by Sandra Hill
Ed was about thirty years old but looked about forty, every hard knock of his life showing on his haggard face. A receding hairline led to long, reddish blond hair tied back with a rubber band into a low ponytail. His one eye tooth was missing. Overly thin, but with muscled arms and shoulders, indicative of a laborer, not a gym nut. His jeans and T-shirt and athletic shoes were well-worn but clean.
If she hadn’t known better, her police experience would have labeled him addict, or alcoholic. He was neither. Or at least not presently. She knew from Daniel that Ed had been on drugs at one time and was a convicted felon (armed robbery), but he’d been clean for years, thanks mostly to the reality check of having a little girl with cancer. He now had a place to live, thanks to a lot of help from Daniel, a pediatric oncologist, who’d opened one of the plantation cottages to Ed. Living with Ed and helping to share babysitting duties—he had three kids in all—was Lily Fontenot, a college student who’d recently had a baby, a little boy named Beau. The redneck carpenter and the budding physicist . . . there had to be a story there.
Most important, Ed was an expert contractor, proficient with hammer as well as paintbrush. And he was cheap.
“I think the sage green for the walls here,” she told him. “Blue for the bathroom, off-white for the kitchen, and for upstairs I need to think about those colors a little more. I know you suggested red for the living room, but that’s a little extreme for me. Too bordello-ish.”
He smiled, exposing the gap in his teeth. She wondered why he didn’t have it fixed, but then figured he probably couldn’t afford the expense. Or maybe he didn’t care. The smile was probably an indication of his disbelief that someone forming a Cheaters-type agency would be reticent about anything.
“If possible, I would like to get this reception area done first so that I can begin to do some employee interviews. All I would need is a desk and two chairs, and I wouldn’t care if you were working anywhere else during that time. I can live with the noise and the paint fumes short-term.”
“I’ll paint the walls and refinish the floors in sections. It takes two days of no traffic for the wood to cure. You would be good to go by Friday, for this space, anyhow. Monday would be even better. Would that work for you?”
“Perfect.”
An old guy, about sixty years old, walked in then, carrying a commercial-size bucket of primer, and Ed introduced him as one of his helpers. Despite his paint-spattered, white bib overalls and ratty white painters’ cap, he was a spiffy-looking fellow with neatly trimmed white hair and beard and mustache. Sort of Colonel Sanders–ish. “This is Tom Dorsey. He’s the one who painted your sign out front.”
Simone shook hands with Tom after he set his bucket down, then said with a laugh, “I know you. Weren’t you the Santa at the Our Lady of the Bayou Christmas party every year?”
Tom smiled. “Yep. For thirty-five years, this coming Christmas.” He removed his cap and combed his fingers through his thick hair. “I went gray when I was in my twenties.” He wagged a forefinger at her. “But you’re not supposed to recognize old Santy.”
She laughed. “I caught you out back having a cigarette one time, and even at ten years old, I just knew Santa Claus wouldn’t smoke.”
“I don’t anymore, but, yeah, you caught me with that one.”
Just then, the bell over the front door tinkled, and they all turned to see the most amazing spectacle enter. It was Adelaide Daigle, but unlike any mother image Simone had ever seen before.
She wore a sleeveless sheath dress with blocked colors, black in the front and back with a wide band of white from under the armpits to the hem, the kind that accentuated her hourglass figure, which was helped out by her latest obsession with Spanx. When she turned sideways, which she did to get a closer look at Simone’s gape-mouthed companions, the Spanx also made her bum look Kardashianesque huge.
She must have come straight from the beauty salon because her black curls were lacquered to perfection in her usual vintage French twist upsweep. Red metal hearts dangled on various length chains from her ears, matching the flame-red lipstick that outlined her lips, making them wider than their natural shape. Fake eyelashes completed the picture, except for the black high heels, which couldn’t be good for someone with recent knee surgery.
“Moth-er! What in the world—”
“Hello, sweetheart. And who are these handsome fellows?”
“This is Ed Gillotte, my contractor, and his assistant—”
“Why, you don’t have ta introduce Tom. We’ve known each other fer ages, right?” Her mother batted her false eyelashes at Tom.
“Right,” Tom choked out. He was looking at her mother like she was the candy cane on his personal Christmas tree and he’d like to gobble her right up.
