Son of a Sinner

by Lynn Shurr

  Their driver, an old hippie with a long gray braid down his back and a straw hat on his head, popped the mule lightly with his whip urging the animal to pick up its heels a little in the traffic. The mule, also a dappled gray and wearing a similar hat, displayed its rejection of speed by spewing a good-sized heap of manure into the poop bag required on all the carriages. Ilsa held her nose.

  “Not a country girl, I take it?” Dean asked while trying to reclaim the arm going numb around her shoulders.

  “Nein, a city woman, an uptown girl, right?”

  Tom’s date leaned over the seat from behind. “Not me. I love horses and all kinds of animals. Your dad keeps horses, doesn’t he, Dean?” Brigit’s complexion had cleared up and her small white teeth were very straight. Not bad looking for a short brunette, but not stunning like Ilsa. Too bad she appeared to be crushing on him and not Tom.

  “Yes, but they have to use mules in the city because of the heat. Horses can’t take it,” Tom informed them. Between the guide’s patter he pointed out uniquely New Orleans sights like the Lucky Dog carts and the Roman candy wagon.

  “I knew that about the mules,” Brigit said.

  “Interesting,” Ilsa replied in a bored sort of way. Large, dark sunglasses masked her icy blue eyes.

  The driver did his thing, pointing out the Cities of the Dead—the cemeteries of tombs raised above the water table—and prattled on about Marie Laveau, the Voodoo queen, of which there might have been several. He revealed that drawing an X on her tomb and completing a simple ritual might gain a person a wish.

  “Oh, I want to do that!” Brigit bubbled. She spoke into Ilsa’s ear since she couldn’t reach across to Dean. The seating arrangements precluded her drooling on his shoulder, too.

  “The cemeteries aren’t safe unless you go in a group,” Dean said. “You can take a walking tour if you want.”

  “Could we do that?”

  “Not tonight. I have a game tomorrow.”

  “Which means I do, too,” Tom chipped in, for all the good it did him.

  They clipped past Madame John’s Legacy, the oldest house in the city and supposedly the home of a pirate ghost. Dean had no idea how truthful the guide was being. Stacy, a stickler for accuracy, would be correcting the guy right and left by now, and that might have been more fun.

  Tom’s phone rang. “Sorry, got to take this. My sister is just now returning a call. That so… Really? Doesn’t sound good…Yeah, I’ll tell Dean.”

  “No, let me talk to her.” Dean used the call as an excuse to withdraw his arm as Tom handed over the phone. “So there really is a Don Juan. The steakhouse right off Jackson Square at seven. Don’t worry. We’ll keep an eye on them. Thanks for telling us.” He returned the phone to the back seat. “Anyone in the mood for a good prime rib?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’d rather have seafood,” Brigit answered.

  “Whatever you want, Joe.” Ilsa put a hand on his arm.

  “Beef it is, but I’m sure they have lobster on the menu or some other kind of seafood for you, Brigit.”

  Ilsa had to remove her grip when Dean dug out his phone and searched the number for the restaurant where Don Juan intended to take Stacy. He made reservations for four at seven. The surrey driver completed the loop back to Jackson Square and helped his passengers step down. Even though the fee for a ride was pretty stiff, he tipped the man and scratched the mule behind the ears before taking the ladies into the shade of the park.

  “Our dinner reservations are for seven. We have about an hour’s wait, but the restaurant is just over there. We could get a drink somewhere in the meantime if you want.”

  “I must go back to the apartment and change. I am sweating like a swine,” Ilsa said.

  “I guess I should put on something else, too, if we are going to do fancy,” Brigit agreed.

  “Tom, why don’t you take Brigit home, and I’ll walk Ilsa back to Anchi. We’ll meet at the restaurant in an hour.”

  All agreed, he escorted Ilsa to the apartment and stepped across the street to put on a fresh shirt and a little cologne. Then, he thought he should shave and maybe shower. He wasted exactly enough time in order to return and catch Stacy stepping into a silver Mercedes with heavily tinted windows, the kind that were supposed to be against the law. A uniformed driver held the door for her.

  “Hey, Stace. Lookin’ good. Is Don Juan in there?”

