Son of a Sinner

by Lynn Shurr

  “Have a good time with Dean?” she asked the model-perfect woman. “Would you like some tea? I made a pot.”

  “You got any schnapps? My feet hurt.” Ilsa plunked down on a hassock fringed around its edges in silver and began unstrapping her complicated shoes. “We have to stand to hear the old jazzmen play.”

  “Oh, you went to Preservation Hall. It’s the real deal, but yes, not much seating. I think we might have a bottle of peppermint schnapps left over from last year’s Christmas party. I’ll get it for you.” All the better to loosen Ilsa’s tongue.

  Stacy found the dusty bottle in a cabinet and poured a measure into a shot glass with a gold fleur-de-lis on the side. She delivered it and the rest of the liquor to Ilsa who sat rubbing her long toes. “So how was Dean?”

  “What you say—the perfect gentleman.” Ilsa tossed back the schnapps and smacked her lips. “Better than the Hurricane drink.”

  Maybe Dean had tried to get her liquored up and failed. Ilsa sure could hold her booze. Stacy turned off the movie and settled on the couch again. “I meant, how was he in bed?”

  “Was no bed. We come right back here after all that tooting with the horns, and I get a kiss on my cheek. I dress like this for nothing.” She smoothed her red gown down the length of her body.

  Stacy took pleasure in noting a slight bump where that huge baked potato must be digesting. Ilsa had given her and Brigit a quarter each of all that starch, and it still filled half her plate. Since the guys had gotten their own, she’d polished off the rest. If Ilsa kept eating like that and absorbing so much booze, she would soon outgrow the fire engine red dress.

  “Maybe Dean doesn’t expect you to sleep with him until the third date. He can be rather old-fashioned.”

  Ilsa poured another shot of schnapps, gulped it, and slapped the empty on the glass-topped coffee table with a snap. “No, we had no, what to say—spark. Tom says he is the party pooper. Party pooper, I like that word.”

  “Maybe next time you could go out with Xo and her friends. They love to dance.”

  “Not if they are Latins. Always too short, and I do not have the rhythm for their music.”

  Ilsa raised her swan-like arms far over her head, stretched, and sniffed her armpits. To Stacy’s disappointment they were shaven, maybe even waxed. She’d heard sometimes European woman didn’t bother. Hairy armpits would have grossed out Dean, but Ilsa’s pit hair probably grew in like swansdown.

  “And so, tonight I take a shower and go to bed,” Stacy’s new employee said with finality. She padded off toward the bathroom with her painful shoes in-hand and not a single schnapps-induced wobble.

  Stacy started the movie again and waited for Xochi’s return. She’d fallen asleep with her head on a star-shaped pillow by the time her roommate came home at 1:30 a.m., turned off the TV, and shook her shoulder. “Off to bed, Stace. I know that sofa fits our décor, but it’s not the most comfortable place for a nap.”

  “True. How was your evening?”

  “Fun and same as always. We had a couple of drinks, but mostly danced. More importantly, how was yours?” Xochi said as they entered her bedroom and shut the door.

  “As you predicted Dean showed up at the steakhouse with Ilsa, Tom and his date, this mouthy girl named Brigit they both knew from high school. She said all the guys at Ste. Jeanne’s wanted to bang me. I guess I was more popular than I thought.”

  “Not in a good way, but how did Dean answer her?”

  “He started to say something, but I just told her I was flattered and turned the conversation to be all about her. That always works.”

  “What am I going to do with you? You should have let Dean do the talking, a small thing that would have made him feel manly.”

  Xochi wriggled out of a tangerine-colored dress with thin straps and flounces on the skirt. Stacy wouldn’t be caught dead in that bad bridesmaid’s dress nightmare, but Xo carried the outfit off just fine. Her cousin removed her hoop earrings and tidily hung them on a holder shaped like a cactus, a birthday gift from Tom. Her undies matched her gown, but instead of dropping them in front of Stacy, she modestly slipped a big sleep shirt over her head, put her lingerie in a laundry bag in the closet, and placed the dress on a padded hanger.

