Taking a breath, her mother tossed the phone on Keira’s bed and curled her arms over her chest. “You and I are going to have that conversation now.”
“No. We’re really not.” The woman tried stopping Keira when she hurried toward her bed. She slapped the back of Keira’s head, punched her shoulders, but the girl was too focused on stopping Kona from doing something epically stupid. She had the Nokia in her hand when her mother yanked on her hair, tugging her backward and that pinching ache on her roots had her yelling, jerking back to send and elbow right in the center of her mother’s chest.
The woman staggered, then fell on her ass and Keira didn’t take time to enjoy the rounded eyes or the way her mother’s mouth dropped open in shock. It was a memory she’d store for another moment, when she had time to cradle that happy sight. “You ever hit me again and I swear on Daddy’s grave I will knock you into next week. Better still, I’ll take all those pictures Leann’s taken of me for years, sporting your handiwork straight to the cops, Mother. You think your friends would be interested in those? Now back off and leave me alone.”
Keira ignored the low sob her mother released and the rattle of her door as the woman slammed it shut. She hit the call button once more and stared out onto the lake as the moonlight shimmered across the still water. Her prayers were silent, pleading as the call kept ringing. Finally, that deep voice answered and Keira exhaled.
“Hey. It’s me. I really need your help. Can you meet me outside your house in an hour?”
The hotel smelled like bleach. It was a filthy by-the-hour place a few blocks from N. Rampart Street, fringing the outskirts of Treme. Kona stood outside, leaning against the dirty brick wall waiting for Ricky’s delivery, trying to look small, hiding in the dark shadows of the alleyway that backed up onto a row of rusted dumpsters. The smell was unbelievable—raw, moldy food, a stray needle or two on the pavement and floods of black trash bags tipping the tops of the trash bins. All around him was graffiti, some beautiful, haunting skulls and crossbones, most tags of gang names that marked territory.
Ricky was inside that small hotel room that Kona had only stepped in and then quickly abandoned a half hour before. It smelled like burnt hair and submission, but that didn’t seem to bother Ricky. He was only there to catch a nut before his shipment arrived. Kona heard the man moaning, finishing up with a hooker from one of the mob strip joints somewhere in the Quarter. Kona could hear them inside, Ricky calling the girl a dirty slut, the smack of his hand on the girl’s ass and her high-pitched squeal each time he smacked her. Heroin, Kona figured. What else would make a girl that tiny, that pretty sweat herself raw every night on a pole or give herself over to a pox-marked, rail thin asshole like Ricky?
Kona didn’t want to be there. He wanted his Wildcat, wanted this favor he owed Ricky to be over. He really wanted to drown out that slap on skin and the squeak of the rusted springs on the bed inside that room.
Kona pushed off from the wall, managing a slight nod to Ricky’s’ two boys who passed a cigarette between each other as they watched the street. They were both smaller than Kona by at least five inches, and each wore faded jeans and threadbare, dark coats.
Marco was the shorter of the two, a Spanish kid from the Irish Channel with one of his front teeth missing. The other was Lil Eddie, boxier than Marco with pale skin and dark eyes. Kona didn’t know much about Eddie except that he was new to Ricky’s crew and had hands like a girl. It had freaked Kona out a little the first time he shook Eddie’s hand—how smooth his palm was, how soft, as though he’d never lifted a finger to work hard his entire life. Kona didn’t trust either of them, but Eddie especially had the hairs on the back of Kona’s neck standing on end.
Marco’s sharp whistle brought Kona’s attention back to the street and to the yellow ’68 Mustang that pulled up along the sidewalk in front of the hotel. He and Lil Eddie kept watch, standing on either side of the car and Kona gnawed on his cheek, eyes squinted at Keith, Ricky’s boy, as he slid out of the car.
“Kona. What’s up, man?” Keith was mixed, light skinned with bright green eyes, pupils always dilated. Ricky trusted him, told Kona that Keith would too scared of him to shortchange his shipment, but Kona knew better. He’d seen this asshole placing bets against CPU throughout the season. He’d seen him lurking around the locker room and team house when Ricky wasn’t around. This guy had his sights on replacing Kona as Ricky’s supplier to the team. Kona didn’t care about being traded, he just didn’t want his teammates messed up with Ricky’s shit.