Son of a Sinner

by Lynn Shurr

  “A ring?”

  “No, we’re supposed to be taking this slow.”

  Tom shook his head with disbelief scattered all over it like his freckles. “Right, right. That’s why Xo and I have to stay out of our apartments when you and Stacy are together—unless we’re wrong and the two of you are only playing backgammon.”

  “More like poker, and we haven’t shown all our cards yet. I want to go public with her, let everyone know we’re a couple. Screw management.”

  “Bold words, my brother, but I wish you well. Meanwhile, you don’t care if I play hide the sausage with Ilsa, right?”

  “Not at all. Enjoy.”

  Tom leaned over Dean’s shoulder to collect his plate as he headed for the sink. His pug nose wrinkled. “Flowers, do I smell flowers, lavender maybe?”

  “That lotion was supposed to be unscented! Stacy said so. She, um, gave me a massage.” Dean rubbed a hand over his shoulder and sniffed his palm. Lavender, damn purple lavender, just what Stacy would use.

  “You didn’t notice? Good old Stacy, she always could stick it to you.”

  “You know I have sinus problems after a long flight. Besides, I was distracted, very distracted. I’m going to take a shower. See you in the morning.”

  Chapter Twenty

  With the team scheduled to fly to San Francisco the next Saturday, Stacy counted on being with Dean Friday night. Maybe they could finally go out in public together. Prince Dobbs neared the end of his recovery. He kept his distance from Dean at the home games, always perching on the far end of the bench with his shaved head covered by a black knit Sinners cap and his face glowering out of the frame of a long mustache that joined with a small pointed goatee on his chin. Add a pair of horns poking through that hat, and he could have posed for a sinister devil mascot. Stacy shuddered whenever the camera passed over Prince at a game, but it seldom paused for very long as if to say this wide receiver was on his way out of the state. Good.

  Still, she had one onerous appointment to finish for the week. Kent Gonsoulin had called seeking help from Anchi Services in translating a number of sales and loan documents into Spanish. She’d bumped up their hourly rate for such work to discourage him and said he could email the forms to her and she in turn would send the transcribed papers back, no need for him to make the trip to New Orleans. Oh, he was nearby, just across the lake in Mandeville showing a couple of his deluxe mobile homes in the parking lot of a mall along with several other dealers. Could she make allowances for him and schedule a six p.m. meeting? He’d bring the forms along. Maybe they could go out to dinner afterwards and talk about old times. They had no old times but one, the aborted prom date.

  Stacy strove to balance repugnance with professionalism. She shouldn’t turn down a client willing to pay extra for a service he could perhaps have gotten locally in Chapelle. She okayed the six p.m. appointment and nixed the dinner invitation. Dating clients violated their ethics, she stated primly. By seven, she should be meeting Dean somewhere, his place or hers most likely, when he called. Xochi had already departed with the group of her usual friends. Ilsa, she supposed, would be going out with Tom again. Her German/Russian translator had verified that being with him did qualify as fun. “He is no dancer but makes me laugh.” To think she’d once tried to set them up and now wished Ilsa would leave Tom alone and get her kicks elsewhere.

  Meanwhile, still dressed in her business attire, she sipped a cup of coffee, strong after being in the pot all afternoon and studied her medical terms while Mati slept on one of her feet under the desk. When the bell rang, she nudged the dog from her shoe and went downstairs to confirm her six o’clock with a glance through the peephole. She had to say Kent filled the tiny view with a vast expanse of flesh, a great deal of face forward confidence, and a wide toothy grin.

  Stacy opened the door and tried to forestall him in the small entry. “If you brought the documents, you can just leave them. I’ll estimate the cost and send you an email.” Not wanting to prolong the encounter, she refrained from mentioning his odd attire: a loud Hawaiian shirt patterned in crimson flowers, Bermuda shorts that exposed legs carpeted in fuzzy yellow hair, boat shoes, and a green plastic lei hanging around his thick neck. Dean might be able to get away with that look, but not Kent.

  The plain brown envelope remained clamped under one of his beefy arms just below a sweat stain. “No, I have a few details I want to discuss.”

