by Sandra Hill
“Tee-John LeDeux!” Charmaine put her hands on her hips—very nice hips, by the way, as displayed in shrink-wrapped black jeans leading down to red cowboy boots. If that wasn’t bimbo message enough, she wore a stretchy red T-shirt that said, “I Do Men...and Women.” On the back it said, “Charmaine’s Beauty Salon, Houma, Louisiana.” Glaring at her half brother, she accused John, “You’ve been reading my Cosmos again, haven’t you?”
John smirked.
A while later, as Rusty drove them all home, Charmaine leaned back over the front seat of the SUV and handed a business card to Angel. “I made an appointment for you. Tomorrow morning. Nine a.m.”
“Huh?” He switched on the interior light in the back seat where he was sitting. They’d already dropped off Luc and John. Remy was half asleep beside him. The card read: “Eveline’s Magik Shop, Eveline Anjou, Voodoo Priestess, St. Charles Avenue, New Orleans, Love Potions Our Speciality.”
“Voodoo? Tante Lulu would have a fit. Somehow I don’t think the black arts go very well with St. Jude and the Church.”
Charmaine chuckled. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
An hour or so after that, when Angel entered the houseboat, he noticed a blinking red light on the answering machine. It was Tante Lulu, who apparently did know everything, contrary to what Charmaine had said.
“If you go ta that voodoo schmoodoo, St. Jude’s gonna drop ya like a hot brick. Y’hear?”
You’re never too old to have mojo...
Late Saturday afternoon, Tante Lulu preened as she walked around Our Lady of the Bayou Church hall on the arm of Stanley Starr. Everything was going well with the poker tournament, so far. In fact, they’d made twenty-five-thousand dollars, just from the cover charge and buy-in fees.
“What’s that perfume, darlin’?” he asked, leaning closer as he linked the fingers of one hand with hers. “You smell like springtime on the bayou, I do declare.”
Glancing down at their combined pale skin mottled with age spots—flowers of death, they were called, of all things—she smiled and swatted him playfully on the chest with the fan in her free hand. “Ya allus were a charmer, Stan, even when ya was courtin’ Sophie.”
“Once a charmer, always a charmer, m’dear. It’s in the blood.” He waggled his white eyebrows at her.
“An’ I mus’ say, yer Old Spice is mighty nice, too.”
“You told me one time that it was your favorite,” he reminded her. “That’s why I wore it t’day.”
She couldn’t imagine when that mighta been. If it was pre-Sophie, it had to be more than fifty years ago. Still, she felt an uncommon thrill ripple through her old body that he’d paid attention to her wants.
Yep, all these years, and I can still get a date with a smooth talker. How cool is that?
As they passed the refreshment stand, where jambalaya, gumbo, lazy bread, oyster po’ boys, and beignets were the big sellers, that busybody Stella Guenot gave her a dirty look and muttered to Lily Beth Morgan, loud enough for her to overhear, “Some people doan know when ta act their age.”
So, of course, Tante Lulu muttered to Stan, loud enough for Stella to overhear, “Jealousy turns some folks green as grasshoppers, don’tcha agree?”
“Absolutely,” he said, chuckling as he raised their linked hands so he could kiss her knuckles.
Tante Lulu about peed her padded panties with surprise and, yeah, felt her sagging, almost nonexistent breasts perk up with interest. Imagine that!
To avoid embarrassing herself, she studied her surroundings. Lively Cajun music blared from the loudspeakers, now that silence, or at least muted music, was no longer required during the tournament. Banners inside and out announced the event—the first annual St. Jude’s Angels No Limit Texas Hold ’Em Poker Tournament.
She was wearing her favorite red chiffon cocktail dress; her Marilyn Monroe wig; professional makeup, thanks to Charmaine, which meant subtle liquid makeup, the kind that didn’t clog in the wrinkles; a bit of transparent red lip gloss, which also didn’t clog in the wrinkles; and a quick brush of mascara. And she wore red patent leather pumps, which were killing her feet. After the tournament, she and Stan were going out to dinner, if her arches didn’t collapse before then.
“You know what they said in the old days, Louise?” Stan said, close to her ear. “A woman wears red shoes as a surefire signal that she wears no underpants.”
“Oh, you!” She swatted him again with her fan.
