by Wild Jinx
“A desperate housewife?”
“Something like that.”
So now Celine walked up to the doorman, who resembled a pro-wrestler in a tux, and flashed the small card she’d been given for admission. Apparently, no one could enter the private premises unless they were with a member, or had obtained one of the cards . . . cards which were impossible to obtain without careful vetting. How Bruce had obtained hers she didn’t want to know.
The big bruiser studied the card, then stepped aside and held the door open for her. She could hear soft music up ahead . . . no bump and grind sordid business here. A hostess, who could have passed for a runway model in a trendy culottes outfit, inquired, “Black, white, or blue?”
“Huh?”
A light smile tugged at the hostess’s lips. “First time here?”
Celine nodded.
“The black room is for men wanting to hook up with a woman. The white room is for women wanting to hook up with a man. And the blue room is for men and women, together, wanting to hook up with . . . whatever.”
At Celine’s confused look, she elaborated, “Ménage à trois, honey.”
Oh, good grief! Celine hoped she wasn’t blushing. “White, please.”
She wondered with a suppressed giggle how another reporter, Dane Jessup, was going to handle this situation when he did his part of the story tomorrow night. The gay male angle. Besides that, if Celine was a geek, Dane was dweeb to the max.
Soon she was seated at a small round table in the back of the room with an empty chair across from her. An in-house phone sat in the center. There was subtle lighting and the atmosphere of an upscale bar, that image heightened by the soft rock being played by a two-piece band. No Chippendale style dancers here or bare-chested waiters. A female waitress in a perfectly respectable black uniform asked if she wanted a beverage. They only cost ten dollars a pop . . . and that was for pop.
The ratio of men to women in the room was about five to one, with about two dozen women sitting at the various tables. Several were on the small dance floor with attractive men. Most of the men wore suits, or sport coats over khakis, or golf shirts tucked into pleated slacks. A few wore jeans, but they were combined with tucked-in, button-down dress shirts. No cowboys or construction workers. Subtlety again. Those men not partnered on the dance floor or at tables leaned against the two bars, nursing drinks. Or leaned against a far wall. A few glanced her way with interest.
It looked like a singles club. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
But then she opened the “menu” in front of her . . . and felt like crawling under the table.
Welcome to the Playpen. We are here for your enjoyment. Please study the menu below. Then look around the room. If you see anyone you like, pick up the phone and indicate your choice. Only then will you be approached. If after talking to one of our men you change your mind, you can make another choice. Accommodations are upstairs, or off-site arrangements can be made. Good luck!
This was followed by a menu of services that were available . . . very detailed descriptions . . . with prices. She wasn’t sure she even knew what some of these things were, and for sure there were some she’d never done or had any desire to do. Eeew!
After the waitress plopped her whiskey sour down on the table, and Celine had taken a big gulp, she braced herself. It was only pretend on her part. It was just a story. She’d done worse things to get a scoop. Well, no, she hadn’t, but it was important that these outrageous activities be exposed. Especially since the Dixie Mafia was rumored to be involved.
Morphing into professional mode, she made mental notes of what she’d seen so far and decided she would “interview” three different men before making her escape following a trip to the ladies’ room. Bruce might want her to take one of them upstairs, to see how it was done, but no way was she going that far. Pressing one of the roses in her brooch to launch the zoom lenses, she began a slow scan of the men from right to left.
Some of the prostitutes looked downright dangerous. Way too blatantly sexual for her tastes.
Okay, the young blond man would be her first. Extra long hair in a low ponytail. Clean cut. Wearing a light blue Oxford-collared shirt, tucked into dark blue chinos. He looked like a college student.
Then maybe the older gentleman with salt and pepper hair. Fiftyish. Well-built. Designer suit.
Third . . . hmmm, she couldn’t decide. She should probably invite the guy who looked like Tony from The Sopranos, if she had the nerve. Or the scowling man who was both homely and tempting as hell; rough sex, for sure.
