and tied it snugly around my thigh. Careful, I cautioned myself as I slid the blade into it.
The shutters were heavy as I swung them across the front door and windows. They echoed with a finality as I pulled them together and slid the lock into place.
I crept along the hallway. The house felt dark and ominous, as if evil spirits lurked around corners that didn’t even exist in this straight passage. My ears strained against the silence, searching for any indication of danger.
I turned into the third room. My fingers lifted the hem of my dress and my hand wrapped about the handle of the blade at my thigh.
Claude looked up as I entered. Even in his current position, tied to a chair at the back of an empty club, he was not giving up. The Morets were resilient if nothing else.
Claude’s head lolled as he grinned. A dark red stream poured from his swollen and purple lower lip.
“I’ll give ya one last time to do what’s right, girlie.”
I pulled myself up straight. I was determined that, despite the panic churning inside me and causing my stomach to tumble and my heart to pummel against the confines of my ribs, I’d never again let Claude see me afraid of him. He was bound like a pig on a spit, and there was nothing more he could physically do to me or anyone else. “I believe I am doin’ what’s right, Mr. Moret. Perhaps we ‘ave differen’ opinions on that though.”
I pulled a chair closer, though my unconscious impulses ensured I remained out of reach. Vengeful though I may be, I wasn’t completely stupid. As I sat, the hem of my dress hitched over the handle of the blade.
Claude noticed it as well. He looked from the blade to the bodies on the floor then back at me. His expression was almost prideful, as if it brought him a level of joy to see that I’d killed his men. “They had families, ya know.”
I reached to lower my hem from the knife, then changed my mind. Instead I smoothed out the material around it as if I was proud of the blade and confident with having it. I raised my eyes to meet his. “As did I.”
His brow furrowed. He had no idea who I was or how I came to be in his circle.
A dark pleasure filled me. My heart lightened more than I’d felt in months.
Guilt flickered in my mind, warning me of the risk of taking joy in my actions. I pushed it away. This was my chance to destroy Claude Moret. And, before he surrendered physically, I’d destroy him with the truth. The truth of how a “filthy immigrant whore” had infiltrated his family, killed his brother, and beguiled his son. I’d also tell him everything I knew about the Moret enterprise and planned to the revenuers.
I leaned back in the chair, reaching for the half-full glass of moonshine Claude had left sitting there.
The liquor burned a path over my tongue and down my throat. It settled in my belly, warming me further. “My brother worked fer ye. He went missing five months ago. I promised me mam on her death bed that I’d find him. And that if I found anyone to ‘ave hurt him, I’d get vengeance fer ‘im.”
“I don’t know yer fuckin’ Mick brother,” he growled. He jutted his chin forward and struggled to sit up straight and defiant against the ropes.
I smiled at the futileness of his efforts.
“But ye did,” I took another sip, careful not to shudder in response to the harsh bite of the alcohol. “Ye left ‘im as collateral fer some of yer associates. As I hear though, ye had no intent on coming back fer him. Just left him there.”
A deeply satisfied grin engulfed Claude.
He knew who Finn was, he remembered and imagined that knowledge would somehow set him free. Claude thought he could use his typical means of getting control of the situation, but I wasn’t about to be manipulated by him.
“I ain’t the one you’re en colaire with, Beb. It was him.” Claude jerked his head toward where Mo lay in an attempt to redirect my fury to someone else.
Mo moved just a bit but remained unconscious. His breaths worked heavily against the collection of blood in his mouth. With one look, I knew that his breathing was steady and that he was okay.
I shook my head and offered Claude a sad smile. “You’re the one I’m angry with. What happened when Mo tried to rescue Finn wasn’t his fault. It all rests on you. And, you may not realize this, but I’ve just about finished everythin’ I came here for.”
A laugh erupted from him. “You ain’t done nothin’. You think because you got me tied to a chair right now that this is over?”
His anger took over, seeping into the controlled facade he’d crafted. His voice raised, nearly a yell. “This ain’t over. I may be lyin’ on the floor like a dog now, but when I get loose—and I will get loose—I’m gonna take that blade from your milky little thigh, and I’m gonna skin ya with it.”
I raised the glass slowly to my lips. Swirling the crystal liquid before I took another sip. “Yer not gettin’ loose. I tied ye meself. A little somthin’ I learned ta do as a girl.”
I returned the glass to the counter and scooted the chair even closer to Claude, dangerously close. Toying with him was instilling in me a feeling of power I’d never felt before. Even when I took the life of Jack Moret, I hadn’t felt the satisfying power I did in that moment. A dark swirling tempest had overtaken me, like demons lifting my soul and carrying it into the darkest lair of hell. “I want ye to know what I’ve done. I want ye to die with the knowledge of what exactly happened.” I leaned and whispered, “I want ye to know that everythin’ came about because of me. Because of what ye did ta me brother.”
