Chapter 2

2

Thierry

Chevalier Isle, Louisiana

Curling plumes of cigarette smoke drift upward, reflecting in the wall of glass through which I stare down at the main floor, where women line a black, velvet catwalk. Tits and asses swaying in a trance-inducing seduction with the beat of the music. The patrons, men and women alike, line the stage at either side, tucking bills of cash into stringy thongs that disappear into the cracks of fit, rounded asses and ample hips. From the same pile of cash, they pay overly-attentive waitresses for the overpriced drinks that flow like an endless stream of liquid self-loathing.

Every swinging dick in the parish comes here on a Saturday night, because it’s clean and the girls are vetted by both looks and their ability to perform.

And they do perform.

The stakes are too high to employ cheap pussy.

Chevalier Isle might not be the ideal place for a strip club, seeing as it’s only about twenty-two miles from one end of the island to the other, but this has grown to be one of the up and coming hotspots of the south. And though it’s only been in the last few years this club has been anything worth the drive it takes to get here, they come from New Orleans and as far as New York to see the girls of Sinners and Saints. The neo-gothic church, whose bricks I had stained a deep charcoal, looks like something straight out of a Dracula flick, but it’s what goes down inside that packs the tables.

Like a sexual freak show, all paid courtesy of the dirty money that sifts through hands like a well-executed card trick.

My business partner, if I can even call him that, is the only person this side of the border that has a direct link with the Matamoros cartel out of Mexico, for whom I launder large sums of cash. If I don’t deliver? My body will be buried in a deep pit on some remote Mexican ranch, never to be seen again.

“Mais, you own da hottest club in Terrebonne parish wit’ all dat sweet chatte at your disposal, and you sittin’ up in dis office alone?”

At the interruption of my cousin Luc’s voice, I smile to myself, and turn to find him standing in the doorway to my office.

“Comment ?a va?” Years I’ve spent distancing myself from the accent I was born into, not out of embarrassment, or shame, but because in my line of work, the fewer distinguishing features a man has, and the less anyone knows about me, the better. Valir is a language rooted in Cajun, but distinct enough in dialect that it’d be instantly recognizable. I’m one of the many who’ve contributed to the decline of my native tongue, but in my case, it’s a matter of keeping my identity concealed, or risking a bullet in my ass. Yet, somehow, Luc brings me back to my roots every time.

“Pas bon.” Not good. He falls into one of the chairs in front of my desk and groans. “She finally packed up an’ left. Di’n’ even say goodbye, her.”

He’s the quintessential bayou boy, with his ragged ball cap and muscle shirt, but the curveball is his hopeless yearning for romance, which has earned him the nickname Casanova. A trait I can’t much relate to, from where I reside on the opposite end of the spectrum in all my cynical distaste for love.

A passing discomfort sweeps over me when I glance back to find him bent forward and looking downtrodden, as he shakes his head. I’d sooner stab an icepick into my eyeballs than talk about relationships.

“I swore she was da one, me. Even picked out a ring.”

“Sorry things didn’t work out. How’s business?” A lame response, but I wouldn’t even begin to know what else to tell him. Women have never been more than a transaction of needs for me, and parting afterward is what I appreciate most of all.

“Business is good. Not like what you got goin’ on, but it’s good.” For the last couple of years, Luc has struggled to get his venture into Valir cuisine up and running. The guy is horrible with money, and in spite of the advice I’ve given him over the years, he continues to flounder a bit. Good,for him, is breaking even, which is better than the debt he was looking at before. Problem is, he’s too kind, always giving away something for free. Including his heart. “I jus’ don’ understand da women sometimes. Don’ know what dey want.”

Not this again. Thankfully, something draws my attention from the conversation, as Luc prattles on about a girl whose name, or face, I wouldn’t remember if my life depended on it.

On the main floor below, a man I recognize as one of Julio’s enforcers, with unruly black hair and the loudest button-down shirt in the place, paws at one of the dancers on stage. Not a second later, the sharp buzz at my hip is the anticipated call from Levi, and I signal to my cousin to stop lamenting about his ex’s panty drawer for a moment to take it.

