I shrug because there’s nothing to say. New Orleans has a history of corrupt government. George Sullivan isn’t the disease. He’s simply a symptom of it.
“He ever try to drag you in for more questioning?” Luc eyes me curiously.
“Every year on the anniversary of Dean’s…disappearance,” I say. Not adding that every year it takes everything I have not to spit out the truth and unburden my soul.
“Good God Almighty, Maggie May.” He rakes an agitated hand through his hair. “I had no idea.”
“How could you?”
When his expression crumples, I’m quick to reassure him. “No. Don’t do that, Luc. Don’t blame yourself. You were right to go. With you and Cash out of the picture, Sullivan only had me to harass.”
Now his expression hardens. “He’s been harassing you?”
Dang it. I wasn’t going to tell him this. Not yet anyway. “Not in recent years, no,” I admit. “But he sicced his cops on me all the time at first. I got so many traffic tickets, I nearly had my license suspended.”
I don’t mention that the look on George Sullivan’s face anytime he sees me around town says he’s trying to determine if the top of my skull will make a good ashtray. Nor do I mention how much sleep I lose at night knowing he has every right to look at me that way.
“Can we talk about something else?” I beg. “After ten years, surely we can come up with a happier topic.”
I can see Luc doesn’t want to drop it. But he does because…well, he’s Luc. The kindest boy…er,manI’ve ever known.
“Okay.” He nods. “But first, how about popping the top on an Abita for your old friend, huh? I’m not sure I ever understood how thirsty a walk through the Vieux Carrécan make a man.”
“It’s called not-so-subliminal advertising,” I tell him. “You pass enough bars, see enough people strolling the street with a beer in hand, and voila! Suddenly, you’re bellying up to a bar yourself.”
Under the guise of getting his beer, I rake in a few deep breaths. I don’t remember every detail about what happened in the swamp that night. Moments like that leave something deeper than a memory. They leave a feeling. A horror you never get over, and talking about it with Luc has made that horror rise to the surface. But by the time I set the bottle of Abita in front of him, I have myself well enough in hand to appreciate the look of wonder and satisfaction on his face as he checks out the bar.
“This place is amazing,” he says, and I feel a kick of pride. “Just like we always talked about. I can’t believe you actually did it.”
“How could I not? You and Cash made it sound likethebest thing in the whole wide world. I had to find out for myself.”
He eyes me quizzically. “And is it everything we thought it’d be?”
“And then some.Joie de vivreevery day.”
“Laissez les bon temps roulerevery night,” he finishes with me.
It was the slogan the three of us repeated many times when we sat and dreamed of how our adult lives would be. We were determined to remain connected at the hip forever. Open a bar together, buy side-by-side Creole cottages—Luc in one and Cash and me in the other—and watch each other grow old and gray as the world went by.
Clearing my throat, I look around like it’s suddenly occurred to me Cash isn’t here. We both know that’s a lie. His absence was the first thing I noticed when Luc walked through the door.
“Where’s your sidekick?” I try to keep my tone light.
He pretends to catalog the bottles of booze behind my head. “He had some things to take care of at the new house. Said to tell you he’s sorry and he’ll stop by another time.”
“That’s the biggest load of horse hockey I ever heard.” I point to his face. “You still can’t look me in the eye when you’re lying.”
He takes a swig of beer.
I know he won’t broach the subject, so I suppose I have to. “Earlier, his breath stunk of whiskey and I…saw the flask in his back pocket.”
He glances out the window, a muscle working in his jaw. When he turns back, he shakes his head. “He’s not a drunk, Maggie May. Leastways not normally. It’s just this thing with his head.”
I would say the scar above Cash’s temple matches the old one cutting through his right eyebrow, but the old scar is flat and faint. This new scar is raised and red. Painful looking. My own temple throbs in sympathy and my silly heart folds in on itself at the thought of Cash hurting.
“He said he took a blast to the head. Does that mean…” I have to swallow. “Was he shot?”
Luc watches me closely.
