That Old Devil Sin

by W E DeVore

  “I’ve got some water in the car,” Ben said. “Let’s get him cleaned up.”

  When Ben walked out, Pete grabbed Q’s arm and whispered, “He knows, Q. He’s with him. I saw them together. Please don’t let him tell where I am.”

  “Pete, what in the hell are you talking about?” Q asked, more than a little bewildered. “It’s just Ben. You know him.”

  “I saw Ben with him at the Cove last weekend,” Pete insisted.

  “You saw Ben with who last weekend?” Q pressed.

  “Urian Galanos,” Ben said from the doorway.

  Pete sat back up, looking around like a startled rabbit. Q’s eyes widened at the mention of Galanos’ name. Urian Galanos was small-time, drug-dealing bookie with rumored connections to the Greek mob. Pete had gotten into trouble with him a few years back.

  “You gonna tell her, Pete?” Ben said. Pete looked down. Confused or ashamed - Q couldn’t tell which. Turning to Q, Ben continued, “Your boy over there is poppin’ pills and got himself overextended with Galanos. He’s none too pleased.”

  Q stared at Ben for a few seconds in utter disbelief. “Since when are you the errand boy for that drug-dealing douchebag? Is that why you came to find me?”

  “What is wrong with you, woman?” Ben replied, exasperated. “That sleaze ball came into the club last Saturday looking for Pete. Y’all were supposed to be playing that night, remember?” he said pointedly.

  Turning back to Pete, he continued, “I covered for you as best I could, man. If I wanted to turn you over, I would have told him you were in the head. I drove out all the way to that dive in the middle of nowhere last night just to make sure you were alright.”

  Q searched Ben’s face, carefully weighing the truth-to-bullshit ratio of his words. She was unable to tell if he was being entirely honest about his involvement with Urian. Pete’s fear had been real, but Pete’s blood chemistry was currently altered by an unknown quantity of controlled substances.

  “Why couldn’t you tell me this last night?” she asked.

  “Not my place.” Ben shrugged. “A man’s got to take care of his own business. When you got a call from Pete in the car, I knew he was alive at least, and I figured he’d tell you himself.”

  She shook her head, inwardly groaning at the Southern male code of ethics. She said quietly, “Pete, please tell me this isn’t true.”

  Pete looked down and whispered, “I fucked up, Q.”

  “How much, Pete?”

  “A lot,” Pete replied.

  “How much is a lot?” she pressed.

  “Ten grand.”

  “Ten thousand dollars?? Are you fucking kidding me, Peter Fontain?” Q yelled. “How the hell did you do that much without O.D.-ing?”

  “I didn’t. I owed like a grand for Oxy, and Urian knew I was good for it, but then I got a tip about Darius Spence getting himself hurt at practice and he’d be out for the playoffs, so I made a little bet."

  Q drew a blank. Despite her father’s long and storied New Orleans heritage, as well as his love for all things Louisiana, there was only one acceptable sport in the Toledano household: The New York Yankees. Her grandfather had seen them play a spring training game when he was a kid and they’d become a lifetime obsession that his son felt obliged to carry on. She began running through her limited knowledge of New Orleans sports rosters before finally settling on the Saints star running back.

  “A bet. On football?” she said, infuriated. “Wait a second, didn’t Spence play in all those games? He ran in the winning touchdown or something in the first or second one. It was on the front page of the paper.”

  “Turned out not to be such a great tip.” Pete shrugged. “After that, I owed five.”

  “And how did five grand turn into ten grand?”

  “I was late with my payment. Like really late,” Pete wasn't meeting her eyes. “I told him we had some gigs lined up for Carnival and maybe I’d have some scratch for him later this month, but when I came up here last night to grab a pedal for that show of Charlie’s, Urian was waiting for me outside with his crew. They beat me up, took my clothes, my bass rig, Bessie. Gave me until Friday to come up with the cash or else.”

  “Bessie?” Ben asked, looking at Q for clarification.

  “His LeBaron,” she explained. Pete loved that brown hunk of crap; cracked leather upholstery, undercarriage rust, and all.

  Turning back to Pete she asked, “Or else what?”

