Million Dollar Road (2 page)

“Hey, hoser,” he grunted, his mouth spilling crumbs of Miz 'Cille's biscuits. Being the farm's only hoser, Lireinne stopped in the doorway, waiting to see what he wanted now.

“Mr. Costello says we're gonna be killing in Barn Twelve tomorrow.” Harlan said this with a loose grin. “You wear good duds like you done today,” he said in sly amusement, “and you're gonna be wearing gator blood. It's a
casual
Friday, got it?” Hunkered over their plates as though someone was going to snatch them away before they'd cleaned up their catfish, the Sykes brothers sniggered.

“Hear me? Don't go getting all redded up like you always do, now—purty gal like you wants to keep her clothes nice.” Harlan's openmouthed guffaw featured black molars and a missing tooth or two.

By way of a reply, Lireinne twisted the doorknob and stomped out into the heat. Go to hell, she thought.

All of you.

 

Ancient live oaks stretched fern-covered limbs across Million Dollar Road, so-called because way back during the Depression the WPA had spent a million bucks to get it drained, laid, and paved. The shadowy trees overhead formed a dense, black-green canopy shot through with arrows of afternoon sun.

Lireinne walked on the shoulder and kept her eyes on the gravel under her shrimp boots. At her approach, in the drainage ditch among the blue-starred spiderworts, the peepers ceased their shrill song, resuming as she passed on. Behind a three-board fence, rust-colored cows grazed in boggy fields. It was a long mile from the alligator farm to the trailer, and after six months of walking it twice a day, five days a week, by now Lireinne knew every step of that mile.

Before she'd dropped out of high school in the middle of her junior year, she'd had a car, though. Bud had saved what he could, and bought her a used Buick minivan so she could drive herself and Wolf to Covington High instead of taking the school bus. Now the minivan was up on blocks in the weeds beside the trailer, waiting on Bud Hooten to find the time and money to replace the blown head gasket, but for those three amazing months Lireinne had been free to drive wherever the hell she wanted, whenever she wanted, instead of walking or waiting on her always-working stepfather to give her a ride.

After the van had died in the Walmart parking lot, Bud towed it home behind his truck: it'd been parked in the same place for over a year now. Fifteen-year-old Wolf went back to taking the bus, but Lireinne had had enough of a third-rate education and the endless hassle of high school anyway, thanks for asking. Still, she missed being able to shop at Walmart, the hair-care section especially. Although it was just a forty-minute walk from home, the Dollar General was no substitute.

By the time she turned up the shell road to the double-wide half hidden in the grove of massive live oaks, Lireinne's jersey was once more soaked through with sweat. The yard was empty except for the minivan, and Bud's truck, as usual, was gone. Dripping window air conditioners groaned a bass note to the peepers' song while the crackling drone of the cicadas in the tall pines was like high-pitched radio static. Lireinne wiped her forehead, longing for a shower, but before mounting the cement-block steps up to the double-wide, she headed around back to check on Mose.

The old Thoroughbred was parked under a two-hundred-year-old oak, head down, his knotted tail flicking listlessly at horseflies. “Hey, Mose.” Bony and sun-faded, the horse pricked his ears, his liquid brown eyes brightening at her approach. Lireinne's heart lifted as Mose ambled over to the barbed-wire fence dividing Bud's property from what used to be the old Legendre horse farm's hundred acres abutting the back line.

Once Mose had been someone's prizewinning investment, his hooves shod in racing plates and his long black tail tangle-free. Once he'd been bedded down in deep straw and fed oats and alfalfa hay, but now Mose lived in the oak tree–dotted pasture behind the trailer with only the tall scrub grasses to eat. Fifteen years ago the Legendre acreage had been a thriving Thoroughbred breeding operation—until the tax code changed and the great Louisiana racing business hit the dirt like a plane with a dead engine. The Legendres had lost it to the bank and now the breeding farm was a deserted, falling-down ruin with a weathered
FOR SALE
sign hanging on the gate. Since Mose had lived there for as long as Lireinne could remember, Bud figured he'd somehow been left behind, forgotten when the rest of the stock had gone to the killer sale.

Lireinne scratched Mose along the white blaze of his nasal bone because he liked that. He liked carrots, too, but Bud had forgotten to buy any the last time he went grocery shopping in town. Scratching was going to have to do for today. When the pond in his field had dried up a couple of months ago, she'd bought Mose two mop buckets and tied them to the fence posts with a couple of old extension cords. Lireinne checked them and found they were dry as dust. The hose was too short to reach, so she lugged mosquito-infested water a bucket at a time over from the sagging aboveground pool. Mose drank deeply, his brown muzzle dripping diamonds in the filtered sunlight when he finally lifted his head.

