5. The Garden District

The Garden District

We walked along until we came to Esplanade, then we turned there and headed up to Decatur. No one gave us a second look. There were a few tattoo parlors in this area that tourists and locals alike sought out. It meant people and cover. Then we stopped to cross the road and so did everyone else.

A line of fancy black cars drove by in front of us. Not fast, but not slow either, and not stopping for anyone or anything. They drove right through the red light. I heard someone nearby whisper, "Deadman's procession." Though I didn't know what that meant. I spent way too much time running and not enough paying attention to all the legends and stories of the city. Hell, I didn't even know much about mambos. Sure, I'd heard of them and voodoo, but it never mattered enough to dig deeper. Money. Gambling. That was all I'd cared about for way too long now. The cars came from Frenchman and drove down Decatur.

A hand on the back of my neck made me jump. It squeezed. "Boss wants to speak with you. And you've been dodging me all night, you little shit. If it weren't for the boss, I'd tear you apart for the trouble."

"Shit." Caught.

I was unceremoniously tossed into the back of a black car that very well could have been a part of the procession. In fact, I think it was. The goon climbed in the back beside me and shut the door. The driver took off, following as the procession crawled along, ending up in The Garden District and finally going through the gates of a grand New Orleans house. I knew where we were, though this wasn't my normal stomping ground. We were, in fact, not too far from Lafayette Cemetery No. 1. That made me super nervous with everything else that had been going on tonight. Deities ! What the hell could I do?

The head goon who grabbed me was a big mother fucker, and deceptively fast.

We sat there in the car and waited, but not terribly long. I leaned forward and caught a better glimpse of the house. It looked pink in the low lights, and the second story was decorated with all the typical New Orleans architectural finery—fancy corbels and trellis and big ferns hanging from the ceilings. This one had multiple balconies over three stories in the front and side, but that was about all I could see.

Finally, someone tapped on the glass, and I nearly jumped out of the car without the door being opened. The goon rolled down the window. "Boss is ready," the window knocker said.

"Thanks." The goon opened the door and reached back in for me. "Come on then." He grabbed my arm, yanking me out of the car. If I dragged my feet, I was pretty sure he would carry me. And he gripped my arm as if I were going to try and escape. Well, I probably would have tried.

We entered a dark space through a side door and the goon pulled me farther in. Though I could hardly see in the darkness—where the heck was Luc when I needed that glow? Finally, we passed through a set of gigantic pocket doors and into what could only be described as a Victorian parlor complete with golden walls and maroon curtains hanging over floor-to-ceiling windows. There was a settee against one wall, upholstered in the same fabric as the curtains, maybe, but definitely the same color. None of it felt welcoming.

But it was the man who sat in the center of the room at a table beneath a large crystal chandelier that made Lady Geneviève's look like cheap glass strewn together with twine who truly dampened the mood. "Thank you, Jude."

The goon, obviously named Jude, bowed and walked away, leaving me here alone with who I presumed was the boss. "Uh…hello?"

"Come in, Mr. Broussard."

Tentatively, I took a step toward the table. Honestly, I was scared. Luc had disappeared. I couldn't see him anywhere, and I had no idea what I was doing. I felt very alone. As ever. "You can call me Austin."

"Austin, then. Do you know who I am?" He had a slight accent that I couldn't pinpoint.

"Yes and no."

"Hmm…well, I'm the man you owe two hundred grand for starters."

That's when Luc showed up, and he yelled, "Two hundred thousand dollars!"

"Yes, I know how much." I refrained from rolling my eyes at Luc, but barely. But after taking another look at the man, I knew exactly who he was. Falling back on my smart mouth as a defense, I jumped right in. "And I'm surprised because you're supposed to be dead." He was most definitely the old mob boss, Carlos Marcello. That history I knew about. Marcello died at his Metairie, Louisiana, home on March 2, 1993. I had been fascinated with it at the time. Despite his known death, it was definitely him sitting in the fancy chair in front of me, acting like he was very much alive and well. And hadn't I been warned about him? I should have listened. Fuck my life.

"Yes, but I'm not. You see, I'm, well, I'm here. And the good thing is I get to take your life to help sustain me. In payment for your debt."

My life? Sustain him? "Are you a vampire?" Another thing I'd heard about and knew was possible but had never paid enough attention to. But now I'd met one, and possibly two?

Marcello chuckled ominously. "No. I'm not a vampire, but I do need others' lives to sustain me. Not hard to get, actually." He waved a jeweled hand around. I imagined he got whatever he wanted as head of the Deadman mafia, which all made total sense now.

But my brain wasn't getting hung up on that. No, my brain was churning with ways to get out of this mess. "What if I can give you something even better than my life? Something that will sustain you much longer. Much, much longer."

"What the hell could that be?" Marcello outright laughed, full-bellied, as if I were a comedian or some shit.

But I was serious. My life on the line? Damn straight, I was serious. "I'll be honest with you, I'm not totally positive about this. I'm only hearing about your situation now, but if I can make it work, will you wipe my slate clean?"

"I'm intrigued." He stood and walked around the table, entirely too close for my comfort, but I stood my ground. "Fine, but if you don't return with this thing…I'll lock you up and torture you for as long as I can possibly drip one ounce of life essence from you. I can make it easy or painful. You sure you want to take this bet?"

Nothing I loved more than gambling.

Luc got right in my face. "Austin, what are you doing?"

"Trust me." I stared into those beautiful brown eyes and bet our future.

Marcello thought I was talking to him. "I don't," he said. "And why should I?"

"May I?" I pulled one of the chairs out. When Marcello nodded, I sat and folded my hands together on top of the table. I had to get him to understand where I was coming from. At least a little. I told him a little bit of Luc's story while Luc paced and complained behind me. "It was your family, your people, that did this to Luc. I'm trying to fix it. And maybe I can help you, too." As if I could guilt this man into anything. But…

Marcello crossed the room and opened a cabinet in a dry bar. He poured himself a drink and then turned to face me. "Fine. But you only have until this time tomorrow. Twenty-four hours. Capiche?"

"I understand."

"And don't think there's anywhere you can go that Jude won't find you." His smile was very shark-like. And I believed him.

I thanked him and promptly left out the front door.

It was a short walk up the drive and out on the street, but once there, I took stock of the situation. "Shit. It's going to be a long walk back."

"Back where?" Luc stood beside me with his hands crossed over his chest.

"I know you're not happy with me, but I think I've got this. We need to get back to St. Ann Street, though. Like I said, trust me, this is going to fix my problem. And give us time to focus on yours." But damn. I was hungry and tired. And still broke. "Unlike you, I need to recharge, and what money we had before is gone for the most part."

"We can go back to the river and see if I can help again."

"I hate asking you to do that."

"But it's something we have right now. Come on. Get going…" He shooed me down the street.