Putty in Her Hands

by Lynn Shurr

  “Damn right, it is. Best in da parish. Dat NuNu, he turned out to be some cook, him. Learned in prison. Got his GED dere too. Made good use of his time dere.”

  “Considering the condition of his teeth, I hope that’s all he’s cooking.” Remy should have let that observation slide.

  Old Broussard puffed up like an offended bullfrog. “He don’t do none of dat drug shit. Anybody does, dey off my payroll.” Broussard eyed the men around the table. Each one dropped his gaze and focused on downing the burger. “NuNu, he lost his teet’ in a bar fight da way a man is supposed to do.”

  One of the minions, all of them dressed in boots, jeans, and bicep-revealing black T-shirts with Broussard’s Barn in white lettering across their chests, looked up and bared a grin showing off a gold incisor. “That’s how I lost mine, throwing a guy already hopped up on dope outta here.”

  No surprise that the Broussard posse also served as the old man’s bodyguards. Remy forced down another bite of burger, almost done with it. But, some special sauce leaked from the side of the bun and down his shirt. Remy wiped off the glob of pink with a napkin, and figured he’d have to do the presentation with a grease stain on his front. Since a couple of the men around the table had wiped their fingers on theirs, he should feel right at home.

  However, the old man issued an order. “Slick, you get da boy a clean T-shirt from da store.”

  Slick delegated the errand to the scrawniest of the bodyguards who most likely only weighed two-hundred pounds, all muscle. Eyeballing Remy, he said, “I’m guessing a medium.”

  Remy couldn’t deny it. When the T-shirt arrived, Slick said, “Go ahead, put it on.” It didn’t bear the plain white block letters of the security force, but instead had a couple doing a two-step beneath the words, “Pass a Good Time at Broussard’s Barn.” Another challenge issued. Remy stripped off his shirt for their amusement. The dozen eyes studied his chest and armpits for hair, which he had, along with a lean set of defined abs that declared him a welterweight if he cared to enter a boxing ring. He gave them a minute to satisfy themselves that he wasn’t a sissy, then donned the shirt.

  “There, you one of us now,” Old Broussard declared.

  NuNu slinked out of the kitchen with another tray loaded with bread pudding anointed copiously with rum sauce, and made the rounds of the table. “Coffee?” He received a unanimous round of nods.

  “Why don’t I do my presentation while you enjoy dessert?” Remy suggested. “Pack mine to go, NuNu, because it really looks great.” Truthfully, he couldn’t hold another bite and looked forward to the coffee to wash down all he had eaten. Before anyone could insist he stay at the table, he scooped up the brochures and handed them around, then went into his pitch, pretty much the same one he’d given Julia and her uncles. He invited them to study the floor plans and outlined the kind of clientele he hoped to attract to Chapelle.

  “We’re not good enough for you?” Slick flexed his verbal muscles again.

  “Give me your down payment now. I’ll let you have a discount.” Remy kept his salesman’s smile on his face and dearly hoped Slick wouldn’t take him up on the offer.

  “Nah, I got my own place on five wooded acres. I like my space. Don’t want to be stacked on top of nobody.”

  “To each his own.” Internal sigh of relief.

  Still, Old Broussard heaved from his chair and pawed through the plans. Since he took an interest, so did his men. Grease stains marred the edges. Remy put running a fresh set on his list of things to do. The old man looked up with his piggy, yet very shrewd black eyes, like an aging boar that still knew the exact time the slop arrived in the trough and was the first to eat. “What else you got to show me for my big investment?”

  Always make eye contact. To glance away showed weakness. Remy met his stare. “I bought the Bayou Queen site yesterday for an incredibly low price. No one bid against me.”

  “Mais, yeah. Maybe word got around I was interest in dat deal.” Old Broussard chuckled deep in his chins. “Anyt’ing else?”

  “I’ve got a man to bush-hog the lot and arranged for some culverts that will support the heavy equipment for the demolition.”

  “You hire Stelly?”

  “Yes. He’s reliable and careful.”

