The Red-Hot Cajun (20 page)

The Big Apple didn’t seem so rosy

Valerie had been back in Manhattan for more than a day now, and nothing seemed the same.

Her small apartment with its tasteful furniture and lack of clutter seemed cold to her. The Bayou Black landscape painting on the wall that she’d inherited from a great-great-grandmother was a pale imitation of the real thing. The much-prized view of the Hudson River from her living room window was nothing compared to a bayou stream in the middle of nowhere.

She should have been preparing for her upcoming meeting with Elton and then Mr Goodman. Instead she continued to read the fascinating material she’d picked up in the Houma bookstore on the demise of the bayou. Especially Mr Tidwell’s book, which read like a nonfiction novel and gave a poignant but alarming view of what was happening to her very own homeland.

And wasn’t it surprising that she had suddenly developed an attachment to her native Southern Louisiana? Perhaps the love she’d had at one time for that primitive land, when her father used to take her on bayou expeditions, had lain dormant all this time. Perhaps she’d purposely tried to hate the very thing she loved... because he had left. Certainly something to think about.

Just before she was about to go out the door, the phone rang. Her heart skipped a beat. Could it be Rene?

No such luck.

“Hello, is this Val?” a thick Cajun female voice asked.

“Tante Lulu? Is something wrong? Oh my God! Did something happen to Rene?”
The idiot could
have staple-gunned his hand, or been attacked by an alligator, or been gunned down by some
fanatic oil company hired gun.

The old lady chuckled. “I knew you cared about the boy.” Thirty-five years old, and she still considered Rene a boy.

“Why did you call?”

“Oh, I was jist wonderin’ iffen ya had a chance to talk to Richard Simmons yet.”

Is she crazy?
“No, I haven’t, and I don’t expect to anytime soon. I’m off to a business meeting right now.”

Instead of arguing with her or apologizing for interrupting her busy day, Tante Lulu went off on a tangent. “Do ya s’pose ya could pick me up sumpin’ afore ya come back home to the bayou?”

“I’m not sure I’ll be coming back. Anytime soon,” she added to avoid her asking about that issue.

Not to worry. Tante Lulu skipped right over that important fact. “Charmaine bought me some panties at that Saxy Fifth Avenue store a few years back. They wuz really comfortable, dint ride up in the crack or nuthin’. Me, I cain’t find them anywheres ‘round here. White cotton. Sexy Lady label. Size two. And, by the by, Rene sure is missin’ you.”

How the old lady moved from one subject to another was unbelievable. Sort of a stream of consciousness-type of one-way conversation. But who cared about that?
Rene misses me.
She smiled widely.

“He started to go out on job interviews today. Wore a suit and everythin’. Even his red chili pepper tie.

Whooee, he looked handsome, that boy did. Probably be the last day he hasta wear a suit, or so he sez. He ain’t lookin’ fer suit jobs. You shoulda seen him, though. I’m almos’ done with yer bride quilt. You ended that two-year sex fast of yers yet? Prob’ly not, Rene doan have that look about him... ya know, the silly grin men wears when they’d had their way with a woman. When ya think you’ll be comin’ back? Best you get here fer my birthday party.”

Whoa, whoa, whoa!
‘Tante Lulu, there is not going to be a wedding. So, please, no bride quilt.”

“We could have my eightieth birthday celebration and yer wedding the same day. Save lots of money that way. Do ya think ya could be ready by September? I have Rene’s mama’s weddin’ gown, iffen yer interested. But, no, that would be bad luck seein’ as how she wed up with that rat Valcour in that dress.

Mighty purty, it was, though.”

Aaarrgh! It’s like talking to a wall.
“Tante Lulu, I have to go now.”

“Okey dokey. Should I give Rene yer love?”

“Don’t you dare.”
If I ever decide to give Rene my love, it’s going to be in person.

“Toodle-oo!”

As Valerie stared at the dead receiver in her hand, she thought,
Who in the world says “toodle-oo” today?
But then, a more important thought came to her.
Rene misses me.

It was in that pensive, but not unhappy, mood that she entered Elton Davis’s plush office an hour later.

The carpet was so thick her high heels sank into its depths. The walnut furniture was high-end and lavish.

An elaborate stereo system and a wet bar graced one wall. On another side was a spectacular view of Madison Avenue. Elton treated himself well.

“Val! It’s so good to see you,” Elton gushed, coming out from behind his gargantuan desk, which was better suited to the Jolly Green Giant than his at best five-foot-ten frame. His arms were spread in greeting.

Surely the jerk didn’t expect that she would allow him to hug her. No way! Val stretched out her right hand for a shake, which caused Elton to pause momentarily with surprise, then take her hand and pump it.

Even that brief skin contact felt smarmy.

“This is great, Val,” he said, indicating a chair for her while he scurried behind his desk, like the rat he was. “Ready to get back to work?”

Huh?
She deliberately widened her eyes and cocked her head to the side.

His face flushed with the realization that she wasn’t going to play nicey-nice with him.

“Let’s cut to the chase, Elton. What’s up?”

“I’m hurt by your attitude.” He flashed her a puppy dog expression of dismay that he foolishly thought would melt her heart. As if! He looked like Goofy with a cinder in his eye.

“Listen, Elton, I don’t have time for your games. You asked to see me? What’s the deal? Did someone call you on the carpet for firing me?”

“Now see, there’s the thing. I never really fired you. You misunderstood what I said and left before we had a chance to hash things out.”

“Bullshit! You can feed that line to whomever will listen, but I’m not buying it. Tell me what you want.”

