Crystal Green - Born to be Bad

Theroux? She knew that name.

An intimidating pause spoke volumes, and she could imagine the accuser, Lamont, backing up a few steps.

“Anything else?” Theroux asked. “After all, you invited me to meet with you alone, and I expected to deal in some true business with a man of your stature. But your threats don’t interest me, Lamont. Neither does your desperation.”

“I resigned from the company three months ago, so you can’t hold anything against me now.” Lamont’s voice shook a little. “I’ve become a better man.”

“After you’ve tasted what your employees had to endure? I think so.”

“What are you, Theroux? Some self-appointed avenger? Yes? I lost a lot of money in your joint. I could—”

“But you won’t. You’ll keep your voice down and go back to your home unruffled. Understand?”

Had Theroux stolen from this Lamont? And what was all this talk about employees and revenge?

Heart fluttering during the ensuing hesitation, Gemma shrank away from the gate, sheltering herself behind the brick wall. Maybe she should leave, but her inner journalist wouldn’t allow it. Sometimes the best stories were the ones you stumbled over.

Damien Theroux was gossip gold, a city legend. A fixture in the good-old-boy network.

Just by picturing what kind of man went with that kind of voice, she grew a little feverish.

Was he suave? Graying at the temples? As bearish as Tony Soprano?

While she considered it, Theroux’s victim, Lamont, was no doubt taking a moment to gather himself. He finally responded with more respect. “All I want is my money back, Mr. Theroux. I’ve worked hard for it.”

“Not as hard as I did. And, rest assured, the proceeds will go to a proper place.”

“Please!” Lamont’s voice cracked. “I’ll have to sell my home, you realize.”

More silence cut through the humidity, and Gemma held her breath. The brick wall scratched against her cheek as she slipped down an inch, knee joints turning to liquid.

This was ridiculous, hiding like a child. Eavesdropping. But she couldn’t leave. Wouldn’t leave.

Heavy footsteps neared the gate. With a guilty start, Gemma opened her eyes, then darted behind a long, exhausted bronze Buick parked streetside. She held her crinkling plastic souvenir bag against her thigh, hoping it wouldn’t make another sound.

She’d hit rock bottom, spying like this.

As the iron gate moaned open, Lamont’s tortured voice echoed the rusty hinges. “You’re not getting away with this. You are not all-powerful, Damien Theroux!”

Damien Theroux. Confirmation that this was the shady man she’d read about in the newspapers.

She could hear Theroux’s steps come to a halt.

“I wish I had the power of gods,” he said. “Then I’d fleece you in the afterlife, too, when we’re both in hell.”

Oh, what a quote that’d make. Gemma only wished she had her tiny recorder on.

From the sound of it, Lamont was getting braver, closer, as if he was at the gate, too. “Wouldn’t the public love to know about these other dealings? Your weaknesses? I think a few of your competitors read the papers, if you catch my meaning.”

Theroux merely laughed—but not because he was entertained, obviously. Or maybe he was.

By now, Gemma’s head was swimming. This could lead to a real story. Maybe an exposé of one of New Orleans’s most intriguing characters?

Her ticket to respect.

If she could just find out exactly what these “other” dealings were.

After the seemingly endless lack of response, Theroux spoke. “I think you’re too smart to talk about my business, Mr. Lamont, if you catch my meaning.”

That must have done the trick for Lamont because Theroux continued swinging open the gate. He shut it with finality and walked away.

Oh, thank God, thank God, thank God he hadn’t seen her crouched by the Buick.

As she waited a beat, a car drove by. Nonchalantly, Gemma flashed a smile at the miffed driver while he watched her hiding.

When he’d passed, she paused another moment, peeking around the car, watching an overweight, bald man—Lamont—as he trudged back toward his foliage-obscured brick home. Moments later, he slammed his door.

Quivering with the buzz of career success, Gemma peeked around the other side of the Buick, focusing on a tall, broad-shouldered, wiry figure as he moved down the street with the walk of a predator—slightly hunched, wary.

He had black shoulder-length hair that echoed the lazy wisps of a fine cigar’s smoke. Hair that reminded her of a hallway in the dead of night when you have to drag a hand along the walls to find your way. A hallway where something might be waiting for you to pass, to feel the smile on its face when you discover it’s there.

Was she going to pursue this? Damien Theroux wasn’t a woman who lived in the sticks, professing to be a swamp thing in love with a psychic. He wasn’t anyone else she usually wrote about, either—not the reincarnated Elvises or the women who claimed to be the next Marie Laveau.

Damien Theroux was her chance to make it big, to be taken seriously by everyone who’d expected more out of her than tabloid reporting. Even herself.

Hell, yeah, she was going to do this.

Gemma slyly removed herself from behind the Buick, trailing Theroux’s panther stride, his black designer suit, the brightness of her future.

He rounded onto Royal Street, and she took care to act like a tourist, gawking at brightly hued buildings with their jolly paint-flaked shutters, the lacy iron fences, stray drops from this morning’s rain shower dripping on her head from galleries and balconies.

As Theroux moved onto St. Philip, the streets grew more deserted. Gemma wondered if she should stay on the beaten paths, if she’d entered an area that concierges warned their hotel guests to stay away from.

A hungover man without shoes told her in passing that he’d fallen asleep in front of a bar and someone had stolen his wallet and boots, and she just about turned right back around to safer territory.

“Brave Reporter Breaks Open the Truth About Notorious Criminal!” screamed the headlines of her mind.

She kept going.

Finally, Theroux disappeared into a crumbling, two-story wooden dwelling that squatted on a corner. The word Cuffs was painted in green over the awning-shrouded door.

Cuffs, huh? Gemma grinned, liking the place already. Her California-suburb family and friends would be shocked, but she was curious.

Not that she’d ever admit that out loud.

As she ventured closer, she wondered if this was Theroux’s place. Everyone knew the man owned aboveboard businesses such as restaurants, bars and souvenir shops. Ironically, he was said to own the exact store where she’d purchased the gator head today.

But she was more interested in other establishments—especially the ones Lamont had mentioned.

Gemma took a big breath, fortifying herself. She could barely even walk straight with all the adrenaline attacking her system.

When she finally made it inside, she didn’t have long to absorb the murky atmosphere—the T-shirted, buzz-cutted, beefy men clutching the handles of mugs and watching a TV game show at the four-sided bar. The smell of booze and perspiration mixed by the slow blades of a ceiling fan. The clank of balls rolling over a pool table in the far corner.

Instead, a pair of strong arms engulfed her with the quickness of a flashing bite. One hand sprawled over her belly, pressing her back into a hard, lean body covered in linen. The other gripped her chin, turning her face toward her captor while he guided her into a deserted corner.

Theroux.

Only now, this close, could she see the feral glow of his pale blue eyes set against skin the color of a tobacco leaf.