Son of a Sinner

by Lynn Shurr

  “Please, you’re making me hot, and I haven’t been on the dance floor yet,” Rachelle complained. One of the taller and less attractive girls in Xochi’s group of friends, she streaked her dark hair with henna red and overdid the makeup to compensate for that.

  “Now that he knows Angel is no danger, he’ll back off again,” Stacy claimed.

  “We have to find someone better for Dean to take on. Who does he dislike the most in the whole world?” Xo asked.

  “Me.”

  Xochi replayed the dance. “No, I don’t think so, not by a long shot.”

  “Dean would say he doesn’t hate anyone.”

  “On the Sinners team, who do we all despise?”

  “That’s easy. Prince Dobbs. It’s a wonder he can run so fast carrying around that huge ego and that immense weave.” Stacy waved away another dance partner. He took Rachelle instead.

  “I’m surprised he can get his helmet on. You know Dean never could stand him.”

  “But, he sucks it up for the good of the team. I’ve heard him tell Uncle Joe that Prince is their fastest and best wide receiver regardless of how he feels about him.”

  “The Sinners only took him in the draft when he slid way down in the numbers because of bad behavior on and off the field. I think his poor father begged management to give him a try.” There wasn’t a person in the Billodeaux family who couldn’t discuss football knowledgably, including Xochi. “Hang on Prince’s every word at Mariah’s one night and see what happens. Anytime now it’s got to dawn on Dean that he loves you.”

  “Love?”

  Xochi ran the dance again on her phone. “That’s what I see right here. I’m surprised you don’t.”

  “He was trying to outdo Angel, that’s all.”

  “Love is blind in so many ways,” Xo said, worldly wise as always. “I came to dance. How about you?”

  “I think I’ll call a cab and go home. I really don’t want to dance with anyone but Dean.”

  “Suit yourself.” Xochi accepted the next man who approached and waved goodbye.

  Stacy waited just inside the doorway for her ride. She dialed Angel to make sure he was okay.

  “You know I could have lost some teeth, and I don’t have dental insurance. End of my career just like that. Julio is icing my wrist as we speak,” he fussed.

  “I’ll put some extra on your check.” Why hadn’t she seen him as gay? A better actor than she supposed maybe. “Take care, Angel. Bye.”

  Her stomach churned and not from the nachos. The thought of having to flirt with Prince Dobbs sickened her. But if that’s what it took to bring Dean to her side, she’d do it.

  ****

  Dean apologized at the press conference following Sunday’s game for his lackluster performance. “But, we have a great team. We owe our victory to the defense, a touchdown scored by Prince Dobbs and those four field goals completed by Tommy the Toe. Next week when we take on Minnesota, I plan to bring my best game.”

  He would do better because the Sinners played away, far away from Stacy who’d sat in the stands cheering and clapping for him while he threw a pick six allowing the other team to score. The touchdown throw to that showboat, Prince Dobbs, evened things out. When Dean couldn’t seem to get another play close to the goal line, Tom—kicker, brother, friend—saved the day with field goals, 19-14, a little too close for comfort.

  Much as he didn’t feel like it, he needed to go over to Mariah’s and buy a few rounds for his team. He dragged his feet getting there. By the time he arrived, Prince had already surrounded himself with a crowd of lovelies who hung on his every word as he recounted how he’d scored.

  “That ball come in so low, so poorly thrown, it’s a miracle I got under it and found my feet to take it in for the goal,” he boasted so loudly the music from the bandstand couldn’t drown him out. He shook the weaves tied into a bundle at his nape like a lion tossing his mane before a roar.

  Dean remembered when Prince had done the gangsta bit in his teens and smiled when he recalled how Daddy Joe made the boy belt his sagging pants at the barbecue. He’d tried to do his part by defending Riley Bullock’s looks when Prince hurt her feelings, but he’d made a teenage boy mess of it, only embarrassing the poor girl more. That prick made fun of Adam Malala’s cute, fuzzy-haired children, too, but not directly in front of the big Samoan. His skinny wife had cut the obnoxious boy down to size pretty handily without any help. No one who really knew him admired Prince Dobbs regardless of the great hands and fast feet.

