Tortoise Soup (26 page)

“Since when did you start smoking?” I asked in surprise.

Jake took another drag and smiled, a nervous twitch tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Bad habit,
chère
. I’d dropped it for a while. But it seems I’ve started up again.”

“Any other bad habits pop up that I should know about?” I asked lightly.

Jake gazed at me from under heavy lids, but his eyes weren’t giving away any secrets. I knew Santou was filled with a bevy of them. He’d divvied out a few in the past as frugally as if they were cultured pearls. One had been his former addiction to cocaine.

“What kind of bad habits would you be talking about now, sugar?” His voice wrapped around me in a sinuous embrace.

“What choices have I got?” I teased.

Santou winked as he finished his scotch and quickly ordered another. “You got plenty. But don’t worry about me, darlin’. I’ve got everything under control. What I want to hear about right now is you.”

I obliged by filling him in on my interconnected cases along with their growing casts of characters. Jake silently swirled his scotch, meditating on the deep golden liquid, as I ended with the pipe bomb.

Santou took a deep drag on his Camel, emitting a cloud of smoke as billowy and white as a small atom bomb. He watched it slowly evaporate before he spoke. “You know how this stuff works, Rachel. We trip across things all the time during investigations. The problem is you don’t even know that it’s there until all of a sudden it snaps up at you. And the kicker is that what you’ve stumbled upon usually doesn’t have anything to do with what you were investigating in the first place.”

Santou downed his second scotch in no time and motioned to a scantily clad waitress for another.

“It’s always something that nobody ever wanted you to trip across. And that’s when you get a bomb hand-delivered to your door.” He leaned forward, locking his gaze onto mine. “You know what that tells me,
chère
?”

I shook my head, as I watched him take a large slug from the glass that had promptly appeared before him.

“It tells me that you should back off. I got a bad feeling about this one. And this time I’m not here to protect you,” he said.

Santou had pushed the wrong button, knowingly or not.

“I wasn’t aware that that’s what you’d done in New Orleans, Jake. I thought I’d pretty much handled that case on my own,” I reminded him angrily.

Santou slowly stubbed out his cigarette, grinding it into the ashtray until only a few shreds of tobacco clung precariously to his fingertips.

“Is that what you thought, Porter? Well, then, let me fill you in.” His eyes sliced through me and his voice was low and cold. “Nobody does nothing all on their own. That’s how you get yourself killed. You don’t want a man backing you up? Fine. Then go find another hotshot woman like yourself to cover your ass. ’Cause there’s no way you can do it solo and live long enough to brag about it.”

Santou’s words hit me harder than I wanted to admit. I prided myself on working alone, on not showing fear, on not depending on a man. If I was with Santou, it was because I chose to be. Not because I needed to be. The same attitude extended itself to my work.

Santou leaned back in his chair, and for the first time I noticed a slight tremor in his hand as he lit up another Camel. A dark curl had fallen onto his forehead, where it hung loosely against his damp brow, giving him the air of a dissolute rogue.

“Look, Porter. All I’m saying is back off of this one. My gut instinct tells me that something’s not adding up. There’s more to this case than angry ranchers or miners or a few pissed-off animal dealers.” A cloud of smoke trailed out of his mouth.

“It must be that Cajun sixth sense of yours, Jake. The question is, would you back off if it were your case?” I quietly asked.

Santou rubbed the stubble on his chin, his eyes dancing over the black dress as he took in every curve. A low chuckle escaped his lips. “No. I can’t say that I would.”

“Then don’t ask me to,” I said, trying to keep the lid on my temper.

All the noise and flashing lights seemed to have become louder and brighter than just a moment ago, making me dizzy. It was as if the wine was going to my head, though I had yet to finish my first glass.

Santou reached across the table, slowly entwining his fingers in mine. “It’s just that I’ve got enough on my platter back home. I don’t want to have to worry about you out here as well,
chère
.”

“That’s easy,” I responded with a casualness I didn’t feel. “Then don’t.”

Santou said nothing as we paid the tab and headed out to find a restaurant. We ended up instead at the Hard Rock Casino bar, with its head-splitting
ching, ching, ching
of slot machines as hypnotized, dead-eyed johns automatically fed their habit one coin at a time.

