Mardi Gras Mambo

The guy moaned all the way up to the apartment.

I led the way, hoping he wasn’t moaning loud enough for Millie and her guests to hear. I wasn’t quite sure how I’d explain this to them. I can usually think pretty quickly on my feet, but what on earth could I say about having a Russian carrying a man with a swollen wrist up the back stairs? Excuse us, ladies, sorry we bothered you, but it’s nothing to be concerned about. Oh, his wrist is swelling up? He’s a little drunk is all and fell on the sidewalk. Call an ambulance? Um, no, I think he’s going to be okay. Just some ice and ibuprofen and he’ll be right as rain.

Yeah, right.

All I could do was pray they wouldn’t hear us. By the time we’d gotten him inside my apartment and Misha had set him down on the couch, his wrist was swelling up really bad. Looking at it made me queasy and also made me feel bad. I still couldn’t believe I’d leapt through the air like that, let alone maybe broken this guy’s wrist. I hate violence. Even though I know it’s sometimes necessary, I tend to avoid it whenever humanly possible. I left Misha to tie him up while I dashed into the bathroom to look for the pain pills prescribed for me when I’d had my wisdom teeth out the year before. I’m a pretty quick healer, so after the first day of misery and swelling I hadn’t had to take any more of the pills. I said a quick prayer as I dug through the medicine cabinet, asking the Goddess to forgive me for resorting to violence. I couldn’t remember exactly where I’d put the little brown bottle of pills, but I knew I hadn’t thrown it away; you never throw away perfectly good prescription pain pills. After a few moments, I found it hidden behind a half-used can of shaving cream. I shook two out into my hand and filled a glass with water.

The guy glared at me when I walked back into the living room. Misha had done a good job of tying him up with an extension cord—maybe too good of a job. The cord looked a little tight and painful to me. “Here, open your mouth. This is Demerol.”

He just kept glaring and kept his mouth closed. “Look, I’m sorry about your wrist, but you were pulling a gun and it looked like you were going to use it, okay? This isn’t poison or anything. It’s Demerol. To lessen the pain in your wrist.”

He just kept glaring.

I shrugged. “Suit yourself, bud. If you’d rather be in pain, that’s your call.”

“I’m not taking anything!” he spat the words out.

“Okay, whatever.” I put the glass of water and the pills down on the coffee table.

He swallowed. “You three are in a lot of trouble,” he said, with a snide grin. “You’ve got no idea how much trouble you just bought yourselves.”

“Won’t be the first time,” I shrugged, “nor the last.” I looked at his swollen wrist and felt a pang of guilt. I hadn’t had to kick him so hard. I walked back into the kitchen; dumped some ice into a rag, which I knotted; and brought it back and put it on his wrist. “Now, you want to tell me why you were watching my apartment?”

He didn’t reply.

“Okay, fine, be that way.” I reached inside his jacket and felt a wallet inside an inner pocket. I worked it free and flipped it open. My heart sank. “Oh, fuck.”

“What’s wrong?” Misha asked.

“He’s Homeland Security.” I tossed Misha the badge. “Special Agent Vince Clay.” I sank down on the couch and buried my head in my hands. This was not good, not good at all. Yes, we were definitely in for it now. Why the hell was Homeland Security watching the house? I could understand today, but they’d been watching the house since Sunday, maybe earlier.

I gestured to him. “Velma, how long have they been watching the house?”

She thought for a moment. “I first noticed on Saturday night, before you guys went out. I wasn’t sure, and when I checked again there wasn’t anyone there.”

Saturday night, before Pasha was killed.

What was going on?

And then I remembered. That night when I’d picked up the drugs, someone had been watching Pasha’s house. I thought I’d been wrong—the guy had wound up going into Rawhide—but maybe I had been right. The Feds had to know the triplets were in New Orleans, and they were under federal protection. That would explain why someone had been watching the Burgundy house—although they’d done a pretty shitty job of protecting Pasha. But why had they started watching my house on Saturday night? They would have had no idea who I was after I showed up at Pasha’s. I looked back over at Special Agent Vince Clay. He had a really weird look on his face, a kind of smirky grin. “How’s the pain?”

“Better,” he mumbled.

“Why were you watching my house?” It couldn’t hurt to ask, even though I was pretty sure he wouldn’t answer me.

He goggled at me a little bit and then looked away. “Wasn’t watching for you.”

