“Name your price, duFray,” Spoon insisted. “Today I’m feeling generous.” Blu opened his mouth, but the older man held up his hand. “I’ve offered to buy you out before, I know. But I’ll say it again, mon ami, you’re too young to be workin’ like you do and gettin’ paid half of what you’re worth. If I was you, I’d lighten the load and—”

“You’re not me.”

“But if I was—”

“You got my tally ready?”

“I can appreciate you feelin’ loyal to your daddy’s memory, son. But if you would have taken my offer two years ago your reputation would still be worth a damn and your mama could hold her head up like she used to.”

“Leave it alone, Thompson, or I’ll head over to Paradise Point and sell my catch to old man Aldwin.”

“That’ll be hard to do. Ain’t you heard? He’s all washed up. Under-sellin’ me finally bellied him up. Either that, or that no-good worm of a grandson sucked him dry.” Spoon grinned, obviously pleased with the other man’s misfortune no matter what had caused it. “Besides, I heard you and Aldwin had a partin’ of the ways a year or so ago. Don’t suppose you’d care to set the record straight as to why that was?”

Blu had no intentions of trading information with Spoon Thompson. What had passed between him and Perch Aldwin was business of another kind. And it was too late to make amends—he’d already tried.

Spoon shook his head. “One of these days those old tubs of yours ain’t gonna make it back in. Why don’tcha—”

“My tally,” Blu reminded, growing tired of the sound of Spoon’s voice and the same topic they argued over daily.

“Those old tubs are bleedin’ you.”

“Those ‘old tubs’ still top your catch any day of the week.”

Spoon stood and came around the six-foot cypress desk. Side by side, the top of his egg-shaped head didn’t reach Blu’s massive shoulder. “It ain’t the tubs, boy. Your nose is what’s gettin’ the job done. I’ve got the money and you’ve got the talent. Together we could go places. How about meetin’ me at Cruger’s in an hour and we’ll settle this once and for all?”

“Save your money and your jaw, Thompson. I’m not interested.”

“You’re a stubborn bastard, boy. Ornery as hell, just like your daddy was. But one of these days you’ll see I’m right.” That said, Spoon picked up the tally sheet and handed it over. “I’m gonna keep askin’.”

Blu eyed the tally, didn’t like the figures, but knew it was the best he was going to get. He shoved the paper in his back pocket, then left without another word. Outside, he started up Bay Street, considering Spoon’s offer, as he did at least once a week. He knew a number of independent fishermen who would jump at the chance to sell out to Spoon and go to work for him. And it would certainly lift a mountain of bills and worry from his shoulders if he did. But for thirty years the duFray Devils had been in business for themselves, and Blu couldn’t get past the feeling that selling out to Spoon wouldn’t only be selling out his father’s legacy, but his men and their pride and dignity, as well.

A block from the waterfront, Blu realized he was being followed. He wasn’t selling his fists to Patch Pollaro any longer, but the number of enemies he’d made working for the loanshark could easily explain the tail.

He picked up the pace and turned down Poke Alley—his limp always more pronounced at the end of a long day. He pulled the bandanna off his dark head and shoved it into his back pocket. His jeans were dirt-stained, his T-shirt a little better off since he’d worked most of the day shirtless. When he reached a deserted courtyard, he ducked inside. Minutes later, the tail crept past and Blu reached out and grabbed—his reputation for having the quickest hands in the fist business aiding him instinctively.

The scream that permeated the air jolted Blu’s senses. He’d been anticipating a man, but the scream was definitely feminine. He spun the figure around and promptly let go of the nun he’d seen hanging around the wharf an hour ago.

“What the hell are you after, church mouse?” Blu demanded, staring into a pair of wide eyes the color of brown sugar. To go along with her pretty eyes was a delicate nose and a rosebud mouth that was too sexy for the profession she’d chosen. She was, however, carrying the appropriate prop—a thick black Bible.

The nun quickly regained her bearings and took two giant steps backward. “I need to talk to you,” she said in a hushed tone. “I’m interested in… What I wanted from you was…”

Blu groaned, anticipating her request. “Save it, church mouse. I’m fresh out of cash, and my day’s catch has already been sold. You’re hitting on the wrong sucker.”

“I don’t want your money, or your catch,” she responded. “And I’m sure I have the right sucker…uh, I mean, the right man.”

“Don’t you people get tired of holding out your hands like beggars?”

Disgusted, Blu curled his lip and pierced her with his well-known devil’s stare—the one proven to make even the dockside roughnecks squirm—then turned away and started down the alley.

“Wait! Please, I—”

Dog-tired, his leg throbbing, Blu ignored her sudden pleading tone and kept walking.

“Hold it right there, Blu Devil.”

Her pleading tone was gone. And the fact that she called him by name alerted Blu that this wasn’t the normal charity harassment he’d grown accustomed to—most of the nuns he’d faced were shy and could barely look him in the eye. They had also addressed him as Mr. duFray, even though his devil reputation preceded him.

He turned just as she flipped open the fat black Bible and pulled out a small .22 derringer. Aiming it straight at him, she said, “I need your undivided attention. Do I have it?”

Blu stared down the barrel of the palm-size handgun. “You’ve got it, church mouse. What’s this about?”

“Not a handout,” she assured. “Information will do fine.”

“What kind of information?”

“How do you know Salvador Maland?”

The question wasn’t going to get an answer; Blu had never heard the name before. “I don’t know anyone named Salvador,” he admitted.

“Liar.” She stuck the neat little pearl-handled .22 farther out in front of her. “You have to know him. He knows you.”

“Plenty of people know me, fille, that doesn’t mean I know them.” Blu studied the gun, the petite young girl, then the gun again. “Is that thing loaded?”

“It wouldn’t do me much good if it wasn’t. Does the name Kristen Harris mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Does she know me, too?”

Her hand started to shake, confirming she wasn’t as tough as she was trying to make him believe. Suddenly her shoulders slumped and she let go of the Bible. When it hit the ground it made a wood-splitting noise and it was then that Blu realized it wasn’t a Bible at all. It was a wooden box meant to look like one.

The nun dug a picture out from the folds of her skirt. “This is you, right?”

Blu took a step forward.

She shook the gun at him. “Stay where you are!”

Blu stopped, squinted at the picture. He decided it was definitely him. He was putting a hydraulic winch back together. He’d gotten good at repairing engines, too. And it took hours to repair nets and busted rigging, but his jack-of-all-trades ability was why he was still in business. “I guess that’s me,” he told the nun.

“I doubt there’s two of you,” she offered. “Besides, your name is on the back. And Sister Marian confirmed it’s you.” Her gaze followed his tall, broad frame up then down. “You don’t exactly blend into a crowd, and everyone I talked to knew right where to find you.”

No surprise there, Blu thought. He’d lived in Algiers all of his life. For the past twenty-five years his parents had owned duFray Fish, the fresh-fish market on Front Street. Then there was his stint with Patch Pollaro as hired muscle, not to mention last year’s “heroic deed” that had gained him an altogether new fan base. Hell, yes, people knew him for one reason or another.