Bedroom Eyes (11 page)

“Mrs. Merlin sent me,” she said after a gulp.

“Ahh, yes,” he said, as if that explained everything. He rose and lifted the piece of the counter that blocked the way to what lay beyond. “Won’t you come in?”

Penelope glanced around her, then back to the man’s eyes, seeking reassurance. He nodded in a gentle fashion and she stepped forward. She couldn’t help but think that Richard Speck had probably nodded just as sweetly to the eight nurses he’d murdered in Chicago, a story she’d heard often growing up in that city.

“Do not be afraid,” the man said. “Any friend of Mrs. Merlin’s is a friend of ours. Besides”—he winked and Penelope immediately relaxed—“if you’ve met Mrs. Merlin under circumstances that send you to pay a visit to us, you’ll be needing as much assistance as we may be able to offer.”

“Does she cause these problems often?” Penelope couldn’t help but blurt out the question.

Mr. Gotho nodded. “Mrs. Merlin has a good heart and a true spirit, but she’s much too impatient and opinionated to learn the art of candle magick. She simply jumps in, whether she has properly prepared or not.”

“Well, I wish she’d have thought through this spell from A to Z.” Penelope followed the man through a doorway hung with bells and beads that danced musically against one another as they passed.

“She says she was trying to solve a problem with a tax collector, yet something went wrong with the colors she used and that’s why she thinks she ended up with me.” She shook her head, then at Mr. Gotho’s questioning look she added, “I’m a tax lawyer.”

“Ah, I see.” He stopped in front of a door, knocked twice, waited, then knocked four times.

The door opened.

Penelope held her breath. No one on Law Review back at Northwestern would believe that she, Penelope Sue Fields, was about to enter the inner sanctum of a voodoo shop. What she wouldn’t give to be able to show them a photograph of this moment!

“We must live in the moment, for our souls and not for others,” Mr. Gotho said, throwing an unfathomable look over his shoulder as he stepped inside the room, a room empty except for the two of them. So why had he knocked?

The hairs on her arms lifted and swayed. Penelope hesitated in the doorway, trying to assess the meaning of Mr. Gotho’s statement.

Mrs. Merlin liked to make similar pronouncements, she realized. As if they were eking out gems of wisdom reserved for the gods—or goddess, as Mrs. Merlin would say—and only shared them in tidbits with mere mortals such as Penelope. Well, really, she didn’t need these barely educated men and women to show her the path to wisdom.

Mr. Gotho swung about abruptly, bumping straight into her and practically bruising her nose. He slammed the door shut. “We cannot go further.”

“And why not?”

“Something is wrong.” He held a finger out, as if testing the currents of the air. “Something has shifted in . . .” He swung around to face her directly. “Something in your aura. It’s not clean, not pure.”

Guilt shot through Penelope. She stood accused and had no defenses. “I—uh, I was only thinking that you talk as if you know so much, and I can’t see why you’re so much smarter than I am.”

“Ahhh.” That seemed to be Mr. Gotho’s favorite expression. “Ego.”

He stood there, arms crossed against his chest, regarding her steadily.

When he didn’t say anything else, Penelope finally asked, “Ego?”

“Your ego stands in the way of your quest for Mrs. Merlin. Until you can put it aside, you will not be able to assist her.”

“But that’s ridiculous!” Penelope waved in front of Mr. Gotho’s face the list Mrs. Merlin had dictated to her. “I have everything that she needs written down here. I only need to purchase the items and I assure you I’ll be gone. It’s as simple as that.”

Mr. Gotho shook his head. “Those without a pure heart may not receive the riches of the inner sanctum of the Bayou Magick Shoppe.” He placed a firm hand on her shoulder and spun her about. “Time to go,” he said, hustling her through the hall and back across to the other side of the counter.

“When you have cleansed yourself of your ego, you may return. Please tell Mrs. Merlin it is our most sincere wish to assist her, but that you need . . . ah, let us say a bit of work. . . before you may serve as her emissary.”

“Well, of all the high-handed—” Penelope swept through the front of the store, nose in the air. She’d rarely been so insulted. Here she’d taken time on her precious day off, on Sunday, the only day of the week she didn’t work, work, work, and this man had thrown her out of the store. She had a good mind to storm back in there and tell him what she thought of him.