  No lie about her appearance. She wore a skimpy black dress in some kind of material that molded to her breasts and hips. She’d put up her golden curls in an arrangement that allowed little ringlets of it to frame her pale face and seemed as if it would tumble down with the removal of a single marcasite clip in the shape of a butterfly. He hated to admit he liked the notion of removing the barrette and having her hair cascade over his hands.

  Her naturally full lips shone with an application of bright red lipstick, the kind men dreamed of kissing and getting all over themselves in other places. She’d given her blue eyes a smoky indigo showcase, but not too much. Always stylish but ever tasteful, that was Stacy. Her shoes with heels higher and thinner than usual, had ankle straps and open toes, not great if she had to make a getaway. Dean frowned at them.

  “I’m meeting him at the restaurant. He sent his car. You look nice, too. What?” She caught his unhappy expression.

  “Your shoes. What if you have to run from danger?”

  Stacy laughed, a great low-pitched sound. She never giggled. “You think I should wear sneakers with this outfit? Believe me, if I have any trouble I can puncture a man’s gonads with these heels, and I’ve got the legs to do that.”

  “Yes, you certainly have.” Dean kept his eyes down, staring at her toes also lacquered in red. She wore no stockings and probably not much else under that outfit. His eyes traveled slowly back to her lips again, then her eyes, which appeared a little miffed about something.

  “Ilsa is running late. You can go upstairs and wait for her if you want. Have a good evening.”

  “Yeah, you, too.”

  She ducked into the Mercedes that nosed carefully into traffic. So far, so good. No chance this Don Juan would jump her in the backseat. Dean trudged to the second floor and took a seat on Stacy’s purple couch among the silver cushions. At seven-fifteen, his date appeared in a fire engine red dress longer than Stacy’s but made provocative by slits in both sides of the skirt to show off her long legs. The bodice bared a good deal of those breasts he wasn’t too sure about being real. Seemed like she and Stacy had used the same shade of lipstick only it didn’t show as well on Ilsa’s thinner lips. Worn loose, her straight, pale hair caped her bare shoulders and back. Her black heels, even more complex and higher than Stacy’s, looked like real ankle breakers. He’d better hail a cab to get them to their destination. All decked out, Ilsa topped six feet, but then so did Stacy who less resembled a model and more represented a woman with curves.

  He offered the standard compliment. “You look very beautiful, Ilsa.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said, without any false modesty.

  He helped her negotiate the stairs and found a cab with ease near the neighboring hotel. At the restaurant, he again lent his arm to get her to the second floor entry of the steakhouse. Tom and Brigit sat waiting at the bar. Brigit sipped a white wine, and Tom drank a Tom Collins simply because he liked the name, as he’d often said. “Our table is ready, but guess who’s here?” He gestured toward the dark, candlelit interior of the restaurant.

  “Stacy and her Don Juan. I think we should check this guy out.” Dean waved off the maitre d’ who tried to seat them at a window table overlooking the square. Always good for business to place a Sinner in the window. “Could we sit over there by that couple?”

  “But of course, Mister Billodeaux.”

  It was good to be a Sinner in New Orleans. As they moved to their new location, Dean paused at Stacy’s table to say hello oh so casually. “What a coincidence running into you here, Stacy. This must be the famous Don Juan.”


  The candlelight flattered her date, a man with deep lines in his heavily tanned face, a head of thick silver hair as dense as a fox pelt, and a trim mustache on his upper lip. Beneath his white brows, startling blue eyes glittered. The guy could have been her grandfather, or maybe Xochi’s because of her Hispanic blood. Still, he had a smoothness about him Dean distrusted as he rose to shake hands.

  “Not as famous as my namesake, I assure you, and a different last name. I am called Juan Guzmann,” the Don said in one of those fine Corinthian leather advertising voices. “And you are the much more well-known Dean Billodeaux who plays for the Sinners.” He had a firm grip; no old man’s palsy.

  “Yes, their quarterback. Do you follow American football?”

  “Not really, but I have attended the games as a guest many times when here on business.”

  “Let me introduce Ilsa Beckmann. She works with Stacy as their German translator.”

  The Don caressed Ilsa’s body with the warm glance of a practiced womanizer and cupped her hand as if it were a breast. “A pleasure. If I ever have need of a German interpreter, I shall remember you.”

