The plan was to take the ten-minute walk to Central Grocery, an old-time store that still made their world-famous muffuletta sandwiches, and then have a picnic by the Mississippi River.
“You promise tonight is not going to be big?” I asked Brando as we dodged oncoming pedestrian traffic.
The sun blazed in an almost cloudless azure sky, and the humidity was at ninety percent, at least, soaking up all the infamous smells of the French Quarter—fried foods, alcoholic beverages, cigarettes, ancient cobblestones, jasmine, and other things better left unmentioned. Music floated from every street corner, brass and thick drums, coming together to form an undeniable match made in heaven.
From a corner shop, a man threw a pair of plastic Mardi Gras beads to me. Brando lifted a hand and caught them so the plastic wouldn’t slap me in the face. I raised my daiquiri in thanks.
Brando grinned, slipping the beads around my neck. “You are such a girl.”
“You’re such aguy.” I growled at him.
Taking the drink from me—aptly called Pain Killer—he took a long sip. He shook his head. “There’s more rum in here than you weigh in ounces. You haven’t eaten much. Save the rest for after lunch.” He chunked it into a garbage can.
“You tasted it before and didn’t complain!”
He always tasted my drinks before I did. Sometimes I joked that he was a food taster to the queen, the ones who used to taste for poison.
“That was ten minutes ago,” he said. He steered me around a rowdy group of people, keeping me close.
“You still haven’t promised me. Nothing big, right?”
“Define big.”
I almost groaned, and then Igiggledfor no reason.
The ten-minute walk seemed to take no time, but it had, because most of the women stopped to window shop or to take pictures, or grab their partners, or each other, and dance in the street.
By the time we had our sandwiches and goods, we were all flushed from the heat, and we appreciated the slight breeze playing over the river.
My father had started to drink before we left. His face was flushed and running with sweat. He had eaten and drank more than enough, and when my mother warned him that we still had to walk back, he snapped at her. Something he rarely did.
Then he took his sandwich wrapper and threw it at a man who accidentally knocked over his drink while trying to take a picture. It was an honest mistake. Brando had to talk him down.
More concerning than his temper, his face had turned a worrisome shade of red, a color that reminded me of a traffic light. He kept running his hands through his hair, making all of the copper and silver strands stand on end. He was still a broad-shouldered man, fit and tall to boot, and he kept stretching his shoulders, as though his shirt was too tight.
“Perhaps we should forget tonight,” I whispered to Brando as we made our way back.
“You want to tell him that? I had to fight him to plan—” He stopped himself, glancing at me from behind his Ray-Bans. “He won’t be stopped. And it’s your birthday; I won’t be stopped.”
“All right,” I said, worry shooting through my arm, causing our hands to jingle. “How about we take a horse and carriage back?”
“Too late,” Brando said, using his chin to motion to my parents, who had taken the lead. “He’s on a mission.”
“Brando,” I said, pulling back from the group. We waited for Romeo and Juliette to go ahead before I continued. “What’s going on with him? Does it have to do with Sheriff Stone?”
“I’ll talk to him again” was all he said before he urged me along.
Chapter Twenty-One
Brando
After we returned from lunch, all of the women rushed to get ready. After a quick shower, all I had left to do was style my hair and suit up. Not wanting to get trampled during the female ritual, I decided it was best to make myself scarce.
Guido and Donato watched our place while I went next door to have a word with Everett. Pnina directed me to his office. His mood had been unpredictable, at best, for lunch. I wasn’t sure how I was going to find him then.
After rapping three times on the door and getting no response, I opened it a crack. He was on the phone but waved me in. He motioned for me to take a leather seat across from his desk.
He shuffled papers while the Gurkha hung out of the side of his mouth, the smell sweet. The man supported two cigar brands: Cohiba and Gurkha. The one hanging out of his mouth came from a box worth fifteen thousand dollars. Gurkha’s Her Majesty’s Reserve were stuffed with eighteen-year-old tobacco and marinated in twenty-five-hundred-dollar—a bottle—Louis XIII de Rémy Martin cognac, his drink of choice.