Phone to my ear, I keep my eyes on the asshole who seems to have no concept of self-preservation--or anonymity, given his chosen profession. What the fuck kind of hitman dresses like a seventies pimp?

“Whatchu want me to do wit’ this one, Boss?” The uncertainty in Levi’s voice is justified, seeing as pissing off a member of the cartel can be tricky business. Particularly one as smug and arrogant as this prick seems to be.

“I’ll take care of it,” I say, before clicking out of the call. “‘Excuse me, I got something to take care of.” Stuffing the phone back inside my pocket, I stamp out my cigarette in the ashtray on my desk, and give Luc a quick pat on the shoulder as I pass.

On his feet before I reach the door, he trails my steps. “Everything good?”

“Non, just some couillon don’t know to keep his hands to himself.” I pull my Glock from its holster at my hip and pop the mag for a quick check. As always, my preference is not to resort to violence because it makes a scene. Scenes draw cops and unnecessary inquiries. But when arrogant pricks with a god complex and no scruples enter my establishment, it’s all fair game.

No matter who he’s affiliated with.

“Ah. I’ll come wit’ you.” At nearly six-foot-seven, with muscles practically spilling out of his shirt, Luc could pass for an oak tree. Would make a decent bouncer, if he didn’t like fighting so much. And women, which is what I’m guessing got him into trouble with his own.

“That’s probably not a good idea.”

“I’m a new man, Cous’. Changed my ways, me.

Snorting a laugh, I shake my head and shove the gun back in its holster. No sense stirring any unnecessary drama off the bat. “I don’t believe that for a second. Just sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

I make my way down the winding staircase to the main floor, where I catch sight of Levi, who gives a nod from his spot off to the side. He monitors the crowd gathered around the guy, who’s clearly drunk, the way he sways and staggers on his feet, manhandling the dancer he’s got clutched to him in a headlock. The grand finale to a series of bad decisions that started whenever he decided to put on that ridiculous pink-striped shirt.

On my approach, the guy plops down in his chair, taking the girl to his lap with him, like he’s decided to behave all of a sudden.

It’s rare that I have to make an appearance on the floor, with Levi watching over things, but the fragile nature of this situation demands it. I tend to follow a three-step program for the belligerent ones, so for the sake of my time, I jump to step one before I even reach his table.

Ask politely.

“‘Fraid I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

“Just having a good time. Nice club.” He runs his palm down the curve of the dancer’s ass. “Nice culito.” The strong Spanish accent isn’t what gives him away as one of Julio’s men. As the island becomes more popular, it’s attracted more of the cartel who seek to exploit the businesses popping up. Back when my grandparents were young, there wasn’t a stretch of this island where Valir French wasn’t spoken, yet these days, it’s only the older fishermen and their offspring, like Luc, who keep the language alive. The place has become a melting pot over the years, and his accent merely draws my attention to the ‘M’ inked on his neck as a devil’s tail. Matamoros Diablos, a gang with close ties to the cartel. The few scattered about this parish generally keep to themselves, only showing their faces when summoned after an uncooperative dealer, or an outsider, tromping on their turf. This guy must be new.

Step two: ask one more time.

“This is your last opportunity to let her go and leave. Quietly.”

His hand slips down between her thighs, and the girl, Marcelle, whimpers, the sound cut short by the arm at her throat that he seems to tighten. “Or what, Gavacho? You gonna escort me?”

Most of them don’t know who I am, or what I do outside of this bar, otherwise, I suspect they’d show a little more respect.

Which brings me to step three: don’t ask again.

Slipping my gun from the holster, I aim it at his head, and the crowd dies to hushed gasps. “No, cabrón. I’ll just put a pretty hole in your head to match that shitty shirt.”

Eyes locked on the barrel, he releases the girl, who slides to the floor and crawls away from him until sniveling at my feet. “Pendejo.” Stupid. He takes a moment to spit on my shoes, the sight of which thrums a violent chord in my blood.

I fucking hate germs.

He clambers to his feet, awkwardly swaying again, and sneers at me, waving me off in dismissal. “Vete a la chingada, pinche gringo.” Fuck off, fucking gringo.

