A Trashy Affair (23 page)

“My mortgage is not the problem. I found a house I like better. The townhouse is like brand new, and I’m already moved out. I can’t see what the trouble might be in your taking it back.”

Freeman expelled an exasperated breath. Merlin thought he detected the taint of bourbon in the air. Had the Realtor taken a nerve-steadying shot of liquor before seeing him? Great, the jitters would work in his favor.

“That’s not how the real estate business works, young man,” Bernie said as if talking to a simpleton.

“You built the places, and you sell them. You did give me a great deal, so now you can buy it back, sell it for the full price and make a bigger profit.”

“What if I am not interested in doing that?”

Merlin beckoned to the Realtor. “Come out from behind that big-ass desk for a minute.”

Freeman glanced over his shoulder at a rear exit door as if gauging an escape.

Merlin reassured him. “I won’t touch you, I swear. Stand right here next to me at the window.”

Freeman edged around the desk. Merlin, back turned, faced the glass with his arms relaxed at his side. The Realtor clenched his fists as he took a place next to him.

“Tell me what you see.”

“Two grown men standing together staring at a piece of glass like idiots.”

Merlin, looking straight ahead, smiled in a way neither warm nor friendly. “I see two bastards who look remarkably alike. Note the blue eyes, an unusually bright shade, heavy beard, the exact same height and build. You’ve gone gray in the past few years, but I remember when I was in high school your hair was black, black, black. Like mine.”

The councilman refused to see any resemblance. “I’m not a bastard. I know who my daddy is, and he married my mother.”

“I also know who my daddy is. I recall the day I figured it out. You worked one of the fairs passing out Vote for Leroy ‘Lambo’ Mouton cards and shaking hands. My grandfather accepted a card, but declined a handshake. He took me to the festival and let me go on some of the adult rides because I’d gotten so tall. Doyle and Brittney doing the ones for little kids stayed with Granny and Mom. Only still in grade school at the time, but I pointed out I had the same color eyes as that man, and we looked kind of alike. Could you be my daddy? I was always on the lookout for that man. Grandpa turned away and said I shouldn’t want to be related to that snake in the grass, a
personne traitre.
”

“I am sorry your grandfather had a poor opinion of me, but your childish observations mean nothing.” Still, Bernard Freeman kept staring at the glass as if mesmerized.

“When I got a little older, around twelve, I found the papers agreeing never to divulge my father’s name in exchange for child support. The lawyer was discreet. You are not named in the document, but your own father had to sign it. My mom used to go on and on about how handsome my daddy was, just like me, but I must never, never, ever know his name. For her sake I pretended to be in the dark, but Granny could tell I’d figured it out.”

Bernie broke eye contact and returned to the safety of his desk. “Harley David is your daddy. He raised you.”

Merlin followed him and this time took the previously offered chair, sliding back into it and stretching out his legs completely at ease. “Nope. Harley treated me decently but did not adopt me. Granny wouldn’t allow it. She had no sons and wanted the Tauzin name to go on, especially after Grandpa died. You know, not being born at the time, I did not sign that agreement.”

“Divulge anything, and I will see your family is ruined.”

“Grandpa is dead. Granny lives in Magnolia Villa. You already took their land. Will you go after my mom’s double-wide and Harley’s motorcycle next, maybe my nephew’s tricycle?”

Freeman took a bottle out of his desk drawer and sat a shot glass with the logo of a big game hunting organization on it beside the deluxe bourbon. He kept the drawer open. Merlin thought the man might have a weapon concealed there. It wouldn’t be needed, only Bernie did not know that.

“Your family would make pathetic trophies, like shooting coots in a pond. You give out my name and I will sue for every penny we gave your family to keep quiet. That would come to $216,000, plus the delivery fee since they wouldn’t go for the abortion, two years of wasted college, and bailing your sorry ass out of jail when you were seventeen,” the councilman sneered.

“Yeah, I see you are familiar with the deal. My shrink says I acted out to get your attention. Bet it looked good to the public when you helped out a poor boy in trouble, didn’t it?”

