Vieux Carré Voodoo

Vieux Carré
Voodoo

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“Fast-moving and entertaining, evoking the Quarter and its
gay scene in a sweet, funny, action-packed way.”—
New Orleans Times- Picayune

“Herren does a fine job of moving the story along, deftly
juggling the murder investigation and the intricate relationships while
maintaining several running subjects.”—
Echo Magazine

“An entertaining read.”—
OutSmart Magazine

“A pleasant addition to your beach bag.”—
Bay Windows

“Greg Herren gives readers a tantalizing glimpse of New
Orleans.” —
Midwest Book Review

“Herren’s characters, dialogue and setting make the book
seem absolutely real.”—
The Houston Voice

“So much fun it should be thrown from Mardi Gras floats!”—
New
Orleans Times-Picayune

“Greg Herren just keeps getting better.”—
Lambda Book
Report

Bourbon Street Blues

Jackson Square Jazz

Mardi Gras Mambo

Murder in the Rue Dauphine

Murder in the Rue St. Ann

Murder in the Rue Chartres

Murder in the Rue Ursulines

Murder in the Garden District

Full Body Contact

Shadows of the Night

Upon a Midnight Clear

FRATSEX

Love, Bourbon Street (with Paul J. Willis)

Vieux Carré Voodoo

by

Greg Herren

2010

Vieux Carré Voodoo

© 2010 By Greg Herren. All Rights Reserved.

ISBN 10: 1-60282-152-6E

ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-152-1E

This Electronic Book is published by

Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

P.O. Box 249

Valley Falls, New York 12185

First Edition: May 2010

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the
product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without
permission.

Credits

Editor: Stacia Seaman

Production Design: Stacia Seaman

Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

As hard as it is for me to believe, this is my twelfth
novel.

There are a number of people to thank, as always with one of
these—so I appreciate your patience.

First of all, I need to thank everyone who works with me at
the NO/AIDS Task Force, and most especially Jean Redmann, Allison Vertovec,
Diane Murray, and Larry Stillings (who never forgets the jalapenos). I work at a
satellite office, the Community Awareness Network in the Marigny—and I need to
thank my co-workers for putting up with me: Josh Fegley, Mark Drake, Ked Dixon,
Tanner Menard, Martin Strickland, Kyle Morse, Jon Pennycuff, and Michael
Robinson. Pity poor Tanner and Martin—they have to share an office with me.

My three graces and their spouses are certainly angels in
human guise: Julie Smith and Lee Pryor, Patricia Brady and Michael Ledet, and
Bev and Butch Marshall.

I want to especially thank Radclyffe, Stacia Seaman, and
everyone at Bold Strokes Books for welcoming me, and my wacky Scotty, with open
arms. I just hope you won’t be sorry.

The Compound is a wonderful home away from home, filled with
warm loving people and lots of laughter: Becky Cochrane, Tom Wocken, Timothy J.
Lambert, and of course the original Ninja Lesbians: Rhonda Rubin and Lindsay
Smolensky.

Also worthy of mention are such gracious people as Richard
Labonte, Anthony Bidulka, Michael Thomas Ford, William J. Mann, Philip Rafshoon,
everyone at Murder by the Book in Houston, Mark Richards, John Messenger,
Michael Carruth, John Angelico, Al and Harriet Campbell-Young, Thea Mars, Ellen
Hart, Nevada Barr, Stephen Driscoll, Stuart Wamsley, Todd Perley, Famous Author
Rob Byrnes, ’nathan Burgoine, Dan Smith, Jeffrey Ricker, Michael Wallenstein,
David Puterbaugh, Steve Soucy, and so many others I don’t have enough room to
name. But you know who you are.

And of course, my dear, wonderful Paul Willis, who makes
every day an adventure and my life worth getting out of bed for.

This is for

POPPY Z. BRITE

Thanks for always believing I could write about Scotty again,
even when I didn’t.

 “Don’t you just love these long rainy
afternoons in New Orleans when an hour just isn’t an hour—but a little piece of
eternity placed into your hands—and who knows what to do with it?”

—Tennessee Williams,
A Streetcar Named Desire

“New Orleans can break your heart and wreck your liver.”

