Batiste

by Victoria Danann

  The truck fit all the way into the clubhouse main room without demolishing the bar, which was okay with Dev because it occurred to him that alcohol and hot engines aren’t a good combination.

  “Your part’s done,” Arnold said succinctly. “Time to get on out of here.”

  Arnold had been going about his business, quietly rigging explosives at strategic locations so as to produce the biggest bang.

  “You sure you’re good?” Dev asked. “You don’t need any help.”

  Arnold shook his head. “Got it.”

  “Okay, then,” Dev said. “Have a good night.”

  “Plan to,” Arnold said.

  Eric had opened the backs of the truck and SUV so that Arnold could douse both with a generous helping of accelerant.

  When all was ready, Arnold turned to Eric. “You think we’ll go to hell for burnin’ up guys who are still alive?”

  Eric shook his head. “Way I heard tell what they’ve been up to, we’re simply helpin’ their just rewards along a little bit.”

  “Yeah,” Arnold said. “Let’s go.”

  “I’m good with not doin’ this stuff all the time. You know?” Eric said as they walked to the white pickup. Arnold sighed and nodded.

  They drove to the road which was a hundred yards away, easily within the limits of the remote detonator, and stopped long enough for Arnold to point in the direction of the clubhouse. As soon as he hit the button, Eric took off going north away from Lake Charles. Nobody to see them speeding away in the darkness.

  Quite a few people in the general vicinity heard the boom. They muted TVs or woke up long enough to listen and see if it would happen again. When it didn’t, they went back to sleep or back to their programs. The next day they would learn that a biker gang met a sudden and grisly end during the night. The fire chief would make a statement that a propane tank appeared to have been left too close to a pilot trigger and that people must be careful about such things.

  Arnold and Eric took small farm to market roads to the north of Lake Charles in a zigzag pattern, avoiding the developed urban area altogether before making their way back down to I10.

  It was around three a.m. when they pulled into the SSMC compound. They drove straight to the free standing garage at the back of the property where their own ‘cleaner’, who’d already put in a full night’s work, was waiting for them with a change of clothes and shoes. They stripped down and were scrubbed head to toenails to be sure there was no trace of explosive or munition. The same would be done to the pickup, with harsher chemicals.

  The clothes and shoes they’d been wearing, along with those worn by everybody involved in the erasure of Stars and Bars, went into black garbage bags that would make their way into hazmat loads before morning. Before leaving the cleaner would douse the entire bay with chemicals, leaving no trace of anything untoward that could come back to haunt the SSMC.

  Brant had advised Dev to do as much the same at Lafayette as possible.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN The Dragonware Cup

  After being seen by the Mandeville’s medic, Angelique was cleared to go home. Rou wanted her to stay at the clubhouse because he was worried about Manatee having gotten away and thought they could protect her better there. But Angelique’s tears and pitiful state of mind had caused Rou to give in and take her home, meaning his house, the one where she’d grown up.

  She’d gone straight to her room and refused to come out.

  She wouldn’t talk to anyone but her mother and said not much more to her than the word no. No was the answer to everything.

  Do you want your curtains opened?

  Do you want to come out for dinner?

  Do you want to watch TV?

  As Batiste healed, he also called daily choosing times when he knew Rou was unlikely to be there. If Rou was away Angel’s mother, Jolie, would give a report. To his dismay it was the same every day. Angelique didn’t want to come out of her room. She was barely eating enough to stay alive and wouldn’t talk, even to Jolie. He knew there was a guard on the house and that they would remain in a state of alert until Manatee was found.

  Batiste was sure the man was crazy. He’d have to be insane to assault and debase Rou’s daughter. Maybe he had a death wish. If that was the case, Batiste had made up his mind to be Manatee’s fairy godmother and passed the word that he would be the executioner. Nobody else.

  Dev Merit had stayed behind after the meeting in which Batiste laid down that law.