I watched as Santou ordered yet another scotch. I was tired of playing the game. “What’s going on, Santou? There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“What makes you say that?” he asked, not looking in my direction.

“The way you’re drinking yourself into oblivion,” I shot back.

Santou turned his laser-sharp gaze on me, reeling me in and not letting me go. “I’ve already tried that, Porter. It doesn’t work.”

I glanced around at the autographed Bob Dylan guitar hanging above the window where a few lucky winners cashed in their chips, at the row of slot machines announcing their dedication to help save the rain forest, and wondered what the hell we were doing here.

“Just what is it that you like about Vegas anyway, Porter?” he asked gruffly.

Santou’s voice wound itself deeper and deeper through me until it tugged at my heart. At the moment I wanted to be anywhere
but
Vegas, with its nonstop noise and miles of neon, its windowless, time-warp casinos pumping in oxygen to keep you awake, its token-toting grannies and plastic-perfect women who only made me feel anxious about growing older and more out of shape. But I was damned if I would admit it.

“You want to know what I like about Vegas, Santou?” I replied in a voice that dared him to stop me. “What I like is walking into a restaurant at four in the morning and deciding if I want breakfast, lunch, or dinner. I like the fact that I can drive like a speed demon all through this town. I find it comforting that there’s a constantly changing world of transients I can get lost in. And I can relax knowing that this place has no past with bayou ghosts dragging me down.”

The scar on my neck had started to throb, bringing back memories of my close call in the swamp. At the same time, I remembered Holmes’s mocking laughter from earlier today, and a shiver rippled through me as the roar of last night’s pipe bomb echoed in my ears. In my heart, I knew that whatever I was onto was still out there, and more likely than not would strike again.

Santou carefully gauged my mood. “This is also a place with no future, Porter. Or haven’t you noticed?”

I dug into a bowl of pretzels that appeared before us, not knowing what to say. Santou was good at letting me rampage on before jumping in to catch me off guard.

“Take a good look around, Rachel. There ain’t nothing here. It’s all window dressing with empty space inside.” He leaned forward with such intensity that I found myself holding my breath. “Stay here,
chère
, and you’ll lose your soul.”

It was then that I realized that Santou was afraid. I finished my mouthful of pretzels, anxious to ask the million dollar question.

“What frightens you so much about all this, Jake?”

Santou stared at me until I began to wonder if he’d heard my question at all.

“You. You scare me, Rachel.”

I felt my mouth drop to the floor. It was the last thing I’d ever expected him to say. “Why?”

Santou downed his scotch, looking as if he were about to take a flying leap off a cliff. “Because I need you in my life and I’ve never needed anyone.”

It was what I’d been waiting to hear for the past three months, ever since I’d left New Orleans and Santou behind. Now that I had, it scared me to death.

“Marry me, Rachel.”

My breath caught in my throat, and my pulse took off on a marathon race, charging through every vein in my body. Santou was watching me closely, and I knew I should answer but couldn’t think of the right words to say.

“And then what?” I finally managed to blurt out.

Santou shrugged. “I don’t know. What do married people usually do,
chère
? Buy a house and go into debt. Raise a couple of kids. Grow old together.”

I tried to catch my breath, but my heart was pounding faster and faster until I could barely hear Santou’s words over the roar that was filling my ears.

“I want you to come home with me, Rachel. I’m tired. I’ve been through the wars and more relationships than I want to remember. I’m ready to settle down. What do you say?”

I watched Santou’s lips and tried to focus, even as my mind ran at full throttle. Somehow being tired didn’t seem like a good enough reason for a lifelong commitment. As for kids, I’d always appreciated the fact that they belonged to somebody else. And I intended to fight old age kicking and screaming every step of the way, no matter the number of nips and tucks or how much liposuction it might entail.

I had finally come face to face with that invisible line of commitment I’d always been afraid of, and it loomed as wide and as deep before me as a bottomless pit.

I said the first thing that popped into my head. “You’re drunk, Santou.”

I tried to look as calm as I could, given the fact that I’d broken into a cold sweat.

“And you’re scared, Porter,” he responded, as objectively as a surgeon making the first cut. “What are you afraid of? Settling down and having to deal with another person? Or finally facing yourself?”

