Son of a Sinner

by Lynn Shurr

One of the cops stood guard in front of the fire escape waiting for the evidence crew to arrive. Another approached Dean and started asking questions. Stacy’s knees wobbled, but it wasn’t Dean who rushed to steady her. An officer she knew from the precinct where she and Xochi sometimes went to do interpreting took her elbow and escorted her to another vehicle. The police preferred Xo, thinking her Hispanic looks got better results while a tall blonde only drew lewd comments.

  “Sit here, Miss Polasky. I’ll see if I can get you some water. Then, we’ll take you down to the precinct and get your statement, yours and Mr. Billodeaux’s, and the perp in the other cruiser. Get you out of this chaos.”

  “Thank you, Officer Ancona. If you go upstairs, please be careful not to let my dog out.”

  “Is that where Prince Dobbs attacked you?” the handsome Italian she suspected of having a crush on Xochi questioned.

  “No. Kent Gonsoulin attacked me in my office. You’ll see the mess up there—the signs of a struggle. I was fleeing from him when I ran into Prince. Kent shot him with no warning.”

  “Okay, save the rest for the statement.”

  He left to speak to the policemen remaining behind and collected Dean, holding the rear door open for him. “Sorry you got to ride back here. Not too hygienic, ya know.”

  “No problem. Let’s get this over with. We—I was meeting some friends tonight, but they’ll wait.”

  Stacy said nothing as she strapped on her seatbelt. They were going to meet some friends? Where? Who? In public?

  Dean didn’t speak as the sirens shrieked and parted the traffic all the way to the station. Stacy glanced back more than once trying to catch his eye. Staring out at the night turning neon with signs, he sat behind the grill separating them and issued no reassuring words, gave no hint of his emotions. He wore his cold, hard game-face like a mask on Mardi Gras hiding everything.

  At the station, they were separated at once and interviewed in different areas. Stacy had the longer tale to tell. Yes, she did want to press charges against Kent Gonsoulin for his actions. She hadn’t done so with Prince and now thought if she had, he wouldn’t have been shot tonight trying to make amends because Dr. Funk told him he must. There would have been a restraining order and strict instructions from the Sinners management and his lawyer to keep him away. Before leaving, she asked about the man she’d never liked. No word yet. In surgery. Her heart did bleed for his parents.

  She searched for Dean. The desk officer told her Mr. Billodeaux had left some time ago. On her own, independent, can-take-care-of-herself Princess Anastasia Marya Polasky held her head high and accepted a ride home from Officer Ancona. On the way, he suggested she summon Xochi and stayed with her until her cousin arrived in a cab. Very solicitous, he made sure both ladies were safely locked in for the night. The police had removed the red scarf from the window as evidence to back up her story that she’d felt threatened by Kent and tried to summon Dean to help. Mati would miss that scarf so much. She’d have to get him another one. Stacy stared across broad Canal Street. No lights shone in Dean’s apartment.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dean lay in darkness. He’d called Tom and let him know he wouldn’t be bringing Stacy to Mariah’s, then out to dinner and over to Paco’s for dancing. In the background, he heard Ilsa express some shrill disappointment over the ruination of her fun. He sketched out the story of what had happened to Prince Dobbs when Tom put his phone on speaker. “Gott in Himmel!” Ilsa said. He couldn’t agree more. Tom asked how Stacy was doing.

  “Fine, I guess. The princess always has been able to take care of herself.”

  “That’s cold. She must be really shaken up by this. You should stay with her.”

  “Tom, she played me. I’ll tell you about it later. Go out and have fun with Ilsa. There’s nothing you can do to help.” Dean disconnected before his brother could say more.

  Damn, he wanted to go to sleep and forget all this, but Stacy’s lavender scent, clean and soothing, pervaded the bedroom. It clung to his shirt and the sheets of the bed. On his pillow so close to his face, the light aroma blotted out the coppery smell of the blood on his khakis, discarded on the floor and kicked aside to be replaced with jeans.

  A woman like her should be required to wear a heavy, dangerous odor like My Sin. Did they make that any more? His grandmother owned a bottle of it. A gift from his granddad, she never wore it. The stylish bottle sat on her dresser as a prized ornament. He’d taken a whiff once as a young, horny teen, and it sang to him of sex and scarlet women. He should find a bottle online and send it to Stacy. She needed to have a scent sharp and alluring as a warning, not something simple, sweet, and romantic like lavender. It didn’t suit what she was, a deceiver.

