I reluctantly gave him the number to Cordelia’s clinic.

“Who do you want to talk to?” he asked as he punched in the number.

“Cordelia. Cordelia James.”

Joey nodded, as he waited for the phone to be answered, then I heard him ask for her. There was a pause, he looked at me and said, “Dr. James? Is she your girlfriend?”

“A friend.” I didn’t want to give him that. “We were going out to a birthday dinner for another friend tonight. She needs to know I’m not going to meet her.”

“She’s not around, so you can tell them that.” Joey handed the phone to me, but he stayed close enough to hear everything I said.

“Hi, this is Micky.”

“Micky, what’s going on?” It was Elly.

“Something important has come up. I can’t make Alex’s party.”

“But you’re supposed to pick her up.”

“I know, but I’m not going to be able to do that.”

“What’s so important? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I can’t explain right now. Just tell Cordelia, and everyone else, that I’m very sorry.”

“All right, I’ll tell her,” Elly said shortly. Her disapproval was evident. “Is there someplace she can call you?”

“No, I’m not at home.”

“I’ll let her know you called.” Elly hung up.

I held on to the phone a moment more, listening to the disconnected buzz. I wanted to leave Joey and his sordid job behind, to go and laugh and party with them. What was more important, playing my hunches or my commitment to my friends? But if I walked away now, I might never get another chance to find out what Joey was involved in, what had led us both to the intersection of Law and Desire.

I said, “Goodbye,” for Joey’s benefit and put the phone back down. I wondered if Cordelia and I would still be lovers after tonight.

Around forty-five minutes later, the man Joey had been looking for came in. He was nondescript, looking like an accountant who would never make it past lower middle management. Joey introduced him as Mr. Smith. They went over a list of bodies, looks, price, preferences. Joey shook his head as each description went by.

“Let’s go,” Joey finally said, and we left Mr. Smith in the bar.

The next place netted us a blond boy who sounded promising until we met him. He was on something heavy-duty and his hair was matted and greasy. Joey shook his head and we left there, too. At the next bar, Joey couldn’t find his connection.

“When does Colombé want them by?” I asked as we headed into the Quarter.

“Soon,” was Joey’s reply. He had started out buoyant and expansive, enjoying his role as mentor, but as the evening wore on and he couldn’t meet Colombé’s demands, he became tense and nervous. It seemed that he really wanted to impress me, to prove that he was slick and successful. That seemed important to Joey.

It was getting chilly and there was a fine drizzling mist in the air. It was not a pleasant night to be out hunting flesh. Walking with Joey, dressed in my gray suit and sensible pumps, pimping for Anthony Colombé, felt a bit surreal. Any minute I expected a director to yell, “Cut, we need a rewrite on this scene.” Instead, what broke through my thoughts was Joey calling out, “Houston, my man, where y’at?”

Houston, half hidden in the shadows, was a large black man wearing a massive collection of gold chains and an expensive leather jacket.

“Depends, Joey, depends on where you want me to be.” Houston spoke with a perfect Oxford accent. He gazed at me questioningly. This man looked very intelligent, not good or bad as some intelligences are evil and others kind, but intelligent in a startlingly neutral way.

Joey seemed oblivious to the question Houston was directing at me. “I’m looking for some boys. I need a performance tonight.”

Houston flicked his eyes over Joey, a bare acknowledgment that he had said anything. “I only do girls. You know that” was his dismissal.

“Oh, well, gotta try,” Joey shrugged and turned to walk away.

“What do you suggest?” I asked Houston.

He was too neutral to offer, but if asked he might reply.

“For the right person, the right price, anything is possible.”

Joey turned back to stare at our exchange.

“Who do you work for?” Houston asked.

“I can’t tell you,” Joey said.

“Anthony Colombé,” I answered.

Houston nodded, then spoke to a woman standing in the shadows behind him. “Sheila, show Joey what you have.” With a motion of his head, he instructed Joey to follow Sheila into the renovated slave quarters behind us. They would take care of the business details. I didn’t follow, neither did Houston.

“Why are you with him?” he asked me.