“I didn’t mean no insult,” he immediately apologized, not that she’d taken offense. “You look terrific, honey.” Stan looked good, too, in his white planter’s suit with a sky-blue shirt to match his eyes, blue suede shoes, and Elvis tie. She hadn’t noticed before, but he had Elvis sideburns, too. White ones, but sideburns nonetheless. As far as she was concerned, the fact that he had any hair at his age was a plus. All this, on top of his Old Spice cologne, just about made her swoon. She did like a man in Old Spice. Although her swooning might be due to her pinched toes, she had to admit.
In the midst of a two-hour dinner break, the two of them watched the tables being dismantled and reassembled for the final round, to be held in the center of the room, which was fenced off from spectators by velvet ropes they’d borrowed from a local movie theater. Before that final round to determine the grand-prize winners, Angel and Grace would be displaying their championship talents by playing the best out of three games of poker for some bet they refused to discuss with anyone. Like her.
The tournament had started at 1:00 p.m. and proceeded quickly until 5:00, when the field had been narrowed to ten, out of the original two hundred. Even the losers appeared happy with their donated prizes, which included restaurant meals, spa treatments, airplane tickets, weekend getaways, pizzas, autographed sports memorabilia, a set of golf clubs, skis, and Roller Blades. The final ten would each get a DVD player, and the grand-prize winner would get a laptop and an all-expense-paid trip to Las Vegas, where some hoity-toity national poker championship was to be held.
As they made their way to a table reserved for the LeDeux and Starr families on the sidelines, a middle-aged, scowling man bumped into Tante Lulu, almost knocking her over.
“Hey, watch where you’re going,” Stan said, helping her to regain her balance.
“Butt out, you old geezer,” the man snarled. “Why don’tcha go back to the nursing home where you belong?”
What a slimebucket! The guy was wearing glasses with thick lenses and old-fashioned black frames, instead of them new-fangled wire-rimmed ones. Maybe he had trouble seeing and wasn’t really a slimebucket.
Instead of apologizing, the slimebucket swore and demanded of Tante Lulu, “Where’s Grace O’Brien?”
“Huh?” She scowled, not liking his slimy attitude at all. “Why would a jerk like you be lookin’ fer Grace?”
“Never mind!” He stormed past them and into the crowd.
She and Stan exchanged glances.
“Some folks is jist born ornery, I reckon,” she concluded.
With a deep sigh, she sank down into a chair and toed off her shoes. Lordy, Lordy, I doan think I’ll be able to put them toe-pinchers back on.
When Stan went off to get them both an iced sweet tea, she scanned the room, looking for the Duval children. There they were, helping to fold tables, except for Lena, who was at the cash register by the drink table, where lemonade and sweet tea were being served. Nothing alcoholic. Tante Lulu had wanted the kids to be involved today. Even so, she’d asked Tee-John to keep an eye on them, just in case those snoopy government folks were about. On Friday they would be holding the fais do do housewarming party right after the kids moved into their new house. Then this whole mess would be over. She hoped.
When Stan came back, she sighed loudly and said, “Ya know what the best thing is about today’s doin’s?”
“What?”
“It’s all fer a good cause, but everyone’s havin’ such a good time. Even the volunteers who’re helpin’ out. Didja know th
ere are twenty of us LeDeuxs here t’day, countin’ the grandkids?”
“That’s nothing, darlin’. There are thirty-some of us Starrs floatin’ around, too. You could say we’re straight-shootin’ stars, if you get my meaning.”
She laughed at his racy humor. “Look, it’s pert near time fer Angel and Grace ta start their playin’. Doan she look pretty in that white sundress with the red peonies? And Angel, whoo-boy, that is one good-lookin’ feller!”
As if he’d heard her comment, Angel turned and sauntered over to their table, then hunkered down, with his jeans straining his outspread thighs, to be on eye level with her. The boy was hotter than a two-dollar pistol. If she was younger, she would be checking certain things out.
“Whass a matter, sweetie?” she asked.
“I’m so nervous. I’m gonna blow this, I know I am.”
“It’s jist a game. Take it easy. Yer as jittery as a fart in a fryin’ pan.”
“Oh, there’s an image I’m going for!”
She smiled and patted his shoulder.