Eeew!
“What are you doing here, Mom?”
“I saw yer ad sittin’ on the kitchen table this mornin’, the one advertisin’ fer employees, and I figgered I’d apply now before the mad rush.”
The mad rush? She doubted that would happen, but even so . . . “What kind of job are you thinking of?”
“You know, sweetie.” She rolled her eyes toward Ed and Tom, as if not wanting to say it out loud.
“Don’t you think you’re a little old for that?”
“Si-mone! Don’t think fer one minute that I couldn’t sit on a bar stool and attract some man with cheatin’ on his mind. Not all men go fer females that are so skinny their bones are pokin’ out, and there’s somethin’ ta be said fer a woman with experience.”
“I’ll second that,” Tom interjected.
Please don’t.
“Thank you, Tommy,” her mother said.
Tommy? Where did that come from?
“In fact, I’d sidle right up and buy you one of those umbrella drinks. That’s what I’d do.”
“Oooh, I love umbrella drinks.”
“Besides, a cowboy’s gotta have something to grab on to when he swings into the saddle.”
She exchanged a horrified look with Ed.
Taking a hint, Ed told his helper, “Well, this has been nice, but maybe we should head on to the paint store.”
“Right,” Tom said, his face turning red, making him look even more like the jolly old fellow. He must have figured out, belatedly, that he’d been speaking out of turn and perhaps inappropriately around his employer.
The two men left, but not before Tom promised Adelaide to come around the trailer one day to give her some of the mushrooms he cultivated in dead logs in his backyard hothouse.
Simone hoped they were mushroom mushrooms and not that other kind. Her mother was whacked out enough without adding psychedelic drugs to the mix.
Before Simone could say anything, though, her mother plopped down onto a folding chair and toed off her high heels. “Holy crawfish! I thought they’d never leave. Mah feet are killin’ me.”
“You shouldn’t be wearing those shoes after knee surgery.”
“It’s not the knees that are botherin’ me. It’s the bunion the size of a golf ball on mah right foot. And if that isn’t bad enough, this last Spanx I ordered came a size too small. I cain’t breathe worth nothin’. You’re gonna have ta cut it off me. You got any scissors here?”
“No, I don’t have any scissors. C’mon, I’ll walk you to your car.”
“I didn’t drive.”
“You didn’t?”
“Nope. Got a ride in with . . .” She motioned her head toward the window, outside of which could be seen a huge vintage lavender convertible which was parked catty-corner in not one, but two spaces, both of which were clearly marked “No Parking.”
Getting out on the driver’s side and garnering more than one gawk followed by a chuckle from passersby was none other than the Bayou Bad Girl. Tante Lulu was wearing an Elizabeth Taylor wig today and a tight, red, stretchy knit dress that showed off her cleavage. Normally, she was flat-chested, but today was about a size hot-cha-cha, which would be making her top heavy if it weren’t for the b
alance of an impressive rear end. She must be wearing one of those butt builder panties because one cheek was higher than the other. No problem, the old lady adjusted it, right out in plain sight. Then she walked on, or rather hobbled on down the street, in a pair of orthopedic high heels.
Tante Lulu and Adelaide Daigle would look like two senior citizen hookers if they walked down the street together. Which was exactly the point, Simone realized. Tante Lulu must be looking for a job, too.
“No!” Simone exclaimed. “No, no, no!”
Seeing the direction of Simone’s stare, her mother immediately recognized the conclusion she’d come to and laughed. “Tante Lulu jist gave me a lift inta town. She’s on her way over to Charmaine’s beauty shop. They’re gonna enter a mother-daughter beauty contest at the veterans’ club to raise money fer wounded soldiers.”
“Charmaine isn’t her daughter,” Simone pointed out.
“They’re gonna pretend she is. Once Charmaine puts on her Pretty Woman minidress with the black patent leather thigh boots, do you think them ex-soldiers are gonna care?”
Only in Louisiana would any of this make sense.
“C’mon. I’ll drive you home,” Simone said quickly to forestall Tante Lulu coming in, wanting the grand tour, and staying forever. Not that she wasn’t a sweet old busybody, bless her heart.
