Batiste

by Victoria Danann

  She was dozing when the door opened and someone came in. As she was sitting up, she heard Batiste and, was that nails on the floor?

  “No worry, cher. It’s me. And dogs.”

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Takin’ care of you.”

  Her eyes had adjusted to the low light so that she could see he was spreading a sleeping bag on the floor.

  “You’re not sleeping on a wood floor.”

  “Looks like I am.”

  “You’re taking this protection thing kind of seriously.” She heard the rustle of nylon as he lay down on top of the sleeping bag, but he didn’t answer.

  There was no more to say about that. Nothing was more serious than keeping Rou’s girl safe. He had two dogs trained by the SSMC, worth a fortune, and a loaded nine millimeter pistol within easy reach. That, and the fact that he wasn’t likely to sleep too soundly on that floor, meant the woman couldn’t be safer if she was locked in Fort Knox.

  It was hard knowing she was close enough to reach out and touch, but it was also the easiest feeling in the world, knowing she was close enough to reach out and touch. If he was sappy, he might have said it felt meant to be. He wasn’t sappy. Not at all.

  At least that was what he told himself as he robotically stroked Belle’s fur and stared toward the ceiling. The sound of the rain was comforting. Partly because that’s rain’s gift and partly because villains rarely get up to mischief in the rain. Maybe, he mused, they were like that old wicked witch in Oz and didn’t like getting wet.

  When the camp had been purchased for use as the Devils’ compound, it was with fun, privacy, and budget in mind more than defense. The dense growth was good for privacy and it rendered long distance sights useless because of the jungle-like screen. But it also meant they wouldn’t be able to tell if someone was coming until they were there.

  That was the theory behind European castles being situated on mountaintops. First, people approaching could be seen for miles. Second, it was damn hard to attack uphill.

  Batiste had guys on guard duty around the clock. Two out at the road who would send up an alarm if somebody approached with headlights at night. Two at the gate where the compound was fenced on three sides. Four more around the camp. They set up a shift rotation so that their temporary ward was well guarded at every hour of the day or night.

  They rarely electrified the fence, but with Angelique’s safety at stake, they kept it hot.

  She knew she should be on a constant state of alert, feeling anxious and insecure. It had been just over twenty-four hours since she’d had to fight her way free from a very large biker who smelled like he hadn’t bathed in a long time. Oddly that was the memory that was most vivid. The smell.

  If she had to give a reason as to why she escaped, she would say that they weren’t expecting her to resist. It’s easy to take people by surprise when they’re surprised, but she’d had years of martial arts training from Gambota, a black Creole who claimed to have studied with Bruce Lee. Nobody knew if that was true, but it was a good story.

  She’d started taking lessons when she was fourteen. Who knows why she begged to go? But she got it in her head that she wanted to know the martial arts.

  On consideration, Rou had decided that maybe it wasn’t an awful idea for a biker’s daughter to be able to defend herself. So he’d put her on the back of his bike twice a week, ride her right into the warehouse district, and wait while she was in class. Sometimes he couldn’t go, but one of the Devils was always available to make sure Angelique got to her lessons.

  One of the staples of the self-defense Gambota had developed for women was reflexive resistance.

  “You won’t be defenseless when you’re surprised if defense is baked into muscle memory,” he said.

  She supposed he was right. She and the other students had years of practice being surprised. He would go for weeks, even months, between surprise attacks so that her guard was down and then, bam! Somebody would jump at her out of nowhere and for a long time, years, she’d reacted like a helpless victim who’d never had a day of self-defense.

  “That was pathetic,” he’d say. “Is that who you want to be, girl? Pathetic?”

  No. Pathetic was the last thing she intended to be. Ever.

  Gambota treated everybody the same, but Angelique secretly thought he liked having her as a student. There was no particular reason she could give for feeling that way. When her father would ask, ‘How’s she doin’?’, Gambota would shrug and say, ‘She could be better’.