“Deirdre?” Mo coughed and moaned as he shifted.
“Ya better check him,” Claude taunted.
I cast a look to Mo, but I wouldn’t let myself be distracted from this moment. “I found yer brother and I followed him. I learned everythin’ I could about him—and you—and then I made sure he saw me. I enticed him, lured him, and teased him until he brought me to Cleric’s Cove. Then I waited and listened. I learned everythin’ I could about yer business. And I’m goin’ ta tell the Marshalls everythin’ I know about you and Jack. I’ll tell them about yer bootleggin’ business, and yer whorehouses, and the names of everyone yer associated with. Your whole business is done.”
He sneered. “You do that, and I’ll take that weak excuse of a son down with me. Are you plannin’ on him goin’ ta jail too?”
I smiled sadly at Claude and cast a look to Mo.
He’d started to push himself up from the floor. One hand to the side of his head. I imagined it was either the pain or dizziness slowing him.
“He’s not goin’ to jail because you won’t be tellin’ anyone anythin’ after tonight.”
“You plannin’ ta kill me?”
I raised my brows in thought. “I killed yer brother, didn’t I?”
His face crumbled as he realized the degree of danger he was actually in. For once in his life, Claude Moret wasn’t in charge and didn’t have much hope of regaining the upper hand.
“You poisoned him. Do you got it in ya to kill me one-on-one?”
I considered his question. It was a fair one. It was one I’d considered before I ever made the call. I nodded and leaned in his direction conspiratorially to whisper, “I do have a friend. He’s quite interested in havin’ words with ye. He should be here soon.”
Mo croaked from behind me. “What did ya do, Deirdre?”
“Trust me.” I knew his concern. Who could we ever trust to walk into the room, where two men lie dead on the floor and one tied to a chair, and not be appalled?
Mo grunted as he struggled to stand.
I left Claude and helped Mo up and onto a chair before getting wet rags to help clean him up and hold against his wounds.
His pupils were dilated.
I’d already anticipated his concussion.
It’d take a bit of time before his thoughts could catch up to what was happening. He grabbed at my shoulders and pulled me toward him. He whispered, “Who’s comin’?”
“You have to trust me, Mo. I didn’t know how to do this m’self. I was worried ye wouldn’t wake up.”
“Who?”
I leaned and whispered in his ear, “Eloi Granger.”
All the tension Mo had built up let go in one breath. He nodded his head as he slumped back into the chair. “I need a drink,” he croaked.
Claude demanded information, barking questions at us.
I ignored him as I tended to Mo.
Mo pushed himself straighter. He wiped at his eyes and shook his head periodically. He was preparing. Though he was resigned to the fact that I’d called for help, he wouldn’t show weakness when Eloi showed up.
Shadows settled heavily in the parlor, rendering the room nearly dark. At the bar, I struck a match and lit two candles. I left one there and carried the other to the table near Claude.
He cursed and kicked at me, trying to move the chair along with him.
Mo stood, hands clenched into fists at his sides. His voice thundered throughout the room as he yelled, “Ça va!” That’s enough.
The heavy steps of Eloi Granger were as unmistakable as his large lurking presence. Even the room seemed to hold its breath as he lumbered into the parlor.
Without a change in his expression, Eloi surveyed the area. Though his eyes traveled over them, he didn’t register surprise at the bodies on the floor or Claude Moret tied to a chair next to them.
I thought his mouth nearly curled up in pleasure when he looked at Claude.
I stepped toward Eloi, but Mo’s arm reached across me and with his hand on my hip he stepped in front of me.
Eloi glanced over Mo’s shoulder at me. “She okay?”
He was asking if I’d been beaten as bad as his girlfriend had.
“Yeah.” Mo nodded.
A heavy silence descended on the room. Mo and Eloi looked at each other and then both looked to Claude. A silent communication developed between them, and I wasn’t a part of it.
Fear flickered in Claude’s eyes for the first time but was immediately smothered by the self-righteous anger that dictated so much of his personality. He thrashed against the confines of the ropes and rocked the chair. “I will fucking kill you both!”
Eloi and Mo looked at each other. They both nodded.
Eloi lifted the chair, and Claude with it, into an upright position.
Mo turned to me. “I need you to turn on some music. Wait in the cafe.” He pushed me gently toward the door.
I shook my head; I couldn’t let Mo do this. His aversion to hurting people had been the very reason he’d been ostracized from and abused by his father. I’d killed; my soul was tarnished. I was ready and willing to do it again to save Mo that burden. “Mo, let me do it.”
He used more strength as he pushed me the last step through the doorway into the smoking room.
Behind him, Eloi circled Claude, looking down at him. He was an animal circling its prey.