  Stacy cringed at the memory of her arrival at Lorena Ranch with a heap of luggage as tall as the Alps and her own butler. Her wardrobe overflowed the generous closet and dresser space in her room, and she’d expected Brinsley, her servant, to take care of it for her. When clothes she left on the floor began disappearing, Aunt Nell’s doing, she finally caught on that she’d have to put her things away or lose them. Poor Brinsley had been ordered not to intervene. Now, he belonged to the entire family and was, in fact a vital part of it. Anastasia Polasky should have been branded with an S for Spoiled. It could also have stood for Scared to be alone in the world.

  Stacy waved her hand. “Dean had another chance to save me. Don Juan said I’d done him an intimate service and wouldn’t accept a gift for it. He made it sound very sexual, and Dean actually showed rage on his face. Scary. I wonder if that’s how he looks beneath the helmet on the football field. Anyhow, the Don quickly explained about his medical condition. They ended the evening the best of friends, even dueling over the tab which Dean paid since he’d barged in on us. That poor, frail old man, for a minute I thought I’d have to rescue him.”

  Xochi snorted. “Poor, frail old man, my ass. A few years ago, Don Juan would have lived up to his namesake’s reputation and tried to seduce you. I think he purposely meant to get a rise out of Dean—and maybe a free dinner.”

  Stacy shook her curls. “No, he took several radiation treatments to make sure all the cancer cells died, and that took a toll on him physically. On the way home, he fell asleep, all worn out from entertaining us with his stories. He’s like that most interesting man in the world on the beer commercials. Before I went upstairs he said I needed a virile young man like Dean.”

  “Fine. Believe what you want. We don’t need Don Juan any more. We must find a greater challenge for Dean.” Xochi brushed her thick black curls a few strokes. “Let me think a minute.”

  She left for the bathroom and returned with her teeth brushed, makeup removed and nearly as pretty without it. A snap of her fingers. “I know! There’s this fellow in my crowd called Angel Garcia.” Xochi very properly pronounced the name, An-hel and rolled the R in Garcia. “He’s a great dancer who wants to be an actor. Angel tries out for every movie filmed here and usually gets some kind of bit part. You know, second street punk, that sort of thing. I can ask him to pretend to be less than savory and out to bed you. You are being reeled in until Dean puts an end to it.”

  “Would we have to pay him to play the part?”

  “To guarantee his best performance I think we should.”

  “Okay, when do we start?”

  “No better time than tomorrow. You going to the game?”

  “Sure, it’s the season opener. The family is coming, all except the twins, I think, but they might show at the last minute.”

  Xochi considered the ploy as she wrapped one dark curl around a finger. “Say I couldn’t come because I had to interpret for some Mexican gangbangers at the police station so you brought your friend, Angel. Wish that weren’t so often true. I know we needed that retainer with the city police when we started this business, and the Billodeaux name helped us get it, but I hate being the mouthpiece for scumbags. Those kinds of clients remind me of the people who killed my parents.” She shivered and reached under her pillow for the little satin bag.

  Stacy hugged Xo’s shoulders. “I take those jobs whenever I can because I know how you feel about them, but the cops always ask for you first. You come across as pretty tough. This time you’ll just be safely at home watching football. And I guess even scumbags have rights in this country. Are you sure Angel will be available?”

  “He’ll do it if I don’t wake him before noon and tick him off. The game starts at three. He should be read
y to go. Did Ilsa mention going out with Dean again, maybe after the game? He might not notice you with Angel if his mind is on her.”

  Stacy laughed quietly enough not to wake the person in question. “I don’t think they will be going out again. Ilsa called Dean a party pooper when she got back.”

  Even Xochi smirked at little at Dean’s expense. “He certainly can be that.” She put two fingers to her lips as if blowing a whistle, and deepened her voice. “No cannonballs off the diving board, no running near the pool, no sandy feet. Wash those off!” she mocked doing a fairly good imitation of Dean as a lifeguard at Camp Love Letter.

  Stacy laughed louder. “Dean, the party pooper. I love it—but I hope Angel works better than Don Juan did.”

  “Next time, let Dean talk.”