  “You sure the girl’s daddy isn’t feeling the same way. Maybe he thinks it’s his right to put the fucker under.”

  “Maybe he does,” said Batiste. “Don’t matter. I’m claiming the privilege.”

  “By what right?” Dev knew he was pushing, but he liked Batiste and didn’t want to see more trouble stirred up than necessary.

  “When we were kids, I promised her she’d always be safe with me. When we were fifteen, I was ready for her, but the old man told me to stop looking unless I was ready to turn the fifolet into an engagement party.” He looked at Dev. “I didn’t accept that challenge. Was a big mistake. She was mine all along. I should have been man enough to stand and say so.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  Batiste shook his head. “I didn’t then. Now I am.”

  Dev cocked his head. “You’re gonna marry her?”

  “Soon as she’ll have me.”

  Dev’s eyebrows shot up, but instead of saying what he was thinking, he said, “Let me be the first to say congratulations.”

  “She hasn’t said yes. Right now she’s not saying anything.”

  “Got a feeling she will.”

  “Yeah? Hope you’re right. Maybe you ought to talk to somebody. About how to approach this?”

  “Somebody?”

  “You know. Like a shrink.”

  Batiste frowned at that. Angelique didn’t need a head doctor. Did she?

  He soon got the answer to that.

  After two weeks, there’d been no change. Angel’s mother told Batiste she was growing more worried by the day and was going to bring in a psychiatrist even though her daughter was insisting she wouldn’t cooperate with that.

  Batiste thought Angel should never be forced to endure anything she didn’t want again for the rest of her life. The exception to that being the imposition of his own opinion. And, besides, fourteen days was as much patience as he could muster. He thought giving her time to process was reasonable. He also thought ‘reasonable’ had an expiration date.

  He wasn’t going to a head doc to talk about Angelique. If he needed advice he’d ask somebody he respected and trusted. There was one person at the Lafayette club who qualified as an old timer and could be trusted beyond all others.

  Saycie was swaying to blues music coming from the little kitchen radio and humming as she made hush puppies. She jumped when Batiste said hello.

  “You nearly scared the devil outta me,” she said. The clubhouse was always subject to devil jokes, but Saycie wasn’t being cute. She was being serious. “I don’t have that music there on very loud. Just enough so’s I can hear it.”

  “I know. Not here to talk about that.”

  She stopped what she was doing and turned to look at Batiste. “Uh oh.”

  He shook his head. “Just want your advice.”

  “My advice.” She said it with such dry disbelief that she made Batiste chuckle.

  He took the spoon out of her hand. “Come sit with me a minute. Let’s talk quiet so people doan hear.”

  She wiped her hands on her apron before taking it off and laying it aside then sat down at the small kitchen table across from Just.

  “How long you known me?” Batiste asked.

  “’Bout twenty years or so I guess.”

  “Same for Angelique.” It was more statement than question, but implied a request for confirmation.

  “That’s right.”

  “You like her?”

  Saycie grinned. “’Course. That girl’s special.”
<
br />   Batiste nodded. “She’s in trouble. I need to know what to do.”

  Saycie nodded as her face grew solemn. Batiste read the concern in her kind eyes and knew he’d come to the right place. He told her just enough about what had happened so that Saycie could give good advice. When he was done, he saw that Saycie was moved to tears. Her eyes were red and liquid, but she was blinking them back in a valiant effort to not cry.

  “I’m gonna go get somethin’ to show you. You want a drink from the refrigerator?”

  Batiste shook his head.

  She disappeared into her room behind the kitchen and in a couple of minutes returned holding a teacup and saucer.

  “See that?” she said.

  “It’s beautiful,” Batiste said and meant it. He studied the vivid colors, the raised design. It looked like something that should be in a museum.