  “What do you fucking think, Q?” Pete took a deep breath. “I got to leave town. Go up North to my mom’s cabin or something.”

  “Brother, you in a world of trouble,” Ben chimed in. “Urian is Connected. Like with a capital ‘C’ Connected.”

  “That’s just a rumor,” Q dismissed with a wave of her hand, seeing the panicked look that washed over Pete’s face.

  Ben wasn’t placated. “Rumors like that tend to have some truth to them.”

  She thought for a moment. “Ben just booked us a gig that pays five Gs, but that’s not nearly enough.”

  “We got those two gigs Mardi Gras weekend,” Pete said slowly.

  “That comes to eight. Still not enough,” Q replied. “And not for nothing, me and the boys need something to live on. Cupboards are getting bare.”

  “He’ll kill me, Q,” Pete pleaded. “Maybe you could talk to him again, like last time. See if he’ll take less. I don’t want to get you involved, but he likes you. Please help me fix this. He’ll listen to you.”

  Ben interrupted, “What do you mean ‘last time’? This has happened before?”

  Q stood up and brushed off her knees. “More than once, actually; but last time Urian was about to beat the shit out of Pete for nonpayment, he said he'd forgive the debt if I went to dinner with him. So, I met him at some Italian joint way the fuck uptown and we ate a meal together, at the same table. He kept calling me his beautiful girl and trying to impress me with what a badass he was.” She turned to Pete. “And it only really bought us another two weeks to come up with the cash. He shook Tom, Charlie, and me down for the debt as soon as Pete went into rehab.”

  “He’s dangerous, Q,” Ben warned.

  She rolled her eyes at him. “No shit, Captain Obvious. That’s why it’s not going to happen again.”

  Q turned back to Pete. “I told you last time I wouldn’t do that ever again. And it didn’t work. Let me reiterate: he shook us down for three thousand dollars after you went into rehab. What do you think he’ll shake me down for this time?”

  Pete hung his head and said quietly, “I’m sorry, Q. Thought I could handle it this time.”

  “Well, you couldn’t, you can’t, and now you’re fucked.” The words came out more harshly than they had sounded in her mind. “I’m fucking done with this, Pete. Come on, Ben, let’s go.”

  Pete pulled on a QT and The Beasts t-shirt and begged, “Q, you have to help me. If we’d just booked some more gigs, I wouldn’t be in this mess. It’s kinda your fault even. I mean, we hardly gigged at all last month so you wouldn’t see him, and now he’s driving you around town like you’re Miss Daisy or something.” He paused and looked at her. “You owe me.”

  Q lost it.

  “I owe you? I fucking owe you? God damn it, Pete! Don’t I know that? How much more do I owe you?” Q implored. “Pete, you are a junkie. You are the definition of a waste of humanity. When is it ever going to be enough?”

  Ben gently took her arm. “Come on, Q, let’s go.”

  “You stay the fuck out of this,” she barked, ripping her arm away, her rage turning on any ready target.

  He put up his hands and backed out of the room. “Fine. I’ll be in the car.”

  She turned back to Pete and barked louder, “I am not whoring myself out to some goddamned wannabe Mafioso, you understand me, Pete Fontain?”

  “Leif Erikson over there looks like you just kicked his puppy,” Pete said, nodding towards the door.

  Q covered her face in abject frustration.

  P
ete whined, “Just talk to Urian, Q. Offer him the five Gs from the new gig. You and the boys keep the cash from the other gigs. That’s all I’m asking.”

  She laughed bitterly. “That’s all you’re asking, huh, Pocket? Your best solution is to screw me and Tom and Charlie over. Do you even realize that anymore? If Urian accepts the deal… and that’s a big fucking if…who’s going to explain that we have to give all the cash from our first decent paying gig in months just to save your sorry ass?”

  “You can explain it. They’ll understand coming from you,” he sniveled.

  “Oh they’ll understand and you’re going to take whatever beating they want to hand out for their understanding.” She paced the room.

  He smiled and relaxed. “Ah Q, my boys wouldn’t do me like that.”