It was a question I didn’t want to think about, let alone answer.

“Say yes, Rachel. Jesus, I may be a little worn around the edges, but I ain’t exactly dog food yet.” He grinned at me as he reached for my hand. “What is it that you New Yorkers say? So what am I—chopped liver?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. It was true that Santou was moody and dangerous. That’s partly what attracted me to him. It was also what made him pure trouble. I knew my friend Terri would have been kicking me by now, calling me a fool for not lunging at the offer. And he was probably right. What the hell was I waiting for?

“Come on, Rachel. Let’s do it. Right now,” he coaxed.

I couldn’t tell if Santou was speaking or if it was my inner voice urging me to take the leap. But I felt myself nod as if in a trance, no longer responsible for my own actions.

I immediately found myself walking out the door, following Santou’s lead. The night air was thick as Georgia molasses and my limbs felt heavy as dough. I watched Santou hail a cab, and before I knew it, we were standing in front of the Marriage License Bureau. Thirty-five dollars and five minutes later, we were back out on the street.

“You got a preference of chapels,
chère
?” I heard Santou ask.

I shook my head, unable to speak. Hopping back into a cab, we passed the Little White Chapel, famous for its drive-up wedding window along with the fact that such celebs as Joan Collins and Michael Jordan had been married there.

“How about this one, sugar?” Santou’s question wafted by me.

I again managed to shake my head, all the while maintaining a plastered-on smile. We whizzed by the Little Chapel of the West, the Wee Kirk o’ the Heather, and the Hitching Post before coming to a screeching halt in front of the Graceland Wedding Chapel.

I felt sure I was dream-walking as we entered the chapel door. Inside stood the live embodiment of Elvis, complete with oversized paunch, sideburns, and sunglasses as dark as a lunar eclipse. Looking as placid as an old southern hound dog, Elvis waited to officiate, decked out in a plunging V-neck burgundy velvet jacket studded with rhinestones that fought to stay closed over his girth. Wide lapels framed an array of gaudy gold chains nestled in an overgrown forest of chest hair.

Fortunately another couple was ahead of us, ready to roll the dice, call out 21, and play those fifty-fifty odds by taking the plunge. The bride was a down-home version of Courtney Love, attired in a stained, baby-blue nightgown and a fur headband. The groom stood nearby, shifting nervously from one leg to the other, obviously uncomfortable in his rented black tux.

My legs gave way and I sank into a pew as I heard the ceremony begin. Elvis solemnly recited the vows, which the bride chirped eagerly after him:

“I, Ginny Lee, take you, Tommy Joe, as my hunka hunka burning love. And promise always to love you tender. And never return you to sender. Or step on your blue suede shoes. I’ll never treat you like a hound dog. For you’ll always be my lovin’ teddy bear.”

The room started to spin, and I got up and staggered outside. Leaning over, I took in deep gulps of air, hoping that if a UFO was ever going to abduct me, to please let it be now. Then I felt Santou’s hand on my back, searing straight through my dress and into my skin, as I struggled to straighten up with some semblance of dignity.

“You’re right,
chère
. That’s a little too much. How about we just go on back to the Little White Chapel?”

Santou’s voice sounded a million miles away.

As much as I loved him, I was terrified out of my wits. “I can’t do this, Santou. I can’t go through with it. Not now. It’s all just too fast.”

The truth was that I didn’t know if I could ever go through with it. I was petrified that marriage could be the ultimate mistake. To top it off, I wasn’t ready to call it quits and head back to New Orleans, placing myself back under Charlie Hickok’s imperious thumb.

If Santou had been drunk before, he was dead sober now. He wrapped his arm around me, pulling me tightly to him. Lifting my mane of curls, he nuzzled my neck. His other hand explored the contours of my dress until I felt my self-control begin to waver.

“If this is too fast for you,
chère
, come back with me to New Orleans and we’ll do it there,” he whispered in my ear.

I pushed away gasping, breathless as a fish out of water. In my mind, marriage meant losing my independence along with losing control. I’d worked too long and too hard to throw that away. To mention nothing of the fact that I wasn’t the type to walk in after a hard day, slap on an apron, and whip up a home-cooked meal, let alone keep a house spotless.