Chapter 2 - Shadows on Magazine Street
The rain had cleared by Monday afternoon, leaving New Orleans wrapped in a thick, subtropical steam that made the air feel heavy enough to drink. Nell sat in the passenger seat of a black sedan, watching the blurred neon signs of Magazine Street slide past the window. She had changed out of her gray house uniform into a simple dark green dress, her hair still pinned back beneath a wool beret.
Beside her, Carmine drove with one hand resting casually on the steering wheel. Benny sat in the back, checking the action of a small automatic pistol before sliding it back into his shoulder holster with a soft click.
"Where are we going?" Nell asked, her hands tightly clenched in her lap.
"To see an old friend of mine," Carmine replied without taking his eyes off the road. "A man named Salvatore 'Sal' Marcone. He owns the zoning records for this district dating back to the late nineties. If someone wanted to rezone Magazine Street for commercial high-rises, Marcone would have been the one who cleared the path."
"The high-rises," Nell muttered, a cold realization dawning on her. "They wanted the lot. The bakery wouldn't sell."
"Your father turned down a quarter of a million dollars three weeks before the fire," Carmine said. "Emmett Fontaine was a stubborn man."
"He built those ovens with his grandfather," Nell said, her voice thick with emotion. "He wouldn't sell to developers who wanted to tear down history to build luxury condos."
"History is cheap in this town," Carmine said coldly. "Property is what they kill for."
They pulled up in front of a weathered seafood restaurant near the docks, its sign flickering with a dying neon glow. Marcone’s, the faded lettering read. The place was closed on Mondays, but a single yellow light burned inside the frosted glass door.
Carmine killed the engine. He turned to look at Nell, his expression unreadable.
"Stay in the car," he instructed.
"No," Nell said, her chin lifting. "That's my family's life out there in the ash. I'm coming with you."
Carmine studied her for a long moment, a faint, humorless smirk touching the corner of his mouth. "You have grease under your fingernails from baking this morning, Nell. This isn't flour and sugar."
"I survived three years in your house without you ever knowing my name, Mr. Orsini," she retorted, her eyes flashing with a sudden, fierce defiance. "I think I can handle a retired mob associate."
Carmine let out a short, dry chuckle. "All right. But stay behind me."
Inside, the restaurant smelled of stale fried fish and cheap bourbon. Sal Marcone sat at a corner booth, a heavy man in an expensive silk shirt with silver chest hair visible through the unbuttoned collar. Two younger men stood behind him, their hands resting inside their jackets.
Marcone didn't look surprised when Carmine slid into the booth opposite him. His eyes flicked past Carmine to Nell, who stood like a statue beside the mahogany partition.
"Orsini," Marcone rumbled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "I hear you've been asking about old fires. People in our line of work usually try to forget things that burn down. Bad for the skin."
"Depends on who struck the match, Sal," Carmine said, his voice dropping into a smooth, conversational register that carried an underlying threat sharper than a razor. "Arthur Vance retired to Biloxi. Bought a boat. Nice boat. A forty-foot Hatteras. Hard to buy on a municipal pension unless someone tips the scales."
Marcone took a slow sip of his drink. "Vance is an old man. Maybe he got lucky at the tables."
"Maybe," Carmine agreed. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the sticky tabletop. "Or maybe someone paid him to look the other way when a padlock was welded shut on a bakery door so a group of investors could pick up riverfront property for pennies on the dollar."
One of the men behind Marcone shifted his weight, his hand twitching toward his jacket. Benny Romano cleared his throat from the shadows near the door, the metallic click of a safety catch sliding off echoing clearly in the silent room.
Marcone raised a heavy hand, signaling his muscle to stand down. He looked at Carmine with a mixture of respect and deep irritation.
"You're making a lot of noise over a dead baker, Carmine. The old man is brain-dead in a nursing home down on St. Charles. The girl is scrubbing floors in your mansion. Why do you care about a pile of ash from three years ago?"
"Because," Carmine said softly, his dark eyes locking onto Marcone's, "someone made a mess in my city. And I don't like messes."
Nell stepped out from behind the partition, her voice trembling slightly, but clear enough to cut through the heavy air of the room.
"It was the Meridian Group, wasn't it?"
Marcone’s eyes flicked to her. A slow, greasy smile spread across his face. "Well, look at that. The maid has a voice."
"The Meridian Group bought the adjacent lots six months after the fire," Nell said, her fists clenched at her sides. "My father received three letters from their acquisition manager before he was hospitalized. He threw them in the trash."
"Smart girl," Marcone said, leaning back. "Too bad she's working for the wrong boss."
May you like
Carmine didn't blink. He reached across the table, grabbed Marcone by the silk collar of his shirt, and pulled him forward so fast the ice in Marcone's glass spilled over the rim.
"You're going to give me the names of everyone at Meridian Group who signed off on that check," Carmine whispered, his voice so quiet it barely registered above the hum of the refrigerator. "And you're going to do it before I let Benny show you what happens when an old man's boat springs a leak."