  Dean stripped the bed in a fury and balled the sheets into the hamper. He showered, washed his hair, shaved, but when he lay down again on clean, crisp sheets, the aroma of Stacy remained. Where? The parrot shirt, the one he’d forbidden Krayola to wash. He ripped it from the leather headboard. It should be burned, but he valued it as a gift from Adam Malala. Into the hamper it went to join the sheets and the bloodstained slacks. He’d get no rest tonight in this bedroom. He went to the living room to watch tape of San Francisco’s past games. Concentrate on the game. That was the antidote for everything.

  Tom found him there sleeping in the recliner. Not in all that late, around midnight, his brother woke him with a shake to the shoulder. “I’m back. You want to tell me what’s going on? I got that Prince Dobbs is in the hospital with bullet wounds because Kent Gonsoulin gunned him down, but why?”

  “Stacy said Kent attacked her. She fled and ran into Prince coming to apologize. Kent claims he thought Prince was a mugger, or worse. She’d put up that red scarf in the window, and I came running to her like Mati after she’s been gone all day. Saw the gun. Knocked it away. Did first aid on Prince. Then, the medics and the cops took over.”

  “Sounds like you’re Stacy’s hero, so why isn’t she here?” Tom peered around the apartment as if his cousin might be hiding behind the curtains.

  “Because it’s all been a sham—Don Juan, Angel, Prince, though she admitted that got out of hand. Who knows? Maybe Kent was part of her scheme, too. Why else would she meet him at her place? To make me jealous, to bring me running to her door? Xochi said Stace had to show she needed me by letting me rescue her. The only person I really saved is Prince—if he’s still alive. She made a fool of me, Tom. I need a drink.”

  “Better make that milk. We leave early for San Francisco tomorrow.” To make his point, Tom left the sofa, poured, and delivered the suggested beverage. “You eat anything tonight?”

  “No, did you?”

  “Ilsa wanted sauerbraten so we went back to Jagerhaus. I promised her dinner and didn’t want to trash the whole evening. We chugged a lot of beer, too. Then she wanted to make me feel better or I would have been home sooner. I’m not sure I like the woman, but she’s really great at making a guy forget his worries. I figured Stacy would be comforting you, so I stayed a while. You should have called if you needed company.”

  “I don’t need anyone! Stacy set me up to prove how superior she is. A snap of her finger or a red scarf in the window, and I come running to save her from imaginary danger.”

  His expression must have turned forbidding because Tom moved out of striking range. They rarely fought in any way, not since boyhood and a few teen scuffles. Dean knew he could be broody, mostly about his football performance, but Tom usually joked him out of a dark mood. His sudden movement proved laughter wasn’t an option this time. It shamed Dean to treat his brother and best friend this way.

  Tom tried reason instead. “I don’t think so. Xo wouldn’t help her do that. You seemed great together, like the tumblers on a lock finally fell into place and opened a safe. Stacy wanted to change things between you and she did.”

  “Really? Look at the mess we’ve got now. If a woman wants you, why can’t she just say so without making life complicated?”

&
nbsp; “A mystery of the universe, bro. Somehow, I can’t imagine Stacy admitting point blank that she loves you.”

  “Who said anything about love?” His voice had a killer growl to it.

  Tom moved far, far away over to the sink. “Not me. Forget I said the L word. You need to eat. I can tell your blood sugar is plunging.” He scanned the contents of the refrigerator. “Let’s see, Chez Tom can offer scrambled eggs, a ham sandwich, or popcorn.”

  “Ham sandwich would be good. We got any dill pickles?”

  “We do. Cheese?”

  “Yes.”

  Tom assembled the plate as he talked. He knew to use the spicy mustard, a pumpernickel roll, a couple of slices of Swiss, lots of ham, and a bunch of lettuce. He sliced a large dill pickle in half and added it as garnish. “Et voila! The Thomas Cassidy Billodeaux special. Should be named after me. Eat hardy and go to bed which is where I am headed right now.”

  “Thanks. I think I’ll watch a little more tape first.”

