Chapter Eight

Not a bad week, all things considered. Sure, it started out with that close encounter involving Angel Garcia and moved on to a light reprimand about hesitating on the first play and giving the football to the family. After that, hard practices because the always-important Falcons game lurked ahead on Sunday afternoon. That kept him tired enough to sleep well without any thoughts of Stacy.

Dean adjusted his striped silk tie in the mirror and asked Tom, who lounged nearby stabbing his finger at the screen of his cell phone, “You got the address? You know where Angel is taking Stacy tonight?”

“Paco’s. It’s a few blocks into the Treme. Xochi says they already left, and Stacy dressed really hot for the date. The good news, Angel doesn’t have a record.”

“He said he’d never been caught. He’s taking her back of town. That’s a-a…”

Ever the diplomat, Tom filled in the blank. “Was racially-mixed neighborhood the word you wanted?”

“Yes. I know nice people live there and some great musicians, but it can be dangerous. We need to get going before anything can happen to her.”

Tom looked him up and down. “You don’t want to shave first? That makes twice this week you’ve skipped.”

“What are you—my fashion consultant or gay like Uncle Brian?”

“Brian would probably do a better job on this, but tonight all you have is me, your very straight brother. I’d lose the jacket and tie and try to blend in a little better. How about that tropical shirt Adam Malala gave you? Take off the Rolex, too. No use tempting anyone.”

Dean ditched the watch on his dresser top and reluctantly found the short-sleeved shirt bearing a print of parrots and big leaves on a pale yellow background in the back of the closet. He shucked his blue sports coat, tie and dress shirt. Bare-chested, he held up the Samoan attire. “Loud parrots will help me blend in—right?”

“It depresses me that you make that shirt look so good. Put it on, but don’t tuck it in. I think the black pants are okay and the loafers since they don’t have tassels. I need to change, too. Only be a minute.”

Tom reappeared shortly wearing a short-sleeved Kelly green shirt that made him appear to be kin to a leprechaun. Dean wore the damned parrots and summoned the truck they’d shared when both became old enough to drive from valet parking. Since it was all about fitting in, he left behind the massive red SUV and the black Mustang GT convertible he’d craved since a movie star showed up at the ranch driving a red one when he’d been around seventeen. Signing bonuses were good for many things including getting the car you always wanted without the approval of parents who didn’t believe in spoiling their children.

Dean decided to drive and let Tom navigate with the GPS on his phone. They went south on Canal, rounded the casino, and crawled along in the traffic by the riverfront. Passing the French Market, they swung onto Esplanade with its restored nineteenth century Creole mansions and pleasantly green neutral ground. As they approached its border with the Treme, however, the houses grew smaller and shabbier. Closed shops with broken windows occupied the corners farther from the French Quarter.

“Turn right at the next street,” Tom said. “Go three blocks in, then another right turn. Paco’s is in the middle of the block.”

Dean completed these maneuvers overshooting Paco’s with its name in orange neon and a tilted margarita glass displayed on the sign. He wedged the truck into the first parking place they found, and they retraced their path back to the club. Like many nightspots, the two large front windows in its brick façade were blacked out making it impossible to see inside, but people standing on the curb could feel the beat of the fast-paced Latin music being played behind its walls.

Dean and Tom entered the shabby front door and stood just inside allowing their eyes to adjust to the dimness. Along one side, a bar with huge drums of icy margaritas, strawberry daiquiris, and pina coladas swirling in the wall offered these drinks in thick, oversized glasses along with a selection of Mexican beers. Dozens of piñatas hung from the low ceiling—traditional orbs, burros, pigs, cactus, even a ninja turtle, some with their sides bashed in, a true fire marshal’s nightmare of papier-mâché. A few of them grazed Dean’s head as he wove around the crowded tables and homed in on the music coming from a courtyard.

The band huddled under a shed-like structure toward the rear, protection for their marimbas and maracas if a sudden storm blew up in the moody New Orleans weather. The dance floor glowed with brilliant tiles of orange, green, and turquoise set between two wings, one with a takeout window dispensing tacos and nachos, and the other housing the restrooms. Colored light bulbs crisscrossed the open space and twined their way down two palm trees on either side of the band’s shelter.

In the midst of it all, Stacy, standing a head taller than most of the dancers, swung her hips to the rhythm of a samba. She wore hot pink, low-cut and ruffled around her cleavage dewy from her exertions. Her skirt, above her knees, wasn’t tight at all and moved gracefully with her motion. She held up her loose blonde hair with one hand as if to cool her long, white neck, and silvery bangle bracelets jangled down her pale arm.

Around her slithered Angel Garcia all dressed in tight, slinky black showing off his fancy footwork, the snake-like movements of his pelvis, some chest hair, and a few gold chains. When he noticed Dean, hard to miss in a shorter crowd, he slid behind Stacy, put his long fingers around her waist, ground against her backside, and whispered in her ear. Her blue eyes half-closed as if enchanted—or drugged—opened. She smiled dreamily Dean’s way. Good thing he’d gotten here in time before Angel dragged her off to some ratty motel and had his way with her. Angel kissed her nape.

Dean started onto the dance floor, but the music ceased and the couple headed back to a small table occupied by an abandoned frozen margarita turning from slush to liquid in the warm, humid night and a single empty beer bottle. Changing course, he grabbed an extra chair from another table and joined them without asking permission.

“Some place,” he said to Angel.

“One of my favorite spots for dancing with pretty women, and tonight I got a beautiful one.” He leered at Stacy’s breasts, not her face.

Stacy sat, crossed those long, long legs, and eyed his parrot shirt. “You get lost on your way to a luau or a fia-fia, Dean?”

In many ways he was glad of her sharp answer. She hadn’t driven too far down the road to destruction yet if she could still criticize his attire. “Maybe. Thought I’d join the fiesta for a while first. Xochi says the music is the best here.”

