Angela leaned toward him. “So, despite his public image, you think that Holloway used to take guys like these out to a place he knew on Bourbon Street?”
“Doesn’t mean he got in on the action,” Jackson said softly.
She nodded.
He caught her fingers across the table. “Let’s face it—being a politician usually means making a few compromises. I’ve seen it with the best of men—and women. That’s why it’s way more fun to be an investigator.”
She liked the feel of his fingers touching hers. They somehow seemed incredibly intimate in the crowded restaurant.
But he eased back. They were listening.
Angela didn’t really understand much of the conversation. It continued along the lines of oil, oil equipment, and the inspections that were needed for a rig. They were seeking some kind of permit, and it would need an inspection, and Martin DuPre was assuring them that they would pass their inspection and get the permit they wanted.
She watched Jackson as he listened. And then, they might have heard the key words in what Jackson seemed to be searching for that night.
It was the squat fellow with the booming voice who spoke. They could hear him slap DuPre on the shoulder. “I say there, young fellow. When your boss gets tired of all the kissing baby butts and stuff that goes on, you’re going to take his place just fine! You know how to get things done.”
She looked over at Jackson. He returned her look with a grim smile, and lifted his wineglass to her. She returned it, set her glass down and leaned closer to him. “So, he’s a butt-kissing, lying-ass, deceptive little goon. But does that make him a murderer?”
Jackson leaned closer to her.
“No, it makes him a butt-kissing, lying-ass, deceptive little goon. But it’s good to get a true picture of those around the senator, and have a feel for what they would and wouldn’t do.”
“Sounds like the little rat would do about anything.”
“Precisely,” Jackson said.
Martin DuPre said, “Gentlemen, shall we move on?”
Angela whispered again, “Are we going to Bourbon Street?”
He grinned. “Are you game?”
“We’re going to a strip club?”
“Let’s see.”
He motioned to their waitress and quickly paid the tab. They waited until they saw the men exit, and then they followed behind.
“Thank God for the foulmouthed fat man,” Jackson said. “We can follow them easily.”
“Cruel!” she said.
Jackson shrugged. “His weight is fine. His attitude is enough to make your skin crawl.”
She didn’t reply. She thought that she was coming to like him so very much because his words were true—and simply him. Nothing mattered to him about a person other than what was inside them. He had no patience for the manner of big-money oilmen Martin DuPre was entertaining.
She wrinkled her nose. “Oil.”
He glanced down at her, grinning. “Ah, well, it’s apparent, my dear, that you’re not from this area. Oil is half the livelihood. And there are good men working in it—good men who aren’t graft-laden and trying to go the wrong way. We need solutions in the future, yes. But oil money isn’t necessarily evil.”
“Did I sound like that? I guess I did. I don’t know enough,” she admitted.
“We’ll all have to find solutions in the future, but it’s careless overseeing and major problems in regulation that cause the problems—as with everything.” He stopped, distracted, staring ahead of him.
“What?” she asked.
“There’s someone else following Martin DuPre.”
“Who?”
He pointed to a young woman who was about half a block ahead of them and half a block behind DuPre and his crew. She was young—maybe eighteen or nineteen—and had a small pudge, apparent because she was otherwise slim with long blond hair and a delicate face. She had paused for a moment to look in a window as DuPre and the men stopped at a corner for a car to go by; when they moved, she moved.
Jackson whistled softly.
“Do you know who she is?”
“I do—and I don’t.”
“What?”
“She’s a member of the Church of Christ Arisen. She opened the door for Jake to go in and pay them a visit today.”
Jake was glad to see that the meeting to recruit new Aryans was not going to be a huge success.
There were not quite fifty people in attendance. He stood by Jenna, responding with applause and enthusiasm to all the speeches given about maintaining the country for the “rightful” owners, and keeping a pure race.
He thought that Jenna was going to explode. Her fair skin was darkening to blood-red hue, and she held his arm, her nails digging into his flesh.
“Have you ever heard anything so insane?” she whispered to him. “The rightful owners! Is he forgetting the Native Americans—those people the white settlers basically stole all the land from? My God, I don’t think I can sit through this. What is the matter with them? Don’t they know that the days of slavery are long gone, and that we have laws guaranteeing equality?”