“Then who were you watching for?” Someone had been watching the house before I’d even known about the triplets, which sent a stab of fear through my heart. None of this made any sense....

Then it came to me, and I sat down hard on the coffee table.

Colin. What if Colin was the one they were after? He’d said he’d been an agent with the Mossad—Israeli commandos. What if Colin hadn’t told me everything? What if . . .

My head really was starting to hurt again.

Okay, then. I stood back up. I needed to get him to a hospital to get that wrist looked at, but how to do it? As soon as he was out of our power, he’d get people to come after us. I dialed Venus’s cell phone, but the voice mail clicked on after one ring, so I hung up. He was tied pretty securely—maybe it would be okay to leave him for a while—and if Colin should finally come back and find him, well, good enough for him. Let him figure out what to do with Special Agent Vince Clay of Homeland Security. But, on the other hand, I couldn’t just leave him there, injured. He should have the wrist looked at, at the very least. Finally, with a sigh, I called 911. As I waited for someone to answer, an idea came to me. I grinned. When the operator answered, I said, “Hi, I think we need an ambulance.” I gave her the address. “There’s some guy passed out drunk in front of my house and his wrist is all swollen. I think he might have broke it when he fell down.”

“Ambulance is on its way, sir.”

“But he isn’t passed out, Scotty.” Velma said.

“I’ll take care of that,” Misha said, slipping one of his forearms around and under his chin. The guy’s eyes goggled, then his face turned red, and then he went limp. “Sleeper hold.” He grinned at me. “I learned in Russian army.”

I knelt down and untied him. “Come on, Misha, help me get him downstairs. Velma, you’re going to have to stay with him until the ambulance comes.”

She went into my kitchen and came out with a frying pan. She gave me a grim smile. “I’ll keep him quiet; don’t you worry about that.”

Misha reached down and swung him up into his arms effortlessly, without even grunting from the exertion. I gaped at him. It’s not like Special Agent Clay was a small man; I figured he had to weigh at least 180 pounds.

Wow, he’s really strong. But then all of them were.

Someone had shot Pasha from the inside of the house, but he’d had that place locked up tight, and he wouldn’t have let just anyone in.

He had to have known his killer.

Venus would have said if someone had broken in—and she wouldn’t have really needed to question me; obviously, I had been let in. They had it on tape.

Who would he have let in?

I shook my head. It was crazy, what I was thinking. I had to focus on Frank.

And if I was right, it didn’t solve the problem of who’d killed Sasha. I was inclined to think it was the Russians—maybe they didn’t know Pasha was dead and mistook Sasha for Pasha. It was an easy mistake to make; I myself had trouble telling them apart without looking closely, and the shooter had been outside and at some distance. Yes, it could easily have happened that way.

Sasha died because he was pretending to be Misha.

Wait a minute. There was no reason for the Russians to want Misha dead. Sasha and Pasha, yes, but not Misha.

I sighed. What a fucking mess.

We headed down the stairs, down the passage, and then out the front gate. Misha wasn’t even breathing hard. He gently placed Special Agent Clay face down on the sidewalk. I have to say, if you didn’t notice the swollen wrist, he looked just like any other passed-out drunk on a Quarter sidewalk. A couple of people stared as they walked by, but I just grinned and shrugged. “Doesn’t know his limits, I guess.” They nodded and kept walking.

I turned to Velma. “Okay, you know what to do.”

She showed me the frying pan again before hiding it behind her back and leaning against the gate. “I’ll konk him a good one if he comes to.” She nodded. But I heard the siren, and then the ambulance came around the corner and rolled to a stop. As the paramedics climbed out, I pointed to the guy.

One of the paramedics, a chunky girl in her early thirties, took his vitals. “Yes, he’s probably just drunk.” She sighed. “I am so sick of Mardi Gras.” She looked at his wrist, prodded it a bit, and then shrugged. “No, it’s not broken but it’s pretty badly bruised.” She barked out a short laugh. “Good thing he’s out like a light; otherwise he’d be in some major pain.”

I nodded and watched her and the other paramedic strap him onto a gurney and run him over to the back of the ambulance. I waited until he was inside and it had started moving down Decatur, its siren blaring, before I walked into the coffee shop and joined Misha.

I glanced over at the counter. The college girl was staring at me—but then she’d seen quite a bit of me over the last hour. I smiled and nodded, and she turned away. I looked back at Misha. “Okay, let’s go.”