She had her hand on the phone, about to request her first “date,” when she noticed two men amble into the room laughing at some private joke. Her survey started to swing on a return scan, then doubled back.
Oh. My. God!
Could it be . . . ? No, it’s impossible.
The tall man with dark hair, late twenties, wearing a black suit over a tight white silk T-shirt, stopped dead and was staring at her, too. Her camera took him in, which she intended to erase the moment she got home. Or maybe not.
This was an absolute nightmare. The worst possible thing that could have happened.
It was that slimebucket, oversexed, full-of-himself Cajun jerk. John LeDeux.
Whom she’d had a crush on as a girl and been hopelessly attracted to as a woman, despite her seeming intelligence. What was it about men like John LeDeux that caused women’s IQs to nosedive? She had successfully avoided him for five long years. Why else would she have stayed in Texas for so long? What irony, to finally run into him, after being back here for only six months, in a . . . a sex club.
If some higher power would just let a crack open in the floor, she would gladly jump in, assignment be damned.
He’d like to be on her menu, guar-an-teed! . . .
John LeDeux ambled into the Playpen for his night shift.
The idea of him selling sex, or buying it for that matter, was ludicrous, but the dickhead managers of this place couldn’t see past their cash registers. One hundred dollars for a blow job? I don’t think so! I’m worth way more than that.
He scanned the room, looking for potential “customers.” Then went stone cold still.
Well, well, well, lookee here. Celine Arseneaux, out to buy herself some action.
Was she that hard up? She always was a stick-up-the-ass prudish geek, too smart for her own good. Thought she was better than the rest of stupid mankind. Except for that one time that he barely recalled. She’d been hot damn non-geeky that night if his fuzzy recollection was accurate.
But wait, wasn’t she supposed to be some hotshot newspaper reporter in Dallas? No, wait, someone mentioned recently that she’d moved to the New Orleans Times-Tribune. Why would she be here . . . ?
Oh, good Lord. She’s here on assignment. Man, this is a FUBAR waiting to happen.
He whispered to Tank Woodrow . . . Police Lieutenant Clifford “Tank” Woodrow . . . at his side, “Nine o’clock. Lady in black and red dress. Reporter.”
“The one with the flame-colored mouth that looks like it could melt salt off a pretzel stick?”
He laughed, just knowing how much Celine would appreciate that description. Not! “That would be the one.”
“Shiiit! She’s gonna blow our cover.”
He and Tank had been undercover at the Playpen for the past week. The Fontaine police department, in conjunction with the special state organized crime unit, were about to bust this and other operations of the Dixie Mafia wide open. This woman would ruin it all.
Not if he could help it.
The instant she saw him, she recognized him, her eyes going wide as saucers.
“Watch my back,” he told Tank.
Against Playpen rules, he approached the table, amused to see Celine averting her face, hoping she could escape his notice. Fat chance!
He yanked a chair around and sat down close to her, with his back to the bar, where the client facilitator stood watching. Yeah, that’s what the pompous
pimp called himself.
“Hey, darlin’, lookin’ fer a date?” he asked with the lazy southern drawl he had perfected over the years.
She mumbled something, her face still averted. He was pretty sure she’d told him to do something to himself that was anatomically impossible.
“Nah, I’d rather do you, sweetheart.”
She turned and stared him straight in the face. “Get lost, LeDeux.”
“Now, now. Is that any way to treat the man who’s gonna show you a good time?” He picked up the menu of services that was sitting on the table, opened it and pointed to one particular line. “I’m really good at that.”
Her face flushed. “You are such a pig.”
“Compliments will get you everywhere, sugar.”
“What are you doing here?”
“The better question is, what’re you doin’ here? Oooh, is that a camera in here?” He flicked the rose brooch on her chest, and felt an odd zing where the back of his fingers touched her warm skin.