“He has something I want.”

Houston nodded as if he knew about wanting. “Anthony Colombé is not a man to be taken on lightly.”

“I don’t intend to take on Colombé. Unless I have to.”

He nodded slowly, then asked, “Why?”

“A long story.”

“One simple reason.”

“A friend, a young girl that I know is having nightmares. No young girl should sleep in terror.”

“No, no child should sleep in terror.” In his stark words I caught a glimpse of what underlay the savage neutrality. Then it was back in place.

Joey and Sheila reappeared. Joey was again in high spirits. “We’re on our way. Thanks, Houston, Sheila.”

Houston nodded, then turned away. I followed Joey back toward our cars.

“I’ve got an address,” Joey said as we walked along. “There’ll be some guys waiting for us there. If they fit the picture, we rack ’em up, drop ’em off, and call it an evening.”

“What if they don’t fit the picture?”

“They will. I’ve got a feeling about this one.”

I did, too.

“Okay if we take my car?” Joey asked. “It’ll be easier.”

“Sure.” I’ve learned to trust my instincts and they told me Joey wasn’t a threat. There wasn’t anything sexual going on, and at the moment, I was a solution to a problem Joey had. More than that, what he really wanted from me was a reflection of himself the way he wanted to be, smooth, successful, and important.

“You want to drive?” he asked, handing me the keys. “Stick with me and someday soon you’ll have your own Porsche.”

I took the keys and didn’t tell Joey that, even if I had the money, I wouldn’t spend it on this kind of car. I had a moment’s qualm at leaving my car parked on Rampart, but I noticed a Mercedes parked in front of it and hoped that no self-respecting thief would pass over a late-model German car for a very out-of-date Datsun. And if they did, I could just stick with Joey and get a new car out of it.

Joey rattled off an address as I scanned the unfamiliar controls. Then, with the hope that he had comprehensive insurance, I pulled out and headed for the street number he gave me. It was only a few blocks away, a building with balconies and old world charm. These were high-class hustlers we were picking up.

I double-parked in front, waiting while Joey knocked on the door. He said something very brief to the person who opened it; a moment later, two young men came out. One was very handsome in a dark, masculine way—square-jawed, heavy-lidded with black, sensual eyes. The other was blond, boyish, with an upturned nose, and wide smile that made me think he couldn’t be more than nineteen until I noticed his eyes. They put him in the mid-to-late twenties. Old enough to know what he was doing, I told myself. They climbed into the backseat, staring openly at me. Whether they didn’t like women in general or whether they were just uncomfortable with a woman witnessing their prostitution, I couldn’t tell.

Blond Boy tapped me on the shoulder, “Hey, honey, you want me to drive this thing?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, after a quick check of the traffic, I pulled out, pushed the car into third gear in half a block and did a squealing U-turn that slammed the backseat boys into each other.

Joey grinned at me, held securely in place by his seat belt. By putting me down, Blond Boy was ridiculing Joey’s choice of me. I did realize that his attempted insult was nervous tension, flailing back at that macho thing that “real men” aren’t bottoms. Everyone in the car knew he was going to be fucked by another man. Much as I disliked being a part of this, I didn’t feel sorry for him. Some of it may have been bad luck or ill fate, but he had made some choices that had brought him here.

“The Club?” I asked Joey, as I roared, like all good New Orleans drivers, through a yellow light.

“That’s the place,” he answered.

“Where are we going?” Blond Boy asked.

“You’ll find out,” Joey replied.

“Well, at least it’s good money,” he said. “All I can say is that dick of yours is going to be wrapped in ten rubbers.” However, it wasn’t all he could say. Blond Boy kept up a monologue about how he was only doing this for the money and that this was going to be his ticket to L.A. He might have been in his late twenties, but his dreams and fears were still those of a teenaged boy. His companion grunted and “yeah-ed” in the right places, only once saying anything, answering Blond Boy’s direct question about what kind of condoms he had with him. “Maxi, of course, everything else is too small,” was Dark and Handsome’s modest reply.