  “I’ll try to remember.”

  Chapter Six

  Dean Billodeaux awoke Sunday morning with nothing on his mind but carbo-loading a tall stack of pancakes. He was rarin’ to go like a racehorse being led to the gates with the bugles signaling post time and the band playing My Old Kentucky Home, only in his case he’d be running through the tunnel and entering the field through the blowup devil’s mouth with dry ice steaming around his ankles. For two seasons, he’d gotten the Sinners to the playoffs. This year he intended to take them all the way to the Super Bowl. He could feel it. Yes! He punched the air as he entered the kitchen where Tom slumped over a bowl of cereal.

  “Cereal, bro? We need to stoke up on hotcakes. Let’s go out and find some.”

  “I won’t be running the length of the field. You’re certainly in a good mood. You and Ilsa get it on last night?”

  “No way. She’s too much like the Amberello Agency models I always get stuck with, but brighter. Anyhow, Stacy’s lights were on when I dropped Ilsa off, so I know Don Juan kept his promise and brought her right home after dinner. No more worries there. He’s impotent, told me that himself.”

  “Poor Dean, having to date models all the time. How do you know it wasn’t Xochi at home?” Tom finished the little O’s swimming in the bowl and drank the remaining milk. He rinsed his dish and put it in the washer.

  “Xo always stays out late on Saturdays with her girlfriends. They go dancing and come home in a cab for safety unless one of them hooks up, and you know Xochi doesn’t do that. How did the rest of the night go with Brigit?”

  “I had the cab take us directly to her aunt’s place. The aunt wanted to meet me. We had pecan pie and coffee, talked way too long.”

  “What about?”

  “Mostly you and how you are going to get Brigit a great job at the Dome. Will you?”

  Dean put one of the little pods in the fancy coffeemaker and turned it on to brew one strong cup to get him started for the day. “Hell, no, not on this side of the causeway. Lots of new trendy places starting up on the other side of the lake. Maybe if I promised to put in some personal appearances and eat their food, they’d give her a try. As long as she isn’t in New Orleans and certainly not in the Dome, I’ll be happy.”

  “Her aunt talks almost as much as she does.” Tom screwed fingers into both ears. “Good thing I don’t need to hear the plays. I think I’ve gone deaf from listening to them.”

  “You heard what she said about Stacy and Kent Gonsoulin and the other guys?”

  “Stace handled it well, but did you notice Brigit only gave you credit for defending her reputation. I went to Ste. Jeanne’s, too, had your back when you threatened to bash his face in that weekend you came home from college.”

  “My wingman. If you want Ilsa, she’s all yours. I can’t stand women who hang on me and agree with everything I say.”

  “Generous, but like I said, I can get my own women.”

  Dean had no memory of life without Tom. Only ten months apart in age and both adopted by Mama Nell who thought she’d be childless before she started popping out test tube babies, they formed a tight unit within the larger family. Wherever Dean went, there went Tom, into trouble and out of it, rarely apart. He led, and Tom usually followed. All except that one time when Tommy ran off to Mexico with his birth father and ended up bringing home his half-sister, Xochi, and a puppy he called Macho. Dean had wanted to go find his brother, but seven-year-olds weren’t allowed on the rescue mission. He’d saved all his Easter candy to share when Tom came home. Another thing he didn’t like about Ilsa was the way she ignored his brother.

  “Yeah, I know you can get your own girls. It’s just that some women don’t know a great guy when they see one—like Princess Anastasia Marya Polasky.”

  ****

  Still pumped at game time and able to convey that to the team Dean Billodeaux ran onto the field. He gave a slight wave to the cheering crowd and a wider one for his family before beginning his stretches. Mom and Dad, always there for home games, sat in their usual box low near the fifty-yard line. Daddy Joe hated the sky-boxes where his “suggestions” to the coaches and officials could not be heard. His five siblings who hadn’t left the nest yet lined up with them; Teddy in his wheelchair claimed the end slot. Stacy sat there next to Xochi in the second row behind them. No, not Xo, but some other Hispanic-looking person, a guy with greasy black curls hanging down his neck. He had a thin, handsome face, slim build, soulful dark eyes, and a possessive hand on Stacy’s knee. Don Juan had proved to be no threat, but this guy, definitely. He’d come from out of nowhere like a lineman trying for a sack.