He could tell by the look of horror on her face that she’d felt the zing, too. Or maybe it was because she realized that her hidden techie camera hadn’t been as hidden as she’d hoped.
“Go away,” she said with a groan. “I’ve got a job here.”
“So do I, and it’s not to dole out sexual favors. This operation is about to be busted, and we are not gonna let you jam up the works.”
“We? Who is we? Fontaine police? State police? Feds?”
“All of the above. You’re not gonna screw up this operation, babe.”
“Oh, yeah, how you gonna stop me, babe?”
“Just watch me.” He picked up the phone. “The lady, she wants numbers five, six, and seven. She’s too shy to tell y’all herself. Two hours. Upstairs. A rodeo, a dirty bath, and a missionary. You got her credit card number on file? Okay.”
Celine was too busy gawking at the description of five, six, and seven to notice him standing and pulling her up with him. Wrapping an arm around her shoulder, tucking her tightly to his side, he prevented her from bolting, trying his best to ignore her light floral perfume and the softness of her skin. “Let’s get outta here,” he said. “Maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll show you how well I can perform.”
She squirmed out of his hold and glared at him. “I’m not going anywhere with you.” She looked as if she might be about to belt him a good one.
But then all hell broke loose.
Police in SWAT uniforms rushing in all the entries and blocking all the exits. Bullhorns blaring out, “Stay where you are, people. This is a raid.” Women were screaming. Men were cursing. The band stopped dead in the middle of “Love Shack.” It was a full-blown police operation. At least fifty armed local, state, and federal law enforcement officers in the three rooms on this floor, he would estimate.
A pigload of people were going to be arrested, including himself, since his identity had to be protected. Ms. Hot Shot Reporter was not going to be able to fast talk herself out of this mess ’til later.
She was flashing her chest all over the place, taking pictures, he presumed, not showing off her assets. Maybe she wouldn’t be so mad at him now.
No, that was not to be the case.
Turning swiftly, she windmilled her arm back, then clipped him on the chin with her fist.
“What was that for?”
“Everything.”
A cop he didn’t recognize was approaching, already reading them their rights, flex-cuffs dangling from his fingertips. But first John had to do something. He grabbed Celine, tugged her flush against his body, and kissed her, long and hard. He might have even used his tongue, but who knew! He was as dazed as she was when he broke off the kiss. “Which one of you is the hooker?” the amused cop asked.
“Him,” she said.
“Her,” he said at the same time.
Smoke practically blew from her ears as she glowered at him. Wait ’til she found out that the mind- blowing kiss had been a ruse to allow himself the opportunity to slip off her brooch and the tiny mike inside her bra. They were now in his suit pocket.
“Laissez les bons temps rouler,” he murmured as they walked off together, in custody. “Let the good times roll.”
She gave him the finger.
Chapter 2
Advice to women: When rogues grin, run like crazy . . .
Celine was sitting on a bench seat in the paddy wagon, hands cuffed, ankles shackled, with the bayou bad boy on her left and Hal “I could make you scream, baby” Hopkins on her right. If Hal made another lewd suggestion to her or if John continued to chuckle, she was going to put a curse on the two of them . . . one that would impair their precious scream-maker parts for life, and she knew a French Quarter voodoo priestess who could do it, too.
There were three female and two male prostitutes and one trick, or sex club client, or date, or customer, or whatever they wanted to call them, on one of the benches, along with her and John, and on the other facing bench were a “client facilitator,” one alleged Playpen owner . . . i.e. Mafia guy named Emile Lorenzo, a male prostitute, and three more tricks or clients. Apparently, there were other members of the Lorenzo family—an Italian-Creole unit of the Dixie mob—in the other emergency police vans. A black police officer stood near the back door with a rifle in one hand and a tear gas canister in the other. Like any one of them was in a position to bolt! Another cop—red-haired, Irish-looking, also armed—stood near her and John, with his back to the metal grill that separated them from the driver in front.