Simone had to yank her mother up off the chair and carry her high heels while she walked barefooted toward Simone’s waiting vehicle out front next to Tante Lulu’s. Usually, she parked in one of the spots out back along the alley, but Ed’s van had been there when she came in this morning. While they were on their way, Simone told her, “Just for the record, Mom. I am not hiring you as an undercover operative to entrap men, either.”
“I didn’t think you would, but it was worth a try.”
“What’s this all about?”
“I’m bored sittin’ at home all day, and there’s no way I kin stand all day at my waitressin’ job. Not yet, leastways. Besides that, you’ll be movin’ out soon, and the lonelies will set in again.”
Another guilt trip.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about playin’ some online slot machines.”
“Don’t you dare. They’re a scam.”
Simone glanced downward and her mother did, indeed, have a huge bunion on her right foot. She would need to see a foot doctor. Another thing to add to her list. With a sigh, Simone offered, “Maybe you could be a receptionist here for a while, until I can hire someone.”
Her mother’s face brightened.
“But it’s only temporary . . . until I can hire someone.”
“Sure, honey, sure.” Her mother was about to ease herself into Simone’s car when she exclaimed, “Holy crawfish! Would you look at that?”
Simone looked, then looked again.
It was Adam Lanier driving by. On a motorcycle. He wore a business suit with biker boots. But a motorcycle? Life was unfair. Not just a Cajun, but a Cajun on a chopper. How could she resist that?
“On second thought, don’t look. I kin practic’ly hear your Cajun clock tickin’,” her mother said. “I’m gonna find you a nice Yankee . . . once that Cletus pops his cork. Cain’t be getting’ married again while you’re still bound to Cletus in the eyes of God.”
Simone wasn’t really listening to her mother. She was staring after the hunk on a Harley.
But wait. What . . . or who . . . was that riding pillion? A little girl with corkscrew black curls peeking out of a mini helmet—it must be his daughter—had her little arms wrapped around her daddy’s waist, her face pressed lovingly—trustingly—against Adam’s back. He must have just picked her up from school; she had an Our Lady of the Bayou School backpack strapped to her shoulders.
Was that even safe?
It must be. She wore a helmet, and the seat had a high backrest to prevent her falling off, and there were foot pegs installed to fit her smaller height. Plus, Adam appeared to be driving only about five miles an hour.
But, really! A Cajun playboy who was a devoted single father?
The deck was stacked against her.
That was proven true when she saw Tante Lulu observing her observations. The old bat didn’t miss anything, bless her heart. “Well, well, well, I jist knew I was needed here. Give me some sugah, honey.” She arched her face up for Simone’s kiss, on both powdered cheeks.
“Do you want me to drive you over to Charmaine’s shop?” Simone asked, eyeing the badly parked vehicle.
“Nah. It’s only half a block away. Besides, I wanna stop at Luc’s office.” She narrowed her eyes at Simone. “Of course, you could walk along with me. Have ya met Luc’s new partner yet? I saw ya eyein’ him as he drove by.”
“Yes, I’ve met Adam Lanier.” She could feel her face was blooming with color.
And her mother noticed. “You didn’t tell me you met a new Cajun fella,” she accused her daughter.
“I didn’t tell you because it didn’t matter.”
Tante Lulu made a clucking noise of disbelief. “I hear yer lookin’ ta hire hookers,” the old lady said then.
“Whaaat?” Simone glared at her mother.
“Don’t look at me! I never said anything about hookers.”
“Ladies what can hook men into cheatin’ soz their wives kin tie their wieners in a knot when they go ta divorce court,” Tante Lulu explained. “There’s all kinds of hookers, ya know. Didja think I meant the other kind?”
What could Simone say to that? “Um, I won’t be hiring any hookers today.”
“Are ya sure? I could be yer honeypot—thass what they call wimmen lurin’ men in a sting, isn’t it? Yep, I would be jist lak that boxer guy. Dance lak a butterfly, sting lak a bee. I could be the best stinger ya ever used. Sting is a police word fer trappin’ crimnals. Ya should know that, Simone.”
Hookers and stingers? A Cajun busybody giving me a lecture on police vocabulary? What next?
Just then, the coup de grace occurred. Or rather, the two coups de grace. That’s “what next.”
A medium height, suntanned guy in a designer polo shirt and slacks—handsome as any Cajun man had a right to be—eased himself out of a low slung Jaguar. It was Jack Landry. When he saw Simone, he gave a little wave and smiled tentatively. “Hello, darlin’.”