  The lesson was long coming, but all the more valuable because of that. Eventually the day came when she pitied the apprentice Gambota had sent to attack her by surprise.

  Gambota’s teeth were so white and his face was so black that his grin, though rare, was contagious as could be.

  “That was not so pathetic,” he’d said. It was, perhaps, the best compliment she ever received.

  She didn’t know if she’d done much damage to those animals, but it was enough to avoid capture. And that was something. In the darkness, she smiled, thinking that they’d had to go back to their peers and tell them she got away.

  Her thoughts turned to Batiste. His hair was darker than it had been when they were kids. But his eyes were the same. In most light they looked black, but when the angle was just right it was plain to see his eyes were a deep navy blue.

  Lying in bed, just inches from Batiste who was close enough that she could reach out and touch him, she thought about the strange turns life could take.

  Yesterday I could not have imagined being here.

  CHAPTER THREE The Package

  It was an honor to be asked to guard Angelique. But it was an honor that couldn’t have come at a worse time.

  Batiste looked up from his coffee to see Dev Merit walk across the main room carrying a plate of scrambled eggs and biscuits. The man wasn’t one of them, but the cut with a different club’s colors pretty much gave that away. He was on loan to CDMC to set up a joint venture.

  Dev was newly arrived from the Renegades in SoCal, transferring to the SSMC. He had only been in Texas a couple of days when he was sent to Lafayette to represent the SSMC side of the partnership. He was a natural blonde with hair to the bottom, not the top, of his collar and pale sun streaks that were gorgeous. He struck Batiste as being the sort who was easy-going, even jovial. Unless pushed. But that was not an issue because both clubs had an interest in conviviality.

  Four months earlier.

  Batiste had fallen into a gold mine. It was just the thing he’d been hoping for, the key that would raise them out of hand-to-mouth. And he’d gone against his club when he decided to share the wealth with the Sons. But Batiste had been working on becoming partners with the SSMC ever since he’d taken over. He knew in his gut that an alliance with the Sons was going to mean big things for the Devils. And the best way to form an alliance was to offer something valuable. Give to get.

  As it turned out, his best friend, Bateau Joie, called Bebe by friends, had gone another route and ended up in the chemistry department at Tulane. Once on a tear in New Orleans, Batiste had suggested his friend use his smarts and the equipment at Tulane for something useful.

  “Like what?”

  “Ever heard of deer spray?”

  “No.”

  “It’s the stuff my gran sprays on leaves deer like to keep them from chewin’ up the flowers and shrubbery.”

  “Shrubbery?” Bebe teased. “What would you know about shrubbery?”

  “Shut it and pay attention. What if we had a package for somethin’ real precious like, say, cannabis, that confused dog sniffers so they pass right on by?”

  Bebe laughed, swallowed an oyster, took a drink, then turned back to Batiste with a curious look. “And such a thing would be in demand, you think?”

  Batiste leaned forward. “Such a thing would make you a rich man. Sugar Hill rich, my friend.”

  Bebe said nothing more about it. But one night, almost a year la
ter, when Batiste had forgotten all about the drunken talk they’d had, Bebe called. “I think I’ve got it.”

  “What? The herpes?” Batiste chuckled.

  “No. The thing we talked about.”

  “What thing?”

  “Packagin’.”

  Batiste sat up so quickly the chair he was on almost slid out from under him. He swallowed hard. “Bebe, this is no joke. For true?”

  “No joke. For true.”

  “On my way first thing in the mornin’. Text me where to meet you.”

  Present Day

  Batiste threw Angelique an irritated glance. “Women doan ask about club business. You of all people should know this.”

  “Why not? You afraid that we’d take over, like what’s happening with the crime families in Italy?”

  Batiste hadn’t heard anything about that and didn’t think he wanted to know. Even the passing suggestion was disturbing enough to make him shudder. Women running things. Christ.