  “Married to one of my granddaughters. You done good.” Having made the effort to stand long enough, Old Brossard returned to his chair. NuNu circled the table filling the coffee mugs from a large granitewear pot. He jumped a little when a phone rang from somewhere deep in the old man’s anatomy, but no harm done. His grandfather fished out a cell from his bib overalls. “Broussard,” he answered gruffly, though dozens of Broussards populated the parish. Someone had him on speed dial and kept the conversation short. “Dat so. T’anks. Anytime you come around, I stand you for a free drink.” No goodbye. He simply disconnected and gave Remy a hard look.

  “Dat Italian gal from New Orleans you foolin’ around wit’, she axed to be put on the agendas for bot’ da parish and city council meetings next week.”

  “I not fooling around with…”

  “Yes, you is, Cuz,” NuNu cut in. “She got nice tits. I saw ’em last night.”

  “You spied on my house with binoculars?” Remy rose up from his seat. He had some height and more muscle than the scrawny second cousin. The urge to smash the Styrofoam box of bread pudding into that gap-toothed mouth was difficult to restrain.

  “Hell, no. I picked up some night vision goggles at the surplus store. When you’re on parole, legal entertainment is hard to come by.” NuNu’s comment drew a laugh from the audience.

  “I believe being a Peeping Tom is still against the law.”

  “Way out in the country? I was lookin’ for owls just about the time she stood up naked as a jaybird. A birdwatcher, that’s me.”

  Remy gathered the man’s soiled apron in his fist. “Don’t do it again.”

  Old Broussard’s hand slammed the table and splashed the coffee from the cups. “Enough. You see dat girl don’t interfere wit’ our plans, Remy. Never was a Broussard welcome at da Queen when she lorded over da bayou in her best days. Now da sabot is on da udder foot, heh. Tear her down, you. NuNu, you watch for birds somewhere else. Bon, no?”

  Remy released his grip on the apron and wiped his hand on a napkin. NuNu scuttled back to the safety of the kitchen like the cockroach he was. “I’ll speak to Ms. Rossi.” He rolled the plans, collected the spare brochures, slipping them back into his slim briefcase, and started for the exit.

  “Hey, you forget your bread puddin’.” Because the old man recalled him, Remy accepted the box and the hearty slap on the back that signaled dismissal.

  Chapter Eight

  In his sweltering truck, Remy cranked up the air-conditioning and aimed for Alleman Plantation. As he bucketed along crumbling country roads, he rationalized that his father’s family wasn’t really the Cajun mafia as some people called them. Those same people certainly hadn’t voted for Guidry Broussard as mayor or welcomed him into their social circles either.

  No one “made their bones” slaying enemies or dealt in drug trafficking. Every one of them had the fortune or misfortune of being born into an actual huge, tight-knit family that accounted for a lot of small town corruption, most of it victimless crimes like backroom gambling, prostitution, and paying off politicians for favors. Hell, since the parish voted gambling back in to garner more taxes, the Broussards had gone legit and owned a couple of mini-casinos out on the highway, and another situated in a truck stop on the parish line, all very lucrative. The Black Diamonds development was another step in the direction of becoming completely legal. That’s what Remy told himself.

  Remy figured after last night, he owed Julia a face-to-face conversation, not simply an email or text saying cease and desist or stay out of my business. He hoped they could remain friends, maybe with benefits, since she was from out of town and really didn’t understand the dynamics of Chapelle. He got to New Orleans fairly often and could look her up—if h
e’d remembered to ask for her email address or her phone number. Making a mental note to get that information, Remy steered between the two whitewashed brick pillars that denoted the entrance to Alleman.

  He knew immediately that Julia Rossi and her uncles had gone. No motorhome sat parked under the shade of the oaks. However, Marv Holcomb heard the crunch of oyster shells beneath tires and appeared at the front door before Remy had a chance to turn around. He approached with arms wide, a welcoming smile expanding beneath a neatly trimmed silver mustache set in a thin face. Marv wore his hair in trendy short spikes of gray. When Remy looked down on the shorter man’s head, he could view the pink of his scalp between the peaks.

  “Remy, have you come to see the progress on Alleman? It’s going to be stunning, absolutely stunning. Let me show you around.”

