A Younger Woman

“I need a pair of eyes and ears for a few days.” Ry pointed to the sign overhead. “Feel like sealing the deal with a plate of shrimp and a few beers? The Toucan serves all night.”

“Now you’re talkin’, Superman.” God offered Ry a toothless grin, then ducked back into the alley. Sidestepping the homeless vagrants snoring in each another’s faces, he led the way to the Toucan’s back door.

The hardy aroma of bisque and spicy crawfish teased their palates as the two men stepped inside the lounge. While large fans moved the rich scent into the dark corners of the dining room, the dim lighting and exotic decor set the mood for an evening of some of the best food and entertainment in the French Quarter.

As Goddard scanned the booths along the south wall, he asked in a hushed tone, “We gonna meet tomorrow?”

“You already planning your noon meal?” Ry teased.

The older man looked at Ry and grinned. “Tony’s Thursday special is gumbo. All-you-can-eat gumbo. I like gumbo.”

“All right,” Ry agreed. “See what you can come up with between now and then, and I’ll see you around noon.”

Goddard spotted an empty booth half-hidden by a potted palm, and without any further conversation, shuffled his bird-like legs across the red brick floor.

Ry watched his snitch wedge the cardboard bed into the foot space beneath the table, then sit down on the purple-and-green leather seat. Seconds later, he reached for the menu.

The smell of steamed shrimp stirred his own hunger, but instead of finding his usual table, Ry took stock of his surroundings—more specifically, the small stage where Margo duFray sang five nights out of seven. The stage was dark, and that both surprised and disappointed him.

“Hey, mon ami, it’s Wednesday. You got your days mixed up, no?”

The voice calling to him from behind the bar drew Ry’s attention, and he turned to face the Toucan’s owner. “I know what day it is, Tony.”

“Then you’re workin’, oui?”

“That’s right.”

“Nasty night for it.”

“Is the grill still on?” Ry asked.

“Yeah, sure.” The big black man motioned to Ry’s wet shirt. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, you’ve looked better. You oughtta go home and dry out with a bottle of cha-cha. Maybe curl up with somethin’ soft.”

Tony’s suggestion sounded good, at least the drying-out part, but Ry didn’t need or want the distraction of booze or an easy woman. Booze had never been able to do the job it promised where he was concerned, and he had no interest in an easy woman whose name he wouldn’t remember in the morning.

“What’s that partner of yours doing these days?” Tony’s grin fed the mischief in his heavy-lidded chocolate eyes.

“You know damn well what he’s doing,” Ry grumbled. “Not a damn thing.”

“I guess I heard somethin’ about that. Words between him and Chief Blais, somebody said. Suspended for two weeks, right?” Tony’s grin opened up.

Ry shook his head. “You’d think by now Jackson would know to keep his opinions to himself. He’s been suspended three times in the past year.”

“You ain’t turned your back on him, though. The two before you quit the first time Jackson said somethin’ they didn’t like.”

That was understandable. Jackson had a knack for irritating the hell out of people, saying what he damn well pleased any old time he felt like it. But on the other side of that coin was the fact that Jackson was the best damn cop Ry had ever worked with. He was the fastest thinker, the sharpest marksman, and downright ugly mean when it was called for. No, contrary to rumor, Jackson Ward was the man every cop wanted watching his back, whether they knew it or not.

“You hear about the suit? Got himself kilt tonight.”

Ry nodded without answering.

Tony leaned close and whispered. “That’s why you’re here, right? You’re on the case, ain’tcha?”

“Looks like it.” Ry ran a tired hand through his cropped sandy-brown hair, scattering rain drops, then hitched his jeans-clad backside on a barstool. “What’s hot and ready, Tony? I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“Catfish in ten. Shrimp in five.” Tony nodded toward a booth in the far corner. “Charmaine in two, if’n that look she’s givin’ the back of your head means what I think it do. She could dry you out real fast, mon ami.”

Ry curled his long legs around the metal rungs on the stool and glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, there was Char running her pink tongue around the rim of her wineglass and watching him with those electric-green eyes that promised trouble. In no mood to baby-sit the judge’s daughter, Ry turned back to Tony. “I’ll take the safe bet, give me the shrimp and a cold beer.”