She looked around her. The glare from the afternoon sun bounced from the sidewalks straight back to her eyes. She needed sunglasses, something she’d have to take care of soon. Even though Chicago summers grew warm, sometimes even unbearably hot, the sun in New Orleans scorched itself into her eyes the way the northern sun never had.

“So you see I was telling ya the truth.” The street hustler popped up, again seemingly out of nowhere. “I can tell you didn’t have such a good time in that shop.”

Penelope shook her head, feeling dazed and more than a bit ruffled. What would Mrs. Merlin say when Penelope returned empty-handed? And how would she continue to entertain a visitor who demanded almost constant preparation of oatmeal, Penelope’s least favorite dish, even lower on her list than meatloaf, her mother’s other staple?

“Five dollars, I take you someplace fun,” said the man, a hopeful look on his scrawny face.

Penelope shook her head, feeling like a prize-fighter staggering back for another round. “I’ve got to go back inside,” she said. “But thank you.”

The man danced away, forming the sign of the cross in front of his chest.

Her heart sinking, Penelope reentered the shop. She walked straight to the front register where the girl with three crosses stood polishing jewelry. Surely this sweet-faced girl would help her to assemble the list. The sooner she got what she needed, the sooner her life could get back to normal.

“Hello,” Penelope said, “I have a few things I need.”

The girl smiled. “Sure. What can I get for you today?”

Penelope held forth her list.

The girl read it, her face growing grim. Then she smiled, almost too brightly, and said, “I am so sorry, but we don’t carry any of these items.”

“But that’s impossible!” Penelope snatched the list back. “I was told by a reliable source that this was the only place in the city to buy frog’s testicles and horsehair liniment and iguana jelly.” She gripped the edge of the counter, restraining her temper.

The girl turned to another customer coming up behind Penelope. “I can take you here,” she said.

The camera- and shopping-bag-laden matron pushed her way to the register, elbowing Penelope from front and center. “Good,” the shopper said, “I’ve been looking for these bat’s wings for my nephew back home. He said he just had to have them from New Orleans.”

“Oh, they’re the best,” said the salesgirl.

Penelope stood staring at her list, wondering if she was losing her mind. This shop could provide bat’s wings but not frog’s testicles?

Then she underwent a most horrible thought. Had Mrs. Merlin made her the butt of some joke? Was she up to some magickal mischief while she’d sent Penelope out on a wild goose chase?

Mrs. Merlin was probably laughing into her oatmeal at the idea of Penelope having to ask for something so unbelievably absurd as frog’s testicles!

Penelope whirled around and dashed out of the Bayou Magick Shoppe. Running much more quickly than was good for her in the July heat, she jogged toward the side street where she’d parked her car.

She’d start her own fire and hold Mrs. Merlin’s feet to it until the wee woman ‘fessed up to just what she was about.

About to step into her car, Penelope paused and glanced around her. She told herself she was relieved that the man with bedroom eyes hadn’t shown any sign of following her that morning. No doubt after her tongue-tied behavior of the night before he’d loped off after more responsive prey. Like that trollop in 39B.

She squelched a tiny bubble of disappointment. Despite the way he had of annoying her, Tony Olano definitely made her life more interesting.

“Get over him,” she muttered, watching as a short fat man in a suit trundled slowly past her on the sidewalk. He looked like a character out of a Dick Tracy comic strip, decidedly a bad guy. Penelope jumped in her car, slammed the door, and locked it.

She’d had enough of troublemakers for one day.

Chapter 9

The instant Tony spotted the man known to both law enforcers and lawbreakers as Rolo Polo tailing Penelope, he knew Squeek had been telling the truth when his old informant had sought him out late the previous evening.

Squeek had found him hours after Tony had left Penelope’s apartment—hours after Tony had sworn off using her to get to Hinson. When he’d held the earring to her ear and his finger grazed her cheek, he’d scarcely made contact. Yet that scant touch had socked him squarely in the gut. The vulnerability lurking in those blue eyes of hers haunted him.

Tony had known at that moment he couldn’t cause her any more trouble. Not if he wanted to continue facing himself in the mirror.

He hadn’t expected the vulnerability. When he’d closed in on her, her eyes appeared more like those of a gator blinded by a night hunter’s light than the eyes of a woman about to be kissed.

A damned desirable woman.

Tony shifted his vantage point behind a conveniently unlocked gate to a Bourbon Street townhouse, and pulled his scarred yo-yo, his favorite thinking aid, from a pocket of his shorts.