  Head in the game. Head in the game. Dean stretched. He warmed up his arm. He noticed Stacy hadn’t shoved that hand away. She laughed at something the fellow said. As he jogged by the box and reached up to slap the flesh with the kids, he noted the couple jabbering in rapid Spanish. Having picked up enough of the language in high school and from their housekeeper, he could get by in the language, but not at that speed. Tom spoke it more fluently having used it with Xochi from the moment she arrived to live with the family. He swung over to where Tom kicked balls into a net getting that leg ready for the start of the game.

  “Say, do you know who that is sitting with Stacy?”

  “No idea. I’ll call Xo after the game if you really want to know. Seems like she didn’t make it today.”

  “I don’t like the looks of him, so do that for me. Thanks.”

  Tom picked up another football, rotated it in his hands. “You know you could ask her yourself.”

  “No, that wouldn’t be good. Might appear like I’m butting into Princess Anastasia’s life.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Dean didn’t have to answer because the officials called for the coin toss. He did his thing, electing to receive and get this show on the road. The return team did a better than decent job getting the ball to the forty, setting up Dean nicely for his favorite kind of play, the long spiral forward pass just like his daddy used to do. He called the play. The ball snapped into his hands. Relaxed and trusting his offensive line, he sought the three wide receivers that fanned out across the field, one left, one center, one right. He turned his head too far right and caught a quick glimpse of the hand on Stacy’s knee moving under her skirt. That tiny jolt of distraction caused him to miss all three opportunities, each man now tightly covered.

  Dean danced in the pocket for a few seconds, noted his protection crumbling. Unlike his predecessor, Rex Worthy, he rarely ran the ball and his opponents knew that. He’d missed his chance to throw the pigskin downfield and saw no other way to gain yardage than to tuck and run as far as he could, maybe a few yards before being taken down like a stag in the hunt. He faked a pass, hid the ball, and raced through the nearest gap. Beyond that, his offense had opened another. Most of the defenders had been drawn toward the far end of the stadium to cover his receivers. Before him lay an open field. Dean put on some speed, stiff-armed a cornerback coming in from an angle and ran like hell. As he approached the goal, Jakarta Jones, an older wide receiver left over from the Worthy years, threw a block that gave him access to the goal line. He crossed over and spiked the ball. What do you know? He�
��d run in his first touchdown in the NFL. Usually, he just made them possible for others.

  Dean caught the football as it bounced up and instead of turning it over to the official, he trotted down the sideline and lofted it directly into Stacy’s lap. Like the rest of the family, she was clapping wildly but didn’t stand up. Little T-Rex, the youngest Billodeaux, tried to grab it as it passed over his head, but as always Dean’s throw went where he intended it to go. Stacy had made him run the ball all the way, and she deserved to hold it for him. He took a moment to enjoy her startled blue eyes, her full pink lips forming a little O of surprise. Then, her companion, who now had his arm around her shoulder, said something in her ear. Smiling, she gave the ball to him. Gloating, the sleaze held it high.

  Dean, stunned, simply stood there staring into the stands while Tom left the bench and kicked the PAT with his usual ease. Didn’t she know he could be fined for doing this—though probably not as most players were awarded the ball from their first touchdown. He’d pay for the pigskin if he had to, no problem, but she’d given away his trophy as if it were nothing, to some guy he didn’t know and had never checked out for suitability. Finally, his father’s bellow, one that had issued lots of audibles in its day, penetrated his helmet. “Great job, son, but what happened to that pass?”

  Dean shrugged, returned to the bench and accepted a cup of Gatorade after removing his helmet. Tom sat beside him. “Good work,” Dean told his brother automatically.

  “You weren’t watching, just standing there staring into the family box like your cleats were nailed to the artificial turf.”

  “Sorry, you’re the most reliable member of the team. Stacy gave my ball to that-that…”