We walked back outside and headed down the sidewalk, pushing our way through the crowds. It was after five now, and although the air was thick with moisture, it hadn’t started raining again—and the crowds were coming back to the streets. I heard someone say that Orpheus was going to roll after all; they’d just made the decision to brave the rain. And the costumes were coming out. We passed a couple dressed like Glenn Close and John Malkovich in Dangerous Liaisons, a Cleopatra, some cave people, and a guy dressed as an old K&B drugstore. At the corner at Royal there was a group in black tie and masks, their women dripping with sequins, their masks incredibly elaborate with huge feathers. I was walking so fast I was almost running. The closer we got to Bourbon Street, the thicker the crowds became, until I was dodging around people, bumping into others. I cut up Royal Street, ignoring the drunks on the balconies yelling down and tossing beads to other drunks. I stopped at the corner of Royal and St. Ann and stared down the street at the Bourbon Orleans. The second- and third-floor balconies were packed with people. The street was also packed. I turned to Misha. “You’re sure the Russians are there?”

Misha nodded. “I’ll show you.”

The Bourbon Orleans is a historic hotel and might even be a national landmark. It’s been there forever, standing at the corner of Bourbon and St. Ann. It was originally built as a convent and served as a soldier’s hospital during the Civil War. Sometime after that, it had become a hotel enormously popular with gay tourists, because it stood at the corner of the big gay section of the Quarter. Its long wraparound balconies on the second and third floors helped—people love our balconies, standing up there above the crowd and partying while looking down at the hordes of people in the streets. It was pink for many years until it was painted a kind of grayish green, when the Wyndham chain bought it. It had recently undergone an extensive renovation and now had two bars on the first floor on Bourbon Street. One of them, Napoleon’s Itch, supposedly was a gay bar but I’d never gone inside. It was on the wrong side of St. Ann for me; I hated crossing that invisible barrier between gay and straight Bourbon Street.

Misha walked down St. Ann with me right behind him. We pushed through the crowd in front of the doors of Oz and fought our way inside. It was dark inside, Donna Summer was wailing, and hugely muscled guys in glowing thongs were dancing on the bar. The dance floor was packed, and so was the area surrounding the bar. Straight women were pushing dollars at the go-go boys. Misha pushed his way to the staircase and I followed him up and out onto the balcony. The St. Ann side was not nearly as crowded as it was closer to the corner and over on the Bourbon Street side. We made our way out to the railing and Misha pointed across the street. “That room.” The balcony doors were shut, as were the curtains; it was the only room on the floor with its doors shut. The lights were on, though. I counted the doors. It was the third room from the corner.

My mind worked quickly. “Okay, we need to get on the balcony.”

“How?”

I grinned. “Leave that to me.” I hadn’t lived through twenty-nine Mardi Gras, Southern Decadences, and Halloweens without figuring out how to get on the balcony at the Bourbon Orleans. “Come on.” We fought our way back downstairs and through the crowds and down to Royal Street. We turned at Orleans and walked in the front doors of the hotel, and I headed for the elevators, acting like I belonged. No one would challenge us during Mardi Gras—for that matter, any time the hotel was jam packed with tourists and the streets were full of people. There were always so many people around in the lobby, coming and going, that the staff had no idea who wasn’t supposed to be there. We rode up to the second floor, and we walked around to the Bourbon Street side. It didn’t take long to find a door slightly ajar, just as I expected. I pushed the door open and looked in. The room was empty and the French doors were wide open; the residents were out on the balcony. On party weekends, you could always find a room door open—and the guests out on the balcony. The trick was getting out the balcony door without being noticed, or without having someone walk back into the room for a drink or to use the bathroom while you were inside. But even then, it was easy to brazen it out, pretend you had friends out there and you thought this was their room, apologize for the mistake, all the while continuing to walk toward the balcony doors and escape. There was always the possibility you’d run into some anal asshole who thought you were stealing stuff, but it hadn’t happened to me yet. There’s always a first time though, so I motioned to Misha and we walked quickly across the room and out onto the balcony. No one said a word; none of the people at the railing even looked back at us as I softly closed the French doors behind us. Misha grinned at me. I winked at him and said, “Follow me.” We headed down to the St. Ann side. It was much more crowded at the corner. The people were standing two or three deep at the railing there, and even on the St. Ann side there were a lot of people standing around drinking. All of them were focused on the street and the balconies across the street. Taking a deep breath, I found the third set of French doors and knelt down to peer through the crack in the curtains.