  The one thing Dean did appreciate about Prince right now was the distraction. He moved quietly across the club and took his usual seat next to Tom at the bar. “You were the real hero today, not that loudmouth asshole,” he said only for Tom’s ears to hear, surprised his brother didn’t seem happier over the victory. After all, he wasn’t the one who’d screwed up.

  “I do my job just like you. We have a bigger problem.”

  “We do? Just a sec. Bartender, I’m buying a round for the team.”

  When his teammates all had a drink in hand, he raised his bottle for a toast. “To the best damned players in the NFL.” That drew plenty of applause. He turned to Tom. “You were saying?”

  “Notice who is sitting right next to Prince and admiring his tats.”

  “I try not to give Prince any extra attention…Stacy, it’s Stacy!” Dean got to his feet. “She knows what he is. Hell, the only thing we agreed on for years was how much we really disliked Prince.”

  Stacy had her hand on the wide receiver’s bare bicep, and Prince made it jump beneath her fingertips. She giggled. A giggle, not Stacy, maybe his twin sisters, but never her. Dean knew that particular tattoo from the locker room. It appeared to be a bushy-topped palm tree bearing two large coconuts, but when flexed, it became something obscene. Prince had rolled up the sleeve of his bright red Sinners’ jersey to display the full effect. The man possessed an ego so immense he wore his own specially chosen number, 88, in the club.

  Dean crossed the floor with Tom on his heels saying, “Easy, go easy.” He arrived in time to hear Stacy coo, “It’s so big and hard.”

  “You should see the real thing, baby,” Prince said. “How about we go out when I get back from Minnesota? I always liked you best of all the Billodeauxs. You didn’t put up with any crap from Dean and neither did I. You grew up gorgeous, too, real hot, not like that frizzy-headed bitch, Riley Bullock.”

  “Riley plays Women’s Professional Basketball now, and she’s engaged to an NBA player,” Stacy told him, making a feeble case for her friend.

  “So, they’ll have grotesquely tall, ugly children. Me, I want mine as golden and good-lookin’ as I am.” Prince twined one of Stacy’s curls around his finger and drew her face closer to the obscene tattoo, no longer a palm tree but a penis. “Want to kiss it?

  Dean’s hand stopped the action before her lips met flesh. “How about a dance, Stacy?”

  “Not now, Dean. I’m busy.”

  “And we bound to get busier,” Prince added with a sneer.

  “We really need to talk, Princess. Now!” Dean drew back her chair to encourage her to rise.

  “The princess don’t want to go wit’ you. You got some kind of problem because your cousin is with a black man, Billodeaux?”

  Black man, my ass, Dean thought. Prince had his stunning mother’s honey-colored skin and sharp features. Not a bit of that old warhorse tight end Asa Dobbs turned up in his son, not the team mentality, not the devotion to the game, and certainly not his dark complexion and blunt, wide face. Truthfully, Dean admitted to having had a slight crush on Sharlette Dobbs who always wore animal prints and high heels even to barbecues back in his early teens, but he found nothing to love in her only boy child. Prince marred that fine hide of his with a mass of threatening tats—barbed wire, skulls, and snakes that helped disguise the pornographic palm tree—and had not a single cross or sign of devotion to his mother among them as many of the guys did. He’d added a few blond strands in th
at light brown weave of his to top it all off.

  “Not with a black man, only you, Prince. I know how you treat women.”

  “Lyin’ bitches, most of them. That coed at Alabama fell all over me, then cried rape. The charge was bogus which is why the Sinners bought my exceptional talent.” Still, one or two of Prince’s female admirers on the edge of the circle backed quietly away. Prince jerked Stacy’s chair closer. Dean yanked it away again.

  Finally, Stacy stood up. “Dean, you are interfering with my life again. First Angel, now Prince. What gives you the right?”

  Dean’s facial muscles locked into place. How could he answer that? Because I want you. Because I’m the better man. Instead, he said the first thing that came to mind that didn’t expose his raw emotions. “Maybe because I’m a better judge of character. You realize Angel is gay.”

  “Maybe that’s why she craves a real man now.” Prince rose from his chair to get directly into Dean’s face. “Stay out my business, Billodeaux.”