  “Suit yourself. Ilsa wore me out. I should sleep well.”

  “Goodnight.” Dean had no intention of sleeping in his bed. The recliner would do just fine for now. Maybe after Krayola cleaned and did the laundry, he’d be able to go back to his bedroom, but not now, not tonight. Tomorrow he’d be on a plane for San Francisco. Stacy wouldn’t be in the stands to distract him. He’d do his job, get on with his life, and stop being anyone’s hero.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Since the German woman and Tom seemed to be an item now, Stacy felt compelled to invite Ilsa to view the Sunday afternoon game. Fairly sure Dean wouldn’t be back to drink it, she offered her the beer in the refrigerator, and her translator polished off one per quarter. Ilsa opened her fourth bottle and put it down long enough to clap. “A first down, that is good, nein?”

  “It would be if the other team hadn’t made it.” Stacy offered Ilsa more of the seven-layer dip and the basket of multicolored corn chips to soak up the alcohol.

  Ilsa dug in breaking a chip off in the refried bean layer and rescuing it with another. She bore the beans and sour cream in a lump to her mouth. Incredible, still so thin. Stacy shook her head in wonderment. The woman must have wonderful genes. She had no knowledge of her own ancestry on her Polish father’s side other than favoring him strongly. Somewhere in the past, she might have a grandmother who weighed three-hundred pounds, ate tons of sausage and downed it with beer. She certainly didn’t take after the small-boned, dark Abbotts, her mother’s family.

  Sipping diet ginger ale and watching stone cold sober, Stacy knew Dean played a little off his game. He’d thrown two interceptions and been lucky enough that neither resulted in a touchdown. Adam Malala squashed one of them and the other drive petered out on the fourth down. He threw three other long passes that did the job and brought the score to twenty-one for the Sinners. The opposing quarterback, another young phenom better at the running game than Dean, tied it up.

  Announcer Al Harney remarked that Billodeaux had lost some of his fire but still had enough heat left to burn the other team in the last quarter if they weren’t careful. An injury stopped the game, and Hank Wilkes filled in the time with color. “Billodeaux might be tired from saving a life Friday night. He applied both a tourniquet and CPR to Prince Dobbs already on the injured reserved list when the Sinners’ wide receiver was mistaken for a mugger and shot in the French Quarter. The update on Dobbs is hopeful though he is still in critical condition in the ICU. Our thoughts and prayers go out to Prince, son of former Sinner’s tight end Asa Dobbs, and to his family.”

  Wilkes read the prompt. “Dean Billodeaux learned his first aid skills as a lifeguard at Camp Love Letter, Daddy Joe Billodeaux’s charitable getaway spot for seriously ill children and their families. Whether he wins or loses here today, he is certainly an all-American hero. Looks like the game is about to resume.

  “So exciting Dean saved a man,” Ilsa said, sitting her beer on a section of the Sunday newspaper.

  Stacy reached over and removed the sports section featuring Dean on his knees giving Prince the breath of life before the condensation off the bottle could soak through to it. She appeared in the photo as only an out of focus blur in the background. The headline proclaimed Sinner Saintly. How Dean would hate the notoriety. For three years, he’d managed to stay out of the tabloids and generate only positive news of his charity work and much speculation about which model or starlet would become his wife. Since they’d been together, every other week seemed to generate a sensational article, all her fault.

  The ball passed to their team when Adam Malala forced a fumble, then back to San Francisco on a third interception. Neither team managed to score on the other’s mistakes. The Sinners had possession at the two-minute warning, and Dean milked the clock until it gave him cream. He set up Tom for an easy last second field goal, and the Sinners remained undefeated 24-21.

  “You are correct, the second half is better. I must watch more often. Perhaps at the home game next Sunday. Will Tom get me a ticket, do you think?” Ilsa finished off her fourth beer and prepared to leave.

  “I’m sure he can,” Xochi told her. “Be careful on the streetcar. You want us to wait with you?”

  Ilsa waved away the offer. “I am so fine. The sun still shines. People are in the bars rejoicing. We must go on Monday to Mariah’s and celebrate with the team.” With her next social event on the calendar, Ilsa clumped her way down the stairs on high-wedged sandals and let herself out without a single weave in her step.