She was growing louder. He pinched her.
“Ouch!”
“You’re going to get us thrown out!”
“I think I want to be thrown out.”
“We’re here to observe.”
She tightened her lips and held silent. He smiled, feeling her beside him. Another outburst couldn’t be too far behind.
And once again, it wasn’t. “Oh, please! How can they do this here? New Orleans has come a long, long way and it’s the most amazing city in the world for people from everywhere, of every color and sex and even sexual orientation, and there’s still French spoken, and Spanish, and—”
“Shut up, please!” Jake pleaded.
She fell silent again. He was glad that the people who had come out were excited about the speakers—who were actually good at spouting rhetoric—because they didn’t seem to notice Jenna’s outrage. A young fellow was up at the microphone then saying that the world was what it was—a mess—and that there were all kinds of people in the world, and everyone had a right to be in the world, and they, too, had the right to seek the pureness of the Aryan race. They asked nothing of anyone else, they sought to hurt no one—they wanted their right to assemble and seek the life—the pursuit of happiness they had in mind for themselves.
To that end, they had to be very selective in voting for their representatives.
He began to preach a rabidly conservative doctrine—one that would leave even a staunch Bible Belt Republican squirming in horror, much less a moderate of any party.
Jake turned around to take a look at the others in the room, and he nearly jerked Jenna’s arm.
“What?” she gasped, but she followed his gaze.
There, seated in the far back of the room, was the bodyguard. Blake Conroy.
The pretty little pregnant girl followed Martin DuPre and his group.
Jackson and Angela followed the pretty little pregnant girl.
They made the turn off Chartres to head up to Bourbon, all keeping their respective distance. At Bourbon, the blonde girl paused. She seemed infinitely sad.
“Go talk to her,” Jackson told Angela.
“Talk to her? What do I say?” Angela asked him.
“See if she’s lost, or if she needs help. I’m going at DuPre and his group. I’ll wait for you in front of the cowboy bar with the mechanical bull.”
“You think that DuPre and his friends are going to go ride the bull?” Angela asked.
“No, it’s next to a club that’s behind a courtyard there, and supposedly offers the best and most expensive dancers in the city.”
“Oh.”
He gave her a little shove. Angela glared at him, and went over to the girl. Bourbon was already growing busy and loud. Rock ballads streamed out into the street from a variety of clubs, all trying to be louder than the next. Hawkers were handing out flyers, urging patrons to come in and enjoy their entertainment and their most incredible cheap drinks.
The girl stood near a hot-dog cart, staring after the group that had joined in the throng walking in the street, blocked off for pedestrians only.
“Excuse me,” Angela said. “You look lost. Can I help you? Are you looking for a certain place?”
The girl stared blankly at her for a moment. Then she flushed. “I—no, I’m not lost. I live in the city.”
“Oh, well, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pester you. It just looks as if you’re a bit tired and disconcerted, and…pregnant,” Angela said.
The girl’s flush became brighter.
Angela offered her a hand. “I’m Angela Hawkins. Are you sure you don’t need any help?”
The girl shook her head. “No, no, I just have to head back uptown. I shouldn’t have been down here.”
“Can I get you a ride? Get you into a taxi? Where do you need to go?”
The girl looked down Bourbon Street, and then suddenly sagged against Angela. “I guess I don’t feel very well.”
Angela looked down the street. There was a restaurant on the corner one block down, on Royal. It had a bar, but it was a far quieter place, more for dining than drinking.
“Let’s get you some water.”
She led the girl, who leaned on her heavily, to the restaurant. The seating was open, and she led the girl to a secluded table near the rear. She ordered water from the waiter, and suggested the girl might like soup or gumbo or something with substance.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t—” the girl said.
“Please,” Angela insisted.
In a few minutes, the waiter had them supplied with water, and the girl had a salad and soup coming.
She stared at Angela then with huge brown eyes. “Thank you!” she said. And she flushed. “I’m Gabby Taylor.”
“How do you do?” Angela said pleasantly. “I guess you don’t come to this area often,” she added.
