Tupelo Gypsy Read online

  TUPELO GYPSY

  WHAT READERS

  ARE SAYING

  True Blue Detective

  “I loved this book and can’t wait for the next to come out. Vito Zuppardo is an awesome author.”

  —Amazon customer review, 5 stars

  “I loved the story and the characters are very well defined. After reading this book, I’d like to visit New Orleans.”

  —Amazon customer review, 5 stars

  “Very good book. I can’t wait to read others by Vito. I grew up in New Orleans and really liked the story.”

  —Myles S., Amazon customer review, 5 stars

  Crescent City Detective

  “WOW! Well, Vito, I think you finally hit it. What a great book. The story captured me on the first page and then it got better with every page I turned…. Just when I thought it was coming to the end, it took a wicked turn and took you in the opposite direction. Vito, will there be another book to follow? I can’t wait. Get to work. Loved it.”

  —Amazon customer review, 5 stars

  Tales of Lady Luck

  “To many of us, Las Vegas and the mystique that beckons visitors to that unique world do not seem real—not real, that is, until you read this latest work of the Zuppardo, the master of ‘been there; done that’ when the mighty gambling casinos are the subject. I found the author’s frank explanation and colorful descriptions enlightening and deliciously funny…. I enjoyed the literary visit to the kingdom of Las Vegas and the people who rule it.”

  —Amazon customer Rosalind Tuminello, 5 stars

  ALSO BY

  VITO ZUPPARDO

  True Blue Detective series

  True Blue Detective (2016)

  Crescent City Detective (2018)

  Vieux Carré Detective (2018)

  Voodoo Lucy series

  Tupelo Gypsy (2018)

  Revenge (2019)

  Lady Luck series

  Alluring Lady Luck (2015)

  Tales of Lady Luck (2016)

  TUPELO GYPSY

  Voodoo Lucy series

  book 1

  VITO ZUPPARDO

  Copyright © 2018 Vito Zuppardo

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1722794026

  Publisher’s Note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictional manner.

  Cover design: Dar Albert

  www.wickedsmartdesigns.com

  Original cover artwork: Diane Zuppardo

  Print Formatting: By Your Side Self-Publishing

  www.ByYourSideSelfPub.com

  No part of the book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission.

  A special thanks to my wife, Diane Zuppardo, for the cover picture of her original artwork.

  Chapter One

  The French Quarter never slept. Jazz music wafted out of clubs until the first sign of morning, to be replaced by the much less agreeable clanks and screeches of a garbage truck picking up trash in the alleyway that separated Bourbon and Royal. One side of the alley was lined with trash cans from some of the hottest nightclubs on Bourbon Street, the other with mostly boxes from the art galleries that faced Royal Street. With a hydraulic whine, the truck crushed cans, bottles, and boxes into its steel belly.

  The sanitation truck was a block away, and that was the sound she was waiting for. “Anything you’d like to say?” Lucy asked. Her real name was Lucinda Jones, but some called her Lucy, and most recently, she was known as Voodoo Lucy to street punks like Picklehead, who seemed to be struggling to process her question. In truth, she had several names. The one she used at any moment depended on what con she was running.

  Lying on a flat cart used to move heavy furniture, Picklehead glared up at her, his head tightly held by a donkey harness attached to the handles of the steel cart.

  “Well?” she asked, pressing on his neck with her foot.

  “Yeah, I’ve got something to say—you’re a dead bitch.”

  Lucy smiled at Picklehead. He was blinking rapidly, and he had a grayish cast to his face. He must be coming down from his big rush, something he’d enjoyed only a short time ago.

  “Didn’t that little hit of coke take the edge off?”

  With a look that could kill, Picklehead asked, “What do you want?”

  “You can’t take advantage of women without consequence.”