“I got this, Deirdre. I need to do this.” He stepped back and grabbed the door. His eyes were sad but resigned when he closed it between us.
The lock clicked as it slipped into place. It was followed by the heavy rub of something being pushed across the floor and against the door.
Claude’s angry voice failed to carry clearly through the door, but the dull thud that silenced him did. As did all the ones that came after.
Numbness overtook me, creeping throughout my body and up into my head. My thoughts and emotions dulled. There was no more fear or anger.
I trekked along the dark hall and into the cafe.
A hum filled the room as I clicked the radio on and adjusted the volume so that music rattled against the counter top.
Even with the shutters in place I felt exposed in the dark of the cafe. I slid a small table in front of the door. With nothing left to do, I sat on the floor, back against the wall and breathed deeply, too tired to even wash the blood from my hands.
While I felt some relief at knowing the threat of Claude Moret was going to be behind me, I felt trapped in the depths of a hell I’d created, and I’d brought that hell into my family home.
Even with a speakeasy set up in the back, this house was essentially unchanged from the day my family bought it. The house had seen so much, our good times and our struggles. It had been there through Da’s death and stood strong when Mam and I retreated from it with nothing to our names. It had welcomed me back and housed my vengeful aspirations. But suddenly, I knew I couldn’t stay here. While the house was essentially unchanged, I was not. The tarnish on my soul was thick, and every day I spent in this house would serve as a reminder of how far I’d fallen from the person I was.
This house would always be a symbol of every evil and dark thing I had succumbed to. I could never outlive my guilt when the ghosts of an innocence past would dwell here beside me.
It was time to say goodbye to the last segment of the past. My last bastion of hope. Every dream my parents had—except for Mams’ dream of avenging Finn—was lost forever. As was I.
The sun rose in a languid pace over New Orleans.
Silence hung heavy in the cafe. I’d flipped off the radio when the streets emptied. For the past two hours I’d listened for tell-tale sounds from the parlor. It had been nearly an hour and a half since I’d last heard anything.
Exhaustion had taken over, and I could no more drag myself down the hall to investigate than I could speak Latin.
All my muscles had long ago stiffened as I’d sat waiting, but I didn’t dare move to release their tension. My eyes burned dry from my steadfast attention for any sign of trouble through the shutters.
The door from the parlor creaked as it opened.
I pushed myself to my feet, groaning under my breath as I straightened my aching joints.
Mo walked around the corner. His injuries had turned purple and black, but he’d obviously washed the blood away. As he limped toward me I saw the skin of his knuckles were broken open again, the right middle one actively bleeding as he wiped it against his pant leg. What stood out to me, though, was the haunted look in his eyes.
He pulled me into him and held me tight. His chest lifted with ragged breaths and heaving sobs he was trying desperately to control.
I stood there, questions exploding in my head, but content to exist for just a few minutes without either of us having to explain or think about everything that had evolved in our lives.
He pulled back and I looked up, my questions unspoken, but clear.
“He’s gone,” he said. “They’re all gone.”
I followed Mo back into the club. His steps were ginger, and he clutched his arm to his right side as he walked.
Eloi Granger stood against the bar finishing a drink, a half-empty bottle clutched in his other hand. The amber liquid sloshed in the glass before disappearing into his mouth. He set the glass hard against the counter, let go of the bottle and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Eloi’s knuckles were broken open as well. His hands were colored in the same swirling pattern of red and purple as Mo’s.
He met my gaze in the same forthright manner I’d come to expect from him. There was no show of guilt, nor acknowledgment he had anything to feel uncomfortable about. He nodded once then looked at Mo. “I don’t expect there’s a reason I’ll hear from ya again?”
“No.” Mo shook his head.
They nodded at each other and Eloi slipped a brimmed hat on his head, walked past us through the back door. As it opened, I saw an old truck had been backed up outside.
I looked around the room. Blood stained the floor, two large spots where Claude’s men had died. One where Mo had lain after being beaten. Dark maroon speckles stained the floor around where Claude had been seated. The chair he’d been tied to was splintered. A force had been strong enough to drive him against the back of the chair and break the wood in several places.
The images that filled my mind were clear and vivid. I had no doubt as to what Claude had endured. Only one thing wasn’t evident.
Mo walked behind me and wrapped his arm around my waist as I surveyed the rubble that had once been our biggest dream.
“Is he dead?” I couldn’t take my eyes from the stains.
Mo didn’t answer. He shifted and reached into his pocket. He withdrew his hand and held it before me. Pinched between his fingers, my locket spun freely on its chain.
I reached under it, letting the swaying locket brush against my palm before I wrapped my hands around its cool familiar shape.
“The one thing you can’t live without,” Mo said.
“No. It’s not the one thing after all.” I leaned against him.
He pulled me tight against him. He leaned his head to touch mine and whispered, “It’s over.”