She saw the anger that he hid under a controlled smile. “I have a new assignment for you. Wait till you hear about it. How about if we give you carte blanche and a prime-time slot to cover...” He paused in a ta-da fashion. “... your own trial.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You file kidnapping charges against those redneck weirdos who kidnapped you, and then you cover the trial. Isn’t that great?”

Even Elton managed to shock her this time. ‘That is just super. But have you considered the conflict of interest in my covering a case in which I am the plaintiff?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “We can get around that. I’ve already checked with legal.” He beamed his toothy smile at her, as if he’d just handed her the moon. “Of course, there would be a sizeable pay raise with the job.”

Unbelievable! He actually thought she would bend her standards for the sake of money and a promotion. And that word “redneck,” did he make that assumption because the people in question were from Louisiana or the bayou? And he’d referred to them as weirdos. Well, J.B. and Maddie
were
weirdos, but he didn’t know that. He was assuming that environmentalist equalled short of a brain fuse.

“I haven’t filed a complaint, Elton, and I probably won’t. Kidnapping charges are not going to be filed.

So, no trial.”

She waited for him to digest that information. And, frankly, she was angry now. The guy fired her and then tried to use her, all in one breath.

“Well, I’m sure we can find some other place for you at Trial TV.” The lack of enthusiasm in his voice resonated in the air between them.

Valerie stood then and said something she’d wanted to say for a long, long time. “Elton, you turd . . .”

she paused. ‘Take your job and shove it.”

As she walked proudly out the door and down the hallway, she felt surprisingly light and cheerful, as if a weight had been lifted from her back.

She had two hours to kill, then it was time for her to meet with Mr Goodman. He was in the same building but three floors up. She spent the interval taking a walk in Central Park. Then, cool, calm, and collected, she entered Mr Goodman’s domain exactly on time.

Unlike Elton’s office, which was embarrassingly opulent, Mr Goodman’s was almost austere. True, it was a corner office with a magnificent view, but the furniture was spare and almost Shaker-like in appearance. Standing, the sixtyish gentleman of the old school, with dark pin-striped suit and black wing-tip toes, gave her a warm smile. “Good afternoon, Ms Breaux. I’m so pleased to see you again. Come, sit over here.” He motioned toward a small sitting area with two upholstered chairs and a round glass coffee table.

After they were both seated and she’d declined his offer of coffee, he got right to the point. “I understand you declined Elton Davis’s offer.”

“I did.”

“Probably a wise decision.”

She arched her brows in question.

“He’s an ass.”

“Agreed.”

“Here’s the thing, trash TV is hot. Everything from Jerry Springer-style talk shows to reality shows that shock to x-rated sex on regular TV. It’s a fact of life we have to deal with right now.”

“Can’t we try to do better?”

“Of course we can, and we do. In fact, I believe you have added a touch of taste to our programming... even when it was a bit trashy.”

“Tasteful trash, huh?” She had to laugh, if that was what her life amounted to the last few years.

“I like the ring to that. Mind if I use it sometime?”

“Feel free,” she said, waving a hand magnanimously. Valerie was “reading” Mr Goodman as they talked, and she deemed him an honest man.

“As you know, Ms Breaux, Goodman Enterprises owns Trial TV. Also the Nature channel, the Home Design channel, Crime Solvers, and soon a new channel called Investigative Reports, or IRC. The latter will broadcast all kinds of things; we don’t even have guidelines at this point. Do you get my drift?”

“Loud and clear,” she replied with a smile. He must have heard the rumors that she was considering a bayou documentary. “Are you saying that, if I come up with a formal proposal for something called, let’s say, ‘Bayou Uncovered,’ you would be willing to consider it?”

“Absolutely. But keep one thing in mind, my dear. I’ve been in this business a long time. The public doesn’t want cut-and-dry propaganda, no matter how important. It has to affect them personally. And there has to be an angle to draw them in.”

“Like Elton’s shock ‘n’ rock brand of programming?”

“Not necessarily. Find a hook to draw people in to watch, then you can preach to them all you want.”

Hmmm. I wonder if. . . no, that would be too far-fetched
. . .
but, hell, it wouldn’t hurt to try.
“Did you know there is a bayou plant, the Juju plant, which is responsible for the renowned virility of Cajun men?

And if the pollution and coastal erosion continues at its present pace, the plant will be lost forever?”

“Bingo!” Mr Goodman said, with a laugh. “I don’t suppose you know some especially virile Cajun man who could be the narrator for this
potential
documentary.”

“Bingo!” Val said then. “The Juju Man.”

Suddenly her life looked a little brighter.

The only problem would be convincing a certain Cajun man to go public with his prowess.
Piece a
cake!

She could swear she heard laughing in her head.

When you’re hot, you’re hot

“No! Absolutely not!” Rene exclaimed into the telephone.

He couldn’t believe that Val actually believed he would allow himself to become the poster boy for Cajun virility.
As if I could! As if I would! Talk about! I would never willingly expose myself to the
ridicule I would get. I can just imagine what my brothers would do with that information.

“Can’t you trust me that it would be done tastefully?”

“No.”

“My boss, my former boss, said I bring taste to everything I do.”

“No.”

“You said you wanted me to come back.”

“I do, but not so I can take off my clothes and run buck naked through the swamps in front of some TV camera.”

“I never suggested any such thing.”

“Are you going to be in this thing, too? You know, wearing some fur thingee, probably muskrat skins, like a female Daniel Boone with cleavage.” He was laughing at the image and all the possibilities. Wasn’t there a cult that espoused fur sex? Fuzzies, or Furries, or some such thing. Lordy, Lordy! Fur sex with a woman who hadn’t had sex in two years. They would burn the lens off the TV camera.