  Given the increasingly loud clatter of trash cans, the garbage truck was one building away. Standing in front of the cart staring at Picklehead, Lucy wondered what made people do such horrible things. The truck’s brakes squealed as it stopped in the alley near the furniture shop’s door. Shortly after, as she expected, the truck’s hydraulics kicked in, the crusher’s noise deafening.

  Lucy pulled a syringe from her pocket, checked for an air bubble, and plunged it into his arm. That’s when Picklehead let out a scream and then another, only to be drowned out by the sound of the truck’s hydraulics, which lasted for twenty seconds. By the time the clatter stopped, so had Picklehead’s heart.

  The sound of the truck receded as it rumbled down to the next block. Her heart beating fast, Lucy eyeballed the alleyway, then pushed the cart carrying Picklehead out to it. Stripping off the harness and flipping his body to the ground, she propped him against a building. Working quickly, she placed Picklehead’s thumb on the syringe, with the needle pushed into his arm. His hand dropped to the ground, the needle dangling from his skin as if Picklehead had squeezed every last ounce of juice from the syringe.

  The furniture cart cleaned of fingerprints and rolled back into place as if it had never moved, Voodoo Lucy walked through the building and out the front door to Royal Street. She crossed the street and took her usual seat at Café Beignet. Now it was a waiting game—to see how long it would take for someone to discover what appeared to be another junkie overdosed in an alley.

  Chapter Two

  Lucinda Jones always walked the streets of New Orleans with mixed feelings. Whispers of “Voodoo Lucy” reached her ears from the gossips as she passed. Others worshipped her as a goddess, calling her “Ms. Lucy,” and were proud to be her friend.

  The legend of Voodoo Lucy had started eight months ago, shortly after twenty-eight-year-old Lucy and her mother Wanda arrived in New Orleans. Lucy had taken a part-time job at Bluff Salon, where her mother had also obtained employment as a beautician. The two received small salaries, decent tips, and free lodging in a tiny apartment above the salon on Royal Street. It was the new start they had hoped New Orleans could offer.

  Lucy’s father had lingered back in Tupelo, Mississippi, to sell off the few possessions that remained after they’d been evicted from their home. Tupelo had nothing for them but memories they all wanted to forget. Her father was supposed to join them within a week, but Lucy had said her goodbyes before leaving Tupelo. She’d seen it in his eyes—he’d had no plans to meet up with them. After a month of waiting, her mother had finally given up and admitted to Lucy that she’d been right.

  Vivien Bluff, the owner of Bluff Salon, was a strange woman and a self-proclaimed psychic reader, who had several regular customers and the occasional tourist. Her office was separated from the salon by nothing more than a long bead drape hanging from the ceiling. Vivien sat at the table with an empty chair across from her and flipped through tarot cards most of the day.

  Keeping the salon clean was Lucy’s job, along with fetching cold drinks from the vending machine or cups of coffee for customers.

  While sweeping up, Lucy frequently found herself drawn to the hair clippings that dropped to the floor. Maybe it was their color or their texture that called out to her, but something about them was intriguing. She kept the floor clean but saved some red, blond, and jet-black hair in a bag. Why? She didn’t know.

  After a few weeks, Lucy caught on to specific repetitive interactions that customers had with the salon as well as with Vivien. The French Quarter of New Orleans was home to many quirky people who kept odd hours. The salon wasn’t a nine-to-five type business. Club dancers made hair appointments at nine at night, so they could leave and go straight to work. Men working the doors at clubs and bars wanted their hair cut after work—and the clubs closed at five in the morning. Vivien didn’t turn any appointments down. Lucy and Wanda soon learned why the job came with living quarters above the salon. They were open practically twenty-four hours a day, six days a week.

  Lucy studied Vivien’s psychic readings. Her clients blurted out their fears behind the bead drape like the area was soundproofed. They mostly told her their worries, and Vivien read their cards, saying what could happen if they continued on their current paths. Her pronouncements weren’t anything the clients didn’t already know; they just wanted to hear it from someone else. Vivien was nothing more than a twenty-dollar-an-hour psychologist, calculatedly playing on their emotions and behavior from the minute they walked into the salon.