The funky voodoo shop lay in the residential section of Bourbon, where tourists dwindled to more manageable numbers and locals were glad of the fact. Only an occasional pack of sweating conventioneers decked out in name tags and plastic carryall bags wandered by on the street. The relative quiet gave him time to think about last night.

Last night, when he’d been about to kiss Penelope.

The yo-yo danced to within a hair’s breadth of the sidewalk before he called it back. That’s how close he’d been to kissing Penelope Sue Fields.

Just to rattle her. Shake her up. Fuss with her prissiness. Yeah, Tony, show her what she’s missing by hanging out with a guy like Hinson instead of Tony Olano.

What did Hinson have that Tony didn’t? A fat bank account? Fancy suits, lots of them. A law degree. Tony spun the yo-yo harder.

His ego told him she’d been attracted to him. His reason told him she’d been repulsed by his touch.

He checked the storefront of the Bayou Magick Shoppe. Penelope remained inside. Tony had had to hold a hand over his mouth when she’d fallen for the oldest scam on Bourbon Street.

Movement down the street caught his eye and he captured the yo-yo in his palm. A man almost as wide as he was tall, wearing a wrinkled brown suit far too heavy for the heat, turned onto the street. He carried a colorful tourist map and was making quite a fuss over unfolding it and holding it in front of him.

Tony frowned.

Rolo Polo waddled closer, stopping not three feet from the gate that hid Tony. He finished fiddling with the map and stood staring at it, apparently trying to pass for a tourist.

Fat chance. Rolo Polo had the map upside down. Tony shook his head, wondering how a guy like Rolo kept his job as Hinson’s boss’s number one enforcer.

But then, from his years as a policeman, Tony knew a man didn’t have to be smart to be cruel.

The fat man rustled the map, then quickly swapped top for bottom. Tony chuckled under his breath, a sound that died in his throat when he considered Rolo Polo’s presence and how it impacted on the reason he’d come in search of Penelope this morning.

When he’d gone out the night before, restless and strangely discontented, Tony had paid a visit to Smokie’s on Oak Street, a disreputable bar where cigarette smoke, drunken braggarts, and the siren song of video poker machines provided what passed for ambience.

He’d gone seeking diversion. Looking for trouble is what his ma would have called it. Once inside, he’d exchanged a few hand slaps, winked at Lora and Dawn, the prostitutes Smokie pimped for, then shouldered his way to the bar, where he settled down with a Budweiser.

The beer didn’t seem as cold as usual, the TV blared more loudly than he remembered, and the bartender was a new guy who shouted at customers who didn’t tip to his satisfaction.

Feeling worse instead of better, Tony threw two bucks on the counter, daring the bartender to yell at him. The guy opened his big mouth the same moment Squeek materialized at Tony’s side.

“Where yat, my man?” Squeek, so named for the obnoxious noise he liked to make rubbing his tennis shoes on hard surfaces, raised his hand for a high-five to which Tony complied. High-fiving was a greeting Tony thought pretty silly, but Squeek never failed to greet him that way. A habit, Tony thought, that came from Squeek watching too much television both in and out of prison.

“What’s hap’ning?” Tony sat back down, keeping a sharp eye on the streetwise petty crook. Squeek had helped Tony out in the past, and, never one to forget a friend, an enemy, or an informant, Tony had done the same for Squeek.

“Not much. Not much,” Squeek said, and licked his lips.

“Give us two Buds,” Tony told the bartender, who glared at him, then down at the two dollars, but handed over the beers without giving him any lip.

Squeek’s disappeared in three long swallows. Tony replaced it, his senses gloriously alive. With Squeek there were no coincidences. If he’d found Tony, something was up—something Squeek figured was worth a lot to Tony, and by extension, to Squeek.

Halfway through his third beer, Squeek pushed away from where he’d elbowed up to the bar and jumped first forward then backward. His Air Jordans rent the air with the high-pitched rubbing noise he proudly hailed as his namesake.

“Sounding good, Squeek,” Tony said, wondering who else in Smokie’s was paying attention to Squeek’s little ritual. No matter how many times Tony had pointed out to Squeek that his habit of never failing to perform his trademark noisemaker just prior to relaying a hot tip pretty much shot his cover, Squeek still insisted on doing it.