  It was Angelique’s turn to smirk when she saw the brief hint of uncertainty flit across his face.

  “He’s a guest, Angel. That’s all you need to know.”

  Seeing an opportunity to needle Batiste, Angie slowly pivoted so that the glory of her smile fell on Dev, who knew exactly what to do when a woman turned that sort of smile his way.

  “He’s right, sweetheart.” His face instantly rearranged itself into a cocky lopsided grin that was irresistibly appealing. “But there are other things we can talk about. I’m Dev.”

  “Angie.”

  “Angie?”

  “I thought he just called you…”

  “He’s known me since I was a baby. Gives him liberties, I guess. Other people don’t call me that. I could tell him to stop, but it would do no good. He does what he wants.”

  “I don’t blame him for calling you Angel. It’s real pretty. And it suits you.”

  “Well,” she said in a flirtatious manner that had never before failed to get results, “maybe I’ll make an exception for you.”

  Dev leaned closer. “Just so happens that I am exceptional.”

  In response to her giggle, Batiste snorted and walked away to demonstrate that he didn’t care what she did.

  Four months earlier.

  Batiste approached Brant with the idea of a partnership. With Brash’s help, he was able to convince Brant that government had no business regulating use of plants that God made for our benefit. They told stories of people whose cancer had been cured, people with arthritis who’d been able to use their hands again, and people whose last days were made bearable so that they could die with a modicum of human dignity.

  Brant knew it was a gang up, but he was secretly pleased that his son and the kid he’d adopted as a protégé liked each other and got along well. “You two are trying to persuade me that importing cannabis to Texas and Louisiana is a mission of mercy. Blessed by the angels themselves?”

  Brash glanced at Batiste then back at Brant. “Pretty much.”

  “What do you need the money for?” Brant looked between them.

  “Manufacturin’ the packagin’. And transport. Three vans to start. We want to be spice importers.”

  “Just like Marco Polo.” Brash laughed.

  “Or Dune,” Batiste chimed in.

  Brant was a little annoyed at the fist bump shared by Brash and Batiste. He rarely found things amusing when he was in full-on business mode. “Only if you can be 100% sure that it can’t come back on us. And don’t let your secret fall into the hands of people who’ll use it for more nefarious things.” He looked over his glasses. “No matter how much money it would make.” Brant looked at the stock market report then turned back to them. “And watch your backs. Suppliers don’t like to share territory.”

  Brand poked his head in. “What’s going on in here?”

  “We’re workin’. What’re you doin’?” Brash said.

  Before Brandon could answer, Brant said, “Take the chit chat outta here. Some of us have actual work to do.”

  Batiste looked a little stricken, like they might have blown their chance to get funded. Brant noticed and said, “Simmer down. I’m gonna give you seed money, but Brash is gonna oversee. We clear on that?”

  “Yes, sir.” Batiste was barely containing a victory yell.

  Brant stopped him at the door. “If this goes wrong, it’s your problem. We clear on that, too?”

  Batiste nodded. “Clear. Yes.”

  “Want a tip?” Brant offered as they were almost out the door.

  Brash turned around. “Don’t play games and act like an old fart who needs attention. You got somethin’ to say, spill it.”

  Brant suppressed the small smile that threatened to expose how much he liked and admired his kid. To Batiste, he said, “Make sure your manufacturer doesn’t know what’s special about your packaging. How are you gonna test?”

  Batiste scowled. “Test?” He hadn’t thought of that.

  Brant suspected as much. “We might be able to help with that. Seeing as we’ve got a bunch of dogs out back and time to train them to sniff out Mary Jane.”

  Batiste grinned.

  “You like that idea?” Brant asked.

  Batiste nodded.

  “Okay. I’ll get Rescue started on that. We don’t want your boys to take any unnecessary risks.” Brant’s eyes slid to Brash. “So who’s an old fart now?”

  Brash laughed, slapped the door jamb, and walked off.

