Date: October 24, 1951

  “You were saying?” Isaiah asked.

  Whiskey took a breath. With the women gone and the door closed, a weight had lifted from his shoulders, the tension easing, if only slightly, and he kept his eyes and his gun trained on the man.

  “Oh, put that damn thing away,” Isaiah grumbled, gesturing to the still-raised gun. “No one’s gonna bother us.”

  When Whiskey didn’t move, Isaiah rolled his eyes.

  “Fine. I swear on my power as long as you don’t harm me, you’ve got nothing to fear from me or my men… tonight,” he added, raising a finger.

  Again, his tattoos flashed.

  “There. That better?”

  “What can you tell me about Hallie, Mr. Scott?” Whiskey asked, lowering the gun.

  Isaiah snorted.

  “You break into my house, point my gun at my face, and start asking questions? You’ve got a pair, boy.”

  Shaking his head, he muttered, “I need a drink. That alright? Can I have a drink in my own damn house?”

  Whiskey shrugged, stepping aside as Isaiah stalked to the mini-bar. On the way, he yanked the needle from the record player, cutting Ella off mid-note with a discordant scratch.

  “I’d offer you one,” he said, grabbing a bottle of amber liquor, “but you weren’t invited, so fuck you. You don’t get any.”

  Drink in hand, he crossed to a plush armchair and sank into it. He ran a finger over one of the white powder lines on the table, rubbed it along his gums, then took a long swallow from his glass and dunked his injured hand in a bucket of ice.

  “Now, where were we?”

  “You were about to tell me everything you know about Hallie’s abduction,” Whiskey said, still by the bar.

  Isaiah gave him a sidelong glance. “I take it you already talked to George, since you…” He wiggled his fingers in mock air quotes. “Know so much.”

  Whiskey shrugged. “I wanted to talk to you first. And you’re still dodging the question.”

  Isaiah nodded, as if expecting the answer. “Right, right,” he muttered, gaze drifting.

  “Things haven’t been…” He grimaced, either from the ice or a memory Whiskey couldn’t tell. “It’s all George’s fault.”

  Whiskey crossed his arms. “You want to elaborate on that, Mr. Scott?”

  Isaiah’s face twisted into something ugly.

  “The old son of a bitch’s always blabbin’ to anyone who’ll listen about who he is. About how important his damned family is. As if he knew a damn thing about them. If he did, he’d realize my girl doesn’t take to being ordered around like one of his wife’s lapdogs.

  “But George? His mind’s like dried cement, stuck in its ways.” Isaiah snorted. “The moment he told her she couldn’t see me? That’s all she wanted to do.”

  “And you let her?”

  Isaiah gave Whiskey a contemptuous stare.

  “Boy, you hard’a hearin’? I learned a long time ago. It’s best to let that girl do what she wants and just keep the damage down. I got a pad in the Tenderloin. She’d stay the night, head home in the mornin’. It was fine.”

  “Were you planning to meet the night she was taken?”

  Isaiah’s gaze went distant as he swirled his drink. He gave a small nod.

  “After I took care of some business. I told her I’d be late, but she said she’d wait it out at The Choice. I sent Jordy to keep an eye on her, but…”

  His voice trailed off.

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  It took Whiskey a beat to piece it together.

  “Jordy?” he asked. “As in Jordan Bryant, the other victim? He was one of yours?”

  Isaiah shot him a look, weary and edged with irritation. “You think I’d let my daughter, barely eighteen, go to bars alone? She said he was cute. And with the trouble she’d been getting into lately, I had him watching her since… since…”

  “Since he brought one of the tightest-knit criminal organizations in the city’s history to the brink of civil war,” Passenger offered.

  “Since you and George… went separate ways?” Whiskey asked aloud.

  Isaiah’s expression hardened as his gaze met Whiskey’s.

  “And who are you to judge me?” he snapped. “You think word hasn’t gotten out about your little excursions, you fucking dwimmer? People are gonna get high, whether it’s from me or the next guy. If you can’t see that, then fuck you. I’m gettin’ mine.”

  He glanced down into his glass and muttered, “Sure as hell, I’m getting mine.”

  Whiskey let the silence breathe a moment, then asked, “Do you know who took her, Mr. Scott?”

  Isaiah wiped the corner of his eye.

  “You want a drink, Whiskey? Maybe a whiskey drink?”

  He took another sip, then snorted and broke into a fit of giggles.

  “Enough of this, Kinichiro,” Passenger said, letting out a disgusted sound. “His aura’s all over the place. Use Passion and crack him open like an egg.”

  Whiskey thought it sounded halfway reasonable, but kept his voice purposefully professional as he said, “This is serious, Mr. Scott.”

