Page 2 of Rafael

At the next exit, he turned off the interstate and dove into a residential neighborhood where he wove in and out of the streets.

When he thought he’d lost the SUV, he took one of the smaller highways out of New Orleans, heading west, the bag of money on his seat feeling like a massive target for thieves and the New Orleans Mafia. He’d heard of guys who’d been dumped in the bayou for not paying off their loans. He'd been dodging collectors, trying to win back some of the money he’d lost, only to lose more and more and getting deeper into debt.

He’d passed the small town of Bayou Miste andpushed on when another black SUV fell in behind him. Either way, if he stopped for food or gas or was run off the road, someone could easily knock him off and take the money.

He needed to put the money somewhere safe, where no one would think to find it. He could lay low until things quieted down, and he figured out where he could go to start his new life.

With the SUV on his tail, stashing the cash became his number one priority.

He passed the turn-off for Bayou Mambaloa and looked for a place to pull off the road. As he approached a series of curves in the road, he sped up instead of slowing down, taking the curves too fast for an SUV. A narrow gravel road turned off to the left with overhanging trees and overgrown vegetation along the sides.

He slammed on the brakes and drove onto the narrow, rutted road, going back far enough no one would see him from the road. He shut off his engine, rolled down the windows and listened for the roar of an SUV engine passing on the highway. When he was sure it had gone, he started his engine, turned around and headed back to Bayou Mambaloa.

After parking his car in an alley behind the businesses on Main Street, he looped the bag over his shoulder and went in search of a place wherehe could hide the money. An antique store caught his attention. They’d have furniture, maybe an oldcabinet with a price so high it wouldn’t sell in the next week or so until he could get back to collect his winnings.

As soon as he stepped through the door, he saw exactly the right place to stash the money. He waited until the man who ran the place was distracted. Then he stuffed the bag into a drawer. The problem wasthatanyone could open the cabinet, and they’d find the cash. He had to seal it.

Taking a chance, he left the bag of cash in the drawer, ran down to the hardware store and bought a tube of clear adhesive. He slipped it up his sleeve and walked back to the antique store. The owner was busy showing a customer every piece of hobnail glass in the store.

After checking that the bag was still there, he caulked the drawer edges, sealing it shut.

Cash on ice, he left the store and drove out of town, vowing to be back within a week. The thought of all that lovely cash made him smile until he remembered...he didn’t have any of it in his pocket.

Well, damn. He couldn’t go back to that town so soon. He’d just have to make do.

CHAPTER 1

Rafael Romero elbowedValentin Vachon in the side, nearly spilling the man’s beer. “Don’t drink so much you can’t help me move tomorrow.”

Valentin held the stadium cup full of the frothy liquid away from his shirt until the liquid quit sloshing. “Man, don’t be poking a guy in the ribs when he’s holding a full beverage. What are you worried about, anyway?” He tipped the cup back and drank it down to a more manageable level. “It’s not like you have a lot of shit.”

“No, I don’t,” Rafael agreed. “I just need help getting my bed out of the boarding house and up the stairs into my new place.”

“Then why worry about how much I’m drinking?” Valentin asked.

Rafael lifted his chin toward the cup Valentin raised to his lips. “Can’t have you still half-loopedtomorrow morning and falling down the stairs. I haven’t looked into rental insurance yet, especially the liability portion of it.”

Valentin snorted. “Lighten up. This is my first beer of the evening and likely won’t be my last.” He tapped his toe to the beat of the music played by the band on the makeshift stage set up near the banks of the bayou. “What do they call this kind of music?”

“Zydeco.” Their regional boss, Remy Montagne, pointed to the banner stretched across the street. “Like the sign.”

“Oh, yeah,” Valentin grimaced. “I knew that.”

Remy’s brow twisted. “How long have you been away from Louisiana?”

“Too long,” Valentin said. “But then, I didn’t live this close to the bayou or New Orleans. We didn’t have Zydeco festivals in Monroe. Too far north. The people there are more like folks in southern Arkansas. Not as Cajun.”

Gerard Guidry kicked an empty beer can. “Where’d you score an apartment?”

“Over the yoga studio.” Rafael braced himself for the ribbing.

Landry Laurent snorted. “Next door to the Mamba Wamba Art and Gifts shop and the pretty shop owner he’s been drooling over since we arrived in Bayou Mambaloa.”

“Is she still giving you the cold shoulder?” Valentin asked.

Rafael cracked his knuckles. “It’s only a matter of time until she succumbs to the Romero charm.”

“And then what?” Gerard asked. “Never known you to go out with a woman more than twice before you leave her crying in her beer.”

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