“You got a date?”
Eric wiggled his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“It’s why I asked.” Luke chuckled. “And you answered my question. You don’t.”
“When I can find a woman who won’t freak every time I holster a gun to my shoulder, I’ll be set. Call if something pops.”
Hopefully, when something did, Piper’s name wouldn’t be anywhere near it. The churning in his gut said otherwise.
* * *
Beale Street hadn’t changed much in a decade. Neon lights lit up the murky sky. Ashy clouds slithered around the full moon. Not a star in sight. Piper flipped the collar of her black canvas jacket around her ears. The wind was colder and stronger coming off the Mississippi River. Shards of glass and trash littered the sidewalks. Horses clip-clopped down the street eagerly waiting for couples who wanted a romantic ride in lit-up carriages. Quite the contradiction.
Blues music drifted from clubs, restaurants and bars. Saturday night. Throngs of people packed into the buildings. Riff’s turned a blind eye and welcomed anyone who at least looked sixteen, mostly riffraff. Piper had been coming and going since she was fifteen.
The neon pink sign blared over the aged brick building. Two large windows revealed patrons enveloped in cigarette smoke and pale lighting. She stood out front, inhaling the tangy scent of BBQ and char-grilled burgers. Liquor permeated Beale Street on Friday and Saturday nights. Wasn’t even May yet. Memphis in May would draw huge crowds.
She could stand here with a million regrets or go in and try to dig up some information on Christopher Baxter.
A chill swept up her spine. That being-watched feeling coated her skin. No time to second-guess the idea. It was now or never.
Piper marched through the doors, cigarette smoke burning her nostrils. The smell of pungent sweat, stale beer and peanuts sent a wave of nausea through her. How could she have ever called this her stomping ground? A few leering eyes roamed her, but she maneuvered through the mob. Pool balls clacked together. Laughter and the thump of bass mixed with a tenor voice crooning an old Bonnie Raitt song.
Everyone seemed young. Not that Piper was old, but she’d aged before her time in many ways. Made a lot of shoddy decisions, thinking she was all grown-up. She ached to go back to age ten, when Mama Jean had sent her to church camp and she had walked to the altar to ask Jesus into her life. On the following Friday evening, Mama Jean had come and watched her be baptized. That moment had felt like warmth cocooning her. A safe place. She hadn’t wanted to come up out of the water.
What happened in those next years? How had she fallen so hard so fast? Mama Jean would say, “Dear one, you spend more time with those friends than the friend that sticks closer than a brother.” Piper didn’t understand exactly what she meant, other than she was talking about Jesus. Mama Jean always talked about Jesus.
She slipped her coat off and hitched herself up onto a high-top chair. A greasy menu was laid out for her to skim. Her stomach protested the thought of food. Behind the bar, cooks in white shirts and hats slung hash.
An eruption of laughter and applause exploded near the pool-hall section. Piper checked out the crowd. No one she recognized. Did she expect anyone to still linger here?
“Well, look who else the cat dragged in.”
Piper turned her head and smiled. “Jazz.” The big burly guy, skin the color of espresso beans, now in his fifties, wrapped her in a bear hug. His physical strength overpowered her as much as the scent of grease and onions. “How ya been?”
“Holding my own, Pipes.” Jazz had managed this place for as long as Piper could remember. A fairly decent guy—never tried to take advantage of her. “What brings you back here?”
“You wouldn’t know a guy named Christopher Baxter, would you?” Hope and a prayer—that God probably wouldn’t hear—floated from her mind. Something Jazz had said a minute ago hit her. “Wait, what do you mean ‘who else’? You said ‘look who else the cat dragged in.’” Piper’s hands turned clammy. “Who else is here?”
“Your boy from way back. Came in about five minutes ago.”
Chaz? Piper might pass out. “Which boy?”
“Luke.”
He must have a lead. “He say anything?”
Jazz shrugged. “Just came in, shook my hand like old times.”
Luke had been undercover once. Was he trying to stay that way?
“So Christopher Baxter. You know him? Who he ran with?”
Jazz clucked. “That fat cat, Derone, and him were tight till Baxter found the Lord over on Riverside. They call Derone ‘Wheels’ ’cause that tricked-out Caddy he be drivin’.”
“Is Derone here?”
“Was fifteen minutes ago.”
Now for one more question. “Have you seen Chaz around?”
“Not in years. Saw Tyson a few times, but he didn’t go in the back. Not after Sly went to prison.” Jazz removed his toothpick and pecked Piper on the cheek. “Don’t go gettin’ in any mess.”
“Me?”
“Mmm-hmm.” He gave her a knowing look and strutted behind the counter. Piper snagged her coat and pushed through couples dancing, playing pool and darts, past the bathrooms that flanked the narrow hallway to double doors leading to the real action. Anyone jonesing for trouble gravitated back here. Cops showed up, easy exit. The dull metal door opened to an alley that connected with an Italian restaurant.
Piper opened the door to a massive room, sectioned off by wooden half walls with cedar beams towering to the ceiling. Smoky. Crimson shades hung over dim lights above red vinyl booths that lined the walls. Several games of pool and darts were going on. Black-topped tables with matching scuffed chairs splotched the right side area.
No sign of Luke yet.
“You look lost.” An athletic-built man with shaggy black hair and intense blue eyes sidled up to her. “Are you?” His voice was warm-paraffin kind of smooth, and in the old days Piper would have already swooned. And been sorely burned. This guy was wildfire.
“I’m looking for Derone.”
“You his girl? Because I’m not seein’ it.” He flashed a grin. Definitely not a meth head with those Colgate-white chops. Dimples creased his scruffy cheeks.
“I need to find him.” She scanned the crowd around the pool tables.
“If I tell you where he is, will you have a drink with me?” His spicy cologne was enticing.
“I don’t drink.”
“Not even water?” He chuckled. “Tell you what. I produce Derone, and you have a drink of water with me. Just water.”
Never gonna happen. Nobody back here was up to anything honorable. No matter how incredible they smelled or appeared. “I’m not thirsty.”
He gave a quick nod. “I can live with that answer. My name’s Holt. Holt Renard. I’d remember if I saw you before. First time here?”
Piper peered over his shoulder. “Which one’s Derone?”
He sighed and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Last booth on the right. Nice girl like you don’t need to be tangling with Wheels.”
Piper pitched a lukewarm shrug. “I’m not known around here as a nice girl.” And shame painted her skin red.
She charged toward the booth. A beast of a man with a tattooed bald head