“This game, well, it’s my last shot. If I don’t win, it’s over.”
“You and Grace, y’mean?”
He nodded.
“Ah, sweetie! Ya should know better than ta put all yer eggs in one basket.”
“All my eggs are about to go rotten.”
“Grace is a hard nut ta crack, I’ll give ya that. But I think she’s been softenin’ up toward ya lately.”
“Really?” His brown bedroom eyes widened with hope, and, yes, she still knew how to recognize a man with slumberous I-can-make-a-woman-scream-in-bed eyes. “What makes you say that?”
“Jist a feelin’. Y’know, Angel—never mind.”
“What?”
“There’s some reason Grace is holdin’ back. I doan know what it is, but ever’time I ask certain questions, she almos’ looks scared.”
“I know what you mean, and dammit, I can’t believe I never saw it all these years. The little bit I’ve learned lately, and it’s not much, about her lousy home life is more than I gleaned over a ten-year period.” Had he just been insensitive? Or had she done such a good job hiding things? “What could be so awful, or hurtful, that she would need to keep it secret?”
“Doan know, but here’s somethin’ else ta chew on. Didja know she gave away most of her poker and treasure-huntin’ money?”
“What? That’s impossible.” Angel knew practically to the dollar how much Grace had won and earned. Not as much as him, but a huge amount, nonetheless. At least two mil.
Tante Lulu shrugged, then patted him on the arm. “What kin I do ta help?”
“Say a rosary. Or a novena. Put a voodoo spell on her. Now, don’t go ballistic. I know you said no voodoo. I was just kidding. But really, can’t you do something? Like pray? You’re closer to God than anyone I know.”
“Oh, my! Askin’ God ta help ya gamble...I doan know ’bout that.”
“Is it any worse than praying for me to be able to seduce Grace into my bed? That’s what you said you were doing last week.”
“Ya got a point there, ’ceptin’ ya cain’t get the bacon ta sizzle if ya don’t add some flame. I take it my prayers dint work in that area.”
His pretty face bloomed with color. “No, but like you, I think she’s, um, softening.”
Tante Lulu nodded. “Okay, guess we gotta call in the big guns.”
Angel’s eyebrows rose a notch. “St. Jude?”
“That goes without sayin’. Nope, I’m talkin’ ’bout the LeDeux family love committee, better known as the Cajun Village People.”
“Forget it!” he said with a grunt of disgust, rising to his feet without his knees even creaking, which was an amazing feat to Tante Lulu. “I’ll trust in my God-given poker-playing talents. And luck.”
“Good luck,” she called after him but added under her breath, “Dumb cluck!”
Chapter 11
How much does a slimebucket hold...?
George Allison tapped his foot with impatience as he watched from behind the rope fence. Grace O’Brien, the object of his pursuit, was about to sit down at a table across from Angel Sabato.
Tournament workers were quickly putting up signs beside each of them. “Angel Sabato: 1st place, World Series of Poker, 2001, 2002; 2nd place, 1997, 1999.” Then, “Grace O’Brien: 1st place, World Poker Tour, 2000; 2nd place, 1997, 1998; World Series of Poker, 12th place, 2001.”
George had arrived at the New Orleans airport this morning, hired a car, and pulled in to Houma by noon. With a little Internet Googling, he’d had no trouble getting Grace O’Brien’s address. Thanks to some discreet questioning at a podunk general store along the way, he’d learned that Grace lived next door to Louise Rivard, the matriarch of the LeDeux clan. He’d also gleaned good information about Grace’s affiliation with these rich Cajuns, only to find that the two cottages were nothing special as a reflection of wealth. But then, lots of the high and mighty liked to live down, displaying a humble lifestyle at home, while they gallivanted around the world with the jet set. He figured that must be the case with the LeDeuxs and Grace. Once he’d hit Bayou Black, he found out from a neighbor that Grace and all the LeDeuxs were back in Houma at some charity event, where he was now.
Oh, well, he had plenty of time.
And look at her over there now in her slut dress. Probably wasn’t even wearing any underwear on top with her whole back exposed, practically down to her butt. Her poker partner certainly had his eyes glued to her exposed body parts. The bitch sure didn’t have any problem making a spectacle of herself, either, prancing around the center of the room to play a game of poker, like she was the queen of some damn ball.