  He had no choice but to get down. This man had encouraged him to draw, paint, and study art during those long summer stays with his grandfather. If Marv was disappointed that he’d given his support to a kid who later became an architect whose style he did not admire, Remy never would have known it by the greeting, a heartfelt light hug so different from being enveloped by Old Broussard’s flab.

  “Actually, I was trying to track down Julia Rossi, but sure, I’d love to see the place.”

  Marv’s hollow-cheeked face fell a little. “Julia and her uncles went back to New Orleans to do a small job and pick up an apprentice. She’ll return in time for the council meetings next week. That woman is on a crusade, I tell you.” He fanned the air with an artistic, long-fingered hand.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Must you really tear down the Queen?”

  “As I told Julia, I have investors for a new project.”

  Marv shrugged his slight shoulders. “See what Regal Restorations has done for the house. Mind, the first floor is empty until they can do the finish coat, which should happen shortly. I’ve jammed all the furnishings into the second-floor rooms and the attic. What a boon the roof no longer leaks, and we can make use of that space again. Mr. Getty has vast collections of, well, this and that, he likes to rotate on display.”

  Remy followed his old friend into the hallway of the mansion and peered into the parlor and sitting rooms on opposite sides. Farther on, a dining room sat across from a large master bedroom. All had huge fireplaces, paper covering the heart pine floors, and magnificent Corinthian molding topping the walls. Julia’s team had repaired that trim. Not a single acanthus leaf remained broken or chipped. They passed a rather decadent bathroom hewed from the kitchen space at the rear, which had once been a brick-floored pantry area and now housed modern appliances. That brought them to the rear verandah sporting the same four gracious Corinthian columns as the front of the house. Marv sank into a cushioned rattan chair and gestured Remy to take another.

  “So very hot for May.” Marv picked up an old-fashioned paper fan distributed by funeral homes back in the day and stirred the air. “One of Mr. Getty’s collectables. I really shouldn’t be using it, but the ceiling fans are temporarily disconnected. I’d take you upstairs. However, it is simply chaos there. I culled out space for myself and Julia. The bathroom isn’t nearly as grand as the one downstairs with the tub inset in marble. She says she is simply grateful to have a bathtub instead of a shower. Such a nice young woman. Might I offer you coffee, iced tea, lemonade?”

  Remy’s thoughts had drifted from Marv’s chatter to a vision of Julia in his bath. He imaged his hands slicking across those firm breasts so admired by NuNu, sliding down her back and under her buttocks as he lifted her on top of his erection hidden in a froth of foam. He felt himself going hard. That wouldn’t do in front of Marv who waited patiently for an answer to his question. He’d never put the moves on Remy despite what his grandmother believed, but didn’t want to give him any ideas either. “Uh, iced tea, no sugar.”

  “Coming right up.” Marv bustled to the kitchen.

  Without his host blocking the view, Remy could see his black tower of a house very clearly a half-mile away on the other side of the bayou. The glass glinted in the sunlight, but it still cast a long, dark shadow over the water. At least, his home hid the view from Alleman’s porch of NuNu’s rundown trailer.

  Marv returned with a tray holding two tall, icy glasses decorated with a slice of lemon and a spring of fresh mint. He liked to make things nice. Even his khakis and short-sleeved cotton shirt were pressed. Remy accepted the glass. The chill against his skin made his hands less sweaty and burst the thought bubble of Julia in the bath.

  “I hear you’re planning to plant bamboo to block the view of my house from Mr. Getty.”

  Marv’s olive complexion showed a spot of color on the cheekbones. “Mr. Getty’s idea, not mine. I live to serve him. Alleman has become my haven since the school board let me go when they cancelled the arts program—due to lack of funds, they said. I should be glad I made the twenty years for my retirement before that happened.”

  “I hope my grandmother had nothing to do with it. She tried to out you more than once.”