  He reached out to touch it, but Saycie said, “No. Doan you touch that cup.” Batiste withdrew his hand with a tiny scowl between his brows. “It’s Japanese. Moriage Dragonware.” She nodded to herself. “My man was in the merchant marines. Did you know that?” Batiste shook his head suddenly realizing he really didn’t know much about Saycie. “He brought me this all the way from Japan. Meant the world to me. The most precious thing I’ve ever had.

  “One day my kids were rough housin’ and it got knocked over. I cried about it, but what could be done. Broke is broke. But I picked up all the pieces no matter how tiny and put them in a little cloth bag.

  “Then my friend, Mellie, told me that there are people over in N’Orlanz who restore antiques. So when I put together a little bit of money and a day off, I got my bag of pieces and took the bus over there. I went in this place Mellie’s second cousin told me ‘bout and asked if they could tell me how to put the cup back together.

  “There was an awful nice man back in the back of that store. He says, ‘Well, let’s see here.’ He invited me to sit down at his work bench. He took out all the pieces and laid them out. ‘Where’d you get this?’ he asked. And I told him how my husband, who passed away, had brought it to me. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I think I can do somethin’ with it if you can leave it with me for a week.’

  “I asked him how much that would cost. He looked at me a long time and said, ‘I will charge you five dollars’. I told him that would be mighty fine. So I took the bus home. The next week I went back and the cup looks like you see it now. Beautiful. But if you look real, real close you can see little cracks. That man, he was somethin’. But even he couldn’t make it just like new ‘cause you can’t undo broke.

  “Cup’s still beautiful just like you said and I prize it more than anything I own. But it’s always gonna have those little cracks. And if somebody touches it wrong, it’ll fall right apart again. “Gotta be real careful with this cup here. But that’s okay with me.”

  Batiste took in a deep breath having heard the lesson and absorbed it all the way to the bone. “Thank you.”

  Smiling, she ducked her head and slapped the table lightly. “My pleasure, boss man.”

  Jolie heard the roar of motorcycles fade to a rumble, which meant they were stopping at her house. She assumed it was Rou returning home from Shreveport, where he’d been told they might find Manatee. But when she went to the door, she saw that it was Batiste, hooking his helmet over the left handlebar of his Harley. She watched as he removed an ice chest that had been strapped on with mini bungee cords. Three members were with him, men she knew from joint club events. They dismounted and looked toward the house but stayed where they were. One of them waved. Out of habit and congeniality, she waved back.

  Standing inside the screen door, she waited for Batiste to step onto the porch and state his business. “Just,” she said simply glancing down at the cooler he was holding.

  “Jolie,” he replied in a matter of fact tone that matched hers. “I’m here for Angelique.”

  “She won’t see you.”

  “You’re wrong. Let me in.” Reading the determination written all over Batiste, she released a sigh, pushed open the door and stepped back. With curiosity she watched as he set the cooler down and pulled a thousand dollars from his wallet and held it up. “Take this money. Get your sister and go to New Orleans for tonight. Stay at Harrah’s. Gamble, maybe. Have some fun. No? Rou’s boys outside will go and keep you safe. Gave them some money, too. No worry ‘bout that.”

  She didn’t reach for the money. “Just, I’m not leavin’ my child. What are you…?”

  “What you’re doin’, Jolie. It ain’t workin’. Give me tonight to see if I can do better. There was a time she trusted me to keep her safe. Maybe I make her believe that again…” He trailed off and looked down.

  Jolie’s expression softened when she accurately read that Batiste was suffering, too. “You love her.”

  He nodded. “Always have.”

  With a scowl, she challenged him with the accusation he leveled at himself a hundred times a day. “Then where’ve you been, boy? She’s twenty-eight fucking years old.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I have no fuckin’ clue.”

  “But you do now?”

  He raised his eyes to hers. “Come to my senses, me.”

  That seemed to satisfy Jolie. “She’s broken, Just. I really don’t know if…” She didn’t need to finish that sentence out loud. The ‘if’ was what made both of their hearts heavy.

