Page 14 of Creole Kingpin
No one crosses me or my girls. Not without paying a hefty price.
* * *
When I walk into my soon-to-be former home, the sight of the stacks of boxes puts a smile on my face.
“Only another week, and I’m out of here,” I tell the room. It doesn’t answer, and thank God for that.
If these walls could talk ... well, I don’t even want to think about what they’d say. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, but they got me where I am, so I find it hard to regret most of them.
Some of them, though ... some of them I regret a lot.
I set my purse on the sideboard and flip it open. The white pawn mocks me from where it’s tucked inside. I reach for the whiskey and splash some into a glass before pulling the chess piece out to study it.
The liquor slides down my throat, just as smooth as the piece, but the whiskey is a hell of a lot more welcome. With the pawn in one hand and my glass in the other, I kick off my heels and pad across the tile floor to my sofa.
I haven’t had a minute to myself since that street kid shoved the stupid thing at me, but now that I do ... I don’t know what to think.
Why now, Moses?
It makes no goddamned sense, and it certainly has nothing to do with me.
A man doesn’t walk away from a woman for that long and come back thinking he’s still got a shot with her. Then again, Moses wasn’tjust anyman. Hell, I’m still not sure he’s mortal, because he was nothing like anyone I’ve ever met—before or since.
And I need to stop thinking about him.No good can come of it. I’m not interested in anything he has to say.
Liar, liar. Pants on fire.Ho-It-All chimes in, and the mocking thought makes me think of the card Madame Celeste flipped over on the table before my meeting with Mount.
Okay then, fine. Maybe I want to know what he has to say, if only so I can shove those damn words right back down his sexy-ass throat.
My head jerks up, and I shake it as though the motion will clear out the thoughts of Moses. It doesn’t work.
Remembering Baxter Frye does, though.
I set the pawn on my end table and cross the room to retrieve my phone before heading into my office. On the front wall, directly facing my desk, is a framed abstract painting of a woman rising out of the sea. I stop in front of it and give the frame a tug. It swings on a hinge connected to the left-hand side, revealing a safe behind it.
Spinning the knob, I put in the combination I know by heart—08, 29, 05—but refuse to acknowledge that my choosing the date Katrina made landfall in my city has anything to do with Moses. When the safe unlocks, I find what I need inside.
A fat black book. It would be cliché if it weren’t so amusing.
I collect it and return to my mirrored silver desk.
Before I open to the F section of the book, I pull open my desk drawer and flip the lid on a black lacquered box. From inside, I liberate a lighter and a joint. Once it’s burning, I take a long hit, letting the smoke fill my lungs. A few more puffs, and a nice mellow buzz takes hold of me.
I reach for the whiskey and sip as I flip to Baxter’s number. It’s written in red ink, which I should have taken as a sign, but I thought the owner of a chain of well-known appliance stores would realize he had too much to lose to cause trouble.
Clearly, I misjudged him.
It doesn’t happen all that often, but even I’m fallible when it comes to men, despite knowing them better than I know myself most days.
From another drawer, I pull out a disposable cell phone and punch in the number. As soon as it rings, I lean back in my white high-backed chair and prop my bare feet on my desk.
“Hello?” he says, answering on the third ring with a note of confusion.
“Oh, Baxter,” I sing across the line.
“Who is this?”
“Do you have any idea in that tiny little brain of yours how many ways I could ruin your sorry life without so much as chipping my fingernail polish?”
