The Red-Hot Cajun (16 page)

“Tante Lulu is embroidering pillow cases.”

“Shit!” He knew without asking what Luc was going to say next.

“The letters R and V enclosed in pretty little hearts.”

“It ain’t gonna happen.”

Luc just smiled. They all knew how persistent their aunt could be.

“She hasn’t had sex in two years,” he blurted out.
Holy hell, why would I reveal something so
private to my brother?

“Who? Tante Lulu? Man, I would have thought it was a lot longer than that.”

“Eeew! I do not want to picture Tante Lulu having sex, even with Richard Simmons.”

“Richard Simmons? The exercise nut?”

“Yep. She’s hoping someone will bring him to her eightieth birthday party. She thinks he’s really hot.”

Luc’s eyes went wide. Tante Lulu had a tendency to do that to people. “So, who was it then who hasn’t had sex in two years?”

He thought about declining to answer, but then decided,
What the hell!
“Val.”

Luc smiled even wider than before. “How do you know?”

“She told me, and if you repeat it to anyone, I swear I’ll cut off your tongue and feed it to Remy’s pet alligator.”

Luc pretended not to hear his warning. “Well, that cinches it then.”

“Cinches what?”

“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Val would not have told you that unless she wanted you to do something about it.”

“You think?”
I
swear, there must be a “dumb man” gene in my family.

“Absolutely. It’s sort of like throwing down the gauntlet... except that you, dumb schmuck, didn’t act on the challenge.”

“I did, sort of.”

Luc put his face in his hands and counted loudly to five. When he looked up, he said, “There is no such thing as ‘sort of sex’.”

“Yes, there definitely is, and, no, I am not going to explain.”

Luc shook his head and grinned at him. Then he changed the subject.
Thank God!
“Are you going back to work on your cabin after the weekend?”

“No. I might start working with Project 2050 as a field consultant. And I might finish up my doctoral thesis.”

“Well, son-of-a-gun! A doctor in the family!” Luc said, clapping him on the back with congratulations.

“When were you going to tell me about it?”

“When I got a chance to get a word in edgewise.” He grinned at his brother. “You were too busy spewing sex advice.”

“What brought on possibly working with Project 2050? I thought you’d given up on the bayou work.”

“Nah. I just got sick of the games they play in DC. I’ll die kicking and screaming in some polluted bayou stream, up to my eyeballs in oil slick, before I give up totally.”

“Just a different venue for fighting then?”

“You could say that. The next couple years are going to be critical. The bayou either sinks or survives depending on drastic measures taken now. Ten years from now will be too late.”

Luc put up his hands in surrender. “Hey, you’re preachin’ to the choir.”

“I know that. I’m like a windup toy. Get me started and I can’t stop.”

“Just be careful. There are a lot of special interests who are determined not to let you succeed. And they’re deadly serious.”

“Like our father?”

“Oh, yeah! Not that I think dear ol’ Dad would have the nerve to harm you himself, but he might have a leg or two of yours broken by one of his thugs.”

He shrugged.

“Can I assume Val isn’t going to be doing your TV documentary?”

“Hah! Val was never doing a bayou TV documentary, and it was never
my
idea to begin with.”

“At least she didn’t report J.B. and Maddie to the police or the feds.”

“I don’t know about that. I guess we would have heard something by now. But it could still happen.”
I wish she would decide one way or another, for sure. Then I could put some moves on her, and it
wouldn’t be interpreted as influencing the witness, or whatever they called it. I can’t hit on her now,
though. I just can’t. Even a telephone call would be out of line.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t called her.”

“Of course not.”

“You are so not my brother. Didn’t I teach you all the right moves? Jeesh! Why haven’t you called her?”

“Why should I call her?” That question sounded stupid even to his own ears. And he wasn’t about to get involved in a lengthy explanation of why Val needed to make a decision first.

Luc arched his eyebrows meaningfully.

“You’ve gotta be kidding. I should call Val to get laid? No dates. No courting. No mushy stuff. Get right to the main meal without all the appetizers.”

“Works for me,” Luc said, laughing.

“I can picture it now. ‘Hey, Val, I’m a little horny here. How ‘bout a nooner? Or better yet, an all-nighter?’ And her response would be, ‘Drop dead!’ Or ‘Drop dead, asshole!’“

“Tsk -tsk -tsk !
You are so crude. That’s not what I meant.”

“Liar!”

“I meant, why not call her and just ask what she’s planning to do about the so-called kidnapping?”

“No subtlety in that.”

“Well, Mr Subtle, it’s better than sitting on your hands, waiting for something to happen.”

One of his guitar players yelled into the room. “You about ready to go on, Rene?”

“In a sec,” he replied, picking up his
frottir,
a washboard-type musical instrument.

“It’s been nice chatting,” Luc said, teasing as usual. “I’ve got to get back to our table before Sylvie gets picked up by some cowboy. I’ll see you in a little while.” Luc was just about to leave when he stopped in the doorway. “I forgot. Sylvie said to tell you she might have a surprise for you tonight.”

He groaned. “Not another stripper riding up on a Harley with birthday cupcakes on her boobs. And I was actually expected to blow out her lighted candles. Talk about!”

“Remy and I did that, not Sylvie. Besides, your birthday isn’t for three more months.”

“Oh, God! Not another fix-up! I don’t think I could survive another of her matchmaking efforts. Please tell her that I can meet new women on my own. Honest, I’m not shy.”

Luc was practically rolling over with laughter, tears brimming his dark eyes. When he was finally able to talk, he said, “I can definitely say there are no new women on your horizon. None tossed your way by Sylvie, anyway.”

Once he left, Rene heard Sylvie come up to Luc out in the hall and say, “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

“Nope.”

Both of them laughed all the way down the hall.

