by Sandra Hill
First was Bull Latham, a scary-looking marine vet who ran outdoor adventure programs in Colorado; his hair was cut military short, and his face had an angry scar running from chin to right ear, half of which was gone. Mostly, he just scowled . . . or growled, which she interpreted to mean he agreed with something that was said.
Black Hawk Jones, an Arapaho lawyer, had gotten a divorce recently . . . his third, and he was looking for action, as evident in the fact that he’d hit on every woman here today, except for Tante Lulu. She might be next. He was forty-eight years old and still wearing leather pants. Enough said!
Izzie Silverstein, a short, half-bald accountant from Manhattan, had the cutest dimples. Everyone liked him and his great sense of humor. Any man who could laugh at his bald spot got her vote.
Sven Ericcson was a three-time finalist in the Mr. Universe contest. If he flicked his hair over his shoulder Fabio-style one more time, she was pulling out her salon shears.
Although none of them could be described as handsome, they were attractive in their own way, and they were all built like brick outhouses, as Tante Lulu had remarked to her in an undertone. In addition, they sported tattoos, lots of tattoos. Black Hawk and Sven had long hair that many women would envy
. . . Charmaine knew that for a fact, being a hairstylist.
Souped-up Harleys were parked in the driveway. Anyone passing by would probably not be alarmed, though, thinking that Tante Lulu was up to her usual antics. Nothing she did surprised people down on the bayou.
Angel Sabato, the best looking of the bunch, had arrived yesterday. In fact, they were his friends from his old biking days. He still had a hog, which was what bikers called their bikes, and so did Grace O’Brien, the ex-nun, who was here studying traiteuring with Tante Lulu.
Resting half his butt on the arm of Grace’s rocking chair, Angel continually teased her with little whispers in her ear or suggestive remarks or one of his endless nun jokes. She gave back as good as she got, bless her heart. Actually, Angel appeared to be marking his territory, setting up invisible signs to the other guys that Grace was his. Grace might have something to say about that.
Sven sat on the porch swing next to Charmaine. Thigh to thigh. Good thing she was married to a handsome guy like Rusty. Otherwise, she might have been tempted. Then again, maybe not. Vanity in a man was rather off-putting.
“So, it’s settled,” said Ronnie, who was checking off a list on her clipboard. “We rent the Veterans Club hall. Have glass cases to display the treasure for the press and dignitaries who will be attending, by invitation only. Bull is hiring at least six security guards for inside, and another six outside.” She looked to Bull, and he growled his assent.
“We’ll let Jake set up a computer video presentation of the project as it progressed. Adam will handle the booth devoted to Jean Lafitte and his history. I’ll take care of the Jinx, Inc. table. Gotta promote the company. And we’ll have a special section of the arena for scheduled interviews with the project participants. René will have a PowerPoint presentation and brochures related to bayou environmental concerns. We’re even going to allow a Katrina relief organization to take donations at the door, voluntary entry fees. Afterward, before the ball begins, a special Brinks truck will drive up and cart the treasure off for transport to New Jersey.”
“Mebbe Caleb’s sister Lizzie kin sing fer us,” Tante Lulu suggested. “She’s comin’ ta Nawleans fer American Idol tryouts anyways.”
The others nodded.
“Are we all going to be in pirate costumes?” Sylvie inquired.
“Yes,” Ronnie said. “During the press event, we’ll be in costume, along with some actors we’ve hired to act out the parts of famous pirates . . . Jack Sparrow, Blackbeard, Anne Bonny, and, of course, Jean Lafitte and his brother Pierre. Sven is going to handle this.” She smiled at the Mr. Universe wannabe, and he nodded his head in acceptance of her presumed compliment. “Then at the nighttime ball, I think we should require everyone who attends to be in pirate or period costume. And Sven will get us additional celebrity impersonators in pirate costume for the evening festivities . . . Johnny Depp, Presidents Bush and Clinton, Pamela Anderson, Dolly Parton, and some surprises.”
“Doan fergit Richard Simmons,” Tante Lulu reminded Sven.
He gave her a little wave.
“I know a guy in New Orleans who does Mardi Gras costumes,” Izzie said. “We can make sure he gets in an extra supply of costumes: pirates, British and American miliary uniforms, and colonist gear.”
“There were Native Americans around at that time, too,” Black Hawk pointed out. “The Houma Indians, I think. Anyhow, I’ll be demonstrating an Arapaho dance, and we’ll have representatives of the Houma nation here, as well.”
“I’ll take charge of the reenactors and the battle,” Izzie said. “In the field behind the Veterans Club.”
“And the four of us will be promoting the new Hells Pirates group forming as an offshoot of Hells Angels,” Sven added. “We already have a Web site, and Izzie is gonna be the secretary.”
It boggled Charmaine’s mind, and no doubt the rest of the women, who thankfully had nothing to say.
“Do ya think we’ll be able ta get that little longship fer Tee-John ta capture Celine?” Tante Lulu asked Val.
Val had connections in New York City. She nodded. “Believe it or not, my friend is looking forward to it. Of course, he insists on staying aboard as captain, but that shouldn’t cramp Tee-John’s style any, since most of his work will take place below decks.”