I turned into the gates of the Sans Pareil Club. Instead of going to the front, Joey pointed to a drive branching off from the main one. The white slave entrance, no doubt. I followed it as it wound around behind the Club to a large and luxurious garage, pausing while Joey hit a remote to open the doors. As I drove in, the doors slid shut behind us. Just as I cut the motor, Francois opened the door.

“Good, you’re here,” he said. For just a split second, he was surprised when he saw me, then he covered it as if nothing had happened.

“We’re not too late, are we?” Joey called as he swung out of the car. The triumph in his voice indicated he knew the answer.

“Of course not,” Francois answered smoothly, giving me a bare nod of acknowledgment. “You’re just in time.” Behind Francois, I noticed two of Colombé’s elegant and tuxedoed muscle men. “If you gentlemen will follow me?” Francois continued, motioning Blond Boy and his friend in. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” Francois said to us as he shut the door behind him.

“So, is this the usual deal?” I asked.

“Pretty much. I always come to the door. Francois always opens it.”

I started to ask how Francois knew just when we arrived, but then I noticed several video cameras stationed around the garage. I waved at the one focused on us to let them be aware that I knew I was on candid camera.

The door opened and Francois reappeared. “Mr. Boudreaux, Ms. Knight,” Francois said, “Mr. Colombé is very pleased with your work. In addition to your usual, he is offering a five-hundred-dollar bonus.”

“I won’t argue,” Joey said, taking the money. Cash, I noticed.

“Mr. Colombé has an additional favor to ask of you. One of his guests has a special request. Can you obtain it?” Francois handed Joey a small piece of paper.

“Sure, no problem,” Joey answered as he read whatever was on the paper.

“This should take care of it, your fee and the cost.” Francois handed Joey another bundle of money.

“It should,” Joey replied. “See you in a bit,” then to me, “I’ll drive this time.” He walked over to the driver’s side.

“It’s good to see you again, Ms. Knight,” Francois said to me, as if saying, “See, you, too, can be a servant.”

I gave him a bare nod, then turned and walked around the car.

“Half and half,” Joey said as I got in.

I nodded. I hadn’t been thinking about the money. He handed me seven hundred and fifty dollars. I stuffed it in my pocket.

“How much will they make?” I asked, referring to Blond Boy and his friend.

“It depends,” Joey answered, as he turned the car around, “on what they’re willing to do.” The Porsche nosed its way onto the drive. “I almost had a wreck here. You just don’t expect any other cars. I nearly front-ended a Rolls.”

“How much for the basic package?”

“How basic?”

“One round of relatively safe anal sex.”

“With rubbers? Fifty cents. Without, a quick butt-fuck’ll get them a couple hundred each.”

Joey pulled out of the gates of the Sans Pareil Club.

“Colombé’s not going to let them use condoms?” I demanded.

“Naw, it takes all the fun out of it.”

“Those are lives he’s playing with.”

“He has enough money to be God,” Joey calmly answered.

“He has enough money to buy desperate people,” I replied angrily. “Shouldn’t we have told them before we left them off?”

Joey just shrugged.

“Shouldn’t they have had the choice?” I demanded.

“If they don’t like it, they can walk out. Colombé might even give them bus fare home.”

“How generous, how fucking generous.” I slumped back in my seat.

“For seven-fifty, I don’t worry about the other guy’s problem,” was Joey’s philosophical solution.

“Yeah, I guess.” I had that queasy feeling of having slammed into something that I couldn’t change, I could only live with the consequences.

“I gotta pick up some coke. You can come with me, and I’ll show you the ropes. Or if you want, I can just tell you what to do in case it comes up.”

I didn’t particularly want to go with Joey, but I managed to push aside my remorse long enough to ask, “Where’s the place?”

“You know it. You were there last night.”

“Yeah, I’ll go with you.” Remorse would have to wait until tomorrow. Tonight I was going to a place where a few more of my questions might be answered, the bar at the corner of Law and Desire.

Chapter 20

“Why this particular place?” I asked Joey as we headed downtown.

“Real good blow. The man never cuts it.”