Why wasn’t Jack back in Chicago? Why had he come to Louisiana? It was over. Over, over, over! Why couldn’t he accept that fact? Maybe it was just a coincidence that he was here. Maybe there was a family crisis. Yeah, right. His family lived about two hours north of here in Baton Rouge.
If Jack’s sudden appearance wasn’t bad enough, coming up behind her, she heard another male voice say in a raspy, nicotine-like growl, “Hello, darlin’!” She turned to see a man she didn’t recognize, at first. Tall, skinny, wearing faded jeans and a white T-shirt with a pack of Camels tucked into the rolled-up sleeve. How retro was that? Almost a fashion statement, of the worst kind. His skin—what could be seen of it with all that ink—was unusually pale, especially for the Deep South. Prison pallor. Did one of those tatts on his forearm say “My Simone” inside a heart? Oh, good Lord, it did.
It was Cletus Bergeron. He must have gotten an early release.
Simone did the only thing she could. Run. Right back into her shop. Before she locked the door and pulled down the blinds, she heard Tante Lulu say to her mother, “I ain’t had this much fun since I lost mah bloomers at Friday night bingo when I jumped up ta get the grand prize.”
“I wonder if I gotta invite Cletus ta stay with us at The Gates since his Momma cut off all ties with him,” her mother pondered.
“I dint know that,” Tante Lulu said, which was a wonder since the old lady usually knew everything before it even happened on the bayou.
“Yep. Sez he ain’t her son anymore.” Her mother sighed. “Betcha he don’t have no place ta lay his poor head. Betcha he’s still in love with mah Simone. Betcha he’s been pinin’ away fer her all these years. Betcha he’s reformed and no longer a bad guy. Betcha I c
ould have a grandbaby by next summer.”
“Did I tell ya that Charmaine is preggers? And Luc, Remy, and René might be, too. Well, their wives might be,” Tante Lulu mentioned with seeming irrelevance. At least, Simone hoped it was irrelevant.
“There is hope, then,” her mother said.
“It’s a miracle. Good ol’ celestial magic,” Tante Lulu concluded.
Forget about Cajun Crazy. Simone was in Cajun Hell.
Chapter Four
There’s a little hound dog in all of us, Elvis . . .
Adam sat in the courtroom, second chair to Luc, in the third, drawn-out day of a civil complaint trial against Cypress Oil. On his left was their client, Minh “Mad Mike” Pham, a second generation Vietnamese-American whose once flourishing shrimp fishing operation was no longer flourishing. He’d gotten his nickname playing football for LSU as a wide receiver. Now he was a take-no-prisoners businessman.
Mike’s father, Nguyen Pham, sat beside his son. Like many Vietnamese, Nguyen had emigrated to the U.S., southern Louisiana in particular, after the 1968 Tet Offensive thanks to the work of Catholic Charities. Apparently the bayou fishing industry lent itself well to Vietnamese who had been fishermen in their homeland. And both Vietnam and Louisiana had been French colonies at one time, which had helped the immigrants blend in more easily.
Nguyen, a diminutive seventy-five-year-old, looked frail and bowed from decades of hauling shrimp nets under the grueling Louisiana skies. What a contrast the father and son were! Mike wasn’t especially tall, but he still had at least eight inches on his father in height and fifty pounds in muscle.
Mike wore the blue-collar attire of a denim shirt and sun-bleached jeans with a LSU Tigers ball cap sitting on the table. He looked a mite impoverished next to the clowns from Cypress Oil, but it was a role he played well. Mike had more degrees than a thermometer and a bank account that flourished, even if his business didn’t of late. It wasn’t the first time Mike had been a pain in Cypress’s butt, and the air reeked of hostility.
At the opposing table sat a flank of four big-city lawyers, along with Mitchell Ahearn, current CEO of Cypress, all dressed in thousand-dollar suits and designer leather loafers, some of which might even be stitched from the prized skin of alligators, the very animals that could one day become extinct because of Cypress Oil’s encroaching efforts. Not to mention shrimp, crawfish, clams, oysters, and other aquatic life . . . in other words, the backbone of the southern Louisiana food chain. Mike wasn’t always pleasant, but he wasn’t wrong that the oil company was polluting the waters his own company fished in.