The four bikers grinned at each other, probably thinking they were all looney birds, which they were. But then, they were a bit looney themselves. Hells Pirates, indeed!
“I’ll handle the entertainment,” Charmaine said. “Dress rehearsal next Friday.”
“Is yer friend a real captain, like could he marry folks?” Tante Lulu asked Val.
“Maybe. I’ll ask,” Val said.
Oh, Lord! Here we go again with another surprise wedding. Actually, Luc had revealed to Remy who’d told Rachel who’d told Val who’d told Charmaine who’d told Tante Lulu that Tee-John had come to him several days ago about love advice. They were all feeling better about their plot now, knowing that Tee-John was beginning to suspect his true feelings. When a grown man asked “What is love?” he was already in love, in Charmaine’s opinion.
So, it was full speed ahead on the Tee-John Project.
“You people are kind of crazy,” Bull commented with a deep growly laugh, the first time he’d put more than two words together since they’d arrived.
“So? Any objections?” Tante Lulu put her hands on her tiny hips and confronted the big guy.
“Hell, no. We like crazy,” Sven said. “And, by the way, make sure you invite some single wenches.”
Just when he thought everything would work out . . .
The disaster happened on Monday when John went in to work.
“Some items are missing from the evidence room,” the chief told him, right off, without any preamble.
John was sitting at his desk, trying to catch up on the pile of paperwork that had accumulated in his absence. Glancing up at his boss, he detected a strange look of worry on his face.
“What? You don’t think I took anything, do you?”
The chief shook his head. “It was the digital camera you used at the Playpen.”
John frowned, still unsure of the significance of the chief coming to him with this problem.
“We think it was Congressman Martinez’s people, trying to make sure the photos of his wife were destroyed. We’ll get to the bottom of who did it, and who in the department allowed it to happen. That doesn’t matter now. The damage is already done.”
“Damage?”
“Whoever took the camera saw the photos in there of you and that reporter gal . . . Arseneaux, I think her name is. They got a little revenge for your part in the bust by, uh . . . ”
John stood, now as alarmed as the chief seemed to be. �
��Spit it out.”
“They were given to the National Enquirer. The tabloid plans on running a spread tomorrow, the angle being that you two are an item, and therefore the prosecution of some of Louisiana’s finest . . .
meaning Martinez’s wife, along with Ted Warner and that whiny ass evangelist, was all a ploy concocted by you two.”
“For what purpose?”
The chief shrugged. “An exclusive story for Lois Lane, and a coup in your career.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Since when are the tabloids smart?”
“Well, I have no intention of talkin’ with some yellow journalist to sell more of those rags.”
“I wouldn’t let you anyhow. Besides, we’re safe. All the department has to do is issue a release claiming the photo was doctored and there is no relationship between you two. Yeah, it’s embarrassing for the two of you, but not to worry. I’ll handle it personally.”
“Oh, shit!”
“Now what? No, please don’t tell me you really are nailing her.”
John explained the situation to his boss, including the bit about his secret child.
The chief sank down into the interviewee chair next to his desk and put his face in his hands, rubbing up and down. When he looked at him again, he said, “This is a disaster.”
“Tell me about it. God only knows how Celine will react.”
He soon found out.
When the ax falls, duck . . .
Celine felt blindsided when she entered the newspaper office building.
A National Enquirer reporter and a cameraman were waiting for her. They pounced as soon as she exited her car in the parking lot.
“Are you Celine Arseneaux? Can you comment on your relationship with the Sex Cop? Did you two conspire to create the story on the Playpen bust? Could there be a new trial based on your . . . um, relationship?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The reporter waved the photo of John kissing her, the one he used as a screensaver on his computer.
Celine felt crushed. The only way that photo could have gotten in the hands of the tabloid was via the traitor . . . the traitor she had been starting to love.
Oh, John might not have given the photo to the newspaper. In fact, she doubted that he had. But he was responsible for taking the photo, and she sure as hell had been under the impression that he’d deleted it from the camera, that the only copy was in his hands.
She shoved past the reporter and cameraman, declining to comment, except when asked, “Are you having an affair with John LeDeux?”
“No!” she answered unequivocally.
Once in the building, she found her problems were only beginning.
No sooner had she sat down at her desk than Bruce motioned her toward his office. “Arseneaux! In here. Now!” he barked.
His face was so red with anger, she feared he might bust a blood vessel.
He shoved a copy of the infamous photograph into her face. “Did you know about this?”
“Yes, but—”
“And you chose not to tell me?”
“I thought it was a dead issue. I didn’t know there were copies around other than—”
“Other than the one LeDeux has?”
She could feel her face color. “Yes.”
“Are you having an affair with LeDeux?”
“No. Well, sort of. Okay, sit down before you have a stroke.”
He looked as if he’d like to leap over his desk and strangle her.
“I’ll explain. John and I have some history. In fact, I hope this won’t be repeated, but he’s the father of my son Etienne.”
Bruce let her relate the entire story before interrupting again. When she was finally silent, he said,
“You wrote that hot cop story when you carried this kind of baggage?”