The second he prods a finger toward my chest, I swipe it up before it makes contact and tug him close enough to slam the grip of my gun into his face. Once, twice, three times. Deadweight drops to the floor beside Marcelle. Blood spattered across his cheeks converges at his nose that I’ve clearly broken, judging by the unnatural crook to it.

I signal to Levi again, and nab the prick’s unused napkin, noting the circles of condensation from his beer bottle left on the table beside it. Wiping his blood from my gun, I step away from him, allowing Levi to drag him out of sight, and the music flips back on. Aside from the few lingering stares, everyone goes back to conversation.

“Thank you.” Gaze lowered from mine, Marcelle wipes tears from her cheek. They never look at me, the women. Rumor has it, if they do, I’ll entrance them into my bed, or something, and fuck all my bad luck into them.

Considering I’m probably distantly related to half this island, I wouldn’t touch these girls. Any time I have the urge to fuck, I make the drive to New Orleans, or some other city that isn’t within the three surrounding parishes of where I live. In those cases, it’s one night and they never get my real name.

“One other thing,” I say to her, adjusting the cuffs of my suit that carry a small spatter of the man’s blood. “I catch you out back again, you’re done.”

As if the tips here aren’t the best in the whole state of Louisiana, some of the girls have been skimming by meeting up with Johns in the back of the club and earning a little extra cash on the side. Dangerous, where some of the guys are concerned, like Flashy Shirt, who would’ve taken without paying a dime.

Because, without someone batshit crazy enough to stop him, he can.

And since this club isn’t licensed as a brothel, it’s another flag for the authorities to be up my ass. Not even my connections would save me then, if the cartel thought for one second that I might be inclined to cut a deal with a cop.

“I understand, Mr. Bergeron. It won’t happen again, I promise.” The girl still won’t look up at me, and good thing, too, because I’m not a man moved by emotions. Sympathy was stripped away from me years ago, leaving behind the raw and naked apathy for which I’m known.

“Get ready for the next set. And here’s a tip: If he has a fucking M tattooed on his neck, keep your distance.” It’s a condescending remark, as most around here know to stay away from members of the Matamoros cartel, if they can help it. The lowly folks embroiled in the darker society, anyway. I wouldn’t expect a suburban mom to be so perceptive, but Marcelle is nowhere near suburbia.

Maybe she thought the money the guy flaunted would magically appear in her thong by the end of the night, but that’s not how the assholes work. They’re just privileged enough to think sex and money is owed to them, in exchange for not ripping someone’s face off.

Maybe it is.

But not in my club, particularly when a large percent of my earnings lines their boss’s pocket.

Back in my office, Flashy Shirt sits slumped over in the open chair beside Luc. “Thanks for hauling his ass up here,” I say to Levi, passing him on the way toward my desk. “Guy must weigh a ton, with all that bloated sense of self.”

Levi chuckles and gives a quick salute in play. “I’ma leave the bubble burstin’ to you, Boss.”

“Good man.” I pour myself a glass of bourbon from a decanter on my desk, and hold it over a second glass, brows raised, as I glance up at Luc.

“Mais, non. Last time I drink dat fancy liquor, I was ass up in da swamp next day.” Sometimes, Luc has his own sayings that, even in the thick of the shitstorm I’m about to face with the guy beside him, whose nose has begun to turn purple, I can’t help but smile. “I’ll let you get back to it. You an’ me goin’ fishin’ next week, Cous’. I won’ take no for an answer dis time.”

“I’ll get you penciled in. Been a long time since I took a day off, anyway. Could use some time on the water. Sorry to hear about you and your fille.”

“Ah, yeah. C’est la vie.” A quick shrug, and he hikes his thumb toward the guy passed out beside him. “Have fun wit’ dis couillon. Someone’s gonna be mad when he wakes up.”

He isn’t kidding. Any other man who’d have busted his nose like that would surely end up strung up and flayed, as an example to all of why you don’t fuck with the Matamoros Diablos.

I hold my glass up to Luc as if in toast. “Laissez les bons temps rouler.”

Let the good fucking times roll.