They had all been Mirandized back at the club. Not a pleasant experience, even when a person was innocent, as she was. Apparently, there was a sitting grand jury just waiting for them to be hauled in. The police would want immediate indictments for some of the flight risks.
“I was not a customer,” she told the black cop, who was closest to her, now that the hubbub had died down. “Actually, I’m a reporter. I was there to do a story.” They had all been protesting their innocence, but her claim to being a journalist caused the heads of the club owner and three clients on the other side to shoot up with interest. Emile Lorenzo glared at her with a silent warning that she would be swimming with the fishes, or rather the bayou gators, if she wrote anything about him. But the interesting thing was the way the three clients averted their faces in a panicked fashion.
Well, she supposed she would be embarrassed to be found hanging out in such a place, too. Still . . . hmmm. Celine’s journalistic instincts went on red alert, and she studied them a little closer. “Oh, no!” She did recognize the three of them.
“Shhh,” John murmured.
Jeesh, he was a good-looking man. He was twenty-eight to her twenty-six; she knew because she’d been two years behind him in Houma High School and then Tulane University. Tall . . . maybe six-two . . . he had dark Cajun hair and eyes. He’d probably shaved that morning, but now a dark, not unattractive, stubble covered his face. He had a smile that would melt most women’s hearts . . . and morals, truth be told. Not hers.
Well, once. Until today she’d considered that one-night stand an aberration. A blip on her intelligence radar. This rogue had a reputation throughout southern Louisiana as a world class womanizer, and any woman with a grain of good sense would steer clear of his magnetism.
After all she’d suffered . . . waitressing and attending college classes ’til her labor pains started, the embarrassment of welfare aid, the ego blaster of single motherhood, the constant financial hardships, despite her grandfather’s help . . . she had survived and thought herself stronger for the struggle. Then an hour in John’s presence, and she was right back to step one, virtually drooling over the hottest guy in town.
She was not a bad-looking woman these days, but still, she felt like Ugly Betty to John’s Hugh Jackman.
But none of that mattered. What did matter was that she get away from John as soon as possible. He could not find out about Etienne. Not after all this time. Not ever.
Even that was irrelevant now.
What was important was that she’d just stumbled onto an even better story than the Playpen operation. These three well-known Louisianans were going to grace the centerfold of page one tomorrow. She chuckled and was about to “interview” them. Not many reporters could claim to have interviewed some prostitutes and their clients in a paddy wagon. It would be a feather in her cap at her new paper.
“Mon Dieu!” Leaning into her ear, he said, “Now’s not the time to out these folks, darlin’.” So, he recognized the three clients, too. And, yeah, he was right. She should wait to confront the three dodo birds back at the station. Maybe in a holding cell.
John had a heavy southern accent, which many women found attractive. Sort of a lazy, sexy drawl. She was Cajun, too, well, three-quarters Cajun, but she’d only moved to Houma to live with her grandfather at age fifteen when her mother died of cancer and her father committed suicide. Bad times then!
Trying her best to ignore the faint scent of mint, probably soap, as he continued to lean close, she nodded hesitantly. “Is that Pastor Leroy Evington? The bigshot TV evangelist from Shreveport?”
“Looks like,” he whispered. “And beside him is Ted Warner. The owner of that chain of TV stations?”
John had just confirmed what she’d already suspected. Holy moly! This was turning into the scoop of the decade, even better than her exposé of Katrina corruption while still working in Dallas. She was so excited she could barely restrain herself from letting loose with a whoop of joy.
“Oh, yeah! This raid is haulin’ in some big fish.”
She studied the trio again. They weren’t able to hide their faces completely, restrained as they were. But the woman . . . a sleek, expensively dressed blonde in her late forties, she would guess . . . looked familiar. Her heart rate accelerated with sudden understanding. “Do you know who that woman is?” she said against John’s ear, her voice no doubt giving away her excitement.
“No, but I like the way you keep blowin’ in my ear.”