Two men were sitting in chairs, facing the television, in suit pants and ties. One was wearing a blue dress shirt, the other a white shirt. Guns hung in shoulder holsters at their sides. I gulped. But at least there were only two of them.

And in a chair, also with his back to me, was Frank. At first I wasn’t sure if it was him or not; then I realized he was still covered with glitter and gold body paint. It had to be Frank, I realized. Our Mercury costumes had been unique, unlike the Zorros. He looked okay; of course, I couldn’t see his face, but he wasn’t slumped down or anything. He was also tied up. Seeing that made my heartbeat start to race. I was relieved he was okay—hell, alive, for that matter—but seeing him tied up and helpless made me angry.

I stood back up, my mind working. “Okay, Frank is in there.”

Misha nodded. “Okay, how do we get him out?”

I narrowed my eyes as I looked at him. “Can you create a disturbance in the hall, but get away without being seen? Something loud that would make them come out?” I moved closer to the doors again and looked down the space between them. They were probably locked, but the latch wasn’t fastened. That made me grin. This was going to be almost too easy. Hang in there, Frank, help is on the way.

“Yes, I can do that.” He nodded. “I know what to do.”

“Okay, then, create a distraction and get the hell out of here. Head back to Mom and Dad’s. Frank and I will meet you there.” I said a quick prayer to the Goddess as Misha disappeared around the corner. I wasn’t completely sure how I was going to get into the room, but I knew somehow I was going to, even if I had to break a window. I started praying, repeating the prayer over and over again in my head as I waited, sweat dripping down my forehead. “Come on, Misha,” I muttered. “What’s taking you so long?”

Seconds passed. Come on, come on.

There was a sudden crash and the suite’s door swung open, slamming into the wall and swinging back almost shut. Misha stood in the doorway, sticking out his tongue and holding up both hands, his middle fingers distended. Then, he turned and ran to the right.

Both men jumped to their feet, pulling their guns, and headed out the doorway.

Here goes nothing, I thought, stepping back and kicking at the French doors. The doors flew open with a big crash.

“What the fuck?” someone said behind me.

I turned around and saw a group of people, beads around their necks, drinks in their hands, staring at me openmouthed. I raised my hands and shrugged, giving them a sheepish grin. “Locked myself out.”

They all nodded. One said, “Right on, dude,” toasting me with his cup, and then they all turned back to the street.

Ah, Mardi Gras.

Hoping that Misha had managed to lose them somehow, I dashed across the room and knelt in front of Frank and pulled out my keychain with its Swiss Army knife. I cut the ropes at his feet and around his wrists, before pulling the duct tape off his mouth.

“Ouch!” he said, before adding, “about fucking time.”

“Come on. We’ve got to get out of here,” I urged him. “Can you stand?”

I helped him to his feet and maintain his balance. He was a little wobbly but seemed fine. He moaned a bit. “My legs are asleep.”

“Come on. We’ve got to hurry.” I ran to the door and checked both ways. The hallway was empty. The upstairs at the Bourbon Orleans has a big rectangular hallway, and if Misha hadn’t gotten either back out onto the balcony or down the fire stairs, they would be coming around the left corner. I ran down there, checked and saw no one other than a maid, and ran back to the room. “Can you walk, honey?” I asked.

His jaw clenched. “I need to tell you something.” His scar looked like it was on fire—he was furious.

“Not now, Frank—later when we’re out of here.” I helped him to his feet. He leaned on me as his legs buckled. I half pulled, half dragged him out through the front door into the hallway.

“Come on!” I grabbed Frank and dragged him down the hallway. There was a set of fire stairs just around the corner. I was sweating and breathing hard; so was Frank. When we reached the corner, I looked. Even the maid was gone. With a sigh of relief, I grabbed Frank by the hand and led him to the stairs. He seemed to be able to walk on his own. Once inside the stairway, I asked, “Can you handle the stairs?”

He nodded. “I think so.” He did a couple of kneebends. “They’re not asleep anymore.”