  “Very well.” Completely aware that Kent most likely stared at her derriere the whole way, Stacy led him up the stairs to the office and offered him a seat on the other side of a stout desk that put some distance between them. “Let’s see what you’ve got”—a bad choice of words for a translator.

  Kent grinned bearishly. “You had a chance to do that on prom night and turned it down.”

  “I’ve explained that previously. Let me see the documents. I might be able to give you an estimate right now, and you can get back to business.”

  “Done for the day. November and still hot as Hades in that parking lot. We’re doing our Sale Away to Paradise in a Gonsoulin mobile home promotion. Here you go. Aloha.” Kent leaned his bulk over the desk and moved the lei from his neck to hers, letting his lips brush her cheek on the way back.

  Stacy refrained from scrubbing the moisture off her skin with a tissue. “The documents, please.”

  Kent leaned back in the visitor’s chair that creaked ominously beneath his weight and kept his hand on the envelope. “Must be boring work translating documents. Me, I’m a people person. That’s why I’m good at sales. You don’t see my family living in a mobile home any more. Moved out of the one my daddy gave us for a wedding gift as soon as my commissions piled up. I don’t feel the need to live in the product like he does. Still got the place for rent, though. It’s a deluxe triple unit with a Jacuzzi on a wooded acre lot in the country. Lots of privacy. If you get tired of your job and want to move back to Chapelle, we could work out a deal, a very good deal.”

  “Actually, I own this business. It’s not simply a job for me. I find translation mentally stimulating and meet many interesting people when interpreting.” Stacy glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes gone and nothing accomplished. “If I could see the papers?”

  “Let me tell you, my throat is dry as a bone and my bone is filled to the brim with piss. You got a cold beer on hand and a john I could use? It’s a long drive over that causeway.”

  Charming. Perhaps the vulgarity helped him make sales with the good ole boys. “I’m afraid I can offer only coffee, Mr. Gonsoulin, and it is rather stale this late in the day. I have some bottled water as well.” She lied, not about the status of the coffee, but about the beer. She kept some on hand for Dean, Dixie lager and a few bottles of their Blackened Voodoo brew. It wasn’t offered to clients. Ever.

  “Come on, Stacy. It’s Kent. We’re old friends. We could be better friends. Dean is gonna drop you for a supermodel sometime soon just because he can. Me, I believe in loyalty. I’m stuck with my wife till death do us part. Bad for business to divorce in Catholic country, but that’s not saying we couldn’t have some fun on the side.” He started to offer her the envelope, then drew it back as if playing a game.

  “Not interested in either of your offers. It appears you aren’t serious about needing translation services. The way out is down the stairs.”

  “Don’t get all pissy with me, Stacy. Just trying to go back to where we left off. Who can blame me? You are one gorgeous lady. Here.” He shoved the envelope across the desk.

  As if activated by the word pissy or the tension in the air, Mati wriggled from under the desk and popped out by Kent’s foot. He raised his leg and peed on the boat shoes.

  “Your fucking rat dog just ruined my Dockers!”

  Kent drew back to kick at Mati, but Stacy rushed to pull the puppy away in time. From the safety of her arms, her pet issued a tiny growl. Kent’s face glowed an angry red that showed even in the part of his fair and thinning hair. Her heart kicked up a notc
h.

  “So sorry, Kent. Let me get you a towel and some water. Mati isn’t totally trained yet. I’ll lock him up, then you can give me the papers or go if you want.” She took the shortcut through the bathroom that adjoined the kitchen and carefully bolted the inner door behind her.

  “Bad, Mati,” Stacy muttered to the dog but was unable to put any real conviction into her reprimand. She deposited him in his basket by the sofa. With an empty bladder, he wouldn’t be likely to make a mess on the rug. If left in the kitchen, he’d only whine and scratch at the door to get her attention. She spied the red scarf Mati had purloined and dragged to his nest as if it were a dead rabbit to gnaw. Shaking it out, she draped the scarf over the curtain rod making sure it showed in the window. Having Dean give her some backup right now wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

  She got the old towel from a pile kept under the sink to wipe up accidents and a bottle of water from the fridge and returned to make peace with Kent Gonsoulin if that could be accomplished. This time she bolted the door from the inside as they always did when in the office should a client need to use the facilities. She held out her offerings, not getting too close. “Here, this might help.”