“Then, your granny comes crawling to me to send you up the road to the university and swearing she won’t ever ask for anything else. She might as well have chucked that money in the bayou and thrown you in after it for all the good giving you a chance at a college education did.”

“I agree with you there. See we can agree. With an election year coming up, I just want to offer you another chance to do something right for the parish. Drop your objections to the recycling program, support it wholeheartedly, and reinstate Jane Marshall as Environmental Project Manager for the good of the parish.”

“Hmmm, Ms. Nixon told me Jane Marshall lost her job for failing to complete an important project that would have brought the parish a large amount of grant funds. I cannot support incompetence in government.”

“As it turns out, Jane was fired for working on that proposal during her lunch hour. She put it in the mail well ahead of schedule. I think the parish will find itself with money it has no idea how to handle without Jane after the first of the year.”

“Jane, is it?” The councilman leveled a finger at Merlin. “You’re the one who bought her house out from under me while I was in Africa. Now you want me to bail you out of a double mortgage. I get it.”

“And I get that you are isolating old Woof Langlois, taking away all his supporters at the council office, making him look bad with things like the poor trash service so you can run against him next fall. But, you don’t have to worry that I’ll tell anyone who bred me on a fourteen-year-old girl. I would never break my grandpa’s word.”

Merlin picked up a picture in a silver frame from a corner of the desk. Two tall, black-haired sons stood beside their father with their hands clasped on the back of an antique settee. Two lovely daughters sat next to their mother in the front of the men. He studied the photo for a moment, then turned it toward Bernie and held it up under his long jaw, another trait he’d inherited from Freeman. He tapped the glass protecting the group portrait.

“Nice family. I would fit in perfectly right beside you, but that would throw the balance off, I’d say. No, sir. I plan to support your candidacy by going to every rally, standing up tall to ask you questions, standing beside you to have my picture taken. Why I might even run that photo of you and me as a paid ad in the newspaper saying I will vote for you. Big war hero supports Bernard Freeman. You like to play the Cajun angle, but you believe we’re all stupid and naïve. I think people will figure out who my daddy is without my saying a word.”

Watching Merlin with cold, blue eyes, Freeman poured the bourbon and took a sip. “I understand you have a drinking problem.”

“Not anymore.”

The politician removed another glass from the drawer and filled it. “I find a little lubricant makes the gears run smoother. Have a drink. It’s probably better than anything you’ve ever tasted.” He slid the drink in Merlin’s direction, close enough for the scent of premium alcohol to tickle his nostrils.

“No, thanks. I had my last beer a week ago.”

“That long? You think can stay sober until the election comes around?”

“That’s not your concern.”

Merlin held up a large hand that would have matched Bernard Freeman’s right down to the scattering of black hair on the knuckles and the shape of the thumb if the other man had held his up for comparison. He ticked off his demands by folding down three fingers one at a time. “You buy my townhouse. You re-hire Jane. You support recycling. All easy for a rich, influential guy like you. If you could see your way clear to getting Nadia Nixon fired that would be good, too.” He folded down a fourth finger. Now, his hand made a fist.

“We need her to clean house after the mess Woof made at the courthouse. I mean the public has paid the salary of his mistress for forty years. Do you condone that? ”

“Old news about Woof and May Robin. I understand she did her job well. Besides, I think everyone in the parish already knows Wendy Robin Plaisance is their daughter, but they like Woof and May too much to hold it against them.”

Freeman’s blue eyes brightened with speculation. “I did not know that.”

“I forgot you’re an outsider from Texas. Considering the dirt in your own past, I wouldn’t be using that against him in the election. You think about telling Nadia her cleaning services are no longer needed, no?”

The politician shook his head with something like regret. “You realize, Tauzin, you could have parlayed that victory parade the city offered you into a political career. I’ll take back the townhouse. As you said, I can make a greater profit on it when I’m not catering to a war hero for a little feel-good publicity. Okay on the recycling program. Reconsidering my position on that, finding the money to make the parish a cleaner place, will go down well come election time. I’ll see what I can do about Jane and Nadia, but I’m not the only one who gets to vote on that. Let’s drink to our agreement.” Again, he inched the glass closer to Merlin.