“How nice. Quality control among thieves.”

“Gotta get them repeat customers back.”

I glanced at my watch. It was a little past twelve-thirty. I wondered if Alex’s birthday party was still going on. Why the hell wasn’t I there? Instead I was picking up drugs and pimping unsafe sex. Then I remembered Houston’s words, “No child should sleep in terror.”

“So, what’s your story, Joey? How’d you get into this?”

“The usual shit. I didn’t do too good in high school.”

English in particular, but I kept that to myself.

Joey continued, “I did a few years in the Navy, but I hated it, up early in the morning, people yelling at you all the time, wasn’t for me. So I got out, drifted around, got shit jobs, warehouses, loading trucks, that kind of stuff. People always saying, ‘Old Joey Boudreaux ain’t never gonna make nothin’ of himself.’ Hell, you should of seen the looks on their faces when I drove up to my folk’s place in this car. Gold rings and money in my wallet. Took my mom and dad, pissant brother, his wife, and all their stupid kids out to the best restaurant in Lake Charles, my old hometown.”

“Boudreaux your real name?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“Some guys in your line of work have a lot of names.”

“I’m making my wad and then I’m getting out of here.”

“What will you do?”

“I’m going to open a Porsche dealership back in Lake Charles. I’ll get a new one every year. I’m good with cars, good with people, all I need is the money to pull it off.”

“Why Lake Charles?” I wondered if I should suggest to Joey that he might be safer retiring in some place like Nome, Alaska.

“’Cause all those guys who made fun of me in high school will come to me to buy their cars. Or hope someday that they might be able to.”

“How’d you get to work for Colombé?”

“I met the dude that was doing this before me. He was slipping, too much of the blow, needed some help. He slipped a bit too far and I got it. Here we are,” he said as he pulled up next to Heart of Desire.

When I had been here last night, it had been earlier in the evening. With the later hour, more people were here, more cars on the street, a clump of men outside the door.

“Stay close to me,” Joey instructed as we got out of the car.

A man stationed next to the door nodded at Joey, then at me when Joey indicated we were together. The entrance was crowded, all the pay phones in use, two men leaning against the cigarette machine engaged in a heated argument, one man trying to edge between them to get cigarettes. Joey and I threaded our way between them as we made our way to the main area.

A woman, naked except for a feather boa drooped around her neck, was walking off stage. We had just missed the show. Joey led the way to an empty table against the wall, out of the light from both the bar and the stage.

“Do you want me to get you something?” I asked Joey. I wanted to prowl around and look at the faces hidden in the half-shadows of this bar.

“Naw. Don’t be queer. It’s queer for a girl to get a guy drinks. They’ll bring it.”

I sat, scanning the room. Again, it was an odd mix of people, white, black, a few Asians. Most of them were men. I didn’t see any of the working girls. They were probably busy behind closed doors.

A waitress, who looked too young to be working here, came up to our table. “Can I get you something?”

“A beer and?” Joey looked questioningly at me.

“A beer.”

She nodded and headed back to the bar.

“So, do you come here often?” I asked Joey, wincing at the cliché. “How did you find this joint?”

“This place has a rep. Anything you want. Too far out of the way for the cops to mess with.”

I didn’t bother to correct Joey. I wouldn’t be sorry to see this club busted wide open. If Joey went with it, well, you play this game, you take your chances.

The waitress returned with our beers. Joey peeled off a ten, handed it to her, then asked, “Has Hugo been around lately?”

“Maybe. I’ll ask.” She took the ten.

“Is Hugo your connection?”

“The usual one. But asking for Hugo always gets you someone.” Joey drained his beer in one long swallow.

I left mine on the table. “You think his name really is Hugo?”

“You know, I got no idea. Maybe it’s Melvin or Fred and he thought Hugo would be better.” Joey laughed at his joke.

All I managed was a weak smile. I was getting tired.

“You don’t want your beer?”

“This stuff is pig piss.”

Joey laughed, then reached over, took my pig piss beer and drained it. “Can’t let good beer go to waste,” he explained as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

The Hugo du jour sat down at our table, a perfect man for the shadows, dark enough to be black, light enough to be white, neither old nor young.

