Tortoise Soup (25 page)

I no longer had any doubt as to who had stolen the tortoises or where they had ended up. It was with thoughts of knives and bombs and Holmes’s laughter ringing in the air that I headed out to the airport to pick up Santou.

I watched from inside
the terminal as a long line of passengers made their way off the plane and down the set of portable stairs. One by one, their feet hit the tarmac of McCarran Airport. And then he appeared. At first indistinct like a far-off mirage in the middle of the desert—but I knew it was Santou from the way my body began to vibrate, like a tuning fork reverberating in perfect pitch.

Santou walked toward me, his black, tousled curls shimmering under a white-hot silver-dollar sun, his gaze locked on mine like a heat-seeking missile. But it was the unexpected lopsided grin that did me in. How could I have ever left the man?

I didn’t have time to contemplate that thought as his arms wrapped tightly around me. I shivered and took a deep whiff, breathing him in, drowning in his scent, not wanting to let go. After a moment he kissed my forehead lightly and broke our embrace.

“It’s been so long, I almost forgot what you look like,
chère
.” Santou laughed softly, but there was an unmistakable edge to his voice.

Those weren’t the first words I had hoped to hear. I glanced down at his carry-on luggage and didn’t need to ask how long he’d be staying. It was obvious the visit would be a short one.

As we walked through the terminal, his fingertips lingered on my back and then just as quickly jumped off, sending every nerve ending in my body on high alert. It was apparent that Santou was as nervous as I was.

It had been three months since I’d seen him, and our phone calls had been few and far between. I glanced at him and wondered if I had only imagined the bond between us. But the heat was still there. I could feel the sexual tension as strong as a magnet, causing my skin to sizzle at the thought of his touch.

Pilot was waiting in the Blazer as we approached, his huge head following our every move. But it was Santou he focused on as he barked, gruffly sounding a warning.

Santou scanned Las Vegas’s hodge-podge skyline off in the distance, with its post-modern confection of pyramids and castles. It was only as I went to the driver’s side door that he suddenly realized that the giant dog with bared fangs, looking directly at him, was mine.

He silently studied Pilot before turning toward me. “Tell me that’s not your vehicle, Rachel. Even better, tell me that
loup-garou
passing as a dog has nothing to do with you.”

I relaxed as Santou’s Cajun swept over me, taking me out of the desert and drenching me in the patois of the bayou.

“Sorry, Santou. But they’re both mine.” I grinned, reveling in the game. “Pilot’s part wolf, but he’s definitely no ghoul.” I opened the door and the dog proceeded to lick the back of my hand, never taking his eyes off the man next to me. “Besides Lizzie, he’s the best friend I’ve got in this town.”

I didn’t yet fill Santou in on the fact that if it hadn’t been for Pilot, I might be splattered across my yard at this very moment along with my mailbox.

Santou cautiously opened the passenger door as Pilot continued to growl, refusing to budge an inch from the front seat.

“Would you mind telling your best friend to back off and give me some room?” Santou asked, a touch of impatience creeping into his voice.

Instead, I handed Jake a dog biscuit and watched as he slowly made the peace offering. Pilot grabbed the cookie in one fell swoop, nearly lopping off Santou’s fingertips in the process.

Santou gave me a sidelong glance. “Nice manners. That’s one hell of a job you’ve done training him, Porter. What does he do for his next trick? Bite off my head and play ball?”

I scratched Pilot behind the ears and then ordered him into the back seat. “What can I say? He’s very protective.”

“And here all this time I thought you didn’t need protecting,” Santou retorted.

A few more lines had furrowed his brow since the last time I had seen him, and more strands of silver had crept into his hair. Santou had been born brooding. But now something else was there as well.

Digging inside his shirt pocket, he produced a pair of sunglasses and stuck them on. I’d never known Santou to wear shades before, either on the jazz-soaked streets of New Orleans, dripping with steam and
café au lait
, or the humid country bayous with only their ghostly fringe of Spanish moss for shade. I wasn’t sure why, but I found it unnerving.

I pulled out of the airport lot, past the imported palm trees, and headed for home. The rosary beads hanging on my rearview mirror swayed in their own rendition of a hula. Santou gently fingered the onyx and garnet strand he had given me.