  “You owe me for the shoes. The scent of urine won’t come out.” Kent’s high color had faded a bit. “I still need to use the john.”

  “Certainly. Right in there.” Stacy pressed against her desk to let him pass, but somehow he managed to rub against her breasts in getting there. He reeked of sweat, puppy pee, and a few beers he’d had before keeping their appointment. Kent slammed the door to express his anger and set Mati to barking in the kitchen. She only hoped Kent wouldn’t go through to the apartment and take revenge on her fluff ball of a pet. Stacy dropped the towel over the puddle on the floor and cracked the bottle of water open to wet her dry throat.

  Waiting, she removed the ridiculous lei. Mati could have it to chew to pieces later. She opened the envelope and studied a few routine documents. Nothing she and Xochi couldn’t handle easily and swiftly, but she had no desire for the job. She waited to hear the sound of urine splashing in the toilet bowl. With all the time he took, she figured she’d have to light the fat, purple lavender-scented candle on the back of the commode once Kent left the premises. The scent of lavender, her body lotion, her hands rubbing it on Dean’s shoulders, marking him with her favorite fragrance however unintentionally—tonight they would be together, very soon. The knob in the old door rattled. Hadn’t Kent washed his hands? Probably not.

  He appeared in the doorway with his shorts unzipped and the bottom buttons of the loud shirt opened to expose a belly bearing the same pale fluff as his legs though it grew thicker around his fully erect penis. “There, I got it all ready for you. Payback for the prom and the dog pee coming right up. Won’t take long. I’m about ready to blow. Speaking of which…”

  He made a grab for her, but Stacy rolled her chair backwards and escaped around the far side of the desk. Tight quarters to work in since Kent could easily move to block the exit to the stairs. She began pitching whatever came to hand at his smug face: a slim silver vase with sprigs of dried lavender, a cup full of purple pens and pencils with Anchi Services embossed on them, her mug of stale coffee—cold but it made him flinch long enough for her to gain the landing. The rolling pens and pencils undermined his forward charge and sent Kent belly-down on the hardwood floor. He made a grab for her ankle, but she kicked him away and dashed down the stairs. This time, she would not be trapped in her bedroom. She’d seek safety in the traffic of the French Quarter and the prying eyes of the paparazzi always watching her place.

  Fumbling with her locks, Stacy burst into the twilight shadows of the November evening and ran directly into the unyielding chest of Prince Dobbs. “Going somewhere? You got a minute?”

  Dressed all in black, he wore a Sinners knit cap pulled low. The harsh security light only deepened the lines of his face and darkened the sinister new beard. Stacy pivoted around him, but the man was as quick as everyone said. He turned, too, and had her by the shoulders before she could run any farther. Stacy raised her knee impeded by her slim skirt. If not the groin then the instep again, this time in hard-soled heels, but he shoved her back to arm’s length.

  “None of that shit now, Stacy. I come to make amends. Doc Funk says I got to, or I’ll be freezing my fine ass off in Cleveland.”

  “Later!” She struggled to get away from his grasp.

  Two quick blasts surprised them both. The sound rebounded off the walls of the alley as Prince’s good leg folded and his hands dropped from Stacy’s shoulders. He sank to the stained concrete adding a new layer with his blood. Behind him, Kent Gonsoulin stood braced in the doorway and held out a snub-nosed black pistol two-handed. He looked for all the world like a cop from the older version of Hawaii Five-O. He’d zipped before pursuing her, but with the barrier of Prince out of the way, the weapon pointed directly at Stacy. She raised her hands, stepped aside angling for the street. “No!”

  Dean rounded the corner and threw himself at the hand holding the gun. It went off a third time driving a bullet through one of the pretty containers of dusty miller and purple sweet potato vines on the fire escape and sending down a rain of dirt, leaves and pottery fragments into the cul-de-sac as Kent smashed into the doorframe. The firearm skittered away to blend with the shadows like a cockroach running from the light.