  The night callers were men, mostly middle-aged, well-dressed and well-groomed. Vivien sat with them and talked while they sipped on Hennessy cognac, something she offered her preferred clients. It was always the same routine. A few minutes at the table, then she gave the cue by rising with her glass. Her night caller responded by standing and leaving an envelope on the table. Then, with a drink in hand, he followed Vivien to a door she held open.

  Lucy watched each night from her perch on the top step of the stairway. The men smiled and gave Vivien a kiss on the cheek
before walking into one of the bedrooms. Vivien returned to the table, picked up the envelope, and continued sipping her cognac.

  Lucy’s ears focused on the whispers coming from the bedroom. It was always a woman’s voice she heard. Then silence would come over the bedroom. All that Lucy could hear from downstairs was Vivien lighting up another cigarette. Then a woman’s faint sensual moaning would come from the bedroom. The sound would grow louder and more forceful—then it would be suddenly muted. Almost holding her breath, Lucy would wait until the act was completed and the door from the bedroom leading out to the alleyway was closed gently. Almost simultaneously, another well-dressed man would walk through the Royal Street front door, take a seat with Vivien, and be offered cognac in a fancy glass.

  Not all the visitors were gentlemen. There were scary ones too, and Lucy would hide in the rear room pretending to keep busy when they came calling. Every Wednesday afternoon, a man showed up like clockwork. Dressed in his traditional gang colors and draped in gold chains, he was an intimidating sight. Lucy noticed one odd thing about him: a hummingbird tattoo on his thumb.

  Whenever the man arrived, Vivien would summon a bold look for the salon workers and present the man with a smile. She’d hand over one hundred dollars wrapped in a sheet of the morning newspaper. He’d take it from her as he roamed his hands over her body. He was a street thug with no respect toward anyone, much less a woman, the type of man Lucy had grown to hate as a teenager preyed upon by men. Behavior she’d hoped was limited to Tupelo, though that was obviously wishful thinking.

  The way Vivien explained things, the exchange was the cost of doing business, and a small amount for the protection of her girls and night callers. She identified the man as Felipe Cruz. He would sometimes make his rounds with Felipe, Jr., securing his teenage son as next in line to lead the Cornerview Gang. It was a criminal cycle that had been in place for decades, and Felipe was making sure the family business would continue. Protection from the police for Vivien’s after-hours business came with a price.

  The same protection Felipe offered all the business owners in the area. The bartender who cut his whiskey with sugar water. The nightclub owner allowing his provocatively dressed ladies to join customers for drinks, charging the customer twice the price for drinks and the lady’s company. Serving to the lady what looked like booze but was nothing more than overpriced iced tea in a cocktail glass, better known as B drinking. But the most popular con by nightclub owners was taking an empty bottle of top-shelf whiskey and replacing it with rotgut. Most customers had no clue what they were drinking after their second drink.

  It didn’t matter what your scam was; Felipe had seen it all. For a weekly on-time payment, he’d protect you from any pissed-off customers, and his political connections would keep your business off law enforcement’s radar. Don’t pay, and he’d report you to the federal agents at ATF or to the local police, or he’d just burn your place down.

  Everyone paid Felipe Cruz.

  But Lucy hadn’t left Tupelo to end up under the thumb of another man who thought he could throw his weight around. Sooner or later, she’d find a way to handle Felipe Cruz.

  Chapter Three

  Lucy, for the most part, kept to herself. When she’d first arrived in New Orleans, the few times she’d visited jazz clubs and bars in the area had resulted in quick, abrupt departures. Men felt buying her a drink came with benefits. She treated them all the same. Two or three sips of her favorite cocktail, and the rest went into the face of the man with the roaming hands.