  “Really? You sure about that? Maybe you were too fucked up to remember that Scare had to talk Charlie’s gun back into its little hidey hole the last time you pulled this shit. I mean it, Pete. You almost get yourself killed again and I’ll let Charlie finish the fucking job.”

  Pete bowed and winked at her. “Understood, ma’am. Now let’s get you prettied up so you can go brighten that hunky Greek gangster’s day.”

  Q sighed. Pete was a junkie. And like all junkies he knew how, when, and who to manipulate to get what he wanted or needed. She knew she had been played. He’d meticulously set the stage to look as pitiful as possible and now that he knew his ass was about to be de-slinged, life was coming up roses for Pete Fontain.

  But Pete was right. Q owed him; and nobody knew it better than she.

  “Get your shit together. We’ll drop you off at your place,” she snapped at him.

  “Urian took my keys. Can’t I crash with you for a day or two?”

  “Are you shitting me?” she exploded. “No, you cannot crash with me. You can get on your phone and call Arlene and tell her that you lost your keys…again… while I go talk to Ben. Give me five minutes.”

  She took a deep breath and tried to calm down. Pete opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a hand. "Five minutes, Pocket. Five minutes."

  He shrugged in acknowledgment and Q walked out. She found Ben leaning on the hood of his car with his arms folded and his jaw set. She approached him slowly. When he didn’t say anything, she tried slipping her arms around his waist. Ben kept his arms folded and eyes straight ahead.

  Uh-oh.

  Q stood back and put her hands on her hips, looking down at the ground, feeling like she was drifting into uncharted waters.

  “Ben,” she said. “You’ve got to understand. This shit with Pete… it goes deep. We grew up together… his mama and mine they…look, I’ve got to help. You don’t know…”

  She tried to think of a glossed-over version of her history with Pete to tell Ben that would somehow justify her compulsive need to save the compulsively troubled Peter Drummond Fontain. Any actual explanation would require her to divulge the details of what they euphemistically referred to as ‘The Arabi Incident.’ But Pete, her father, her godfather, and Q were the only people who knew the full extent of what had gone down.

  “That’s not it, Q. All that’s between you and Pete.” He closed his eyes and thought for a minute before continuing. “I want to be something to you, but you just won’t let me. I keep on trying and you keep on finding faster ways to leave.”

  She hesitated, not knowing how to respond.

  “Just give me a chance, Q,” Ben entreated.

  Every instinct she had told her to say ‘no’, but she found herself saying instead, “What did you have in mind?”

  He took a deep breath and wrapped his arms around her waist. Screwing a crooked smile on his face, he kissed Q on the forehead. “You can start by letting me take you on a proper date.”

  “My oh my, Ben Bordelon. A date? What will people think?” she said in her best Scarlett O’Hara imitation. She paused for a moment before delivering the bad news. “We’ve got to give Pete a ride to the Bywater first, though.”

  “Making me work for it, aren’t you?” Ben joked.

  They heard the door to the rehearsal room slam shut and the combination lock snap into place. Pete walked passed them wearing black boxers, a QT and the Beasts t-shirt, and his signature pair of black cowboy boots. He opened the rear door on the driver’s side and said in a sunny voice, “Come on, lovebirds. I’m starving and my boys are getting a little too much breeze in this getup.”

  Ben looked disgusted and said to Q, “Gonna have to hit up the car wash later.”

  She laughed as she slipped into the front seat and turned to Pete. “You get a hold of your landlady?”

  “No answer. Just drop me off at Checkpoint’s. I’ll grab a beer and burger while I wait for Arlene to call me back,” he said. “That reminds me. Spot me a twenty, Q?”

  She threw her hands in the air but dug out a twenty-dollar bill from her wallet anyway. She handed it back to Pete as Ben sat down in the driver’s seat.

  “You can probably find Urian at The Athenian club in the Quarter, babe,” Pete said, taking the money.

  “Isn’t that a private club? How will she get in? She’s not the one that owes him money,” Ben insisted.

  “Ben, my boy, you can get into any private club. You just have to know the right people,” Pete replied, lounging back into his seat.

