Free Crossroad Blues (The Nick Travers Novels) by Ace Atkins Page B

this money sent? Western Union?"
    "Clickety-clack."

    ?
    Three hours later, Keith Fields locked his apartment and headed out into the French Quarter. His head ached bad from worryin' about the mess. Couldn't even go to sleep after Jesse called. Should've known that he couldn't handle somethin' professional. Keith could feel his temples throb with every bad thought. If his boss got word Jesse tried to kill the old man, then he might as well reach for his toes and kiss his pecker good-bye. Yeah, this was bad. Real bad. And this was the first thing his boss ever really asked him to do as the new head of security. Shit, Jesse. Why'd you have to mess it up?
    Keith stopped walking under a rusted overhang and closed his eyes tight. He ground an index finger hard into his temple. He'd just have to tell him. Go right in, sit down in those plushy black leather chairs and tell the truth.
    Mr. Cruz, you know that old nigra man you wanted? See, I tole my friend from back home to do it. But he's kinda slow and, well, he thinks he looks like Elvis. Yes, Elvis. And he got run off before he could grab the fool.
    Man, he was fucked.
    As he rounded the corner onto Conti, he formulated another plan: Be real business-like. Mr. Cruz would like that. Mr. Cruz, the target has not yet been apprehended, but I'm gonna' assume control of the project. Go to Mississippi myself and finish the job. After all, I am your head of security.
    Much better.
    Even this early, the construction crews hammered away on the new hotel. Keith could hear the buzzing and banging sounds that came around the site. It reminded him construction was how he first made it in New Orleans. That was after Los Angeles and bodyguard school and a short stint trying to be a soap actor. He'd gotten a walk-on role on Days of Our Lives as a male nurse. But his southern accent, his acting coach said, was his biggest flaw for ever getting a speaking part.
    Keith walked further down Conti and into the lobby of the Blues Shack Entertainment Complex. Its three stories contained two bars, a restaurant, an amphitheater, an African American art gallery, a blues museum with an actual reconstructed Mississippi juke joint, a cigar room, and a souvenir shop right out of a tourist's wet dream. All the T-shirts, ball caps, and beer coozies you could want with Little Bob, the guitar-playin' alligator logo.
    He took the dark-stained wood steps to where two beefy white guys dressed in black guarded a double leather-padded door. Keith nodded to them. They nodded back, and the guy on the right spoke into a small microphone on his golf-shirt lapel.
    He'd trained them right.
    The doors parted mechanically to reveal a room that resembled a set from an Arabian movie: big ceramic elephants, thick oriental rugs, lighted candles, incense, beads, and a fat ole Buddha statue. Mr. Cruz was into that stuff, always lighting candles and ringing bells.
    Toward the back, Mr. Cruz's secretary, Kimber, sat at her desk among the weirdness. Keith had to shake his head; the woman was so kick-ass gorgeous. Damned Hawaiian or Samoan or some shit. Always wearin' a little flowered sundress with her bra strap showing. Small waist, big breasts and ass. Legs like a Malibu Barbie.
    "He in?" Keith asked.
    "You have an appointment?"
    "No ma'am. It's important, though." Keith pulled his sleeves up higher over each bicep and ran a hand over his buzz-cut head.
    She licked her lips and sighed, pushing her chair back like he wasn't worth the effort. Then she walked into the back office, never looking Keith in the eye. Even as nervous as he was, he still scoped the outline of her panties through that slick, satiny material. Her ass wigglin' all around in her thong.
    "Come on back, Keith," he heard Mr. Cruz's bourbony voice call.
    He felt like he was in his god-dang principal's office back in Mississippi. As he entered the room, Keith saw Pascal Cruz talking on a headset phone, his arms waving out some details. Dressed in all black. Sport coat