Two women stepped in front of him. He was about to protest, or shove them aside, but stopped himself when they began to gossip.
“I hear she was a nun at one time.”
“No way! I hear she entered a bunch of poker tournaments and won a couple million dollars.”
“A nun who played poker?”
The two of them giggled.
“And now she’s livin’ out there on Bayou Black, next door to that crazy old woman Louise Rivard.”
“She might be crazy, but I hear she’s loaded. All them LeDeuxs are. Apparently, they got a big part of the pirate treasure that was discovered down the bayou last year. Grace O’Brien was part of that treasure hunt, too, if I recall. I heard the treasure was worth about ten million dollars.”
“That must be true, because Tante Lulu put up a million of her own dollars to start this Jude’s Angels charity. How come I never get so lucky?”
“You? Hah! I can’t even win the lottery.”
So, George thought, Grace not only associated with millionaires, but she was a millionaire herself, from poker winnings, but also from her share of that pirate loot. No reason for guilt, then, in taking some of it from her, to cover all his pain and suffering in raising her bastard. Not that he was feeling guilty, anyway. Nope, he was entitled.
A voice came over the loudspeaker then, drawling in one of those slow, hokey southern accents. “Ladies and gentlemen, René LeDeux here. Y’all are about to witness top-notch poker playing by two of the best, Grace O’Brien and Angel Sabato. I’ll be givin’ ya a runnin’ account of the games, but you can also watch what’s happenin’ on the big-screen TVs at each end of the hall. Are you reee-aaaa-dy? Let the play begin!”
George had intended to confront Grace here right after the poker tournament, but he was rethinking his plan now. Maybe it would be better if he waited for her to return to her cottage. Make it a private meeting. Only later would he go public, and then only if she didn’t hand over the cash he deserved.
Yep, that’s what he would do. Tell her nice and polite, at first, how much he had done for her bastard—uh, kid—over the past ten years and how much payment—uh, thanks—he thought he deserved. He wouldn’t be greedy, and this would be a onetime deal. After all, he wasn’t a blackmailer. Just a regular guy wanting his just desserts.<
br />
So, what would be fair? Maybe ten thousand per year for the past ten years, or a hundred thousand payoff. No, he would start by asking for thirty thousand per year and negotiate down to two hundred thousand.
He already had some big plans. Lasik surgery for the vision problems he’d had since he was a kid. A widescreen TV. A new car. Maybe a vacation in Vegas for him and the wife. So many things he needed. He better insist on at least three hundred thousand, after all.
But what if she refused?
Well, then, the bitch would find out what a big star she was when the tabloid headlines read: “Rich Nun Gave Her Baby Away.”
Baby, will you play with me...?
Grace took a deep breath and tried to calm her nerves. She always felt a fierce adrenaline rush just before a competition, but this was different. More like an adrenaline gush, from every pore in her body.
What is wrong with me?
Tuning out René LeDeux’s play-by-play on the loudspeakers and the murmuring of the crowd behind the rope fence, she tried not to chew on her thumbnail but instead concentrated on the cards in front of her in this “Heads Up,” two-handed round of cards. Or tried to.
Ever since Angel had mentioned this stupid bet, it had been all she could think about. And not whether she would win. More like what she would gain if she lost. Like wild sex with a guy who was too hot to handle by any woman’s standards. And the most tantalizing thing—and wasn’t it every woman’s fantasy?—was that she could indulge all her secret wicked yearnings, guilt-free, since she was “forced” to do it.
Studying him for a quick second, she noticed he was clean-shaven and must have had a haircut that day. He wore a pure white T-shirt under an open denim shirt. The shirt and his faded denim jeans looked as if they’d been ironed. Whether it was his Italian or Hispanic genes, he was one good-looking man, and he knew it. Well, why wouldn’t he? Women buzzed around him like horny flies.
Except her.
She’d sat beside him in dozens of poker tournaments. She’d gone on motorcycle trips with him. They’d even slept in the same motel room a number of times, albeit in separate beds. She’d seen him naked, and not just in that magazine. Nope, she’d accidentally walked in on him in the shower. Twice! And none of it had prompted her to jump his bones or even drool a little. A year ago, when she’d told him that she thought of him only as a friend, it had been true. And it still was. Pretty much.