Page 47 of Creole Kingpin
Moses stands in the doorway, practically blocking out the sunlight because he’s a big bastard. I just stare at him, wondering how I’m supposed to feel right now, because I sure as hell don’t know.
He claps his hands together as if dusting them off. “Done and done. What’s next?”
“You gave him your name,” I blurt. “Why would you do that?”
“So he’ll spend his time running me rather than trying to dig deeper into who really owns this house.”
My eyes feel like they’re about to shoot from their sockets. “Isn’t that even worse?”
That lazy grin stretches across his face. “Nah. I’m squeaky clean.”
“But what about Biloxi?” He told me all those years ago about his many petty—and not so petty—crimes.
“Mama. I told you what I do. You don’t think I’d handle my own shit first and clear out my history? I’m covered.”
“And the lawyer? What’s he going to say?”
Moses’s shoulders shake with unconcerned laughter. “He’ll tell Cavender to go fuck himself in the politest way a thousand-dollar-an-hour New York lawyer can. If they want more, they can get a fucking warrant, which no judge is going to give them based on only you living in a building where someone died. Especially since there’s nothing to tie it to you.”
The massive man plucks a fallen eyelash off of my cheek and holds it in front of my lips to blow. When I don’t, he does, and then moves on like what happened outside was no big deal.
“Now, how about that coffee? I could use a beignet.”
Thirty
Somewhere else in New Orleans
I hate this dirty city, full of people who’d rather party than work.
As I let myself into my brother’s apartment, I crack my neck, fully expecting to find him passed out with a hooker or two in his bed. That is how I found him last time he didn’t answer my texts or calls for two days.
But that’s not what I find this time.
I check every room. It’s a pigsty, not that I’m surprised. Pizza boxes, beer cans, and empty daiquiri cups litter the coffee table. The expensive TV sits silent in the corner, and there’s an inch of dust on the stereo system. It might be the housekeeper’s year off, but Ricky has no problem blowing money on anything he wants. That’s always been his problem.Mi hermanogoes through money like water. He’s always asking for his deposit early, which is the other reason I’m here.
He hasn’t asked, which tells me something’s not right.
“Where are you, Ricardo?”
Silence is the only answer, and it is not one I’m willing to accept.
Ten minutes later, I have even more questions.
Starting with how he has twenty-five thousand dollars in his safe. Idiot used his own fucking birthday as a combination too. Not that anyone else alive would be able to match him with that date.
“Ricky ... Ricky ... Ricky ... What the fuck have you been doing?”
To prove a point, I take the cash and start for the door. Except one thing stops me—a piece of paper on the counter with a phone number written in Ricky’s sloppy handwriting. Next to it is a prepaid cell phone.
I flip it open. The battery is dead, so I plug it into the charger attached to the wall and wait a few minutes to power it on. After it comes back to life, I scroll down to check the last dialed number. It’s the one on the sheet.
Dumb fuck. Throw the fucking paper away then, imbécil.If Ricky’s dealing with some shady shit, I’m going to have to get involved. He’s the worst criminal I’ve ever known.
I tap the number and wait for the call to connect. A woman answers on the third ring.
“Jesus. I’ve been waiting a week. Is it done? Are they dead?”
I am not a bad criminal. In fact, I am a very fucking good one.
