A Week From Sunday (9 page)

“I don’t think we’re in any danger of running out,” Quinn fibbed slightly. As he spoke, he caught a whiff of the man’s odor, his unwashed smell harsh even by the standards of the working people of rural Louisiana. If you wanted to talk with Roy, upwind was the best place from which to do it. “I wasn’t too happy about the accident. Losing my booze was bad enough, but I’m mad as hell about my truck being messed up. Delmar thinks it’s fixable.” Quinn edged around Roy and slid an empty chair under a table.

“If it’s fixable, ol’ Delmar ain’t gonna have too much of a hard time with it, I reckon.” Roy cackled as he ran leathery fingers over his rough chin. “Ain’t a contraption made that he ain’t worked on one time or other. That boy could take a mule’s tail and make it into a hind leg if he set his mind to it, I done do swear!”

“You’re probably right. Maybe he should take a look at Gabe’s hand,” Quinn joked, glancing at his friend.

“That ain’t but nothin’ a little time’ll fix. He’s a young fella. He’ll heal right up, good as new,” Roy explained sagely. “If it happened to an old bird like me with one foot already in the grave, ya might be havin’ yourself a wake tonight.”

“Good thing you weren’t driving then,” Quinn said with a chuckle.

Suddenly, a look of seriousness overtook the old man. “If Gabe’s got hisself a busted wing, who’s gonna play the pian’r for the sing-along? Ya ain’t gonna put it off, is ya?”

Once again, Quinn’s thoughts were drawn to Adrianna. Looking up, his eyes found the Whipsaw’s piano, tucked into the far corner to one side of the bar. He’d purchased it from the church a couple of years earlier when they’d decided to buy a new one. It had its share of nicks and scrapes and was in dire need of a tuning, but it more than met their needs. When they needed it for entertainment, it was pushed out toward the center of the room; but for now it sat silent, its black and white keys covered. In a couple of days’ time, Adrianna would be perched on the tiny stool, plunking out a tune. She would look as out of place as a sunflower in a rose garden.

“I got it covered,” he answered.

“For heaven’s sake, I hope so,” Roy said with relief. “But if ya ain’t, I done played the pian’r at one of my cousin Huey’s fancy parties, I done do swear! Just let me know!” With a slap of his knee that sent his beer sloshing onto the floor, Roy roared with laughter and headed off in search of new drinking companions.

All along one wall of the tavern stood the long, dark mahogany wood bar that John Henry had purchased shortly after he’d opened the Whipsaw. While the tables and chairs looked worn, the bar itself stood out for its class and beauty. Nearly twenty-five feet long, with tall beveled columns that were matched by the work area behind it, the bar had been a source of great pride for John Henry. He’d spent so much time polishing the wood that it still glowed softly. A trio of mirrors backed the bar. The glass was clean and unblemished. Gabe stood behind the counter trying to clean a beer mug with one hand and was failing miserably as Quinn approached.

“You’ll have to practice,” Quinn joked.

“It’s a hell of a lot harder than it looks,” the Cajun growled.

“How does the hand feel?”

“Throbs a little bit, but it’s nothing a drink or two won’t take care of.” With a wink, he added, “But that doesn’t mean I won’t go and visit our beautiful doctor again.”

“What you need to do is go over there and tell the woman how you feel about her. She can fix your busted mitt, but she can’t read your mind.” The two men had had a long-standing discussion about Gabe’s romantic interest in Sarah Bordeaux. From the moment she’d come to town, he’d been smitten, even though she was happily married. He knew it was a hopeless love. His interest in her had never been brought out into the open for fear that she would reject him. He’d never let his feelings be known to anyone other than Quinn. Hardly a week went by without Quinn trying to prod him into action. So far, Gabe had resisted.

“The time will come,” Gabe said matter-of-factly.

“Don’t wait until you’re as old as Roy over there,” Quinn said with a thumb toward the old drunk. “Somehow I don’t think she’ll be very interested by then, especially if you smell as bad as he does.”