  Cloey looked up from doing inventory behind the bar. “Jesus. It’s Brant’s boys, Brash and Brand with their little friend, Batiste. Can’t mamas come up with any names that don’t start with ‘b’?”

  Brand chuckled, but Brash said, “B’s the best letter. Just think of all the great words it leads off. Like bitch.”

  “Wow,” she snickered, tapping her pen on her clipboard. “Right for the jugular.”

  “Don’t have to wear it if it ain’t true,” Brash said.

  “I’m thinkin’ b for bastard,” she muttered.

  He grinned like a raccoon. “Gonna tell my mama you called me that.”

  “Alright, kids,” Brand interjected. “Cloey. Could you pour our buddy a drink?”

  “Sure thing, baby.” She turned to Batiste. “What’ll you have?”

  “Bourbon.”

  CHAPTER FOUR Back to Camp

  Rou and Batiste had decided together that it made more sense for the Lafayette Chapter to continue prioritizing what they’d come to call the ‘moneymaker’. It wasn’t entirely pie-in-the-sky optimism. Quality cannabis was more a sure thing.

  “Anything?” Batiste asked.

  “Eyes and ears everywhere,” Rou said. “Everybody knows we’ll scratch sweet for somethin’ we can use. That whole fuckin’ club has vanished. No one’s at that hole in Moss Bluff. It’s deserted and nobody’s seen any of ‘em anywhere. Got people who know their relations. Ran that down. Came up with nothin’.”

  “Musta really scared ‘em off. They made their play, let light shine on the plan, and Manatee’s gotta know he stirred up a wasp nest when he tried for Angelique.”

  “Yeah. But what? They moved away? Disbanded? Tellin’ you. It bothers me and I’m feelin’ it. Somethin’s up. It ain’t over.”

  “How bad does Manatee hate you?”

  “Like the devil hates Jesus.”

  Batiste laughed softly. “You’re not sayin’ you’re Jesus.”

  “Fuck, no. We doan call ourselves Cajun Christs. You takin’ care of my girl?”

  “She’s fine. Just find Manatee.”

  “Workin’ on it.”

  When he sensed that Rou was ending the call, Batiste rushed to stop him. “You know this girl… I would have her here for any time you say, but I doan know how long she will be okay to stay.”

  “I hear that.”

  “You sure you doan need help trackin’?”

  “If we doan find somethin’ by Sunday. Know you got other things.”

  “Not more important.�
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  “That’s why you’re the right man for this job.”

  Batiste ended the call and set the phone down on the desk. He was thinking that Rou didn’t sound as desperate or panic-stricken as he would expect. He took that to mean that Rou must believe his daughter was untouchable. While that was flattering, Batiste was eager for the culprits to be found and dealt with. The burden of responsibility was stress multiplied. Either that or the idea of Stars and Bars sex traffickers getting their hands on Angelique sent his anxiety level through the roof.

  That was when he realized he was hearing music coming from the main room. He cocked his ear toward the door of his office. Everybody knew they were supposed to keep things quiet while they were protecting Angelique.

  He walked the short hallway to the main room and leaned against the door jamb. Angie had found a boom box, plugged it in, and loaded up a zydeco CD, apparently for the purpose of teaching Dev how to dance the two-step Cajun style. There are two basic styles. One is overtly sexy, dirty dancing. The other is not. She was going for the sexy version.

  Batiste was glad the few other club members who were on the premises were either on guard or working on modifying the vans to suit their purpose, which was importing spices from Colorado Culinary and Cutlery.

  Dev noticed that Batiste was leaning against the door at the other end of the room with his arms crossed.

  Dev guided her into a turn, then, as he passed her ear, bent and said, “You playin’ me, sugar?” She gave him her most guileless expression. “I know you’re trying to get the Cajun’s goat. I don’t mind playing along. Just so long as you know that I know.”

  Angie smiled. “It’s not like you’re hard to look at.” He twirled her again. “And you’re a good dancer.”