All Rene could think was,
Uh-oh!

A walk on the wild side

Valerie walked tentatively up the wide wooden steps of Swampy’s Tavern. It was late, almost eleven o’clock; it had taken her this long to get up enough nerve to come.

Wild Cajun music blasted from the open doorway, a mixture of traditional French ballad and bouncy Zydeco coming from a jukebox or sound system. A few people— two girls and a guy—came out, laughing, and Val was relieved to see that her attire was okay. She’d found an old pair of jeans in her bedroom drawer, left over from high school days. They were tighter on her now but suitable for this atmosphere. On top, in deference to the continuing sweltering heat, she wore a sheer white formfitting blouse with embroidery over the breast area—long sleeved but low-cut, also a high school leftover. Back then, she’d thought she looked sexy in it; now, at thirty-five, she felt a little bit silly. On her feet were white sandals.

She eased her way into the crowded tavern and immediately was hit with a wave of even greater warmth. Despite the air-conditioning, there was just too much body heat to keep the room cool. No one seemed to mind, though. In fact, some people were dancing with abandon up front on the small dance floor.

Mostly a Cajun two-step with an occasional rebel yell thrown in.

Worming her way through the crowd to the bar, she watched a giant of a man, bald-headed with one hoop earring and a Popeye physique, handle drink orders like a real pro. Behind him was a sign that read, Beer: Helping White Boys Learn to Dance Since 1837. Another sign read: Beauty Is in the Eye of the Beer Holder. This was not a touristy New Orleans-type crowd who ordered Hurricanes and other exotic drinks.

This was a beer-and-shots clientele.

“What’ll it be, pretty lady?” he asked, when he finally worked his way down the bar to her.

She figured the “pretty lady” tag was routine for him. Still, it made her feel welcome. “A diet soda, please. Lots of ice.”

He raised his bushy eyebrows at her, eyeing her see-through blouse, probably thinking the outfit went more with hard liquor. But he quickly prepared her drink and slid it over to her.

“I thought The Swamp Rats were supposed to perform tonight.”

“They are. Any minute now. You lookin’ for anyone in particular?”

“Rene LeDeux,” she said, without thinking.

The bartender chuckled and said, “That figures.” Then, he added, “You sure you don’t want a set of oyster shooters?”

“No. Why?”

“That’s standard fare for the LeDeux women... before they bite the bullet.”

That made absolutely no sense to her. But it didn’t matter. She scanned the room and noticed the table near the front where Sylvie and Luc LeDeux were sitting. Also there was Remy LeDeux; she assumed that the woman sitting next to him was his wife, Rachel. She also noticed Charmaine LeDeux... well, Charmaine Lanier, now that she was back with her first husband, Raoul. Charmaine had big hair and a movie-star body; in fact, she had been Miss Louisiana at one time. But it was her husband who drew everyone’s attention. Raoul Lanier was a drop-dead gorgeous cowboy. Women passing by their table did double takes when they saw him, not that the other men at the table were too shabby. To his credit, he seemed to have eyes only for his wife.

The canned music stopped abruptly and a man—presumably the tavern owner—stepped out onto the small stage. “Ladies and gentleman, are you ready for
real
Cajun music?”

“Yeah!” everyone yelled.

“I can’t hear you,” the owner said, smiling widely.

“Yeah!” the crowd roared, accompanied by catcalls, whistles, and clapping.

“I give you The Swamp Rats.” The owner stepped back and the band ran onto the stage with as much joie de vivre as if they were playing to a sold-out crowd at the Meadows. Immediately, they began playing an old classic,
“Jole Blon.”
They sang it in a twangy Cajunized French, both poignant and melodic. Some members of the audience sang along with them.

And there stood Rene. After all her wicked thoughts about him the past few days, there he stood.

Grinning, singing, having a merry old good time. While she’d been miserable. The louse!

He wore faded, tight jeans, a black T-shirt with a leather vest, worn cowboy boots and the
frottir
over his shoulders. He was tall, at least six-foot-two, so there was a lot of lean body covered by those tight jeans. His black hair was longish, covering his neck. His dark eyes danced merrily as he sang and gave little waves to people he recognized on the dance floor or at the tables.

He was Cajun sex on the hoof. And he knew it.

“Aren’t they good?” a waitress asked next to her, as she waited for her order to be filled.

“Yes. Yes, they are,” Valerie replied honestly. Even though she’d grown up in Cajun country, she’d never been a real fan of the music, but she had to appreciate it here tonight, both for its quality and as a cultural treasure.

“They were offered a record deal a few years back, but they turned it down.”

“Really?” Valerie gave the chatty waitress her full attention now. Meanwhile the band segued into a rowdy version of “Diggy Liggy Lo.”

“Yep. These guys all have other jobs and they dint wanna give ‘em up.”

“Really?” Valerie repeated. She would hope so since they were all in their early to mid-thirties.

“Uh-huh. One’s a baby doctor over in Lafayette. ‘Nother is a biologist or sumpin’.” Valerie figured that one would be Rene. “One guy owns a car dealership. One’s a famous rodeo rider—well, famous ‘mongst rodeo folks. And the last one writes vampire novels, I think.” She tried to pick out who was who, which was impossible. If she hadn’t known better, she would have bet Rene was the rodeo rider when it was probably the short, half-bald guy playing the keyboard.

“Amazing!” Valerie said, not realizing she’d spoken aloud till the waitress responded, “That’s for sure,”

and left with her tray of drinks.

The band played two more songs. Valerie thought about making her way to Sylvie’s table, but it would be difficult, and she imagined making herself conspicuous in the process... something she did not want to do. She was out of place. Putting on a pair of jeans didn’t make her fit in. It was a bad idea coming here, she concluded finally. She should just go home.