Tony chuckled, his sharp eyes shifting to where Goddard sat clutching the menu. “You payin’ for God?”

“That’s right. Whatever he wants. As much as he wants,” Ry added.

Tony flagged one of his waitresses to wait on Goddard, then turned to his grill and the shrimp Ry had ordered.

In a matter of minutes the familiar scent of gardenias drifted across the bar. Ry turned his head in time to watch Charmaine Stewart hoist her curvy hip onto the high barstool next to him. She looked as good as always, dressed fit to kill, out spending her daddy’s money on trouble and anything else she could find. “I heard there was a shooting in Algiers tonight,” she purred. “Need an ear? I’m a real good listener.”

Ry dug into his pocket looking for a cigarette, then remembered he was out. Swearing, he said, “Why do shrinks and women always assume talking about your problems solves anything?”

“If you’re not interested in talking, we don’t have to. I’m good at other things, too.”

Ry knew what she was good at—causing grief for her daddy. “I came here to eat, Char. That’s all.”

“Ouch. Aren’t we in a nasty mood tonight?” She smiled, not at all daunted. “Come on, Ry, I’m a sure thing, and I know I could improve your mood. Say yes—” she paused, her frosty lips parting “—say yes, then take me home with you.”

She had one of those refined Southern accents, the kind that easily attracted men. And Char had attracted plenty—the primary reason the judge was taking ulcer medication and seeing a shrink twice a week, Ry determined. “Shouldn’t you be home? Your daddy—”

“Thinks you’re wonderful.” She reached out and ran a manicured finger over the back of his hand where it rested on the bar. “For the first time in just ever, Daddy and I agree on something.” She giggled and leaned close. “You’re our favorite detective, Detective Archard.”

What she said about the judge approving of him was true enough. But Ry also knew there was a simple explanation behind that approval—if Char was seeing a big bad cop, the rest of the men making a nuisance of themselves might think twice. Judge Stewart was a shrewd old Creole. Ry didn’t blame him for scheming to keep his wild, scandal-seeking daughter out of the newspaper. Only, he had no intentions of being her baby-sitter or anything else. They had already settled that months ago.

Char ran her finger further up Ry’s arm. “You look like you’ve lost your dog and best friend all in one night. I can be anything you want, Ry. A lap dog suits me fine. You can stroke me or I’ll stroke you. You name the game and I’m willing to play.”

“You’re wrong, as usual, Char. Tonight all I need is a hot meal and a few extra hours of sleep.”

At Ry’s mention of food, Tony came to the rescue with a plate of shrimp and a tall beer. “There you go, mon ami. Seconds are on the house. Jus’ holler.”

Ry shed Char’s warm touch and picked up the fork next to his plate. He stabbed a plump shrimp, shoved it into his mouth and chewed vigorously. Unwilling to be ignored, she inched closer. “Remember the night I slipped through that hole in your hedge and found you asleep in that big hammock on your veranda? Remember how I woke you? The day’s heat was nothing like what we sparked, and nothing has compared since, I’m not ashamed to say.”

“Remembering that night doesn’t do either of us any good,” Ry drawled, reminded that when she’d arrived that night he’d been deep into one of his favorite dreams, a dream so potent and real that he’d almost made love to Charmaine Stewart thinking she was someone else.

She leaned closer and whispered in his ear. “If you’re tired I’ll do all the work. Promise and—” slowly she traced an invisible X across her chest with a hot-pink manicured nail “—cross my heart.”

Ry didn’t doubt Char would be good at her word, she’d had enough practice. His gaze drifted to her full breasts, then lower to the rounded curve of her hips beneath her pink silk T-shirt dress. A man would have to be crazy not to take what she was offering.

He stood, dug two twenties out of his back pocket and laid them on the bar beside his half-eaten food. Out of habit, he glanced toward the stage where the piano sat idle. He still thought it odd Margo wasn’t there. A creature of habit, she was as dependable as she was loyal. The only thing that would make her take a night off was if she was sick.

Ry’s gaze went back to Char. “Want me to call you a cab?”