Chapter 4
“He was supposed to meet us,” Casmir said as she eyed the throngs of people coming and going at New Orleans International Airport. “That would be just like him to be late picking us up.”
“Who, Cassie?”
Casmir caught herself before she said, the asshole. “Pierce Fourtier, Mama. A coworker. He’s taking us to Le Mystère.”
“A coworker? I don’t recognize the name. Have I ever met him?”
No, but once you do you’ll never forget him, Casmir thought.
She spied a gypsy vagrant watching them and immediately she went on red alert. No one was supposed to know their destination but Polax…and Fourtier, of course. No one should be singling them out of the crowd unless…
She couldn’t dismiss Yurii’s last words as she’d skipped away from him at the Kelt four days ago—so the hunt begins. I look forward to it.
She pulled her mother toward the door.
“Where are we going, Cassie?”
“Out, Mama.”
They had already gone to the baggage claim and picked up their luggage. Since then, they had been waiting for Fourtier a long thirty minutes.
Bastard.
Casmir looked over her shoulder and saw the gypsy was still eyeing them. No, he wasn’t only staring, he was moving through the crowd toward them with a confident swagger, his long gray hair defying his age, as well as the fit of his jeans.
He wore a sleazy red satin vest over a black shirt, and he was also sporting a tacky long earring dangling clean to his jaw.
Someone should clue him in on how to dress when you’re over fifty, she thought. Playing Bojangles wasn’t working for him—not at all.
Where the hell was Fourtier?
He probably had stopped off somewhere for a beer.
Casmir ushered her mother out the door and into the busy crowd that waited for taxis. She slipped past the mass of bodies, pulling her luggage behind her. Her mother followed, dragging her Paris tote, her dark glasses still in place hiding her black eye.
Casmir spotted an unmarked taxi parked across the street. The driver was leaning against a silver SUV and smoking a cigarette. None of the tourists had spotted him yet.
She bolted into the street, waving her hand to get the rebel cabby’s attention. He jumped to attention the minute he saw her and hurried to meet them. She thrust her bag at him, and yanked the Paris tote from her mother and heaved that at him as well. Shoving her mother into the backseat, she followed after her and slammed the door shut.
“Are we in a hurry, Cassie?”
“Do you want to stand in the heat, Mama?”
“I’ve never been able to tolerate it, you know that. Goodness, it’s warm. I had no idea. This reminds me of the jungle in—”
“Jungle? What jungle, Mama?”
“There, you see, the heat is getting to me already. I don’t know what I’m saying.”
Casmir felt a little dizzy herself. The air was as thick as sand inside the cab, and twice as suffocating.
She kept watch out the window as the driver tossed their luggage into the trunk. She spotted the gypsy as he burst through the crowd just as the cabdriver climbed behind the wheel.
“We’re in a hurry,” she said. “Step on it.”
As the cabby sped away from the curb, Casmir watched the gypsy jog into the middle of the street, his feet lighter than she’d expected for a man his age. When he pulled a phone from his pocket, she knew she had guessed right. He was one of Yurii Petrov’s henchman—the hunt was on.
The first thing on the agenda was to lose the gypsy. Once they accomplished that, she would phone Polax and tell him that their ace bodyguard was a no-show, and that Yurii had somehow found them.
Then she would demand a sandy beach in Crete with a breeze, and that Fourtier be hung from a low tree over an alligator pond in his backyard.
Pierce answered his phone on the forth ring. He was straddling a bar stool at the Ginger Root, enjoying his fifth beer and Linet’s assets as she made eyes at him from across the bar.
“Lazie, you pick up my package?”
“We got a problem, boy. Da two of dem took off. I’m chasin’, but dat sonofabitch cabby’s got a lead foot and two glass eyes. He’s gonta end up turned over in the levee if he keeps dis up.”
“What the hell do you mean, they took off?”
“Like a jackrabbit with his tail on fire.”
“What made them run? Didn’t you tell her who you were?”
“Didn’t get close enough ta introduce myself, mon ami. Dey slipped away like a greased snake on a spit run.”
“Where are you now?”
“In da Eldorado playin’ Starsky and Hutch.”
“Don’t lose them. I’m heading back.” Pierce disconnected and jammed the phone in his pocket. “Sorry, honey, but we’re going to have to continue this reunion later. I got a rabbit to run down.”
Linet pouted. “Let’s hope it don take another four years for you ta get back here, cowboy. If you still look as good outa dem jeans as I remember, there’s no reason you shouldn’t be sharin’ the bounty. In the south, sharin’ is the neighborly thing ta do. Oui?”
Pierce grinned, then winked. “I’ll be back.”
“You know where I’ll be, cowboy.”
He left the Ginger Root and started back to New Orleans with his foot pushed to the floorboard, while he pulled his cell phone and called Lazie.
“You still got them in sight?”
“Not at the moment. Got a corner ta take.”
Pierce heard tires squealing. Lazie swore in colorful French. “What’s happening?”
“Got um back. Shit, lost um again. I’m gonta rattle that cabby’s cage when I catch him. Call yous later. Got another corner ta take.”
Pierce tossed the phone in the seat next to him. It would take him forty minutes to get back into town. He should never have sent Lazie to the airport. Merrick had said the plan would take time to set into motion—that the heat wouldn’t be on for at least two days.
He should have known that where Miss Bitch was concerned, the heat was never off.
Pierce stewed all the way back to the city until he was well cooked and starting to burn. He picked up the phone in the seat next to him as he crossed the river and punched in Lazie’s number again.
“Update me.”
“Caught the cab. He’s bleedin’. He says he let dem out on the corner of Bourbon and St. Anns. Dere in the Quarter somewhere. That’s a good sign.”
“You lost them.”
“I got dere luggage.”
“I don’t give a shit about their luggage. Meet me at the Bug.”
Casmir pulled her mother into a dingy bar on Bourbon Street, then wished she hadn’t. The seedy establishment was sporting a topless dancer on a spotlit stage and a clientele that was ninety-nine percent male. The only female in sight was the redhead grinding her hips on stage and sporting a red thong and a smile so wide you could count her teeth.
She spotted