A Younger Woman. Wendy Rosnau
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one of the many homeless in the French Quarter, had connections in places most people didn’t even know existed. And he was right about Mickey Burelly; the kid did have a fetish for expensive suits, and he did like to jaw, as God put it. Maybe that’s why everyone had ignored him when the kid had started crowing in the locker room yesterday about some big case he was about to crack wide open. Talk, as they say, was cheap. Every cop fantasized about the case, the one that would land him a notable raise, along with a front-page spread in the New Orleans Times-Picayune. The officers at the Eighth District were no different.
Goddard pulled up the collar on his ragged jacket and curled into the brick wall to avoid the rain. “If you ask me, that ain’t the suit’s style—holding a meeting in nasty weather. Hard on those expensive duds.”
“Was that what he was doing, meeting a snitch?” Ry’s ears perked up. As far as he knew, Mickey didn’t have any solid connections on the street. Because he liked to talk too much no one trusted him.
“Don’t know. Nobody I know worked for him. He was too stingy. He wore his money. Guess that didn’t leave him any extra to work with.”
Ry was always interested in Goddard’s gut reaction. Like cops, the homeless who survived the gritty streets of New Orleans did so by their wit and intuition. God had lived in and around the Quarter longer than Ry had been a cop. At age thirty-three, Ry was about to celebrate his tenth year with the NOPD—the last two had been spent in homicide. Valuing God’s street experience, he asked, “So what’s your take on it?”
“Could be turncoat.” God peeled his stocking cap off his narrow head and scratched at the thin strands on top. “Plenty of them around. More likely, some gutless wantin’ a piece of somebody else’s action. Fools everywhere these days. They find out, too late, they don’t have big enough balls, and then you go to work scrapin’ ’um off a lonely pier in the middle of the night.”
Goddard spoke the truth. There was always someone willing to risk it all on a get-rich-quick scheme. But Mickey Burelly? Was there a chance he’d become an unwanted liability? Was he a dirty cop or had he been telling the truth yesterday when he’d been boasting about cracking open the case?
“I need a pair of eyes and ears for a few days.” Ry pointed to the sign overhead. “Feel like sealing the deal with a plate of shrimp and a few beers? The Toucan serves all night.”
“Now you’re talkin’, Superman.” God offered Ry a toothless grin, then ducked back into the alley. Sidestepping the homeless vagrants snoring in each another’s faces, he led the way to the Toucan’s back door.
The hardy aroma of bisque and spicy crawfish teased their palates as the two men stepped inside the lounge. While large fans moved the rich scent into the dark corners of the dining room, the dim lighting and exotic decor set the mood for an evening of some of the best food and entertainment in the French Quarter.
As Goddard scanned the booths along the south wall, he asked in a hushed tone, “We gonna meet tomorrow?”
“You already planning your noon meal?” Ry teased.
The older man looked at Ry and grinned. “Tony’s Thursday special is gumbo. All-you-can-eat gumbo. I like gumbo.”
“All right,” Ry agreed. “See what you can come up with between now and then, and I’ll see you around noon.”
Goddard spotted an empty booth half-hidden by a potted palm, and without any further conversation, shuffled his bird-like legs across the red brick floor.
Ry watched his snitch wedge the cardboard bed into the foot space beneath the table, then sit down on the purple-and-green leather seat. Seconds later, he reached for the menu.
The smell of steamed shrimp stirred his own hunger, but instead of finding his usual table, Ry took stock of his surroundings—more specifically, the small stage where Margo duFray sang five nights out of seven. The stage was dark, and that both surprised and disappointed him.
“Hey, mon ami, it’s Wednesday. You got your days mixed up, no?”
The voice calling to him from behind the bar drew Ry’s attention, and he turned to face the Toucan’s owner. “I know what day it is, Tony.”
“Then you’re workin’, oui?”
“That’s right.”
“Nasty night for it.”
“Is the grill still on?” Ry asked.
“Yeah, sure.” The big black man motioned to Ry’s wet shirt. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, you’ve looked better. You oughtta go home and dry out with a bottle of cha-cha. Maybe curl up with somethin’ soft.”
Tony’s suggestion sounded good, at least the drying-out part, but Ry didn’t need or want the distraction of booze or an easy woman. Booze had never been able to do the job it promised where he was concerned, and he had no interest in an easy woman whose name he wouldn’t remember in the morning.
“What’s that partner of yours doing these days?” Tony’s grin fed the mischief in his heavy-lidded chocolate eyes.
“You know damn well what he’s doing,” Ry grumbled. “Not a damn thing.”
“I guess I heard somethin’ about that. Words between him and Chief Blais, somebody said. Suspended for two weeks, right?” Tony’s grin opened up.
Ry shook his head. “You’d think by now Jackson would know to keep his opinions to himself. He’s been suspended three times in the past year.”
“You ain’t turned your back on him, though. The two before you quit the first time Jackson said somethin’ they didn’t like.”
That was understandable. Jackson had a knack for irritating the hell out of people, saying what he damn well pleased any old time he felt like it. But on the other side of that coin was the fact that Jackson was the best damn cop Ry had ever worked with. He was the fastest thinker, the sharpest marksman, and downright ugly mean when it was called for. No, contrary to rumor, Jackson Ward was the man every cop wanted watching his back, whether they knew it or not.
“You hear about the suit? Got himself kilt tonight.”
Ry nodded without answering.
Tony leaned close and whispered. “That’s why you’re here, right? You’re on the case, ain’tcha?”
“Looks like it.” Ry ran a tired hand through his cropped sandy-brown hair, scattering rain drops, then hitched his jeans-clad backside on a barstool. “What’s hot and ready, Tony? I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“Catfish in ten. Shrimp in five.” Tony nodded toward a booth in the far corner. “Charmaine in two, if’n that look she’s givin’ the back of your head means what I think it do. She could dry you out real fast, mon ami.”
Ry curled his long legs around the metal rungs on the stool and glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, there was Char running her pink tongue around the rim of her wineglass and watching him with those electric-green eyes that promised trouble. In no mood to baby-sit the judge’s daughter, Ry turned back to Tony. “I’ll take the safe bet, give me the shrimp and a cold beer.”
Tony chuckled, his sharp eyes shifting to where Goddard sat clutching the menu. “You payin’ for God?”
“That’s right. Whatever he wants. As much as he wants,” Ry added.
Tony flagged one of his waitresses to wait on Goddard, then turned to his grill and the shrimp Ry had ordered.
In a matter of minutes the familiar scent of gardenias drifted across the bar. Ry turned his head in time to watch Charmaine Stewart hoist her curvy hip onto the high barstool next to him. She looked as good as always, dressed fit to kill, out spending her daddy’s money on trouble and anything else she could find. “I heard there was a shooting in Algiers tonight,” she purred. “Need an ear? I’m a real good listener.”
Ry