  They compared in height. Dean might have a little more muscular weight, but if it came to a brawl, the match would be fairly even. Prince pushed Dean in the chest. Dean straight-armed him back. “Keep away from Stacy.”

  A chair fell over behind Prince. The band went silent. Into the void, Mariah’s smoke-roughened voice wheezed, “Brock, Bobby, break that up.”

  The bouncer with the cobra tattoo on his scalp and the improbably boyish name of Bobby muscled between the two men. “We don’t want no trouble in Mariah’s Place. Youse guys know the rules. Break it up. Go home.”

  “Not until Stacy leaves,” Dean demanded.

  “Not until she leaves with me,” Prince countered.

  Neither broke eye contact with the other like two dogs fighting over a bitch in heat. “How about Stacy goes with me?” Tom said. “I’m the only true gentleman in the bunch.” He offered his arm, and she took it eagerly. They moved toward the door. Prince shouted after her, “I’ll be in touch, babe” and made the phone me sign with his fingers. Dean simply stood there watching them go. A minute later, he walked out of the club as Prince Dobbs settled back into his circle of admirers. He looked right and left and didn’t see a sign of where Stacy and Tom had gone.

  ****

  Tom let out a breath. “Right now I’m counting my blessings.” A cab had drawn up to the curb to disgorge a load of tourists at Mariah’s Place and allowed them a fast escape.

  “Jeez, Stace, what were you doing back there? You know Prince once stomped on a college kid in a bar fight and kicked him in the head more than once. Asa paid the medical bills, and the family dropped charges. Ace always bails his son out. You want something like that to happen to Dean?”

  With her arms wrapped around herself, Stacy huddled shivering in a corner of the cab, not that the vehicle had great air-conditioning. She felt a chill inside over what she’d done. “I think Dean can take care of himself, and so can I.” Her voice lacked conviction even to herself.

  “Lately, it’s been one thing after another with you. Granted the first two men were incapable or not interested, but Prince, he’d force himself on a woman.” Tom’s forehead wrinkled as if he pondered something very deep. He sucked in some air before speaking. “Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Dean has some feelings for you. They’re all locked down and mixed up, but you need to give him a break while he sorts it out. I hope you don’t believe this is all wrong because he does.”

  “No, I don’t think there is anything wrong with his having feelings for me.” She held her own confession tight.

  “Good, now there’s a start. You should tell him.”

  “I can’t. You do it.”

  “Oh, no. I’m not getting into the middle of this.”

  “You already are, you and Xochi.”

  “Xo?”

  The cab turned into the cul-de-sac by the Anchi Services sign. Stacy got out and waved to Tom to stay seated. “I’ll be fine. Go.”

  As the cab backed up and turned toward Canal Street, Stacy steadied herself with one arm raised on the lowest rung of the fire escape and vomited beneath the planters of purple sweet potato vines and dusty miller she’d placed there for color. Letting Prince touch her made her physically ill. She doubted if she could continue this game, not with him, even to get Dean to open up to her.

  Chapter Ten

  Dean walked home from Mariah’s Place to let off some steam. He rarely got angry, not like this. Hot heads had no place on the football field. He passed one of the many convenience stores still open this late that sold beer, liquor, sunglasses and souvenirs to the tourists. Pausing, he turned back and entered the place with aisles so crowded with cheap junk only one person could pass at a time. He found the rack he’d noticed out of the corner of his eye. It held cheap scarves in many colors like the ones people liked to wave above their heads when second lining behind the brass bands that often marched through the Quarter.

  Dean fingered one of brilliant red made of some synthetic material, not silk of course. He paid a few dollars cash for it and accepted his purchase lumped into a small plastic bag by a sleepy-eyed Indian cashier. Veering toward Stacy’s place, he arrived at the cul-de-sac shortly. Some drunk had puked beneath her pretty planters on the fire escape. The princess could never allow anything to be simply ugly and utilitarian but always had to dress it up. Gently, he tried her door. Good, locked tight. He debated whether to ring the buzzer. Second and third floor lights were still on, but he decided to wait until morning to present his idea. Right now, Stacy was probably still irate because he’d interfered with her life again. She’d be more receptive once she cooled overnight as he had done in walking it off.

