Page 36 of Creole Kingpin
And you’re surprised because ... ?Ho-It-All pipes up, and I shake my head to shut her up.
As Moses takes his seat, the server comes to the table.
“Sir, I see your companion has arrived. What can I get you to drink, ma’am?”
I don’t bother to look at him or the menu. “Three fingers of Seven Sinners’ Spirit of New Orleans. Neat.”
“Excellent choice. I’ll give you a few moments, and then I’ll be back to take your order.” The server, a middle-aged woman with a bun in stark black and white, hurries away through the tables.
I glance at the glass in front of Moses. “What are you drinking?”
“Did you really come here to shoot the shit about my beverage selection?”
My gaze cuts to his face, and I get snared by those damn green-and-gold eyes, but he asked for it. So I bite the bullet. “Fine. What the fuck do you want, Moses? Fifteen years is too damn long to assume you can come back for a woman, no matter what you said last night.”
“Who says it’s the first time I’ve been back?” He has one eyebrow with a thin scar above it, and it’s lifted. I wonder how he got it. It’s new, but he’s too damn smug to ask.
My mouth is agape, and before it draws flies, I speak so he won’t notice it’s because of what he does to me and not from what he said. “The fuck does that mean?”
Sometimes my street shows, and I check myself. Diners at the tables around us turn to look at me, so I fold my hands in my lap demurely.
Instead of replying to my question, he drops another bomb on me. “You’ve got a ghost.”
I look around, trying to find my calm, before I drill a stare into him. “What the hell are you talking about?” The only ghost I know is him, but at the moment, he’s more real than anyone I’ve ever known.
“The guy from the elevator. He’s a ghost.”
I blink and lean forward with my elbows on the table. “He wasn’t a ghost. He was living and breathing just like us. I know this becauseghosts don’t stab people.” I’m proud of myself for keeping my voice low enough that no one else in the restaurant can hear a damn thing I’m saying over the murmur of conversation and clinking of silverware against china.
Moses mimics my movement, leaning forward far enough that I catch a whiff of cedar with a hint of spice. That scent nearly steals me away for another trip down memory lane, but I keep my focus on his lips as they begin to move.
“He’s flesh and blood, but he’s not in the system. Prints were a dead end. No hits on facial recognition yet. His ID was fake.”
My hair sways across my shoulders as confusion has me moving my head from side to side. “What does that mean? Is he ...washe a hit man?” I ask quietly, because this isn’t exactly something we should be discussing here, although I have a hell of a lot more questions, including how Moses knows all this.
Although, Moses doesn’t seem to have any compunction about it. I remember he once told me the easiest way to get away with something was to do it in plain sight. Maybe that holds true for discussing murder at fancy restaurants. Hell, in this day and age, we could be simply having a chat about a true crime podcast for all anyone would know.
“Possibly,” he says with a hint of skepticism. “Or he’s someone who didn’t want to be found by people who wanted him literally dead. We’re still digging.”
I picture the man’s brown eyes that shined with evil intent from behind that balaclava he wore like a fucking coward.
He can’t get me. Not now. He’s dead.
But if he was a hit man ...
“If he was truly after me and only me, will someone else be coming next?” I ask Moses quietly, the fear that I don’t want to acknowledge giving my tone a jagged, broken edge.
“Depends,” he says, his reply equally serious.
I fight a chill skating up my spine. “On what?”
“On whether someone paid him to kill you. If someone did take out a hit on you, they won’t send someone else unless they really want you dead bad, and have the money to pay someone else to do the job he couldn’t finish.”
The way he says it, so matter-of-factly, gives me pause.
“Fuck.”
Moses’s hand reaches out and covers my balled fist on the table. “Magnolia, I ain’t gonna let no bogeyman get you. Not on my watch or while I’ve still got breath in my body.”