  “No, no. I think the downturn of the oil industry meant less taxes collected. Time for a change for me regardless. Gay men of my generation never played in town. We took ourselves to clubs in Lafayette or New Orleans. Some of my friends married, had children to please society and the Catholic church, but I always thought that unfair to the woman. If you kept up the façade, people here looked the other way. When AIDS came along, the wives caught it too. Just another tragedy to add to the rest. Remy, I’m HIV positive myself, but I take my meds and stay fairly well. I’d appreciate if you kept that to yourself. Others guess, but they don’t really know.”

  Remy clasped his old instructor’s hand which now appeared frail. “I can keep a secret. Thank you for entrusting me with yours. You were a great art teacher.”

  “You’re better than most of the Broussards in this parish, dear boy.”

  “I don’t know about that. I’ll come to visit again, but for now, I need to get back to work, make some calls.”

  “Of course.”

  Marv walked him to his truck and waved as Remy made the turn to take him away from Alleman. He should have looked in on his old mentor before now, not that he hadn’t greeted him cordially if they passed on the street. But, he’d been living in Chapelle for three years and never once sat down for a good visit. Exactly how good was he even if he’d never engaged in gay bashing like some of the Broussards. That had stopped with the fear of getting splattered with HIV blood.

  Remy crossed the nearest bridge, one of four across the bayou, to return to his house. When he sat behind his desk again, he checked his computer for the number to Regal Restorations and called. No answer. He left a cordial message, “Please give me a call.” Tried later. Left another message. “It is important that I speak with you.” A third try late in the afternoon went to leave a message again. He didn’t bother. She could be up to her elbows in plaster, but he doubted it. Julia Rossi was avoiding him.

  Chapter Nine

  Dressed in a navy-blue suit with a red power blouse and sensible heels to give her more height, Julia entered the city council chambers late. Familiar with the folderol that went on in political meetings, the pledge, the reading of the minutes, the old business before the new, she’d used some time to put last-minute details into her presentation.

  Remy, with a thick roll of plans propped up next to him, sat in the first row.

  Even with his back turned he looked good, dark hair as well-cut as his suit, his neck tanned, a tan she knew went down to his waist. Wondering if he still bore the scratches she’d given him in their sexual encounter, she stripped her gaze from the breadth of his shoulders and forced her eyes to settle on one of the less attractive councilmen as an antidote. Imaging doing it with a tubby older man possessing an excess of nose and ear hair drove her mind far away from sex and back to business.

  Julia had a feeling Remy knew she’d arrived. Yes, she’d been avoiding him and his messages. He’d probably
figured that out. What sort of businesswoman would she be if she didn’t answer her inquiries? Whether he was the kind of guy who really did call the next day to say he’d like to see her again or merely an architect who wanted to argue for his plans again, she couldn’t be involved right now. Remy’s name wasn’t on the agenda. Hers was. She had to keep her head in the game, not in the bedroom.

  When they finally reached her issue on the agenda, Julia beckoned to her new intern standing in the rear of the room holding an easel and a low-tech poster board. She had no idea what kind of technology this small-town government owned and went old school with interesting pictures and printed reports entitled The Bayou Queen—an Historic Gem with a nice cover sheet showing the hotel in its 1920’s heyday. Women in drop-waisted dresses and cloche hats strolled on the arms of natty men wearing straw boaters and striped trousers before the Queen’s impressive façade. She’d gotten it from the library’s file. Her intern/apprentice, Todd Whitcomb, fumbled setting up the easel, lank blond hair falling in his eyes as if he’d never worked with anything so primitive before, and at last hoisted the large poster board into place. Julia entered the U-shaped arena surrounded by councilmen seated behind their nameplates and mics like a toreador about to face multiple bulls. She averted her eyes from Remy and began with a smile. The man with the hairy ears smiled back. Julia cleared her throat.

  “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to speak to you about a vital issue. You might already be aware that the Bayou Queen, a landmark hotel, is in danger of being torn down for development. I am here to ask your support in saving her.” She didn’t get any farther before one of the councilmen interrupted. His nameplate read Theriot “Terry” Broussard. Figured that Remy’s relatives were everywhere. Other than dark hair and deep brown eyes, she didn’t see much of a resemblance to the thick, squat man without the manners to hear her out.