For the next hour, the two men worked together behind the bar, drawing mugs of beer and pouring drinks. The cash register bell rang loudly with every sale. Between customers, Gabe filled Quinn in on the Whipsaw’s inventory, particularly an accounting of the tavern’s liquor supply. It showed that they would have enough to last for at least five days, or until another purchasing run could be made.

“What about
la petite belle fille
?” Gabe asked, the French of his Cajun upbringing resurfacing. “How did it go introducing Adrianna into the household? Was Jesse up for it?”

“That went about as well as could be expected,” Quinn admitted.

“Well,
mon ami
. . .”

“Well what? Why don’t you come right out and ask?”

“I don’t have to. You know what I mean. Did Lola pitch a fit?”

“No, she was quite decent.”

“When you were around,” Gabe snorted.

“I think Annie will be able to hold her own with Lola.”

“Annie? I bet she likes that.”

“She wasn’t too happy about it, but I can’t get my tongue twisted around ‘Adrianna’ all the time. Besides, I think ‘Annie’ suits her.”

“Why don’t you give Lola a week off?” Gabe grinned mischievously.

“Why would I want to do that? She might quit. Then what would I do when Miss Moore leaves?”

“Don’t worry about Lola quitting,” Gabe hurried to say. “She’ll stay there hoping to get her hooks into you. She likes your nice house. It’s a palace compared to the one she grew up in.”

Quinn put his hand on Gabe’s shoulder. “Give this ol’ boy some credit for knowing the ways of women.”

“I don’t think you know them as well as you think you do. Lola is not going to give over to Adrianna easily. She’ll do her best to turn Jesse against her by making herself look good. She’ll find fault with Adrianna every chance she gets. Keep your eye on her. Adrianna may not have come up against such a cat as Lola.”

“Dr. Bordeaux wants Jesse to get outside more. He spends most of his time reading. I’m going to build a ramp out the back door so if Annie can persuade him to go out, she can take him out by herself. That is, if she can get him into the chair.”

“Readin’ isn’t all bad. He might get to be as smart as me.”

“Hell, that wouldn’t take much.”

“Watch your mouth,
mon ami.
Some dark night you might find yourself a meal for the gators.”

“It seems the last few years those damn gators are getting braver and braver. I saw one walking along Taylor Road the other day.”

“He wasn’t far from the bayou.” He chuckled.

Quinn had discussed Jesse’s depressed attitude about his injuries with Gabe. His friend always put the best face on everything and frequently stopped by to visit the boy, often bringing him books and magazines.

“Dr. Bordeaux says there’s a place up in Memphis that could possibly help Jesse adjust to being in the chair. I haven’t mentioned it to him because I want him to walk if at all possible, even if it’s on crutches. He’s got this idea in his head that he doesn’t want any of his school friends to see him in the chair.”

“With time . . . he’ll walk,” Gabe reassured him. With a sly look crossing his face, he added, “But enough about Jesse. I want to know all about the lovely young lady, and I want to know now.”

“Annie?” Quinn said defensively. “What about her?”

“Come now, my friend!” Gabe frowned as he put his hands on his hips. “Do you take me for a fool . . . and a stupid one at that? I saw the way you were lookin’ at her! A blind man could have seen that somethin’ was working in your mind!”

“You’re imagining things,” Quinn said as he hoped that his face wasn’t giving him away. The truth was that he had felt
something
. He just didn’t know what. Carrying on the lie, he said, “She’s going to come in here, play the piano, repay her debt to me, and be on her way. That’ll be that.”

“I hope that you’re only lyin’ to me,
mon ami,
and not to yourself.” The Cajun laughed. “And if you are on the up-and-up, maybe I’ll have to forget all about Dr. Bordeaux and try for somethin’ else.”

“She’s not your type.”

Gabe laughed again, his dark eyes sparkling. “I suppose she’s yours?”

“She’s not my type either. She’ll shake the dust from this town as soon as her car is ready to go.”

“Then it’s up to you to see that she stays awhile. If you can’t do it . . .” Gabe knew his friend was bothered by the turn of conversation, and he couldn’t resist goading him more.

“What the hell can I do? Break your other hand? At times I think it would be a pleasure.”

