The Big Uneasy Bundle

Chapter 2-2

She’d made enough to feel comfortable about grabbing herself a shrimp po’boy or maybe a plate of catfish and fries for lunch, before heading home. She caught the scent of sugar in the languid air and decided she’d have to detour past one of her favorite pastry shops, too. Been at least two hours, maybe more, since the beignets. The Natchez's whistle announced its imminent departure and she stopped to watch the colorful scene, a breeze off the river easing the heat of the sun. The shifting combinations of people, the interesting faces and colors became snapshots in her head that she’d try out for book three, while she waited for her second book to release.

With a sigh she turned from the bright scene and checked her watch. She had to cover the phone for Sarah, so if she wanted lunch and a treat, she’d need to pick up the pace. Her thoughts on food and time tables, she didn’t see him until it was too late to change direction.

Today he sat on the bench closest to the stairs she needed to descend, his gnarled hands resting on his cane. As was his custom, at least the few times she’d noticed him, he had a stone-faced, scary-looking bodyguard standing behind him. Different guy from last time—both faces difficult to erase from a memory geared to storing faces. This was the third, maybe the fourth time she’d seen him up here, though he usually sat further along, away from the stairs, more toward the end of the Walk, where it tended to be less crowded. She’d noticed that the crow-like figure contrasted sharply with the bright bustle around him. Been surprised—and not in a good way—when she realized he’d noticed her back. Unless she was sketching, people usually didn’t, and even then it was the drawings they remembered more than her.

He’d met her look, then smiled at her. Wasn’t a nice smile, but her mom had taught her to be respectful toward the elderly, so she’d smiled back, and gave him a wide berth just in case. Her Mom also told her not to talk to strangers. This was her first time to see him since the day of the creepy smile. And now he was in her path to lunch. Great.

It was possible he was a nice man who just didn’t look like one, but she couldn’t quite sell her instincts on that one. His clothes were understated, even tasteful, but still made him look like a bad guy for some reason. Today he had on what she was sure was an expensive gray suit. Sometimes it was black. Never warm brown, though it could have been a good color for him. Warmer would have been less creepy. There was something not quite real about him, as if he were a caricature from The Sopranos. She didn’t know he was a wise guy, of course, but she didn’t know he wasn’t. Despite his age and slight figure, he bothered her. Age had not carved kind into his face, and his brown eyes were as chilly as his suit. Even in the light suit, he was a dark spot in the cheerful scene, and she wished she had the nerve to stop and sketch him. Contrast interested her, even when it probably shouldn’t. It wasn’t just that she didn’t have time that kept her moving. He didn’t look like someone who would be happy to be portrayed as a villainous bok choy in a children’s book.

Too late to change course, she pressed on, debating which side of the bench to pass on. He didn’t seem to have seen her yet. If she went behind, there was the bodyguard creating a different kind of menace. Her fingers twitched, and she was glad her portfolio was under her arm and somewhat out of reach. Her stomach rumbled and her mental clock ticked against the insistence of the muse, helping to boost her resolve not to piss off the scary guys.

The old man didn’t move or look at her, as she closed on him. She pretended to look at the river as she drew level, sensed the moment the bodyguard noticed her. Felt the chill from his gaze riding beads of sweat down her back. She angled her head a bit more, her sight and sound heightening, as she drew level with the pair. There was a scraping sound against the path’s surface and then her shins connected with something hard and narrow. No time to wonder how anything came to be in her way. She was going down again.

Portfolio flew one way.

Her feet went the other.

Her tush made painful contact with turf for second time in not enough hours. Should have been a Monday. Some stars did a little dance before eyes before fading out of view.

“I am sorry.”

He didn’t sound sorry, and how had his cane—only hard, narrow thing around—got in her way? Chill of eyes extended to his voice. Cliché, bad guy voice. He could have air conditioned a room just by talking. She accidentally looked up, met the gaze. Oh yeah, he was worse up close. Felt her eyeballs dry as they did deer-in-headlights. It had never been a good look for her.

“Are you all right?”

He almost sounded anxious. Or like someone trying to sound anxious. He needed more practice, but she gave him a point for trying, then took it back for sucking at it.

“I’m fine.”

A large, beautifully manicured hand entered her sightline. A big, gold ring winked at her, but she didn’t follow it up to the face. Bodyguard gave off a worse vibe than the old man—

Bodyguard must have lost patience. The big hand grabbed hers and she was yanked upright hard enough to almost send her staggering into a powerful chest wrapped in cliché black on black. Cloying scent made her eyes water. Would have slammed into his chest if he hadn’t been strong enough to halt the collision he’d almost caused. In the yin-yang moment, she accidentally caught a glimpse of his hard face. Probably be some nightmares in her future. If they didn’t kill her for tripping over the cane and forcing the creep to help her up. His grip eased when she steadied, though her heart thumped like she’d been chest to chest with a killer.

“I am sorry.”

