Kiss of Noir Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  By the Author

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Books Available From Bold Strokes Books

  Synopsis

  “I was thirty-six when I left the big city for the Big Easy. They say New Orleans is like a woman, beautiful, deceitful, and deadly. All I know is, I had to leave Los Angeles on the run and The Crescent City beckoned like a broad on her back.”

  In the sequel to Femme Noir, Nora Delaney has returned to her job as a college basketball coach in Los Angeles. When she beats up a rival coach on national television, she is fired and flees to a tiny town outside New Orleans to take refuge with her cousin Ellis Delaney and his wife. Working at Ellis’ pawn shop, Nora meets Cleo Sweetleaf, who becomes a mentor and a second father. While Nora takes stock of her life, her everlasting hunger for strange women causes trouble from sunup to sundown. When Cleo is murdered, Nora, spurred on by revenge, is drawn into solving the crime. But after being beaten and left bleeding in an alley, Nora might not solve the mystery alive.

  Kiss of Noir

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  By the Author

  Femme Noir

  Kiss of Noir

  Kiss of Noir

  © 2010 By Clara Nipper. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 10: 1-60282-161-5E

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-161-3E

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: August 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

  Editors: Cindy Cresap and Stacia Seaman

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  Dedication

  To my spark, Kristopher Kris

  Prologue

  I was thirty-six when I left the big city for the Big Easy. They say New Orleans is like a woman—beautiful, deceitful, and deadly. All I know is, I had to leave Los Angeles on the run and the Crescent City beckoned like a broad on her back.

  Chapter One

  Lying on my belly, I tried to move, but it was too great an effort. I opened one eye. The other was gummed shut. Blurry streetlights shone in the dark distance. Sirens wailed over someone else’s problems. Echoing traffic noise told me I was in an alley.

  “Jesus,” I muttered through my swollen lips. I tasted the dark iron of my own blood. The asphalt was wet and gritty under my cheek. Garbage smells—rotten bananas, dog shit, bad fish—assaulted me further. For a second, I thought I would vomit, but I willed it back. I tried breathing deeply and decided I had at least one broken rib. A large shadow darted. A cat or a cockroach. I grimly tried to smile.

  Little by little, I turned myself on to my back. “Aaaahhh!” I groaned as I lay there, staring up through the buildings at the stars, so far away and indifferent.

  I fumbled in my pockets until I found my cigarettes and a wooden match. After my adventure in Tulsa, I had resigned myself to buying cigarettes on the regular. All foolishness of quitting was gone. I flicked my thumbnail across the head of the match and it exploded into tiny fire. I lit my cigarette and inhaled shallow. My crotch felt cold and wet so I touched my pants.

  “Lord God, I done pissed myself!” I whispered, shaking my head, my shaved skull rolling back and forth on the ground. Cleo murdered; I’m unemployed and homeless; life is right on track.

  And there, laid out on my back in the French Quarter, I started laughing. It started out small and grew to a ripe richness, floating out to mix with the traffic noise.

  Chapter Two

  Nine months ago

  They lost! My hands hung like dead birds between my knees. I stared, hollow-eyed, at the scoreboard. One of my players lay on her back on the court. The rest of them straggled back to the bench amid the tumultuous applause for the other team. A few of my girls were crying and fighting it.

  My mind was stuck. I couldn’t move. This couldn’t be true! This did not just happen! Even the tiny buzz I had received from sipping gin-spiked water had evaporated. My team surrounded me. The awkward silence thickened. The happy noise from the winners was terrible. Some of my team stared at their shoes. The cheering continued, fans pouring onto the court to embrace the victors, who were leaping and doing cartwheels. I tasted aloe and tiny green apples. I glanced at the scoreboard, shook my head, and looked at the opposing coach, who was smirking at me.

  This roused me. I glared a look of dignified royalty to my nemesis, who was fake blond and fake chipper and utterly detestable. I stood, stretched my arms to take my team into a group hug. Like lost, grieving lambs, they obeyed. I murmured encouragements I had memorized, hoping my team believed them. I didn’t. Not tonight.

  “The important thing is that we played our best. We gave it our hearts and souls. In order to be winners, we must also sometimes be losers.” Blah, blah, blah, blah.

  The teams lined up parallel to congratulate and console each other. The insincere mumbling and hand slapping drew us, two enemy coaches, closer and closer together.

  I remember you, Camille. My thoughts like dirty knives chopped infection into my mind. We went to college together, played ball together. You were the baddest perky white bitch I ever saw. You got away with more shit in school and in play than anybody because of your bouncy bleached hair, big innocent eyes, and toothy grin that nobody but me saw as the polar freeze that it was. You fouled against your own teammates and you never even got your dainty wrist slapped. I bet you don’t even remember that bad ankle sprain you caused me, and I lost play in three games just because you had to lunge for the ball.

