Chapter 18 Lucien
Lucien
“Canal Street,” Daniel mutters, the disgust clear in his voice.
I don’t have time to ask him why he’s sneering, but I do anyhow. “You don’t like Canal Street?”
The sneer on his face becomes more pronounced. “It’s not real New Orleans,” he says quietly. “Might as well be Las Vegas.”
I wonder now if Daniel has ever actually been to Las Vegas, because Canal Street is nothing like that monstrosity.
On the dividing line between the Vieux Carre, where the Spanish and French lived, and the area where Americans decided to set up shop, Canal Street was, at one point, supposed to be an actual canal.
I wonder if the city planners thought that would keep the Cajun section of society from attacking the American side.
I doubt it. The planners of this city never had much forethought.
More likely they thought it would be good to contain all the evils New Orleans has ever held–whore houses, dance halls, gambling dens, and opium joints–and would give all people an equal shot at wasting their money.
Maybe Daniel’s right. That does sound like Vegas.
It also makes this area the perfect place to house a sex trafficking ring, though I can’t for the life of me understand how anyone would keep it in the dark if they were doing it here, where all eyes are wide and staring.
Canal Street isn’t the seedy neighborhood it once was.
These days, it houses a lot of retail and some newly renovated movie theaters.
Trolleys line the streets and there’s a parade every other day.
Tourists crowd the sidewalks, eating as many beignets as they can hold.
Boudreaux has several casinos on this strip, but they don’t open until midnight, because that’s the only way to make sure no one sees what you’re doing.
Who the fuck would try to smuggle girls through a building here?
Still, this was one of the most popular places on James’ GPS, and I don’t think he was coming here for fun. No one visits the same dance hall that many times each day. So there must be something. I just have to figure out what it is.
I stare up at the old-fashioned building in front of me, its wooden plans painted a garish color of bubblegum pink, with sea green trim along the corners and the roof.
The place looks like a candy store just threw up on it, and I feel myself sneering.
A dance hall, and an old-fashioned one at that.
The place looks like it was renovated recently, but kept its original job.
Instead of turning it into a club or bar, whoever owns it maintained it, according to the sign, as a dance hall.
One large room where everyone can go dance, drink, flirt, and generally have a good time.
Back in the day, dance halls doubled as lounges where you could find prostitutes, and I’ve heard rumors that these days, they cater to a much more permanent version of sex slavery.
Like selling girls?
Maybe.
I walk to the front door of the place, my eyes on the guard standing there.
“Hall’s not open yet, mister,” he says gruffly.
I wouldn’t expect it to be, and this strengthens my suspicions. After all, places that are doing illegal business won’t want to be open during the day.
“What time does it open?” I ask.
“Nine, and not a second before. But it’s not open tonight,” he grunts.
This sets my teeth on edge, and I tap my cane once. “Doesn’t make much sense to have a dance hall that’s not open,” I observe, trying to stay calm. What the fuck is this place, and what does it have to do with Landry’s operation?
And why is it closed the moment I appear on the scene?
The man doesn’t respond to my observation but lifts one shoulder in a shrug, and no matter how many additional questions I ask, he’s evidently finished communicating with me.
Frustrated, I turn from him, trying to figure out who else I can ask. I spot Mrs. Fontenot, the biggest madame in town, strolling down the street, and approach her, but she takes one look at me and shakes her head, then actually tells me to get lost.
“Kitty—” I start, shocked.
She throws up a hand to warn me away. “Leave me alone, Lucien. I’ve got more important things to worry about than some Boudreaux looking for a place to get his dick wet.”
I’m offended at the insinuation, but the woman is obviously out of her mind over something, so I let her go and turn around, looking for someone else.
If I know anything about New Orleans, it’s that the locals always know the business of everyone around them.
They’re either involved or have been told to stay the fuck away, and that has guaranteed that they do their research and figure out what’s going on.
If that dance hall is doing anything illegal, the street walkers will know about it.
And they’re always desperate for money.
