“Get out!” Lucy stepped into the room, holding the blade in one hand and pointing to the front door with the other.
Lucy stared him down. Her actions were clearly frightening Vivien, who apparently thought it best to let Felipe go without further confrontation. But no one was going to control Lucy, especially not this creep. There were many people Lucy disliked, but Felipe, she despised.
He let go of Vivien and stopped in front of Lucy. “You better curb your tongue and stay out of my business.”
“Keep your business off my street, then!” Lucy bellowed, causing a hush throughout the salon.
Felipe eyeballed her. Then he smiled, displaying a gold tooth in front. Reaching out, he swept a bunch of hair products off the shelves with a crash. He strolled to the door, stepping close to several customers along the way and making them scream before laughing in their faces.
After he was gone, Vivien motioned Lucy to the back room. “Lucy! Are you crazy? I can’t afford to be on the wrong side of him.”
“There is no good side to that thug. This has to stop,” Lucy said, all but pleading with her.
“Stay out of my business.”
“Sorry, Vivien,” Lucy said, her usual reply when speaking her mind.
Vivien could order Lucy not to intervene all day long, but it didn’t matter.
Lucy knew what had to be done.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was late afternoon when Lucy arrived at Jackson Square with a portable folding table and a chair in hand, a place where she often took refuge among the artists painting and selling their goods. Joining in and setting up shop under a shade tree, she put her unique dolls on display. After creating the Gabby doll, Lucy had gotten the idea to make more and sell them.
When sightseers stopped and asked questions, Lucy gave them the history of voodoo dolls, and then she mentioned the thing that set hers apart. Adding actual human hair in a color of the buyer’s choice fetched Lucy much more money than voodoo dolls usually went for. It was the natural hair that hooked customers into buying.
A doll nearly finished was Lucy’s project for the day. Stuffing more wood chips in the burlap that she used for a head, Lucy closed the back up with a few stitches of string. She’d learned from some of the sketch artists how to paint. On this doll, she made an angry face and left the head bald just like the person it was meant for. Admiring her work, she painted “Felipe” across the doll’s forehead.
Bells eventually sounded from the tower at Saint Louis Cathedral, marking six p.m. and the start of mass. People hurried into the cathedral for evening services. Some artists broke down their displays and called it a day. It would soon be dark, and there wasn’t much an artist could do in the square without good sunlight.
Lucy packed up her table and chair and walked over to an acquaintance she had met a few weeks earlier. She too had come from a small town and landed in New Orleans by choice to start a new life.
“Calling it a day, Vera,” Lucy said.
“I had a good afternoon. Made a few bucks,” Vera said.
“Good for you. Your paintings are some of the best out here.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Meet you at the coffee shop?”
“Sure. I’ll stop at home and put my table away and meet you in fifteen minutes.”
Lucy headed back to the salon, and Vera pushed a rolling cart housing her paintings and equipment to a nearby garage. It didn’t take long for Jackson Square to clear after the artists started packing up. Once darkness came, the crowds moved to the bars and clubs for the next part of their day.
Taking the shortcut back to the salon through Pirate Alley, Lucy felt she was being watched. She spun around and glimpsed someone who stopped and disappeared into a building. Picking up the pace, she headed to Royal Street, an active area that would make her feel safe. She glanced over her shoulder. That’s when an arm came from a rear doorway of a building, yanking her off her feet. The table fell to the ground, and she swung the chair around, getting a lick in before the man overpowered her from behind.
A hand covered her mouth. The attacker didn’t say a word. She tried to scream. Kicking and clawing the best she could, she fought hard, but the attacker’s body weight pushed her against a wall. Though he managed to muffled her screams, she was able to get her right arm high enough to scratch his face. When she reached up again and her palm contacted his pockmarked skin, her fear morphed into rage.
His hand slipped off her mouth. “I’m going to kill you,” she snarled.
Something slammed into her head, and everything went black.
When Lucy came to, Vera was crouched over her, screaming for help, but no one came. Holding Lucy up the best she could, Vera walked her to Royal Street. A few people were in the distance, but they were too far up the street to hear Vera’s cry for help.
Out of nowhere a young cop appeared. After introducing himself as Mario DeLuca, a rookie cop assigned to the French Quarter, he picked Lucy up and, at Lucy’s insistence, carried her to the salon. She pleaded with him not to send for paramedics and said she had no interest in filing a police report.
Vera found a washcloth and cleaned the cut on Lucy’s forehead. Then she fetched an aid kit from the salon’s bathroom.
“You might not want to file an official report, but I’m going to take some notes,” Mario said, pulling out a small pad.
He took her name and date of birth. Then he admitted her date of birth was for