  Instead, he continued back to his place. Tom sat in the living room watching ESPN and indulging in a late night snack of recently delivered pepperoni and mushroom pizza that made their condo smell like an Italian restaurant. He glanced up as Dean entered. “Glad you’re home. After I dropped Stacy off, I debated whether I should swing by Mariah’s again and see if you needed any help with Prince.”

  “Yep, I can see how concerned you were, but it didn’t kill your appetite any.” Dean eyed Tom’s lean build. “Where do you put it all?” He took a seat on the plush brown sofa, tossed the scarf aside, and helped himself after picking the mushrooms off a slice.

  “Stacy seemed pretty shaken. I thought I’d stay close in case she needed someone to come over.”

  “You did the right thing, bro. I can handle Prince all by my lonesome. I followed you out, but you’d vanished like a volunteer in a magician’s trick.” Dean folded his slice New York style and went to the fridge for a glass of milk. How many times had Mama Nell told them not to drink from the carton?

  “I see you calmed down enough to go shopping,” Tom said with a nod to the bag. “A cab was at the curb when we came out. So what are you going to do about this Stacy-Prince thing? You know maybe if you told her how you feel, she’d dump him.”

  “More likely she’d jump right into his arms to get away from me. I did come up with an idea in case she needs my help. I’ll tell her about it the morning. You go ahead to team meeting without me. That’s enough pizza for me. Clean this up before you go to bed. Miss Krayola is coming tomorrow.”

  “We must be the only men in the world who worry about making work for their cleaning lady.”

  “That’s how we were raised.” Dean took the bag containing the scarf into his bedroom and debated if he should wrap it as a gift. No, that would be overkill. Keep it casual. Don’t make the princess feel she is being smothered. The scent of Stacy emanating from the parrot shirt filled his nostrils as he got into bed, but he slept well all things considered.

  ****

  Covered with only a towel from the waist down, Dean leaned close to the steamy bathroom mirror to complete his shave. He heard the bedroom door bump open. Usually, he’d cleared the place before Miss Krayola arrived. A hefty late middle-aged black woman hired by Mama Nell, she came a couple of times a week to dust, vac
uum, scrub the bathrooms, and do laundry. He always added a Miss to her name out of deference for her age. As for the rest of her title, her own mama had just liked the sound of the name on a box of crayons but changed the C to a K to make it classier she’d told him.

  Dressed in a maid’s white uniform and wearing thick-soled nurses’ shoes but ornamenting her head with a multicolored do-rag, Miss Krayola poked her head into his bathroom. “You still here, Mr. Dean? Well yes, you are, you certainly are.”

  She looked him up and down in a highly interested way that Dean found shocking in a woman pushing sixty. “No tattoos, thank Gawd for that. Jus’ gettin’ your laundry together. I suspects this shirt goes in the wash.” She waved the parrot shirt and sniffed the air.

  “Ah, no. Leave it where it was, please.”

  “Sho’ will,” she said in a knowing way. “Not like you to leave anything on the bedpost though. Y’all are the tidiest young men I ever did see.”

  “My mama wouldn’t have it any other way.” Dean wiped the remaining shaving cream off his face. “Would you mind giving me a little privacy? I’m running late.”

  “Be a minute. Jus’ let me get the dirty towels, all but the one you gots on.” Grinning broadly, Krayola emptied the hamper, added the towels to the laundry basket she balanced on one hip, and left the room.

  Dean grabbed some boxer briefs from his dresser and shoved his long legs into a pair of worn jeans. He threw on a black knit Sinners shirt with their logo on the pocket and put his feet into his running shoes. Seizing the bag with the scarf, he went into the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee and rummage in the refrigerator for something quick to eat, settling on two slices of cold pizza. Watching the front window as he picked off the mushrooms and wondering why Tom always ordered it that way, he soon sighted Stacy crossing Canal Street for the coffee shop where she stopped most mornings on her way to the World Trade Center.

  “Now that ain’t no breakfast for a man. Let me scramble you some eggs and cook you up some grits,” Miss Krayola said as she emerged from the alcove that held the washer and dryer at the end of the kitchen. “You surely gonna need your strength today. I got this feelin’ I sometimes gets.”