LITMIR.BIZ

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laughed. “Insurance, assurance.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he tossed a small stack of photographs onto the mahogany desktop.

      “What are—” Primeaux’s throat closed up when he realized what he was looking at. “Why you—” he croaked. He picked up one of the pictures. Terror streaked through him at the sight of his own pale naked body splayed on an opulent bed. A teenaged girl knelt beside him.

      He picked up another picture, and another. They were all damning. He recognized the room and the girl. The pictures had been taken at the bordello a few nights before the raid.

      He sank into a leather chair. “How did you get these?”

      Senegal sipped his whiskey calmly, no emotion in his sharp black eyes. “Those are video stills. And there’s plenty more. You’re a pig, Bas.”

      Primeaux set the photos down on the desk and gripped the chair’s armrest. Senegal had actually chosen some of the milder shots.

      “What do you want?” he rasped.

      “I can see you understand the gravity of these photos,” Senegal said. “Obviously, if these, or others, were to be released to the press…” His voice trailed off.

      Primeaux knew what would happen. Not only would his career as district attorney be over, he’d be indicted for statutory rape and a half-dozen other charges. “You can’t do this to me.”

      Senegal sipped his whiskey. “Oh, I guarantee I can,” he drawled, as if he were discussing the price of peas. “These aren’t the only copies either. Anything happens, and they go to the media.”

      Primeaux’s chest tightened and his left arm started to tingle. “Tell me. Tell me what you want.”

      “I need your help with Customs. Since the bordello raid I’ve had to decentralize some of my activities.”

      Primeaux realized Senegal was talking about his drug dealings. “Yeah?” he said, resisting the urge to pat his breast pocket. He poured more whiskey into his glass with trembling hands, then gulped it.

      “There will be some special coffee bags coming in. I trust there won’t be any trouble passing them through?”

      “Special, how?”

      “You don’t worry your head about that. Can I count on you?” Senegal picked up the pictures and shuffled them, then laid them out on the leather surface of the desk like a game of solitaire.

      Primeaux wondered how far he could push the Cajun mob kingpin. “I’m running a little short on campaign funds.”

      Senegal sent him a glance rife with distaste. The first emotion Primeaux had seen. Then he sighed. “Bas, you never change, do you? You take care of me and I’ll take care of you.” He rose and held out his hand. “Ain’t that the way it’s always been?”

      Primeaux looked at the man’s hand for a second, considering what would happen if he tried to take down Jerome Senegal. The idea was daunting. He finally gripped the mob boss’s fingers, knowing he was shaking hands with the devil. “What about the pictures?” he asked.

      Senegal scooped up the photographs and slipped them into his jacket pocket. “As long as my supply of coffee is not interrupted, the pictures stay here with me. Safe and sound.” He stepped around the desk and walked toward the door. “Coming?”

      Primeaux leaned heavily against the desk. “I think I’ll have one more shot of whiskey first.”

      The other man shrugged before disappearing through the door.

      Sebastion Primeaux sank down into a leather armchair and fumbled in his pocket for his little bottle of nitroglycerin.

      “Maudit,” he muttered. His angina attacks were getting worse, happening more often. Now this. He ought to just give up the D.A.’s job and retire. Go back home to the bayous of south central Louisiana. He snorted. Easier said than done.

      He craved the attentions of the young putains, he loved the money and he liked the idea of bucking the very system he had sworn to uphold.

      After downing the last gulp of whiskey, he locked the study door, then surveyed the room.

      DeBlanc’s office. DeBlanc had been a good attorney. If these walls could talk, Primeaux could probably bring down the mob single-handedly. Then he’d be a hero.

      But walls didn’t talk and Primeaux needed some insurance of his own. So, using his handkerchief, he took the protective cardboard sleeve, printed with the words Cajun Perk, out of his pocket. It was thicker than a normal sleeve.

      He glanced around, trying to decide on the perfect place. He hadn’t thought far enough ahead to consider when or in what circumstances the sleeve should be found, or exactly how he could use the discovery to his advantage. He had good instincts though, and those instincts had been nagging at him for days to plant incriminating evidence somewhere.

      Adrienne DeBlanc’s house was the closest Primeaux would ever get to Senegal. He had more sense than to go to Senegal’s house, and Senegal had more sense than to invite him.

      But he needed a place where she wouldn’t be likely to come across it.

      A reflection from the bookcase behind DeBlanc’s desk caught his eye. Retrieving the silver box, he realized it was a sterling silver photo album. Marc and Adrienne’s wedding album, to be precise.

      Primeaux smiled as he ran his finger along the book’s surface and picked up a fine sheen of dust. It wasn’t likely that the Widow DeBlanc would open the album, not if even half the things Marc had told him were true.

      He quickly inserted the cardboard sleeve with its damning evidence between two photos, then closed the album and carefully set it back on the shelf. His fingers shook as he repocketed his handkerchief.

      With the nitroglycerin kicking in and the pain in his chest and arm fading, he straightened his coat and unlocked the study door. A half smile curved his lips. It was amazing how much better he felt, now that he had an ace in the hole.

      BY THE TIME the crowd had thinned out, Seth had drunk a lot of champagne, and he was beginning to feel it. So far, the high point of the evening had been the meeting between Senegal and Primeaux. Most of the others, the mayor included, appeared to actually be here in support of literacy. Surprising.

      The champagne had given Seth a headache, so he slipped into the Widow DeBlanc’s massive gourmet kitchen and asked one of the caterers for some coffee. He sat there for a while, talking with the hired help, drinking java and munching on huge peeled shrimp. If he timed it right, he could wander out of the kitchen just as the last guest left. That would give him some time alone with the lovely young widow.

      Adrienne. He smiled. All golden light, with delicate hands and a perfect, shapely body. Not to mention the graceful neck that made his mouth water as he imagined the soft warmth of it beneath his lips.

      She was a study in contradiction. Obviously spoiled, used to servants, used to compliments, used to money. But there was a vulnerability about her that called up a protective urge in him. He didn’t like feeling that way, especially not for a rich socialite from the Garden District.

      He remembered as if it were yesterday the last time he’d helped his father on a job. Seth had been twelve, and puberty and hormones were kicking in.

      Robert Lewis had made a fairly good living as a gardener in the Garden District. He’d taken care of lawns for successful businessmen and rich socialites like Adrienne DeBlanc. On that last day, Seth had walked in on his father kissing the skinny-hipped wealthy homeowner, his hands hiking her designer skirt up above her thighs. His dad had looked guilty and chagrined, but the woman’s look had been hard as flint.

      The mere thought of that day sent fury coursing through Seth’s veins. That moment, frozen in time, had defined his relationships with women throughout his life. He enjoyed them, but he didn’t trust them.

      He’d expected Adrienne DeBlanc to be like that woman.

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