  We were slowly approaching each other.

  And you weren’t very good, either. My stomach boiled as I sent Coach Camille waves of hate. I don’t know how you ever made coach, you fraud. And you’re just as big a pussy lover as I am, but you wear makeup and do your hair and wear skirts that show your legs. You’re a lesbian coward. My lip curled into a sneer.

&n
bsp; I should’ve buried you tonight, you sorry-ass cracker. I am better than you as a player and as a coach and damn sure as a dyke. I’m braver, bolder, blacker, better, buffer, butcher, and bitchier than you on your best day. I stood up straight, extending my body its full six-foot height and expanding my chest as I drew close to Camille.

  “Hey, girl, long time no see!” Camille grinned, her eyes twinkling.

  “Yeah, you haven’t changed a bit.” I stood, full of venom.

  “Oh, Nora.” Camille pulled a mock sad face. “You just have sour grapes.” She shrugged, dimpling. “Nothing new there.”

  We still clasped hands, each trying to crush the other.

  “No, no, it was a good game. Let me just point out that my team is new. Your seniors almost didn’t beat my freshmen.” I laughed, looking at the scoreboard again. “I ain’t got nothing to be bitter about because I know for damn sure I won’t see you here at the playoffs again next year.”

  Camille pulled me close, our hands welded together. She threw an arm over my back and whispered in my ear, “Yeah, you won’t see me here next year because I got your job. It’s a done deal. You’re out and I’m in.”

  I jerked away, struggling for composure, and stared at Camille.

  “Oh, they haven’t told you yet?” Camille giggled, “I’m sorry.”

  I snorted. “That’s bullshit. Somebody just promised you that while you gagged on his dick.”

  Camille’s eyes went dark as she swung her fist at me and I dodged it easily, laughing. There was a gasp from the players and the remaining fans. I clocked Camille with a hook.

  Oh, my God that felt good! I shook out my fist.

  Camille hit the floor hard. I was on her, ready to punch all of my rage into Camille. We scrabbled and hit, me remaining on top. It was but a few stunned seconds before people rushed to break it up. I was pleased that I got in some respectable blows before the fight was stopped by meddling crybabies. I stood, panting and smiling, bouncing on my toes, ready for war. I didn’t have a mark on me. Camille was weeping and needed help to stand.

  “You hit like you play. Weak!” I spat. Camille was carried off the court, her sobs ricocheting around the stadium. The remaining fans, previously galvanized, now broke the spell and continued leaving.

  I still stood on the court, breathing deeply and grinning. I felt like a hungry wolf. I was ready to force my team’s victory right here, right now, with a brawl. One of my players touched my shoulder.

  “It’s over. Snap out of it. Come on.”

  I shook her off. “I’m okay. Everything’s cool.”

  Another of my players, a loose cannon herself, ran up. “Coach D, that was awesome! Pow! Goddamn, that was great! You’re my hero, giving that sniveling loser something she really deserved—”

  “Shut up,” I barked. “Everybody to the showers! Now!”

  My team filed out. I remained, alone in the middle of the court, waiting. Soon the president of the university, who always attended the games, the vice president, and my own assistant coach appeared out of the wings and approached me. They looked too solemn for me not to know what this meant. I shook my head, tasting blood. I lifted a weary hand to dismiss them. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m gone.”

  “Miss Delaney—”

  “That’s Coach. And really, I’ll just get my stuff and be out tonight. That way is easiest on all of us.”

  “We need a termination meeting. Papers must be signed, there are loose ends…”

  I looked at them, my anger ebbing and sad acceptance filling me. “Fuck all that. What will you do, fire me?” I sighed. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I’ll go, no questions asked. Your problem is that you don’t know that sometimes a good punch is the right answer.”

  No one said anything. I dug my fingers into my eyes. “It’s been a great ten years.” I sighed again. “I’ve done an excellent job, haven’t I?” I asked the president. Everyone else dropped his eyes.

  “Well, this past year—”

  “I’ve been the best, haven’t I?” I demanded.

  The president stared at me for a moment, then softened and nodded.

  “I knew it,” I whispered. “Thanks, you can go.” I turned and walked out, my head high.

  The locker room was thick with steam. The Babel of women’s voices sweetened the steamy air. Women strode around in various stages of nudity.

  “Hey, everyone! Come here, I have an announcement,” I shouted. The hush was sudden. My team gathered at once, one even running out of the shower, her hair still sudsy.