“Then you’d have to wash and dry
all
the glasses.” Gabe grinned and tucked the rag he was using under the counter.

Before Quinn could even open his mouth for further banter, a sight at the front door stopped him in his tracks. A young man wearing a very prim-looking shirt and tie had stepped inside, glanced around with an expression that could only be described as disdain, and, when locking eyes with Quinn, made a beeline for the bar.

“Aw, shit,” Quinn muttered.

Gabe, hearing Quinn’s curse, looked up and let loose with one of his own. “
Mon Dieu!
It was such a nice night!”

Walking toward them was Dewey Fuller, a man who had been Quinn’s enemy most of his life.

Chapter 8

D
EWEY
F
ULLER STOOD
on the other side of the long bar and stared at Quinn through narrowed eyes. He’d approached without a word, his hands gripping the rail. His boyish face was punctuated by a thin mouth turned down in a sneer. Quinn returned the silence. Even when a lumberjack at a far table let loose a belly-jiggling laugh that seemed to shake the room, neither man so much as blinked.

“Evenin’, Dewey,” Gabe said, attempting to break through the tension. When no response was forthcoming, he reached under the bar and grabbed a glass and a bottle half-full of whiskey. “I reckon you stopped by to have yourself a drink or two. Well then, one whiskey comin’ up.” The Cajun poured an inch of the dark liquor into the glass and slid it easily across the countertop to the other man.

“Obliged,” Dewey muttered before quickly downing the drink.

All the while, Quinn watched him closely. Dewey Fuller was a prim man whose dress and manners were a far cry from the norm in Lee’s Point. Always attired in a suit of the latest style, he had sandy-blond hair slicked back with a sweet-smelling pomade that made Quinn’s nose turn up in disgust. His skin was unblemished and smooth, the result of a life in which he’d never had to use his hands to provide for himself. The only mark of note was a thin scar that ran like a razor along the left side of his jaw. When he’d tipped his head back to drink the whiskey, it was as clear to see as the sun in the sky. No matter how hard he tried to avoid it, Quinn’s eyes were always drawn to the scar. What choice did he have but to look? After all, he’d been the one who had given it to him.

“We need to talk,” Dewey declared matter-of-factly as he slammed the empty glass down on the bar. Quinn was filled with a sudden anger at the realization that the man would never so much as offer to pay for the drink. He wasn’t surprised by the emotion; no Fuller had ever paid for what he could just take.

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” Quinn replied.

“I’m not here to listen to you, but you’re damn well going to listen to me.” Looking around the Whipsaw, his nose wrinkling at the sight, Dewey asked, “Do you have somewhere we can go to talk? This isn’t the kind of thing I want everyone to hear.”

“If you’ve got something to say, spit it out here,” Quinn declared defiantly as he crossed his arms over his broad chest and stood his ground. “Gabe’s the only one who’ll hear, and I don’t keep any secrets from him.”

“My father said it was for you and you alone.”

“I don’t give a shit what your father said!” Quinn barked as he pointed a finger sharply at the smaller man. His face reddened and his lips parted to form a snarl.

“Goddamnit, Quinn!” Dewey spat.

“Gentlemen! Try to keep your voices down,” Gabe interjected, moving to position himself between the two men. He’d seen enough of their arguing over the years to know that things would soon escalate out of control. If it was going to happen, it shouldn’t happen in the tavern.

“You don’t have to leave, Gabe,” Quinn started to say before Gabe waved him off.

“There ain’t no point in my bein’ a part of this business. What’s to be said is between the two of you,
c’est la vérité,
” the barman explained. With a deep chuckle, he added, “And with the two of you out of my hair I’ll be able to get some work done, at least as much as a one-armed barman can do!”

Quinn shrugged. “We’ll go to my office then.”

“Fine,” Dewey agreed.

Quinn walked out from behind the bar and headed for the door that led to his office. He nodded a greeting to a couple of regulars, hoping that he’d done enough to mask his anger. Never once did he look back to see if Dewey had followed him, knowing full well that he was there; the man was like a tick that wouldn’t let go.