  Isaiah lurched to his feet, upending the bucket and sending ice water splashing across the floor.

  He hurled his glass at the wall. It shattered, knocking a painting off its hook. The painting hit the floor with a crash, taking a side table and everything on it with it.

  “You don’t think I fucking know that?” he roared. “The Baron hisself couldn’t make me take this more serious, you hear me?”

  The name sent a ripple through Whiskey’s memory. He recalled the note from the dispatcher.

  “Speaking of the Baron,” he said, continuing as if the outburst had never happened, “a witness reported being led to the scene by a man in a top hat, nose stuffed with cotton.”

  He let the silence sit.

  “Sound familiar?”

  Isaiah, who had started toward the fallen table, froze mid-step. His head snapped toward Whiskey like it was on a swivel.

  “What?”

  “The witness who reported the abduction,” Whiskey said. “They claimed they saw someone who looked like a dead ringer for Baron Samedi. Said he led them to the scene, while it was happening.”

  His voice stayed calm, measured, but he narrowed his eyes for emphasis. “Now tell me, Mr. Scott. Why would the patron of your entire operation do something like that?”

  Isaiah scoffed.

  “How the hells should I know what the Baron be up to?” His accent thickened as he spoke of the loa. “Do I look like his keeper? Bliss be makin’ people see all sorts of divine shit lately. Maybe he just saw someone got the eye and stopped to say howdy. You even sure it was him? Coulda been some weirdo blister tellin’ tales.”

  Whiskey folded his arms. “Let’s say it really was the Baron. Hypothetically. You think he’d be pleased with a civil war breaking out among his followers?”

  “Pshhh.” Isaiah waved him off. “The Baron only cares about four things: death, mischief, cigarettes, and a good daffy o’ rum.”

  He bent down to pick something from the wreckage.

  “Let me ask you something, oh brilliant detective,” he said, turning back toward Whiskey. “How do you know this ain’t George’s move? This whole thing could be a setup; his excuse to start the war he’s been wantin’.”

  He began pacing, words speeding up as they built momentum.

  “Yeah! He knows his men don’t want beef with my brothas, so he killed Jordy and snatched Hallie to make it look like I did it. Throw folks off the scent. And by the time anyone looks his way, he’s already bringin’ fire.”

  He pointed the object at Whiskey like it was a weapon.

  “Well, he ain’t catchin’ my Liberated Saints unawares. If it’s war he wants, we got plenty for him!”

  Then, as if finally realizing what he held, Isaiah froze. His gaze dropped to the item which turned out to be a small picture frame. He stared at it for a long moment, then whispered, “Oh. Baby…”

  Tears welled. His hands trembled as he ran his fingers over the glass, like he was trying to memorize the image beneath. He trembled violently, something breaking apart, crumbling at the edges.

  Whiskey watched as the feared, dangerous criminal wept, wracked with guilt and terror.

  And he felt…

  He wasn’t sure.

  But it sent a shiver running up his spine.

  Isaiah wiped his eyes with his sleeve. When he spoke, his voice was hollow.

  “I’m done with this conversation,” he said. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

  Whiskey sighed. “I have a meeting with George tonight. Can I get your word you’ll let me dig into this before you do something rash?”

  Isaiah kept his eyes down.

  “They think they can use me as a pawn?” he muttered. “Fine. If it’s games they want, I got somethin’ for ’em. And if the old cat wants in, there’s plenty to go around.”

  “Mr. Scott, please listen.”

  Isaiah shook his head like a dog shaking off water.

  “No. You listen.” He met Whiskey’s eyes, and again Whiskey was reminded of the jaguar at the zoo. “Either you find Hallie fast, or the Liberated Saints wipe out the old and bring in the new. You hear? I will get my girl back,” Isaiah growled, “even if I have to burn this whole damn city to the ground.”

  Whiskey didn’t blink.

  “I need time to work, Mr. Scott.”

  “Then best get a move on, investigator,” Isaiah snapped, slamming the picture frame onto the bar. The glass cracked with a sharp pop. “You got a job to do.”

  The fractured glass shifted, catching Isaiah’s reflection.

  For a moment, Whiskey didn’t move. He just stared at the man through the broken pane.

  Breath shallow. Face split, distorted, unrecognizable.

  And also vulnerable.

  Easy prey.

  Then the glass shifted again, and Whiskey saw what lay beneath the reflection—a photo of a younger, smiling Isaiah hugging a four-year-old Hallie.

  They looked… happy.

  It took some effort, but eventually Whiskey forced himself to look away.

  “You’re right,” he said quietly. “I do.”