“Payday, Mose,” Lireinne murmured. “Maybe I can get to the feed store this weekend, buy you some fly spray, huh, boy?” She scratched the sunken crest of his neck and the horse lowered his head. “Deer flies are freakin' murder this time of year.” Her hand came away sticky from the sweat and dirt caked under Mose's thin mane, so she rubbed it on her shorts. Feeling the edges of her pay envelope, Lireinne's leaf-green eyes turned flat and faraway. $147.50 for two weeks' work. Part-time, yeah, right—except she put in over six hard hours a day, five days a week, and only got paid for four hours. Casual freaking labor, my ass, she thought.

Alone except for a now-dozing Mose, Lireinne abruptly yanked the Saints jersey over her head and tossed it onto the fence. Next, her heavy shrimp boots sailed in shallow arcs far into the weeds. The garden hose was full of holes, but the strong pressure from Bud's artesian well turned it into a twisting water serpent when she opened the spigot. Holding the hose above the crown of her head, the cold, clean stream flowed over Lireinne's black hair, over her scarred eyebrow, over white shoulders bare except for her bra straps. For long minutes she stood under the cold water with her eyes closed, her skin gleaming pale as a summer moon in the green light of the oak grove. Gradually, the dirt, the sweat, the stench and ordinary hatefulness of the alligator farm flowed away to pool in the cool gray mud between her toes.

Y
ou can't always get what you want
.

The Bunsen-blue Lexus circled the parking lot while the savage chords of Bill Wyman's bass thudded guitar gut punches behind its dark, closed windows.

Parking at the Lemon Tree was tight this afternoon, so tight that Con Costello, late again, after one pass gave it up and parked by the front door in the handicapped spot. The instant he turned off the engine, the temperature inside the car felt as though it climbed fifteen degrees. Tall Con climbed out of the front seat, grimacing as he shrugged his wide shoulders into a sport coat. Lunch with the Japanese called for a measure of respectful discomfort, so he'd sweat under a thousand dollars' worth of tropic-weight worsted wool until he could get inside the restaurant and out of the blistering heat.

“Showtime,” Con muttered under his breath. He ran his hand over his hair, thick and silky as a setter's coat, flame-red as only an Irishman's ever really is. “Time to Obi-Wan these guys.” Con imagined the
Star Wars
Jedi Knight in an Italian sport coat, exerting his powers of mind control over the Empire's Stormtroopers, and grinned wolfishly.
He
was going to cloud the minds of the Japanese. That was what he did best, after all.

Truth be told, nobody did it better.

At the wide front door flanked by blue lilies of the Nile in terra-cotta urns, Con paused, mentally reviewing the files on his desk back at the alligator farm. What was the leader of the team's name again? Tojo? Kirosawa? Was it Hirohito? That was it. Hiro. Hiro-san to you, buddy, he reminded himself.

Today was a big day for Con Costello, the in-house legal counsel and CFO for Sauvage Global Enterprises. After lunch, this deal would be done. Signed, inked, put to bed. Still, after the conclusion of today's business and fulfilling the pending French contract, there would remain over a hundred and fifty thousand alligators back on the farm destined to be belts, wallets, shoes, and handbags, a hundred and fifty thousand alligators eating their heads off and getting their water drained, warmed, and changed out every damned day. The Japanese needed to come to Jesus and pay for their twenty thousand flawless, grade-1 three-footers—a deal worth over four and a half million dollars—just to keep all the plates in the air.

The boss man, Roger Hannigan, wasn't going to be in attendance for today's lunch, or at the contract-signing later on, for that matter. Ol' Rog was in the South of France at the wedding of his youngest daughter to an impoverished
comte,
or some other French guy who was equally titled and broke. Con was somewhat foggy on the details, but as always he was going to carry the big guy's water. It was time to earn his $400,000-a-year salary, so he gave his tie a final tug, swung the door open and strolled into the busy restaurant.

With a connoisseur's eye, Con took note of the girl behind the reservation desk.

“Jennifer, right? I'm with the Japanese gentlemen, honey.”

The tall, long-waisted blonde in the black dress beamed as though he'd just handed her an armful of roses, her small, even teeth a testament to scrupulous orthodontia and bleach trays.