  “But your last name is German, is it not?” Ilsa questioned.

  “We have German blood some generations back,” he answered. “But I have none of the language.”

  Yeah, right. His Nazi father probably hid out in South America after World War II. The guy spoke great English. Why did he need Stacy around? Only one reason Dean could think of, and nothing else. He introduced the rest of their party. “My brother, Tom Billodeaux, and his date, Brigit Murphy.”

  “Ah, Tommy the Toe, the very excellent kicker. So good to meet you.”

  “Actually, we don’t kick with our toes any more. We do it soccer style, but they still call me that.” Tom grinned, pleased at the recognition he seldom got.

  Brigit chirped, “What do they call you, Dean?”

  “The quarterback. Would you mind if we joined you and Stacy?”

  Although the Don seemed surprised, especially since very traditional shrimp cocktails chilling in ice already sat before them and they had obviously ordered, he nodded graciously. “Most certainly.”

  “Garcon, could we put two tables together?” Dean said to the waiter who approached with a bottle of champagne in a cooler and sat it next to the Don. Maybe the garcon laid it on a little thick, but this man made him want to show some sophistication that he really didn’t possess.

  “Right away, Mr. Billodeaux.” The waiter summoned a small army of busboys who rearranged the furniture to their liking without breaking a single of the multiple glasses on the tables.

  “Bring another bottle of champagne. We don’t want to hog your liquor, sir.”

  “Actually, we are drinking a fine Chilean sparkling wine. I represent this winery’s interests in the United States among other enterprises. I am sure you will enjoy it.”

  Dean blocked Ilsa from sitting next to Don Juan by holding out the chair on his far side. He seated himself across from Stacy and watched Tom place Brigit next to her while his brother took the daddy’s chair at the far end of the table.

  “How about jumbo shrimp cocktails all around while we study the menu? They really look good.”

  “Oh, yummy!” Brigit exclaimed. “I’m so hungry.”

  “Here, take mine. I can wait.” Stacy set her appetizer in front of Tom’s starving date.

  “Thanks! Hey, I know you. Stacy Polasky—you went to Country Day School. When Dean wasn’t around, all the guys at Ste. Jeanne’s said you were the girl they’d like most to do. You turned down Kent Gonsoulin for the prom. Was he ever burned. He swore to everyone he’d nail you that night.” Brigit stuffed a shrimp into her ever-burbling mouth.

  Dean’s head swung toward Stacy and away from some polite comment the Don made. Neither Ilsa nor Guzmann appeared to follow Brigit’s rapid speech or the American idiom, but Stacy’s cheeks burned. He started to say something macho like “Good thing they never said that in front of me”, but Stacy answered very coolly, “How flattering to be so desired. What brings you to the city, Brigit?”

  At least the girl swallowed her shrimp before answering. “I finished culinary school this summer, and I mean what kind of opportunity does Chapelle, Louisiana, offer? Folks there wouldn’t know fusion cuisine if you spent an hour explaining it to them and then they’d refuse to eat it. I have to stay with my aunt out by the park until I can find a job here in the Big Easy. Maybe Dean can help me with that.”

  Stacy shot him an amused glance. The waiter made the rounds with the open bottle of wine, and he took a sip before replying to give himself a minute. “Ah, I don’t really have much influence in the restaurants around here. The only people I know are the caterers at the Dome.”

  “That would be great! It’s a start, right? I bet we’d bump into each other all the time.”

  Stacy buried her smile against the edge of the champagne flute.

  Dean said, “I’ll check into it. Say, Mr. Guzmann, what kind of business are you into? This wine is great. I’d like to order some for my parents. One of their anniversaries is coming up.”

  “Import-export, but please, I am Juan to my friends.” He handed over two cards from a slick silver case, one for the winery, one for his company. “I keep telling Stacy she must call me Juan, not Don Juan. Your parents are the same who raised Stacy, no? They have two anniversaries?”

  “Yes, one for their elopement in Vegas and one in the Church. They celebrate both every year.”

  “How charming, but then I would expect that from people who raised such exceptional children. Stacy performed an extremely intimate service for me and would not accept jewelry or any gift other than her usual fee. I had to convince her to dine with me tonight before I return to Argentina.”