I see a girl within moments, and though she looks like she’s doing okay–no broken teeth, and fairly clean–I’m also banking on her being open to bribery.
I mean, who isn’t?
It only takes $20 to get her talking.
“That dance hall doesn’t have any dances,” she says quickly. “And we’re never invited in. They sell other girls there.”
“Other girls?” I ask sharply. “What does that mean?”
She looks at me like she’s never met anyone so naive, which is a real laugh, considering she looks about ten years younger than me.
“The girls they have in there don’t want to be there, mister. They’ve not agreed to live the life.”
“English, girl,” I growl. “I don’t speak street walker.”
This earns me a dirty look, but I sweeten her up with another $20 and she keeps talking.
“Once a week they hold auctions in there,” she says, her voice lower and her eyes darting around the street like someone might be listening to our conversation.
“High-end girls. Girls from good families. They ain’t agreed to it, sir.
They’re sobbing and fighting. But they’re bought by men who can afford that sort of thing. ”
Now my voice is just as quiet as hers, though it’s not because I’m afraid of being overheard. The truth is, I’m so angry that I can hardly catch enough air to speak. “Bought for what?”
Her gaze meets mine and I see that she’s smarter than I took her for. Her eyes are clear and intelligent. “Slaves,” she says simply. “Sex or otherwise.”
She slips away before I can ask her anything else and I watch her go, heart hammering.
Auctions. High-end girls selling to the highest bidder.
Forced to serve some man in their own hometown, where their families might see them.
Where they can still see the streets they used to shop on. The homes they used to live in.
My God. I hadn’t thought of it before. I knew we were going after human traffickers, but I hadn’t really let that into my brain.
It was just a label. Just the name of the people we were searching for.
But now I’m forced to face it head on, and the prospect is horrifying.
Girls whose lives are taken from them, and who are forced into something no human being should have to suffer.
Forced to serve men they might have known in their previous life.
I’ve spent my whole life on the dark side of the law–hell, one of our casinos is just down the road, and I’ve killed more men in the back room of that casino than I can count, for cheating–but I’ve never felt as dirty as I do right now.
And not dirty in a good, playful sort of way.
I feel as though I’ve been doused in oil and then dusted with dirt that will never come off. I thought I was relatively jaded to the crime of life but this... I don’t want this in my head. I want to bleach my brain of the knowledge.
And Brooks is in this ring.
My thoughts catch on that, and I suddenly wonder.
An auction? They’re auctioning the girls off?
Does that mean they don’t actually ship them anywhere?
We were so sure there was an actual smuggling aspect to this, via ship, that we’ve been focusing on that over and above anything else, and I was sure we knew what we were doing.
But now I’m doubting myself. We don’t actually have proof of any shipments. Just circumstantial evidence that we might have been forcing into our suspicions. Did we waste all that time at the docks, tracking ships, for an operation that only functions in the city? Do they only do auctions?
Has this been right in front of my face the entire time?
Once a week, that girl said, and the guard said the place is closed tonight. That must mean there’s an auction happening. The only auction this week. And we’re within the window of a group of girls being shipped out. Or, as it happens, sold to the highest bidder.
If that timeline is true, and if our suspicions are correct, that means Aislyn’s group should be on the block tonight. Literally.
And if they put Brooks in the same group, she’ll be here, too.
If she’s still alive. If she hasn’t done anything stupid.
The tracking device I gave her hasn’t been working since they took her, and I don’t know what to make of that.
There’s a chance the device just didn’t work–it was a new version of tech–but there’s also a chance they found it when they first kidnapped her.
They would have been searching her for weapons, and if they had something that could pick up on tech embedded in a hair tie…
If they found it, they might have killed her for having something like that.
Devils, I could have gotten her killed by trying to protect her. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I turn and start pacing, willing my brain to come up with something useful. Why the fuck did I let her go in there without a plan to get her back out again? Why didn’t I tell her she couldn’t go?
Why the ever-loving fuck hadn’t I done more to protect her?
Because you didn’t think you had that right, a voice in my head says.