“Right this way, Mr. Costello.” The Lemon Tree had been open only a month and already all of the hostesses knew him by name.

And that was just as it should be. For all of his forty-three years, Con had possessed the knack of making any woman feel like she was the only one in the room—the only one who mattered, anyhow—and over the years this talent had defined him. From his mother and sisters, to Mrs. Schexnaydre, his kindergarten teacher, to his dental hygienist, Penny; from his first wife to his second wife to the girls on the side, Con's talent worked with an impressive reliability on just about everybody else as well. When what he called the Obi-Wan Factor came into play, things
happened
. The most moss-backed old judges fell into line, opposing counsel caved, the farm's clients couldn't wait to sign on the dotted line, and the girls, well . . . they melted like cherry Popsicles. To Con that was, hands down, the part that made everything else worthwhile.

Bottom line, being Obi-Wan was all about paying attention. People thought they knew what that meant, but Con's formidable powers of concentration, his ability to draw a laser focus on the unsuspecting subject of his regard, went far beyond simple attention-paying.

Take Jennifer, this hostess leading him into the private dining room, for example. So few women felt like they got the regard they
deserved
. Once he turned on the old Jedi charm, women fell into his Lexus like ripe fruit into a basket, softly, and with a plump sweetness of dazed gratification. Over the years, Con had come to accept his ability as a vital, living thing, but he never tried to examine it too closely. Sometimes it was damned spooky, even to him.

There was this, too: what if his talent quit working? Who would he be then? Another middle-aged guy with a shit job, yearning for the pretty girls in their summer dresses, that's who.

Con impatiently dismissed this uncomfortable thought. That was never going to happen, and in any case, it was time to join the Japanese. The table for six was already well into pre-lunch cocktails. Tina, drinking iced tea and looking longingly at the bread basket, seemed glad to see him. She wasn't his type, not with those doughy hips and acne scars, but Con gave her a flash of the old Obi-Wan treatment anyway. Why not? Homely women needed attention, too, and since they usually got so little of it, were always plenty grateful. More often than not, gratitude had a way of coming in mighty handy.

Over his lunch of smoked redfish with a tarragon-butter reduction, haricots verts, and Russian fingerling potatoes, Con went to work and gathered the Japanese around the fire. By the time the crème brûlée arrived, after four cold bottles of excellent Napa chardonnay, they were red-faced and giggling like kindergartners sharing a potty joke. All that intense attention had primed them for the big kill. In fact, Con decided, the clients were on the verge of begging for it.

Pouring the last of the wine into Hiro-san's long-stemmed glass, he said casually, “And of course, we'll want your letter of credit before the close of business on Tuesday. Let's get the paperwork done back at the farm, and then later I'll pick you all up at your hotel. We'll do dinner tonight in New Orleans.”

Set the hook, Obi-Wan, you scoundrel, Con thought as he gave the group a broad wink. “You enjoyed Rick's Cabaret on your last visit, right?” Rick's was the ultimate lure, a French Quarter strip club of no small renown where the girls were young, agile, and frisky. “We'll hit Bourbon Street,” Con said with an easy smile, “once we've finished our business, Hiro-san.”

“Yesh,” the older Japanese man slurred. “Very fine,
hai
.” He raised his glass in a toast.

Done. All done except for the signatures. Con breathed a little easier, although he hadn't been particularly worried about this deal. The bill for lunch came to $648.09 plus tip, but you had to spend it to make it and Alligators times Demand equals Money. Big Money.

After he paid the check and put the receipt in his wallet, Con waited outside by the Lexus with his jacket over his shoulder, watching while the thoroughly tight Japanese weaved like addled ducklings across the torrid parking lot. Tina's square-jawed face was determined as she herded them toward SGE's gleaming black Escalade, but the Japanese weren't stumbling, not quite, and the farm manager somehow got them all loaded up into the car in creditably short fashion.

Con lit a cigar, tossing the spent match into the Lemon Tree's landscaping, and waved good-bye to Demand as the Escalade pulled out of the lot. Alligators he had. Demand he would satisfy.

Hell, he was beginning to sound like Yoda now. It had been a long, boozy lunch. Con had unlocked the car, letting the pent-up heat escape, when the door to the restaurant swung open. The hostess poked her blond head out, searching for someone. Her professional smile melted into delight as she spotted Con.