Old guy still didn’t sound sorry. Repeating the words didn’t make them so.

“I’m the one who is sorry.” Boy, was she sorry. “I should have watched where I was going.” She opened up some distance between her and the bodyguard, still not quite making eye contact with either of them. His cane was pulled back where it had been when she first saw them. Had he, could he have tripped her on purpose? Couldn’t think of any reason he would have, but she also couldn’t figure out how it got in her way.

“You should wear a hat.” His aged hand flicked his nose.

Nell’s immediately glowed like Rudolf’s. She touched the end, felt the heat, though it might be from panic. “You’re right. I’ll get right on that.” She glanced toward Jackson Square. It, and the throng of people there, seemed too far away. She’d lost her mind and something else—

Old guy held out her portfolio. Kind of surprised he’d managed to pick it up. Or moved so fast without her noticing. He had to be over eighty. She took the portfolio, with another, quickly averted, glance. “Thank you.” That felt weird and wrong, even if it was polite. Like she was thanking him for tripping her.

“Are you sure you are all right?”

Something in his tone caught her attention and she looked at him, full on looked at him. There was something about his eyes…

Bodyguard grunted.

She jumped. “I’m fine. Great. Hardly felt a thing.” She backed away, almost fell down the stairs. Grabbing the hand-rail, she tossed an uneasy smile toward them both, then turned and headed down, resisting the impulse to scamper as she felt a bullet-sized hole bore into the center of her back. The feeling followed her down the suddenly long staircase, across the tracks and back up again, stayed with her until she could drop out of sight on Decatur Street. As if she’d been temporarily rendered deaf, the comforting sounds of the Quarter washed over her again. Someone calling them to repentance because this year, for sure, the world would end. A little rap music, a little rock n’roll, some jazz, and just a touch of Zydeco.

She felt better, though the hand she raised to push damp strands off her forehead trembled. She caught sight of her watch. Well, bang went her lunch, not that her appetite had survived the encounter. She just had time to get back and cover the phone so Sarah could make her appointment.

She headed for her bike, couldn’t stop herself taking a quick look toward the ramp. There was no sign of either of them, which shouldn’t be a shock. So why did she feel watched? She did a quick survey—biggest waste of a minute ever. The Quarter was already crowded with people. So she had an overactive imagination which she should keep focused on her books. It wasn’t as if tripping was a killing offense or she’d already be dead.

Not much got in Dimitri Afoniki’s way. There were good reasons he was called the Russian Tiger. When something or someone was stupid enough to get in his way, he had people to remove it, people who acted without having to be told once, let alone twice. If they forgot that, they got removed and new people took their place. There were those rare times when removal wasn’t possible. The world didn’t revolve around him. Yet.

He stared out the tinted window of his limousine, one long finger tapping the arm rest, frowning as he considered the problem that had taken him from his office and loaded schedule. He’d demurred, tried to delegate. His great uncle had accused him of being spoiled. Acted as if he should be embarrassed about it. Naturally he was spoiled. Why should he not be? He had money. Power. Good looks—looks that had gotten him out of trouble more than once when he was young. He had charm, too, when he cared to use it. He only did when absolutely necessary. Using it tended to create other complications.

And if all that failed to impress, which it rarely did, there was his name. His great uncle might be three thousand years old, might not have left his house for a decade, but the smart people still feared him. The stupid people, well, the world was better off without stupid people, wasn’t it? Everyone but his great uncle rushed to make him happy. Age, his uncle asserted with tedious regularity, had its privileges. How fortunate it also made the old man tired. His demands were less frequent with each year that passed. That they were less frequent did not make them less inconvenient or annoying.

This particular task was both. He frowned. Dimitri’s growing dominance over the family empire might have made him a bit, he considered a variety of words before settling on, complacent that there would be few bumps—

The vehicle chose that moment to go through one of New Orleans’ many potholes. Almost he chuckled. He had a sense of humor. It was part of his charm. He could even appreciate irony. It eased his boredom. Not that boredom was his current problem. It wasn’t even that someone had failed to do exactly as he wished. It happened. Rarely, but it happened.

No, it was not the what in his way, but the who. The she. Had he ever been troubled by a she? He considered the question, but could not recall any woman making more than a mild ripple in his life. Women had one purpose, then were…nudged on. Attempts to linger were dealt with by his people.

The finger tapping tempo increased. What did the old man expect to come of this meeting? What outcome did he desire? The nature of the task was too ambiguous, too lacking in direction.

“Find out why she is here,” his uncle had ordered.

With an irritated shift, Dimitri pulled the folder close and opened it, staring at the face of the woman. Bland, beyond ordinary, a librarian from Wyoming? No one that mattered came from Wyoming. What interest could she hold for the old man? Why did he care to know why she was here? It wasn’t the usual interest. She wasn’t young or pretty enough for that. His uncle had tried to hide it, of course, but he was very interested. Unnaturally interested. Sadly, that meant Dimitri must pretend she interested him.