“You made me write it.”
“Please, Celine, give me some credit. I wouldn’t have done so if I’d known.”
“No, you’d have just pulled me off a good story.”
“Was LeDeux the source for your mob articles?”
“Not directly.”
Her non-answer did not please him. He stared at her in stony silence before an idea seemed to occur to him. “The pirate treasure hunt story that you’re about to give me . . . please, don’t tell me that LeDeux is involved in this, too.”
“He is, but that doesn’t make it any less than a great exclusive. I’ll show it to you now, if you want.” She was about to stand and go back to her office for the hard copy.
He waved her back down. “I want that story, and the traiteur one, too. Damn! Why didn’t I see the connection with that Rivard woman? But consider this a notice of dismissal. You have two weeks to find another job.”
She inhaled sharply. “You can’t do this.”
“You’ve given me grounds out the wazoo.”
“You’ve been looking for those grounds ever since I took this job.”
“Maybe, but you sure as hell gave them to me, all tied up in a big pink bow. Ethical standards, baby. Ethical standards.”
As she stormed out of his office, she told him in very graphic terms what he could do with his ethical standards.
Fired! She reeled as the word shot through her stunned brain.
Fired! All because of John LeDeux.
Fired! She couldn’t afford to be without work. She would have to start a job search immediately.
And like hell she was going to give Bruce the treasure hunt or the traiteur stories. They would be going with her to her new employer, whoever that might be.
She stomped back to Bruce’s office and leaned in. “Forget about giving me a notice. I quit.”
Then, despite Bruce’s sputtering and threats that she wouldn’t be able to get unemployment compensation—As if she had ever thought that far!—she cleared out her desk, making two trips down to her car. On her final pass through, she ignored Bruce’s glare and her co-workers’ glances of sympathy. Finally, in her car, heading back home, just an hour after she’d arrived, Celine sighed deeply.
She’d lost more than a good job today. She’d lost what could have been the love of her life.
Chapter 23
Then the you-know-what hit the fan . . .
John had tried repeatedly to contact Celine before she heard about the National Enquirer article from someone else. No response, even to his voice mails that it was urgent that she call him back.
He was assuming she’d found out and was pissed. With good reason. But it wasn’t his fault, and he needed to explain that to her.
So, he’d headed over to Houma, bringing with him a bike he’d bought for Etienne. It was the cutest thing. A two-wheeler with training wheels, painted black with red flames. He’d seen a bike in the backyard on previous visits, but it was smaller and a bit battered.
There was no sign of Celine or her car, but there was a reporter hanging around, hoping to trap either her or him into divulging something tantalizing, though facts weren’t all that important to the tabloids. If they didn’t get the info from the horse’s mouth, they got it from their own horse’s ass selves.
He threatened to beat the crap out of the reporter, a short twenty-something guy with a broken nose and an attitude. Not a great thing for a cop to do. Nothing like a lawsuit to cap off his day. No surprise on the broken nose, though. It had to be a job hazard, working for a tabloid.
After waiting like forever in his car, parked at the curb, he decided to show the bike to Etienne, who was as ecstatic as a five-year-old could be. John told James where they were going, then walked beside Etienne as he rode the bike to Lilypond Park. James hadn’t been as hostile as usual. Maybe he was warming up to him. But then he probably hadn’t heard about the tabloid yet.
Etienne’s mouth was going nonstop, as usual, even as he was riding his new bike.
“Do you boink?”
“Huh?”
“Boink. Dontcha know what boinkin’ is? It’s when a guy—�
��
“Whoa, tiger. I know what boinkin’ is. The question is, do you? No, don’t answer that. Why do you want to know if I . . . um, boink?”
“Pete sez when a boy likes a girl and she likes him back, they boink.”
“How old is this Pete?”
“Oh, he’s lots older than me. He knows stuff.”
“How old?”
“Seven.”
Good Lord! The kid is actually wondering if I’m boinking his mother.
Then, there was the animal issue.
“I want a dog.”
“I know you do.”
“Do dogs boink?”
“Yes.”
“And cats?”
“Yes.”
“And—”
“All animals boink, Etienne.” I cannot believe I said that.
“Yeech!”
Then they moved on to more important issues.
“I like to spit.”
“That’s just great.”
“Do you like to spit?”
“I probably did when I was your age. Now, I just spit when I have a bad taste in my mouth.” Like a hangover.
“Pete knows how to hawk a looey. That’s a big spit.”
I’m gonna have to meet this Pete.
Like lightning, or Tante Lulu, he changed subjects without warning.
“Pigs smell. Why do pigs smell?”
“Do you have a dad and a mom? I only gots a mom.”
“Why do girls have pussies? Is there a kitty in there?”
Thank God, Celine was pulling into the driveway when they got back. Etienne’s questions were giving him a rash.
Her eyes flashed fire at him, promising a fight. But then she noticed the bike. The fire in her eyes turned into a bonfire.
“Where did you get that bicycle?” she asked Etienne in an icy voice.
The kid didn’t notice her tone and enthused happily, “John bought it fer me. Ain’t it cool, Mom?”
