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He rested his forearm across his eyes as he waited for his caller to come back over the line, and a minute later he heard, “You in town?”
Henri thought about lying but said, “Yeah. What’d you need?”
“Déjà Vu Showgirls—you know it?”
He did—it was a strip joint over on the South Side. After he’d relocated to Chicago, he’d done a few…odd jobs here and there in that area. “I know it. What’s going on?”
“Get down here and I’ll tell you.” The order was clear—and annoying as fuck—but then again, Henri had put himself in this position, hadn’t he? So he let out a sigh and looked at the time.
“I can be there in…thirty minutes.”
“Make it twenty. It’s not like you’re above breaking a law or two.”
“Fuck you.”
“This ain’t a date, Boudreaux. Don’t make me wait around for you.”
Before Henri could respond, the call ended, and he cursed, threw his phone on the bed beside him, and shoved back the covers. When his feet hit the hardwood floor, he stretched his neck from side to side, and then got up to head into the bathroom to get changed.
Several months ago, he’d purchased this downtown loft and decided to settle in and call Chicago his new home…for now. Up until then, he’d been a kind of nomad, wandering around wherever his jobs took him. But he always somehow found himself back in New Orleans, despite his fucked-up history with the place.
Maybe because it was familiar, or maybe because he was sick in the head, he had no idea. But it was time to cut ties there for good now. After what happened with Jimmy, he’d known he would never set foot in that place again, not even under a fake name.
It was time to start over for real, time to start somewhere new, and part of that had included a diversion of some sort, a misdirection that would keep certain eyes off him and make what he did for a living an asset, as opposed to something suspicious that needed to be investigated and stopped.
That was the only reason he was grabbing his keys and walking out the door this fucking early in the morning. It was a miserable morning, too, wind and rain accompanying him and his irritated mood, as he drove through the deserted streets in Priest’s Aston Martin, letting a little Pink Floyd ease his mind.
He had to hand it to Priest: when he’d restored this baby, he’d done a damn good job. Supple red leather interior, chrome fixtures, a sweet paint job, and a stereo with speakers that made everything you played sound like you were at a damn concert.
Henri was actually surprised Priest hadn’t come after him for taking off with his pride and joy after the showdown with Jimmy. But then again, he’d have to find him first, and he figured Priest had left it with him in the end as reward for a job well done.
With the windshield wipers going, Henri drove under the railway and through an intersection that marked this part of town worse than the part he’d just driven through, and made sure to keep a watchful eye at all times.
This kind of car in this part of the city always drew attention, and it was never too early or late for the seedier members of society to be out making deals and looking to cause problems. Something he knew well, since that was the part of society he’d inhabited for most of his life.
As he made a right at the intersection, he spotted a slew of blue and red lights flashing on the street he was heading toward, and already knowing the drill, Henri pulled into a side street several blocks up.
After parking at the curb, he shut off the headlights and engine and hit the number that had called him earlier. “I’m three blocks west. You can’t miss me.”
He ended the call, tossed his phone on the dashboard, and looked at the half-empty packet of cigarettes sitting in the center console. He really wanted a smoke, but not even his addiction could make him light up in a car as sweet as this. Not to mention, if Priest ever did come for his baby and found out that Henri had smoked in it, he’d kill him. And of all the people in his life, Joel Donovan—Priestley—was the only one Henri knew could do him some real damage, because he was the only person Henri would never fight back against.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The hard rapping of knuckles on the rain-streaked passenger window had Henri’s head jerking to the right, and when he reached over and flicked the locks up and his door was pulled open, he watched his early morning caller slide inside.
Detective Sean Bailey—or, as he fondly referred to him, Detective Dick—ran a hand through his thick brown hair as his dark blue eyes scanned the tight confines, and Henri was petty enough to enjoy how uncomfortable he seemed as water slid down the back of his jacket.
