Free Blood on the Bayou by Stacey Jay Page B

“Lance.”
    “Annabelle.”
    “Annabelle.” Recognition flashes in his eyes. “I’ve heard of you. You’re the one who left the Breeze head tied up in the bayou.”
    “I did. I’m a total badass.” I don’t wait for him to finish laughing. “You should let me in on this. I’ll transport product to Donaldsonville or wherever you need it delivered and I’ll only ask for thirty percent of the cut.”
    He stares at me down the long slop of his rodent nose for a minute. Maybe two. Maybe three. All I know is the eye contact goes on way too long and I’m starting to feel uncomfortable in an I-could-be-dying-soon kind of way when he finally says, “Fifteen percent.”
    “Twenty-five,” I counter, not wanting to betray how relieved I am.
    He grunts. “We’ll see. I gotta talk to Jose. He’s the one with the major connections. I mostly do purses, designer clothes, shit like that.”
    “Okay.” I shrug. “So Jose’s in charge.”
    “I didn’t say that. He works out the deals, but I know who he’s working with and what she wants. She’s the one who gets the biggest deliveries so . . . maybe that could be something we talk about. If we decide we can trust you.”
    “Don’t I look trustworthy?”
    “You look like trouble,” he says in a way that leaves little doubt he has a thing for trouble. “But we’ll see.” He flicks a pen over to my side of the desk. “Give me a number and I’ll call you tomorrow.”
    I scribble my cell number on a Post-it, and rack my brain for some way to keep the conversation going. What I’ve managed to learn so far only eliminates 48 percent of the population as a suspect. I need more. “So it’s a woman I’d be delivering to? Is she cool?”
    “She’s a bitch. Even Jose doesn’t fuck with her.”
    “Oh.” I take a moment to look appropriately intimidated and second-thought-filled. “But I could handle it, right? She wouldn’t like . . . shoot me or something?”
    “I don’t know what she’d do. I don’t talk to her. I watch the meetings on the computer to make sure Jose doesn’t end up dead while that bitch takes her needles without paying.”
    Needles. Score. And I could score even bigger. “You watch them on the computer. So you film them?” He nods. “Do you keep any of the footage?” I ask, hurrying on before the suspicion in his expression can fully flower. “It would be nice to see who I’d be dealingwith. Right now I’m imagining someone with laser vision and fangs and flaming farts.”
    He laughs. Fart jokes. Gets ’em every time.
    “Yeah. I’ve got video. I don’t care if you get a look at her.” He leans over and stirs the computer to life with a wiggle of the mouse. He clicks a folder and scrolls down through a long list of files. If they’re all of this woman, she’s a regular customer. “The camera Jose wears is small so the footage is grainy, but . . .” He clicks once more and swivels the screen my way. “There she is.”
    He’s right. The picture quality is crap and if I weren’t very familiar with the woman in question there’s no way I’d be able to place her.
    But, I am familiar. Gut-twistingly familiar. It’s Marcy, my sweet, loving, takes-groceries-to-shut-ins second mama. She’s the bitch buying black-market medical supplies, and this investigation just got a hell of a lot more personal.

I park the Rover behind the bank at the end of Railroad Street and head toward Swallows on foot. Most people in D’Ville walk or bicycle around town, so I probably could have scored a closer parking spot, but I need time to pull myself together. I need to walk, put one foot in front of the other until I talk myself into my lying headspace.
    I’ll have to be at the top of my game. Hitch can smell a fib at twenty paces. Just thinking about his narrow, I’m-looking-through-your-skin-and-see-your-filthy-lies look makes me feel vaguely ill. I don’t want to lie. But I can’t tell him about Marcy. I can’t. Not until I know for