  “Now, let’s not make this a big thing,” I said sternly, “but this is good-bye.” A chorus of protests rang in the humid air. I held up my hands. “Shut up. That’s the way it is. I’ve enjoyed working with all of you. Now just carry on. Remember what I’ve taught you and kick ass next year. I’ll be watching.”

  I left in the shocked silence that followed.

  DJ Nix, my star forward, surprised me by catching me before I leaped into my Wagoneer. “Go away, little girl,” I growled. “You heard the news. Beat it.”

  “Coach,” DJ said so tenderly that it squeezed my wounded heart. I rolled my eyes, frowned, and waited expectantly.

  “Coach,” DJ repeated. She reached out and held my limp wrist. DJ shrugged. “After all we’ve been through.”

  I was ten years old again, struggling not to cry. “Yeah, so?” Gruff, that was the ticket. I jerked my arm out of DJ’s clasp.

  DJ’s face hardened. She whispered fiercely, “You owe us more than this!”

  I stared at her as long as I could. Then I nodded, swallowed the dry baseball in my throat, wincing at the effort. I got in the vehicle, started the motor and rolled down the window. I sighed and looked at DJ, who stood with her hands balled into her pockets, tears streaming down her face.

  “I know,” I said. “I know. But I can’t. This is all I’ve got.”

  DJ’s mouth twisted as if she’d eaten lemon. “Fine.”

  I sped off. I hated long good-byes. I wouldn’t stand for a bunch of emotional ninnies to cry and pour out their hearts. That would be too much. They had their whole lives ahead of them. Let them work it out amongst themselves. I didn’t want to be put on the rack of their grief. I had to regroup and form a new game plan, and fast. I was thirty-six now. What in the hell would I do with myself? Find another California college and start over from the bottom? I clenched my jaws. Absolutely not. The possibility that I might not even be wanted by anyone else in any capacity after this episode was a new, terrifying idea.

  Well, I would just find a university on the East Coast and let my record speak for itself. There, that quick it was decided. I returned to my apartment and started packing, feeling stronger by the second.

  I had turned on the television for noise company and the sports came on. I heard my name and turned, feeling stunned and boneless. There, big as life, was my fight with Camille. They replayed it, slo-moed it, and analyzed it from every direction. I grabbed the remote and switched channels. Nope, the bad news was on every single station. Some taking it as a harmless humorous prank among pros that provided much-needed excitement and some were seeing it as a racist confrontation and everything that was wrong with sports today. My blood drained from my body. I saw myself with that crazed grin on my face, ready to destroy the world. I cringed. I was so accustomed to the television cameras, I had forgotten they were there. I saw footage of the college’s faculty keeping the press away from me and a reluctant interview given by my assistant coach. I hadn’t even realized the administration had chased the reporters away or thrown them the bone of a dull, meaningless sound bite with the president.

  My telephone started ringing. I grabbed my keys and headed for a bar.

  Chapter Three

  I returned home hours later, sloppy and stumbling. I had gone to a dive across town that was purely for getting and staying drunk. There was no television, no pool table or dartboard, no dance floor. Just big swallows of hard liquor and pea soup smog
of smoke and stale breath.

  The men I sat with at the bar asked no questions. Their hands shook and their eyes were either focused inward or thousands of miles away. They were unkempt. These men obviously had no families, no sweet soft women caring for them. They had given up and no one came to see about them. The men had the sour odor of loneliness.

  It made me so sad to sit among them that I drank doubles. Visions of The Redhead swam in my mind.

  “Gin and tonic,” I said, my sober voice cutting through the weepy slurs. “Extra large, very strong.”

  “Gin and tonic, huh?” The bartender grinned. “How’s Bombay?”

  I was puzzled and irritated and glared at him. “If that’s what you’ve got, that’s fine. I don’t care,” I said. One of the two men I was sitting between was close to passing out. I tapped out a cigarette and lit it with one deft movement. The bartender stood still, seeming to wait. I looked up and noticed his gaze. “Do I need to beg?”

  The light in the bartender’s eyes flickered and dimmed. He poured the drink and gave it to me. I laid a bill on the counter and squinted through my own smoke. “Thanks, man.” My cigarette bobbed with my words.

  “You’re welcome.” The bartender smiled again. “Haven’t seen you in here before.”

  “No, and God willing, you never will again.” I gulped my drink and looked around.

  The bartender bristled. “Well, it’s not the Taj Mahal, but—”

  I waved my hand and smiled. “No, no, man, relax. It’s perfect.”

  “Enough about me,” he said. “So what do you do?”

  “I drown my sorrows,” I snapped. Then I raised my drink and gulped the rest, jingling the ice. “What do you care?”