“Then, let’s get the hell out of Dodge, okay?” I smiled at him. There was a huge bruise on the side of his face, and he was pale. His eyes were bloodshot. The bruise pissed me off. Someone’s going to pay for that, I decided. “Come on, babe.” We started down the steps, Frank walking behind me just in case he lost his balance. I wasn’t sure I would be able to catch his dead weight, but I figured I’d find the strength somehow. Frank stumbled on the stairs a couple of times, but I was able to catch him and keep him from falling. “Do you need to rest for a minute?” I asked when we got to the bottom of the stairs. I bit my lip, hoping he’d say no. Every second we stayed in the hotel, the better the chance of being caught. “Are you okay?”

He gave me a weak smile. “No, let’s get the fuck out of here.” He grimaced. “I don’t ever want to see the inside of this hotel again.”

“Attaboy.” I gave him a big hug, and he wrapped his arms around me tightly. “All right, then; let me see if the coast is clear.”

I opened the door and looked. The lobby was crowded, but I didn’t see either of the goons anywhere. Then it hit me. Frank was going to stand out like a sore thumb with his little gold swim trunks and gold-painted boots—not to mention the now streaky gold paint and glitter all over his body. “Fuck. Wait here a minute.” I slipped out into the hallway and whistled as I walked out to the pool area. Sure enough, just like I remembered, there was a towel stand out by the pool—and praise be to the Goddess, someone had left a pair of sweatpants there. I grabbed two towels and the sweatpants and ran back inside. “Here, put these on.” I tossed him the sweatpants and started rubbing at his skin with the towel. All I managed to do was smear the paint some more. Frank leaned on me as he put on the sweatpants, pulling them up as high as they would go. He grinned at me and grabbed the other towel, which he draped around his shoulders.

“Hardly incognito, but it is Mardi Gras.” He shrugged. “Scotty, we really need to talk. You’ve got to hear what I have to say. . . .”

“Later, Frank—we’ve got to get out of here.”

“But, Scotty—”

“I know; I love you, too.” I grinned. “Come on, then.” We slipped back into the hallway. We ran into the lobby, slowed down and walked naturally to the front doors, but once out on the sidewalk started running again, heading for Royal Street. Frank’s legs obviously weren’t working yet, as I had to slow down a few times so he could catch up. People stared at us as we went by, and I kept scanning the crowds of people for the thugs but didn’t see them anywhere. We didn’t slow down until we got to the Devil’s Weed. We walked to the back door and stood there for a minute to catch our breath. Frank put his arms around me and gave me a big kiss. “I knew you would come for me,” Frank said, between gasps for air. “What took you so long?”

“Who were those guys, Frank?” I changed the subject.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about them. But they were Russian; that I know. What they are up to, I don’t know, but I do know—” He hesitated. “Scotty, this is going to be hard for you to believe, but you’ve got to listen to me.”

“I mean, how did they get you? That’s the part I don’t understand. I mean, you left with a guy, right? Was that a setup?”

Frank’s face turned red and his eyes narrowed. “Is that what you think? You think I left with a trick?”

“It’s okay, Frank. It bothered me a bit at first, but it’s okay now.” I was babbling and didn’t care. “Come on, let’s get inside and in the house.”

I unlocked the door to the back steps, closing it once we were inside. We started up the stairs, Frank behind me and holding my hand. Every once in a while he squeezed it. I unlocked the back door and called, “Mom? Dad? You here?”

“In the living room, Scotty,” my mother replied.

With a sigh of relief, I turned and threw my arms around Frank. I held him like I never wanted to let go. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” I whispered.

“I knew you’d come,” he whispered back, kissing my cheek. “I knew it, but we really have to talk, Scotty. Please, it’s important.”

“Come on, let’s go into the living room.” I grabbed his hand. “We have a lot to talk about—you wouldn’t believe what’s been going on the last couple of days. We’ll get Mom to look at that bruise, and then we can talk, okay?”

“I think I know more than you think I do.” He rubbed his chin ruefully. “I could stand to sit down.” He didn’t go inside the door. “You mind if I come in a little later?” His eyes looked a little glassy. “I’m feeling a little woozy.”

I kissed the top of his head. “You just stay here. I’ll go get Mom and Dad to help me bring you in.”

I could see the living room was dark when I walked in, and automatically I reached for the light switch. “Why are the lights—”

As the room flooded with light, I saw in horror that my parents and Misha were tied up. Only my mother wasn’t gagged.

And the kidnapper with the white shirt was standing next to her, a gun against her head, a nasty smirk on his face.