  “What the fuck, Dean! I just saved your cousin from a mugger or a rapist. I think you broke my wrist. Jesus Christ, it hurts.”

  “He shot Prince Dobbs,” Stacy said, her voice far more weak and wobbly than she intended.

  “That’s not Prince Dobbs. He got those whatcha-callits, those little braids all over his head,” Kent protested.

  Dean didn’t answer. He went to kneel by the prone Sinner, checked for a pulse, and whipped off his belt. “Stacy, call an ambulance and the cops.”

  “My phone is upstairs.” Her knees trembled. Do not faint. Just don’t!

  “Here, use mine.” He tossed the cell to her, and she punched in the numbers running on automatic and amazed herself by giving her location and all pertinent details in a crisp, cool voice that only wavered a little as she described the injuries. Dean had the belt cinched around Prince’s upper thigh stopping the pump of blood from the leg wound. Immediately after, he began CPR, clearing the airway and delivering a breath before beginning chest compressions.

  “Stacy, something to press against the hole in his back.”

  She stripped off her finely tailored gray jacket without a thought, folded it, and eased the cloth under Prince where the ooze from the wound seeped. All the while, Kent Gonsoulin blathered in the background, “I got a concealed carry permit. Thought he was a mugger, a rapist, a murderer. I mean, I stood my ground.”

  The little flashes of cameras went off like bug-zappers with photographers arriving way before the police or the ambulance. The paparazzo disguised as the homeless man deserted his cup of change across from the alley, whipped a camera from his many layers of rags, and lay down to get the best angle of the two hunched over the body of Prince Dobbs. The blue and red lights of emergency vehicles illuminated the scene. A cop picked up the prone photographer by a threadbare collar and told him stick around to give a statement. Others pushed back the gathering crowd. The medics took over from Dean and moved Prince to a gurney.

  “Will he live?” Stacy asked.

  “Can’t say. Good work on the first aid, Mr. Billodeaux,” the EMT replied.

  Everyone in New Orleans recognized Dean. In fact, the looky-loos had started to chant, “Dean, Dean, Dean!” as if they were at a game and he’d just made a first down. Stacy burrowed into his embrace. He wore one of those wonderfully soft cotton dress shirts he had in many colors, this one an olive green that flattered his dark good looks, the kind he put on when he went to Mariah’s, never flaunting anything that labeled him as a Sinner. Had he intended to take her out tonight?

  Stacy gazed up at those intense brown eyes shaded by s
uch thick lashes. “I am very happy we are together now but so, so sorry I ever started this.” Now that the worst was over, the shakes seized her body. Dean held her tighter. The ambulance containing Prince screamed into the oncoming darkness.

  “Flirting with Prince you mean? Yeah, you should have known better.”

  “He said he came tonight to apologize. Kent shot him in the back without any warning. Kent tried to attack me, not Prince. But I mean the whole crazy charade, trying to make you rescue me from Don Juan and Angel so that you’d see me in a new way, Xochi said. I tried to stop it with Prince, but you witnessed how well that went. You truly did save me.”

  “What’s Xo got to do with this?” His hold on her lessened.

  “Xochi said I had to stop being your sparring partner and show I needed you. I do need you.”

  His comforting arms dropped from her shoulders. Dean took a step back. “This whole bit was a trick to get my attention? Stacy, a man might die tonight because of what you started. Like a complete fool I fell for it.”

  “Don’t blame Xo. She wanted to help us—me. I didn’t have to carry out her plan.”

  “That’s right. You didn’t.” The knees of Dean’s khakis were darkened with blood. He turned his back on her.

  Though the night air still held on to some the warmth of the day a chill washed over her. No chorus of frogs sounded as they would have back at the ranch; only the croak of Kent Gonsoulin as he claimed over and over, “Hell, I stood my ground. I’m not the one should be cuffed. Watch that wrist. Might be broken. Hey, hey, police brutality. You can’t cuff an injured man. I want my lawyer.” The slam of the police cruiser’s door shut him off.

  “Anybody see where the gun went?” an officer asked.

  “Under the fire escape,” Stacy said so faintly she wasn’t sure they heard, but the ragged paparazzo pointed in the same direction.