“Mr. Costello! I'm so glad I caught you before you left. One of your guests forgot his phone.” Jennifer tripped out to the Lexus, her high-heeled sandals exaggerating the length of spray-tanned legs Con had judged to be perhaps a little on the meaty side. She held a tiny, state-of-the-art cell phone in the palm of her hand.

“Thanks, Jenny,” Con drawled. He took the phone, his fingers brushing hers. Those hazel eyes were set a blink too close together, but her long, long lashes shaded cheeks the color of sun-kissed apricots. Nice, Con thought. Very nice indeed.

“Say, feel like getting a drink with me sometime?”

Jennifer smiled, looking surprised and happy. “I've got a double shift today, but I get off at eleven tonight.” Those shining eyes. “And tomorrow night, if eleven's not too late,” she said, her voice shyly hopeful.

Tomorrow? Friday night. Too bad, Con realized. Fridays belonged to his wife, to Liz, but he'd find a way to ditch the Japanese before Jen got off work tonight. Rick's scene was getting a little old anyway. Like a cruise-ship buffet, the club's staggering abundance of girl flesh rendered the spread somewhat less than truly appetizing.

“Maybe I'll see you later tonight.” Con's intimate smile was just for her.

“That would be
great
.” Jennifer waved on her way back inside the Lemon Tree.

Alone in the parking lot, Con puffed on his cigar for another minute, grinning, and then he climbed in his car. He cranked the engine. The CD player picked up where it left off, Mick Jagger wailing above the Lexus's throaty purr.

Hey, Mick—Obi-Wan
always
gets what he wants.

“Not again!”

A towel knotted around his lean waist, Con surveyed his jaw in the mirror, his red-blond furze of beard shaved close and smooth. He picked up a bottle of Hermès cologne and slapped some on his neck before he answered her.

“Lizzie, baby.” Con sighed, marshaling a weary patience. His blue eyes met her angry sherry-brown ones in the mirror. “It's where the money comes from. Strip clubs and drinking are just part of the job.” The words echoed slightly in the spacious, travertine-marble bathroom. Con braced his muscular forearms on the edge of the vanity and quirked an eyebrow at her reflection. “You know this, sweetheart.”

Liz made a rude noise. She tossed her hair, artfully streaked caramel and gold—the color of the best molasses taffy. “I know you don't have to like it so damned much,” she declared. Liz's lips, recently enhanced with some bovine injectable, were turned down in an almost-frown. The Botox wouldn't let her really cut loose and scowl, but Con knew that look. Hell, he didn't have time for an argument. He was running late again.

After eighteen months of marriage, his second wife was proving to be a different animal from the exciting young associate who'd worshipped him as a god. The Mercedes SUV, the new house on the golf course, and her endless trips to the dermatologist's for whatever harebrained procedure was currently rampant among Covington's lunch set ought to have been enough to keep her content, but Elizabeth MacBride-Costello never let a day pass without a new complaint.

Tonight's expedition to Rick's Cabaret was not a new complaint.

“C'mon, Liz,” Con coaxed. “Don't be mad, honey.”

Lizzie folded her arms, her eyes angry. “It's goddamned sick, those skanky sluts and that disgusting pole. If you think I don't know what goes on there, well, think some more,
honey
.”

A couple of months ago Con had taken his wife out to Rick's for an evening so she could see there wasn't much to get worked up about—not within the environs of the strip club, anyway. While at the time she'd seemed to enjoy her lap dance, unfortunately Lizzie's trip to Bourbon Street had only served to provide her fresh ammunition. Now she knew about the pole.

“Why can't that fat son-of-a-bitch Hannigan take them?” she asked angrily. “Why does it have to be you?”

Donning a conciliatory smile, Con turned around to shower his wife with a bigger helping of attention. “Because he's in the South of France, Liz. Because that's why they pay me the big bucks. Besides, Rog never goes on these things anymore.” Lizzie's face remained a study in high piss-off. Con, already dragging from the daylong Obi-Wan effort, fought the impulse just to throw on his clothes, pat her briskly on the cheek, and hustle out of the house.

“It's only business, babe.”

But as though he hadn't said a word, Liz snapped, “And whatever happened to that bullshit about how you always bring it home to
me,
how I'm the only one who can do it for you? The last time this crap went down I waited up in a
garter belt
and stupid stockings, but you didn't get in until seven the next morning. They don't pay you enough, not if you have to troll the French Quarter whenever these foreigners need a thrill. You should be making at least twice what that jackass pays you, if this is
only business
.” Liz bracketed this last with angry air quotes.