  “Give me a chance.”

  She took a deep breath. “What’s in the cooler?”

  He offered a smile that didn’t get to his eyes. “I remember what she likes. Now go quick. I have me some tricks to be tried.”

  Taking in a deep breath, she said, “I guess you won’t do worse.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE We’ve got tonight.

  Half an hour later, Jolie was dressed and headed out the door with an overnight bag. She stopped in the kitchen where Batiste had been making himself at home. “When Rou finds out I let you in here, he’s gonna to skin us both alive.”

  Batiste nodded. “Probably. Thank you, Jolie. I won’t forget this.”

  “See you doan. I’m keeping it as a favor.”

  “I’m good for it.”

  “What’s this?”

  Batiste smiled. “Boudin balls and maque choux.”

  Jolie grinned. “Hoowee. You do remember. Looks like you’re doin’ it up right.” He nodded, waving a spoon. “Is the window unit turned on in her room?”

  “Of course. We’re not gonna fight with her about air conditionin’ when she’s… you know. She likes it cold.”

  “She may not be able to smell this though.” Batiste mused that the window unit was good and bad news. The bad news was that he wouldn’t be able to entice her out with aromas. The good news was that they’d have privacy from the guards outside.

  Almost an hour later, he stepped inside Angelique’s room, the sweat he’d worked up cooking almost freezing on his skin from the cold air in the room. The window unit hummed steadily as it blew out a modern miracle, cold dry air in a hot humid environment. The window unit had been called a ‘personal serenity device’ by some and certainly she would be among that number.

  “Time for dinner,” he announced.

  Angel had been lying on her bed in sleep shorts and a tee shirt, facing away from the door. Her entire body jerked when she heard his voice. She sat up against the headboard and pulled her knees up to her chin. “What are you doing here?”

  “I cooked your favorites.” Her eyes traveled to the tray he held.

  She looked like her focus was toggling between curiosity and confusion.

  Batiste walked over and set the tray down beside her on the bed. “Got some of those IBC root beers you like.”

  She looked at him like he was an alien.

  He waited.

  After a time she said, “What makes you think I still like IBC?”

  “Doan you?”

  She seemed to think that over with the care the secretary of state would give a war or peace diplomatic answ
er. Finally, she said, “Yes.”

  “Well, then. It’s nice and cold. Just opened.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  He shrugged. “Okay then.”

  “I want you to go.”

  “It’s okay if you doan drink the root beer I bought you. It’s okay if you doan eat the food I make for you. But I’m not leavin’ here tonight. Came to make the veiller.”

  “Go home.”

  “No.”

  “I don’t want you here.”

  “It’s not up to you.”

  “I don’t like you seeing me like this.”

  “You mean sad?”

  “I mean sad and ugly.”

  “I doan see ugly so much. I see my Angel.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “I like you,” he said as he walked over and sat down on the bed.

  “You pity me.”

  He sighed and ran a hand over his hair. “A lot of people in the world deserve my sympathy, Angel. But this is the only bed I’m sittin’ on. And it’s the only place in the world where I want to be.”

  “Don’t say that. Go on away, Just. I want to be left alone.”

  “No. You doan.”

  “I do. And you don’t have time for… this.”

  “Ah, cher. For you I’d crawl naked across broken glass covered in salt.” He stretched out on the bed beside her. “Tell me everything I missed. Did you have boyfriends?”

  “Not really.”

  “Why not?”

  “My reason is so ludicrous you wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Try me.”

  After a long pause, through which Batiste patiently waited, she said, “I always thought you were coming for me. I thought you were the one.”

  He reached out to cup her cheek with his hand, but she flinched and jerked away. He immediately dropped his arm to the bed, but acted as if her reaction was not unusual. “That just means that between the two of us, you’re the wise one. I am the one. I just didn’t slow down long enough to sort that out.”

  “No. While I was waiting for you, you were getting married to a… clown.”