  Blessed with the olive complexion of many Cajuns, Dean knew his face rarely reddened, but it did darken when he became angry. He felt that heat gathering now. Don Juan spoke of Stacy as if she were a high-class prostitute. He set down the wine glass so abruptly the contents sloshed on the white linen tablecloth. His very broad shoulders straightened. Across the table, Stacy’s blue eyes widened at the expression she saw on his face. The conversation from Brigit’s chatter to some comment Tom made to Ilsa ceased.

  “I see I have upset you,” Don Juan said into the quiet. “No, no, no, it is not what you think. She acted as my interpreter at the hospital to assure that I understood all about some surgery I required. Afterwards, she came to visit me while I recovered, which was not part of our contract. Her lovely face cheered this old man, but alas…” He lowered his voice so that only Dean and Stacy could hear. “I am now incapable of pleasing a beautiful woman. It goes very hard with me.”

  Dean relaxed into his chair and picked up his wine again. “Sure, that would be difficult for any man.”

  “Still, I enjoy having such women as my interpreters. I must look into importing this wine into Germany, but they are protective of their own brands.” The Don turned his attention to Ilsa and a discussion of German vintages.

  The shrimp cocktails arrived, and the new members of the party completed their orders with Dean and Tom going for that prime rib, medium. Brigit asked Stacy what she had ordered—the filet mignon with a side of mushrooms and a house salad, everything being a la carte—and said she’d have the same. Ilsa ordered likewise and added on the loaded baked potato even though Stacy warned her they were immense. “We share, okay?” Hot, crusty loaves of French bread arrived, and the conversation returned to New Orleans cuisine.

  “I mean this is great and all, but any competent chief can grill a good steak,” Brigit said. “I like more of a challenge.”

  “Home cooking is fine by me,” Dean answered and asked Ilsa what she thought of New Orleans food.

  “So pikant.” She waved a hand in front of her lips. “But all this I like.”

  The meal progressed pleasantly with the serving of the beef perfectly cooked to order and filets three inches thick wrapped in bacon. It
extended to coffee and liqueurs served in small chocolate cups. By the end of the evening, Dean and the Don became so chummy that he offered the Argentinean game tickets the next time he came to town. They parted as friends with one caveat from Dean. “I am counting on you to see Stacy safely home, Juan.”

  “My pleasure, to be sure. Her eyes, so like my granddaughter’s,” the sly old man added before a final shake of the hand.

  Dean nodded. “Goodnight, Stacy.”

  “Goodbye, Dean. Have fun with Ilsa,” she replied but didn’t seem to really mean it.

  Out on the square, Brigit was the first to ask, “Where to next?”

  “I should get a good night’s sleep,” Dean said.

  “Party pooper,” Tom had to say. “We still have time to get in line at Preservation Hall and hear some old time jazz. Let’s go.”

  Dean caught another cab knowing Ilsa would never be able to hoof it in those shoes. They debarked in front of the venerable music hall and moved to the end of a very long and unmoving line that snaked past Pat O’Brien’s Restaurant where waiters came outside to hawk Hurricanes and other drinks to the tourists. He got the women Hurricanes in souvenir glasses and listened to them whine when, once inside the building, all the seats were taken and they had to stand in the rear and bear the heat the ceiling fans barely dissipated. Even Dean Billodeaux couldn’t get them better treatment. After that, he found another cab and took Ilsa back to Anchi Services, leaving Tom to cope with Brigit however he wanted. When his date waited for a kiss, he brushed her cheek lightly and held the door for her.

  “Be sure to lock up after I leave,” he prompted.

  “You want to come in?”

  “No. Game tomorrow, remember?”

  “Always this game.” With that final comment, Ilsa picked her way up the stairs.

  Chapter Five

  Stacy curled on her plum-colored couch and watched the old romantic movie You’ve Got Mail. She identified with the main character, a blonde intellectual who loved books. One day, she’d like to write bilingual children’s stories. Wrapped in her pink terry robe and wearing fuzzy slippers, she sipped a cup of tea that should have been herbal at this time of night, but wasn’t. The clip of Ilsa’s shoes on the staircase made her look at the clock—only eleven, but still enough time for Dean to have taken his date across the street for a quickie. She schooled her face to reflect only nonchalance.