“Then you didn’t forget me,
chère
?” His voice was quiet and low, but a rasp crept into it that scraped at my heart.

“I could never forget you, Jake,” I replied, and I meant it. I’d opened my soul to the man, something I considered more frightening than any pipe bomb.

Santou was silent as we drove down the broad streets. We passed one bungalow after another with their picture-perfect patches of lawn as green as newly minted astroturf, denying that this was really the desert.

I pulled into Lizzie’s drive and turned off the engine.

“So this is where you live?” Santou asked as he surveyed the place.

“No. Actually, that’s where I live.” I pointed to the disaster next door, with its littered front lawn and decor of bright-yellow police tape. “This is just where I’m staying since a pipe bomb went off in my mailbox last night.”

After a long pause, Santou quietly asked, “Why does that make sense to me?”

He got out of the Blazer and walked over to my ramshackle bungalow to take a closer look. He kicked among the debris before letting loose a low whistle. “I know you like excitement,
chère
. But I think this is taking it a little too far.”

As I told Jake about Pilot’s frantic barking last night, followed by the phone call, the lines in his face tightened. He took off his sunglasses, and I saw that the crow’s-feet around his eyes were deeper than before. Some hidden demon was voraciously eating away at him.

“I think you just used up your second life, Porter. Maybe it’s time to rethink things.” Santou walked back toward me and for a brief moment a flicker of anger flashed over his face. “This is more than a dart game you’re playing here,
chère
.”

“You mean that’s all I was doing back in New Orleans, Santou?” I snapped without thinking.

Jake studied my face, bringing his fingers up to lightly graze my cheekbones before sliding down to rest on my lips. I knew something was wrong, even as a shot of heat raced through my body.

“Just don’t use up the rest of your seven lives too fast, Porter. You’ll screw up my plans.” Santou stretched and then grinned. “Well, it doesn’t look as if we’re staying here tonight. What say we find us a big, brassy place in Vegas and get a room? I’m in the mood for a drink and some dinner.”

I took a deep breath and let go of the tension that had begun to coil in me. “That’s a good idea. Let me just take Pilot inside and write Lizzie a note.”

I fixed Pilot a bowl of dry dog chow mixed with beef stew, then tacked a piece of paper onto Lizzie’s fridge, explaining that I’d see her in the morning. Pilot quickly ate and then licked my face, settling down on one of my old shirts to indulge in his favorite activity of chewing on a shoe. Satisfied that everything was in order, I headed out the door. Santou was still digging through the clutter in front of my house.

“You might as well come inside. There are a few things I need to get,” I said.

I limboed under the police tape to untack the plastic sheet that had become my front door. Santou followed me in.

“Too bad you didn’t see the place before this happened. It looked great,” I lied through my teeth.

I walked into the bedroom and went straight for my closet, where Lizzie’s black dress beckoned like a siren luring me onto the rocks. I pulled it out, along with a few other items as I planned my Vegas weekend. Santou spent the time taking in the damage, then made his way into the bathroom, where he dug through my medicine cabinet.

“What’s this? You getting ulcers these days, Porter?”

I turned to find Santou standing in the doorway, holding the bottle of Mylanta. My face flushed, and I busied myself with packing. But his eyes burned into my back. I turned around once more, and this time Santou pulled me close, his breath hot on my hair before moving past my ear to linger on my neck as his lips touched my flesh, sending my pulse rate soaring. His hands slid up my back, where they burrowed under my tee shirt whipping it off in a flash. And then I was pressed against him, caught up in a vortex of emotions. I moaned as his body molded itself to my contours. Even though I’d dreamt of it most mornings and every night, I’d forgotten what Jake’s touch was like. His fingers lightly played along the tips of my breasts. I shivered. And then I gave in—not that I really had the willpower to resist him.

We made love with an urgency that took me by surprise, then lay on my bed and let time slow down again. I wanted to ask him if this was the first he’d slept with someone since we were last together. But I held myself back, afraid of the answer. Or even worse, fearing he might tell me a lie.

After showering, I was tempted to put on my tee shirt and jeans again, but decided to be brave and opt for the dress.

Santou gave a low whistle as he walked out of the shower. “Your taste in clothes has improved,
chère
. You look great.”