“My grandpa wouldn’t shake your hand, and I won’t drink with you either. Let me know when we’re ready to sign on the townhouse. You pay the closing costs.”

Merlin walked out much happier than alcohol could have made him. The young secretary had lost all her formality, and in fact appeared to be ill judging by her shaking hands and a face gone pale. He asked with a glance at her nameplate, “Can I get you some of that water, Courtney? No need to be scared of me.”

“It’s not you.” Her youthful voice quavered. She disconnected her headset and placed it on the desk. “He told me to leave the line open in case you attacked him. I was to call the police. I think he forgot all about me listening. Is my mother really Great-Aunt May’s child?”

“If your mom is Wendy Robin, yes. Sorry you had to learn that from overhearing. My granny told me in high school. I guess she wanted me to know other folks had secrets in their families to make me feel better about myself. It didn’t work. Look, ask your Granny Spring about this before you mention it to anyone else, okay? I said everyone knew already to protect Woof and May, but I’m not sure. Why don’t you tell the great and mighty Freeman you don’t feel well and go home? Oh, and if I were you, I’d be looking for another job. You don’t want to work for this snake.”

She nodded. “Thanks for the advice, Mr. Tauzin. I’d vote for you if you ran for office. You were really strong in there.”

“I appreciate your thinking so. Quit today.”

Now to take on the managing editor of the
Chapelle Clarion
. After Bernard Freeman, a piece of chocolate cake with whipped cream frosting on top.

****

Merlin firmly shook the hand of Wallace Burch, managing editor of the
Clarion,
followed him into his office, and immediately took the offered seat but rejected the coffee. Wally Burch with his rotund belly, gray walrus mustache, and round glasses resembled an out of shape Teddy Roosevelt. He cultivated the old time image by wearing a dark vest over his white shirt with the chain of a gold pocket watch stretched across his paunch

“I hope you are here to reconsider that victory parade. Your grandfather, a good man, would be so proud if he still walked among us. More and more of the boys are coming home now. We thought we might include them all, but you would still ride right up front behind the Ste. Jeanne d’Arc Flames Marching Band. The Ford dealer is willing to lend us a Mustang convertible for your ride.” He paused a moment to really assess the man sitting across from him. “You look better than the last time I met with you, Blackie.”

Merlin nodded. He recalled when Burch came to the door of the townhouse to lay out the plans for the grand “welcome home to our hero” procession: two high school bands, the convertible, a troop of Boy Scouts carrying American flags, a flatbed Mardi Gras float transporting area beauty queens dressed in red, white, and blue who would toss mini-flags and beads in the same colors to the crowd.

He answered his doorbell in the clothes he’d slept in the night before with his breakfast beer and cold pizza in hand. Unshaven and rude, he’d made Burch, the committee chairman for the parade, stand on the steps to say his piece, then said, “Not interested,” and slammed the door in the man’s past presidential face.

“I feel better, but I still don’t want a parade. Thanks for the offer. The other guys might be interested so your plans would not be wasted. No, I came here out of concern for the recycling program.”

Wally’s bushy brows raised. “How so?”

“I believe Jane Marshall sent a lengthy letter to the editor explaining the issue and trying to rouse some support since she felt the newspaper had not covered the situation adequately.”

The editor immediately went on the defensive. “We have limited space and must pick and choose what to run. With the advertising revenue and even our stories lost to the internet, our paper is smaller than it once was.”

“But you do believe recycling is a worthy cause—because I understand your valued customer, Bernard Freeman, is about to change his mind and bring the issue to the council again. I spoke to him just this morning. Printing Jane’s letter would be a nice start for his campaign to save the program. Why, I’d like to take out an ad the same day it appears, say this coming Sunday, to run right under the letter. Maybe a full-color swamp scene with egrets, alligators, and such, along with the caption ‘Keep Ste. Jeanne Parish beautiful. Support Recycling.’ Half page, and I’d like the proof by Thursday.”

Wally Burch held up his hands. “Wait a second. Let me see if we ever got this letter you mentioned.” He buzzed a lesser editor. “Stan, did we get a letter from Jane Marshall about recycling?”