  She stood five feet, nine inches with flawless skin, beautiful blue eyes, and natural red hair. Lucy attracted men without trying, even though applying makeup wasn’t on her daily agenda. A colorful bandana over her hair was her signature look as well as floppy clothes covering her shapely body.

  High-maintenance salon customers were envious of Lucy. They spent hours on their hair and makeup in hopes of catching a good-looking wealthy husband. The ladies made it clear during their gossip time under the hair dryers that the good-looking part was negotiable. Lucy’s natural beauty attracted men like bees to honey, and she had been a thorn in the side of the local pool of available women ever since she’d arrived in town.

  Lucy kept the salon clean and orderly and listened and learned. She’d sweep the floor and study each woman as a beautician cut her hair. Many women spewed out their personal problems like an erupting volcano. Issues with their kids, problems with their family, and what they would like to do to their cheating husbands. Lucy swept up afterward, sometimes taking the person’s hair clippings and labeling the bag by name and making note of behavior that sometimes went into a rage.

  Ava Weber was a regular every Thursday afternoon, rain or shine. She was dropped off at the Royal Street entrance by her driver. She was married to a prominent divorce attorney who handled cases from New Orleans to the north of Baton Rouge. He was expensive, but the word was whatever party got him was sure to walk out of the courtroom very happy.

  Ava was one of those who’d spilled her guts about a cheating husband. She’d said it loud enough for everyone to hear that divorce wasn’t an option and ended with, now just keep that between us. Of course, the beautician had assured her it was between the two of them and the four walls.

  Lucy saw to the customers’ needs by brewing coffee, fetching cigarettes, and making their overall experience at Bluff’s Salon a pleasurable visit. She’d walk around with glasses of cheap champagne, which Ava never turned down, saying, maybe one to get the edge off. That led to two or three and, a few times, a fourth glass, which typically resulted in Lucy escorting Ava to the hands of her driver.

  Ava was a good tipper, so Lucy made it a point to meet her at the curb whenever her car pulled up. One Thursday, Lucy opened the rear car door and found Ava already had a head start on drinking. She asked Lucy to hold her champagne flute while she slipped out of the back seat. A champagne breakfast with friends at the Court of Two Sisters restaurant had given Ava an excuse to start drinking early. By the time she moved from the beautician’s chair to the hair dryer, she was well lit. The way things were going, this would be one of those days when Ava would need help getting into the car.

  While Lucy was setting the hair dryer’s heat and timer, she heard Ava mumble.

  “Did you say something, Ms. Ava?”

  Ava took Lucy’s hand. “I saw that woman.”

  “What woman?” Lucy asked, kneeling down in front of her.

  “My husband’s mistress,” she whispered.

  Lucy looked around. The ladies nearest her were engaged in their magazines and deafened by the noise of their hair dryers.

  Fetching Ava another glass of champagne, Lucy egged Ava on for the latest gossip. She filled Lucy’s ear with how she’d stumbled across her husband’s mistress. Her description of the woman was detailed down to her fingernails, a mole on her left cheek, and her preferred drink, Johnnie Walker scotch. Lucy quickly realized Ava hadn’t stumbled across the woman; she’d been stalking her.

  Ava finished her fourth glass of champagne just as the hair dryer’s timer light blinked. Lucy helped her out of the chair.

  “I would lose everything in the divorce,” Ava said, stumbling through most of the words. “My lawyer husband made that very clear.”

  “Let’s move you to the beautician chair and get you prettied up.” Lucy took the flute of champagne.

  “I want this woman out of my life.” Ava tugged on Lucy’s arm. “Do you know someone who can make that happen? The bitch’s name is Gabrielle de Jean. They call her Gabby.”

  A slight chill went up Lucy’s spine.

  “My husband owns an apartment house on Conti Street. There is one apartment he keeps open for his Friday-night poker games. I collect the rent, and an older lady across the hall said there is no such poker game, but a woman fitting Ms. de Jean’s description shows up every Friday evening.”