  Stacy went upstairs and let Mati out of her bedroom where he’d been incarcerated since Ilsa had no love of dogs. She brought him down hugged against her face. “She can have my ticket. I won’t be going.”

  Xochi nearly dropped the bowl of dip with its now co-mingled layers that she carried to the kitchen before Mati could get at it. “But you must. The whole family will come for the game and expect to see you. What will Dean think?”

  “That I’m a big distraction and don’t belong there. I’ve always held myself on the edge of the family and won’t be missed while you are an important member of the Billodeauxs. I told Dean you weren’t to blame for carrying out the scheme.”

  “I was! It was my idea in the first place, and it worked, too, up until Prince got shot. You were so good together. I’ve never seen either of you that happy and relaxed. You swam in violet light. I’ll talk to Tom. We can fix this.” Mati sat at Xochi’s feet and whimpered. “Not for you, puffball.” She put the dip into the refrigerator.

  “Mati, come.” Stacy got the bag of dog treats from the cupboard and gave him one for coming to her. “Stand,” she commanded and held another above his nose. Mati got up on his hind legs. She tossed him the treat. “Dance.” Stacy held a treat high and made a circle with her hand. Mati followed the morsel on his hind legs. She rewarded him after two turns. “Maybe this is how Dean feels, that I made him come to me and do tricks like a trained dog.”

  “Perhaps right now. I admit I shouldn’t have suggested Prince Dobbs. That man trails darkness behind him like a velvet cloak with an ugly orange lining, but in his own nasty way he brought you together.” Xochi caught herself and made the sign of the cross. “May he have a full recovery.”

  “I hope so, if only for Sharlette and Asa’s sake.” Stacy picked up the basket of corn chips, dumped the remnants back into a bag and clipped it shut. Game over for today.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Nodding and waving to fans, Dean strode swiftly along the concourse at Louis Armstrong Airport. He didn’t stop to autograph sports sections of the Sunday paper bearing his “hero” picture but stayed to the center of the group of Sinners returning triumphant from San Francisco. The word went round: party tonight at Mariah’s. He’d have to attend. A ten game winning streak needed to be celebrated even if he hadn’t played his best.

  Worse awaited him. The tabloids in the tobacco shop near his condo plastered its windows with the CPR shot, but also one of Prince with his hands on Stacy and anoth
er of Kent Gonsoulin being cuffed. Lurid speculation from mild to seriously raunchy shouted from the headlines: Sinner Saves Rival, Blonde Boondoggle and Three-way Feud? If the disguised paparazzo still staked out the cul-de-sac, Dean swore he’d drop kick him all the way across Canal Street. Not that he’d be going over there any more. He wondered momentarily how Stacy was taking the notoriety. Not his business. Let her handle it. Team meeting, a hard workout, a party—the best way to get over her fast.

  He made it through the day, pulled out a red dress shirt he rarely wore, black slacks and dancing shoes, and made for Mariah’s Place where Tom had gone to meet Ilsa an hour before. Stacy wouldn’t dare show her face there, but she had guts so she might. He’d manage it if she did. He’d show her how little he cared by finding some other woman to take as a partner on the dance floor.

  Plenty of blondes in Mariah’s tonight but only one sat in his usual dark corner of the bar. Stacy…No, Ilsa. The neon bar signs cast a scarlet glow over her pale, straight hair. She tossed the strands over her shoulder, leaned against Tom and laughed at something he said. Dean tried to join them quietly, but the team members stood up, raised their bottles and glasses and toasted “To a guy who knows how to run down a clock.” Dean waved away his usual Dixie beer and swallowed his first shot of bourbon for the night. He paid for a round to salute Tommy the Toe and downed another. He put away a third while Tom guided Ilsa rather stiffly around the dance floor to a slow tune. If he were out there with Stacy, he would show them how it should be done.

  When the couple returned, he said out of the blue, “I can be fun, you know. My dad was a fun fellow. Me, too.”

  “No, you aren’t. You’re Dean the Hero. You win games and save lives. I’m the fun guy,” Tom reminded him.

  “Ilsa, what do you say we go to Paco’s and try some hot salsa dancing?” He leaned across his brother to make the invitation. “Tom, you think they still have that piñata we sent over on Friday when I planned to take Stace—when I planned to go there the other night?”