In keeping with Vegas tradition, I let Santou hold onto the illusion.

The sun was just beginning to slide below the horizon like a huge, golden slot-machine slug as we made our way into town. I pulled into the Treasure Island Hotel, where a valet dressed to resemble Blackbeard demanded my keys, holding the Blazer for ransom. We quickly checked in and then headed outside.

“Let’s walk around for a while before dinner,” Santou suggested, as a horde of senior citizens stampeded by. “I want to get a feel for this town.”

We rounded the corner, onto the Strip, where a British frigate and a pirate ship were exchanging cannon volleys in the hotel lagoon. Farther down the road, a fifty-four-foot, man-made volcano was spewing flaming fireworks high into the sky, geysers of ruby-red water running down its smooth slopes. A hurried blur of plaids and polyesters, shorts and mini-skirts, crowded the streets, single-mindedly intent on spinning the wheel and rolling the dice, already mentally making their bets and spending their money.

We hadn’t gone far when we spotted a man dragging a huge crucifix strapped to his back. Garbed in a full-length burlap robe and sandals, he sported a long, white ponytail that hung down past his shoulders. A trail of splinters followed behind him.

“A little late for Good Friday, isn’t it, fella?” Santou queried as we crossed paths with the Vegas prophet.

“Pray for your salvation,” the old man replied tersely. He nailed Santou with a look, biblical fervor burning in his eyes.

“I think he has a point,” Santou muttered as we passed him by.

The infernal clang of slot machines, Vegas crickets, filled the night air, and miles of neon outshone the stars. We came to a Crayola-colored replica of New York City, complete with the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, Grand Central Station, and the Brooklyn Bridge.

Santou ran a hand through his thick, tangled hair, his fingers snarling in the disarray of curls. His shirt clung to his chest as tiny beads of sweat soaked through the thin fabric. He folded his arms tightly against his body and took a long look around, then peered at me over his beak of a nose, like a raptor intent on skewering its prey.

“Looks like you hit the jackpot, Porter.” An edgy note crept into his voice. “This is some kind of town. Home away from home, complete with pimps and hookers, crackpots and pipe bombs. Hell, you’ve even got the skyline of New York to keep you company.”

Santou seemed to be spoiling for a fight, and I wasn’t about to disappoint him.

“Except for the skyline, do you want to explain to me just how all this differs from Bourbon Street in New Orleans?” I inquired.

“Less silicone there,” Santou dryly replied.

A babe dressed head to toe in spandex sauntered by, making me glad I had worn Lizzie’s dress. The competition was tough in this town.

“I think what I need is a drink. Let’s go someplace typically Vegas. I want to make sure I get the full exposure,” Santou remarked, his eyes following the hip-swinging spandex.

The man’s attitude was beginning to grate on my nerves. But if that’s what Santou wanted, I’d make sure he got a megadose of glitz.

It was a toss-up between the MGM Grand, with its Flying Monkey Bar, laser thunderstorm, and neon rainbow, and the Luxor Pyramid, complete with belly dancers and chariot races, along with an overabundance of whips and chains. I opted for the Luxor. If we were going to duke it out, it might as well be somewhere with weapons on hand.

We arrived at the Antechamber Bar, where a woman swathed in ivory chiffon and a cheap Cleopatra wig held a harp between a pair of monumental breasts that could have been chipped out of marble. A few glassy-eyed drunks stared off into space as she plucked the strings and sang that all-time-favorite lounge tune, “Send in the Clowns.”

Santou was rarely relaxed, but tonight he looked even less so. A wound-up intensity radiated from him, and his fingers drummed a hard, uneven tune. It was obvious that the man hated Vegas. I just couldn’t figure out why.

“Hey, Santou—lighten up. Just think of this trip as a weekend in a schizophrenic theme park,” I suggested. “You know, kind of like Mickey Mouse meets Barbarella.”

Santou stopped drumming his fingers as he took in the scene. “You got a point there, Porter. If New Orleans is one big Mardi Gras, this town is the Devil’s own version of Disneyland. I keep expecting to find Minnie dancing in a G-string and Mickey standing on the corner selling crack.” He pulled a pack of Camels from out of his pocket and lit one up, inhaling deeply.