“So, who’s your friend?” Hugo asked.

“Micky. She works with me. She might be coming around sometimes,” was Joey’s reply.

Hugo nodded, then got down to business. “The usual?”

“The usual.”

“Follow me,” Hugo said.

He led us behind the shadowed door in the dark wall. There wasn’t much to see in the hallway beyond it, a few closed doors and walls in need of paint. At the end of the hallway, Hugo opened one of the doors and ushered us into a small office. It had a battered metal desk, beige paint showing more than one layer of grime, the banality behind the evil; this could have been any office in any run-down factory.

Hugo sat down behind the desk, Joey opposite him. I remained standing, the only other chair had an overflowing ashtray perched on the seat. Hugo took out a set of keys, selected one, then opened the top desk drawer. He took out a mirror and razor blade, poured some white powder on the mirror and proceeded to cut a few lines of cocaine. He offered a line to Joey. I watched Joey snort it and wondered how many laws I would be breaking tonight.

Hugo did a line, then offered it to me.

“No, thanks,” I declined. “Coke makes me drink and I’m trying to cut down.” It wasn’t the best excuse, but it seemed to work for Hugo. He finished off the cocaine.

“Good stuff,” Joey offered.

“The best in town. Smooth and easy.”

“But a good rush. It goes everywhere.”

Tired of harsh nose candy? Try new lite coke, the kinder, gentler drug, with all the full-bodied charge and paranoia you expect from real coke. Joey slapped some money down and Hugo produced a fair amount of his expensive white powder.

Hugo then led us back to the main part of the bar. We exchanged a few minor pleasantries, and he melted back among the shadowed people.

“You want to hang around? Watch the show?” Joey asked.

“No, not particularly. Do you?”

“I thought you liked that kind of stuff.”

It took me a moment to realize what Joey meant by “that stuff.” He was pushing me, testing my limits. I didn’t want to play games, so I just let my anger reply. Sometimes anger from a woman is the most unexpected answer. “You mean watching some dolled-up, fake woman walking around naked pretending to be sexy? I’ve never gotten off on the illusion of sex. Maybe you can answer some questions that have been bothering me. Why do you guys like having sex with someone who wouldn’t do it if you didn’t pay her? Why do you like looking at pictures of women you’ll never have? Or watching some bimbo at a distance take her clothes off? What do you get out of it?”

“You’re asking the wrong guy. I don’t know why these guys are here. Either they’re stupid, they got too much money, or they’re too kinked up to do it with a real person.”

“Or all three.”

“Yeah, sometimes all three,” Joey laughed. “Yeah, you gotta keep your eyes open, see what people want, what they’ll pay for.”

“What about the damages? Bad drugs, bad sex, people get hurt, killed.”

“That happens anyway. Someone’s going to make money. It might as well be me. The damage’ll happen anyway.”

I shrugged. “Let’s get out of here.”

As I started to turn, a large man ran into me, grabbing my arm with his hand.

“Aren’t you tired of this boy yet? Why don’t you spend some time with me, honey?”

“Get your fucking hands off me,” was my polite answer. But I would be spending some time with him. My only consolation was that he couldn’t arrest me on the spot or he’d blow his cover.

“Hey, Pops. Hands off the merchandise,” Joey said.

O’Connor let go of me, then said, “She ain’t worth what you’re paying for her,” before he stalked off.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said. I headed for the door without waiting for Joey. A few propositions were mumbled as I pushed through the entrance. I ignored them.

Joey caught up with me at his car. “I could’ve handled that old geezer.”

“Can the macho show. I’m not interested. And, Joey, if it gets down to it, I know where to kick.”

Joey shrugged and unlocked the car. I let him drive, figuring his coke-induced energy wasn’t any more dangerous than my long day’s lethargy.

The late-night streetlights became a blur as we drove uptown to the Sans Pareil Club. I sat in the car and watched Joey and Francois interact their brief exchange, a few words, a quick transfer of drugs, nothing noticeable enough to ripple the polished façade of the Sans Pareil Club.