—Julie Smith,
The Axeman’s Jazz

No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under
conditions of absolute reality; even pigeons and palmetto bugs are supposed, by
some, to dream. New Orleans, not sane, stood by itself inside its levees,
holding darkness within; it had stood there for almost three hundred years and
might stand for three hundred more. Within, walls continued to tilt, bricks
crumbled sloppily, floors were termite-chewed and doors sometimes shut; silence
lay steadily against the wood and stone of New Orleans, and whoever drank there,
drank alone.

Yeah, right. People only drink alone in New Orleans by
choice.

My name is Scotty Bradley, and I’m a private dick who works
the mean streets of New Orleans. I right wrongs. I help the downtrodden find
justice. I punish the guilty. I ferret out crime, and protect the innocent while
punishing the guilty. Criminals tremble when they hear my name, and get out of
town if they know what’s good for them. Dame Justice may be blind, but I see all
too clearly. The helpless come to me when everyone else has failed, when hope is
gone, and the night seems darkest. I’ve got a mean right hook and never back
down from a fight. I drink my martinis shaken, not stirred—because I like my gin
like miscreants who cross my path, bruised and a little battered. I am on a
never-ending quest for truth, justice, and preserving the American way of life.
I rescue dreams and bring nightmares to an end. Don’t call me a hero, because
any one of you would do the same if given the chance. There is no case too small
for me to handle, and there is no case so large that it is intimidating. I’ve
taken down a corrupt political machine, and would gladly do it again tomorrow.
I’ve found lost treasures and stared down the Russian mob. I’ve stared evil in
the face until evil blinked and backed away in mortal terror. I have—

Yeah, right. And I have a bridge across the Mississippi for
sale, if you’re interested.

My name is really
Milton
Bradley, like the board
game company—my parents have a slightly twisted sense of humor. Scotty is my
middle name, but it’s what everyone calls me. I really
am
a private
eye—bonded, and licensed by the state of Louisiana. I was born and raised in New
Orleans and have lived here my entire life except for two misspent years at
Vanderbilt University up in Nashville. I live on Decatur Street with my partner,
Frank Sobieski. We’re business partners, and life partners. We met on a case a
couple of years back, and it was pretty much love at first sight. Frank is one
of the most gorgeous men I’ve ever seen outside of a porn movie. He’s in his
early forties, about six foot two, and when he had hair, it was blond. Now that
he’s balding, he shaves it down to a little buzz. He has the most hypnotic blue
eyes, a strong chin, and a scar on the right side of his face. He also started
lifting weights in his twenties—and there’s not an ounce of fat on his hugely
muscled, amazingly defined body.

He also has one of the most amazing butts I’ve ever laid
eyes on. Woof!

Well, okay—it was lust at first sight. Love came later.

Back in the day, I was just a personal trainer who
moonlighted as a go-go dancer. That’s what I was doing when I first met
Frank—but after I foiled an evil right-wing conspiracy to commit mass murder,
Frank convinced me I had the makings of a first-class private eye. I was a good
personal trainer, but I was getting bored with it—and I liked the sound of
Scotty Bradley, dick for hire. Frank took early retirement from the Feds, moved
to New Orleans, and we hung out our shingle. My older brother Storm (I told you
my parents have a twisted sense of humor—my sister’s name is Rain) is a lawyer,
and he threw us some work every now and then.

That one-eyed bitch Katrina swamped our business like she
did ninety percent of the city. After the city dried out and people slowly
started trickling back home, private detectives weren’t in much demand. Oh,
sure, there was some insurance work—fraud by policyholders, fraud by the
soulless suits in the corporate office—but frankly, insurance work sucks. But it
pays the bills and keeps the lights on, so we took the cases even though the
work left us feeling slimed.

I think that was part of the reason Frank decided to chase a
lifelong dream and go to pro wrestling training school.

“Seriously?” I said, staring at him in shock when he brought
it up.

He blushed. He’s awful cute when he blushes. “Seriously,
Scotty. I know it might sound silly, but it’s something I’ve always wanted to
do.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “And you know, if we learned anything from
Katrina…”

“Grab every brass ring that comes along because there might
not be another.” I finished the thought for him. We’d talked about that a lot
since the water receded. “You really want to do this?” I pondered it for a
moment.

“Yes,” he replied, turning an even deeper shade of red.
Before he’d gone bald, his hair had been blond. He was one of those lucky blonds
who turn that gorgeous shade of golden brown when tanned—and he was always
tanned. But when embarrassed, that skin tone also turns a deep red that’s almost
purple. Frank doesn’t blush often, but it’s really cute when he does. Even his
neck turns red.