  Q gave him a tight smile. “And, unfortunately, I know just the right person.”

  Sazeracs and Turtle Soup

  Q and Ben dropped Pete off at Checkpoint Charlie, just outside the French Quarter. Checkpoint’s offered a full-service customer experience: alcohol, food, pool, TV, and a laundry mat in the back just to cover all the bases. It also wasn’t the kind of place that would judge a man for showing up in a pair of boxer shorts, a t-shirt, and cowboy boots at four o’clock in the afternoon. Pete waved as he closed the door to Ben’s Audi and strode through the corner door like he was the king of Frenchman street. A few startled tourists quickly crossed the street - warily staring at the pale, pudgy, redheaded man with cornrows and too many piercings - before quickly walking in the opposite direction, visibly clutching their purses and shopping bags.

  “Where to, QT?” Ben asked as he pulled onto Esplanade.

  “Home, James,” Q said. She lay back in her seat and closed her eyes. “I’m wore out. Besides, you showed me yours, I guess I can show you mine.”

  Ben pulled straight ahead and guided the car into the heavy Esplanade traffic. A few blocks beyond the Claiborne overpass, he pulled up in front of her apartment building. Q lived in a one-hundred-and-seventy-year-old, three-story mansion on Esplanade that had miraculously survived time, the Civil War, neglect, and more hurricanes than any structure should have to endure. She had been living in the same third-floor apartment for the better part of the last decade. Her landlord, John, had been fixing up the building the entire time. Q’s apartment was the first one he had renovated.

  When she first moved in, the only other apartment in the entire building was on her floor and across the hall from hers, walled in only with clear Visqueen. The floors were still bare plywood and the original turn-of-the-century bathroom at the end of the hallway was barely functional. John had moved into this makeshift apartment and rented out the first finished unit to Q to bring in some much needed cash flow. Nine years of playing weekend carpenter later, he had four more apartments down and was finally fixing up the first floor for himself. After all this time, the smell of sawdust and the whir of a circular saw equated home.

  As usual, John was set up on the front porch with a table saw. His coffee and cream skin was splattered with white paint. Today’s project was apparently crown molding. Q led Ben over the maze of extension cords to the large windowed front door.

  John looked up briefly, waving through a thick cloud of sawdust. “Niko’s late with rent again.”

  Q saluted her landlord and they walked into the nearly finished foyer to climb up the large staircase to her apartment. When they reached the third-floor landing, Ben c
alled out a little winded, “Jesus, Q, no wonder you’re in such great shape.”

  She sped up a bit on the last few stairs for emphasis and led him to her apartment. John had honed his carpentry skills over the years, but Q still liked hers the best. It was a large single sunny room with a big bay window in the front. He’d built a bathroom in the back corner and framed its interior walls with salvaged stained glass windows from the burned-out mansion that had once stood across the courtyard. The natural light flooding through the window overlooking the same courtyard made it feel like being inside in a kaleidoscope. It was her favorite place in the world. Q’s bed was nestled in an alcove that overlooked the overgrown jungle in back.

  She walked over to her kitchen and pulled down two wine glasses, filling each from the opened bottle sitting on the counter. Ben sat on the window seat that wrapped around the front corner of the room.

  “You and me are gonna clear a few things up, darlin’.” He sounded purposeful.

  Q handed him a glass before slipping off her shoes and curling up in the chair across from him. “Ok, shoot.”

  “First off, I am not a ‘slut.’ I do not sleep with more than one woman at a time and I never sleep with a woman on the first or even second date.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Oh, really.”

  “Technically, we never even had a date. Which is also something I don’t do. And I never date women I do business with. It’s bad for business. But you! You were driving me crazy for the better part of a year, and I talked too damn much about you to my sisters, so, of course, they just had to come check out what all the fuss was all about. Once they saw us together at your show, they were all over me to ask you out.”

  “Your sisters?” Q was taken aback, having never imagined Ben having a life beyond the confines of Lafitte’s Cove.

  “In a minute. So, I asked you to stay for a drink. I offered you a ride home... just to give me more time to ask you out.”

  “Ben, we never even made it out of the parking lot,” she reminded him.