Joey was still jazzed up as we drove back to my car. He rattled on about growing up in Lake Charles, being called “Slow Joe” by his older brother. I tried to listen, but it was the same sad story, not-quite-good enough, not-quite-loved enough. Joey wasn’t a very good storyteller. “But I’m going to show them. I’m really going to show them,” were his final words as he let me out at my car. He handed me his beeper so that Colombé could summon me whenever he wished. I wondered what would happen if I forgot to turn it on.

Joey, gentleman that he was, or perhaps realist, waited while I fumbled with my keys and got into my car. Only when I was safely locked into its tin can interior did he take off.

On impulse, I turned off Rampart into the Quarter to drive by Cordelia’s apartment. But there were no lights on, nothing suggested I would be welcome. Some part of me very much wanted to talk to her. I wanted her advice and conscience. Was I doing the right thing, was I going too far? But I didn’t know if I could explain what was driving me, or whether I had already gone far beyond her boundaries. I wanted to verify that there were brakes on my obsession. I wasn’t sure if I had any anymore. I kept on driving, heading downtown to my apartment. It would be morning soon, and I was very tired.

I threw off my clothes, that damned uncomfortable gray suit, a reminder of my abandoned plans for the evening. The light on my answering machine was, not surprisingly, blinking. I flopped down in the chair next to it and hit the play button.

“If you’re dead or seriously injured, you have an excuse. If not, you’re shit, Mick,” was Joanne’s message.

“If it’s a really good excuse, wait a couple of days before you call me. If it’s not a good excuse, wait a year,” was Danny’s.

O’Connor had called twice. Both messages were versions of, “Eleven o’clock at the station. At eleven-oh-five I send the squad car after you.”

The one person who had not called was Cordelia. Anger, even fury, would have been more welcome than her silence.

I went to the bathroom, stood under the shower for a few minutes to wash the sweat and smoke off of me, then, wet hair and all, went to bed.

Chapter 21

The ringing of the phone jarred me out of sleep. I mumbled a half-awake hello.

“So you are alive.” It was Joanne. She hung up on me.

I glanced at my clock. Only eight thirty. I fell back asleep, only to be re-awakened an hour later by my alarm clock. I finally forced myself up; it was not in my best interest to keep O’Connor waiting. I showered and dressed in a hurry.

Leaving my car in the most legal-looking parking space I could find, I went into the police station. This time when I stated who I was and asked to see O’Connor, I was told to go right back to his cubicle. He brusquely motioned me to sit down while he finished filling out paperwork.

It was several minutes before he looked up at me, then he merely said, “Explain.”

I tossed the matchbook Lindsey had gotten from Cissy onto his desk. He picked it up and looked at it, then looked at me.

“How does that get into the pocket of a nine-year-old girl?” I asked.

“You tell me.”

I shrugged, then stared at the matches O’Connor had put back down on his desk, trying to think of what I could and couldn’t reveal. “A young girl I know—her behavior changes, she becomes afraid of things. The only clue I have are those matches.”

O’Connor nodded slowly, tiredly, then asked, “Who’s the girl?”

I shook my head. Then, to blunt my refusal, said, “She won’t tell you anything. She won’t say anything to her mother or me or even a shrink she’s seeing. Dragging her down here to talk to you won’t help.”

O’Connor nodded, seemingly satisfied with my answer. “How’d you hook up with Joey Boudreaux?”

“How do you know who he is?”

“Answer my question first.”

“A client was involved in a deal with him. It was somewhat irregular and she felt she needed my assistance in getting out.”

“Something illegal?”

“Probably. But my client won’t talk, neither will Joey, and I don’t have any proof.”

O’Connor shrugged this time. These weren’t the fish he was after, so he would probably let it go.

“I was driving by Heart of Desire,” I continued. “I saw Joey there. I got curious.” I ended my story there.

“Tell me exactly where and what you did with Joey last night. Every inch.” O’Connor leaned forward, his eyes drilling me as he waited for an answer.