A chubby waitress with a very short black skirt and low-cut, ruffled white blouse sauntered over. “More drinks?”

“Tres cervezas con limas,” Dean said, hoping his slight grip on Spanish would prevent Stacy and Angel from holding a private conversation in that language.

“Which kind of beer?”

“Whatever he’s drinking. Stace, you want another margarita?”

“I haven’t finished this one.” She reached for her glass.

Dean’s hand shot out and got there first. He dumped the contents on the tiles. “You shouldn’t drink something left unattended. Get her a fresh one,” he ordered. “Hey, Tom, over here.”

In a population many shades of brown and black, his brother stood out like a tall, white candle with a blazing hot tip. Dean with his black hair, dark eyes, and olive skin blended in better despite the loud shirt. Tom hauled a spare chair with him. He drew the eyes of several women who stared as if they hadn’t seen anyone so pale and redheaded before in their lives, at least not in Paco’s, maybe at an Irish pub.

“I ordered a beer for you. We should have something to eat with all this alcohol. You mind standing in line for loaded nachos?”

“No problema.” Tom started for the takeout window, but the band struck up another throbbing tune, and he got caught in a tidal wave of dancers surging from their tables. In a second, a striking Latina girl took his hand and led him into the mass of swaying torsos. He bounced around like a bright red bobber on a fishing line with his impromptu partner.

“I guess we can wait for the nachos. Stacy, you want to dance?” Dean held out his hand.

“Don’t make a fool of yourself like Tom. Angel knows the steps for salsa and you don’t.”

“That remains to be seen.” He yanked her out of the chair with a sharp tug on her wrist that set those silver bracelets chiming.

At the edge of the floor, he twirled her three times around, then pressed her tight to his chest. With quick cross-steps, he got them to the center where, with more room, he spun her away the length of his arm and snapped her back again hard against his hips. For several long moments, they danced as if glued together at the pelvis, then another spin out, return, and a deep dip that had her blonde curls dusting the tiles. As she came up, she wrapped one long leg around his waist and he bent her in the other direction. Restoring Stacy to her feet, he took her hand and they did a few quick steps side by side. Dean passed in back of her and swayed against her with his hands on her waist much as Angel had done, but not grinding against her behind. She reached back and stroked his rough, unshaven cheeks. A twirl and she returned to his arms. He buried his face in the side of her neck and her slender, white fingers raked through his hair. The light scent of a floral perfume rose to his nostrils from her heated skin. He felt the quickness of her pulse against his lips and the surge of desire in his loins. The music stopped. They stood there, dazed with each other for a moment. Around them, the dance floor had cleared. People applauded. Camera phones appeared and flashed as brightly as lightning. A little thunderstruck himself, Dean led her through the crush of people toward the table.

When Stacy caught her breath, she asked, “Where did you learn to dance like that?”

“In Haiti. We didn’t only build houses for the poor. Nights we went out. The people we helped wanted us to have a good time, and dancing is free if you can get a little band together in one of the squares. They pass the hat for the musicians. You should come with me some time.”

“I-I’d like that. I think I’m a little dizzy. Maybe there was something in that drink.”

“Where did you get your moves?”

“From Professor Rivera. We went dancing sometimes.”

“Yeah, that guy. Let’s get you to the table, Princess.” With an arm around her waist, holding her close, he escorted her back to their seats. Dean waited for Stacy to call him a big lout for manhandling her. Nothing came out of those pretty hot pink lips but a slight sigh as she slid almost boneless into her seat and drank from the fresh margarita.

With his narrow black brows snapped together over those liquid dark eyes, Angel stood, grasped Stacy’s wrist, and pulled her upright. “Now you come dance like that with me, bitch. You’re my woman, not his, Princess An-as-ta-sia. Show me how you love me. Give me sugar.”

He moved in for a kiss, but she stepped back. “I feel wobbly. I need the ladies’ room.” Stacy fled for the rustic door marked chicas above a painting of a pretty senorita wearing a mantilla.

Dean’s large hand replaced hers on Angel’s wrist. He ground the delicate bones together until they almost touched. Pain flashed on the Latino’s face. “Don’t hurt me,” he pled in perfect whining English.

“When it comes to Stacy, never use the bitch word again. And only I get to call her Princess Anastasia. You got that? She’s not your woman either.”

“Okay, okay, she belong to you.” The Spanish accent popped back into Angel’s mouth like a tiny bit of chili pepper on the tongue. “I can’t get no part with a cast on my wrist. You let me go, por favor.”

Still, Dean couldn’t seem to release his grasp. He wanted to feel bones snapping beneath his fingers. Someone short and brown tugged on the sleeve of his hideous parrot shirt. “Hey, hey, you Dean Billodeaux, no?”

“I’ll give you an autograph after I finish making my point with this douche bag.” Dean kept his eyes on Angel’s as they filled with water and released a few tears.

“Please, you don’t hurt my cousin. He’s gay, man. He won’t do nothing to your girl. He just like to dance and play at being tough, you know?”

At the mention of the word “gay”, Dean opened his grip and let his hand fall. Being stocky and bearing a small mustache, the fellow in no way resembled Angel. But then, Dean didn’t look like Stacy. There were all kinds of cousins.

“This true?”

“Es verdad. Stacy, she’s helping me prepare for a role, that’s all. Honestly, I’d rather date you, big boy.” Angel rubbed his swelling wrist and produced his most winning white-toothed smile.

“You lying…” Dean gathered the lapels of Angel’s slick black shirt in one hand and drew back his fist. The cousin grappled with his arm. Some men, a few with bottles in their hands, drew closer, the beginnings of a bar fight.

Tom appeared burdened with two trays of loaded nachos. “I beat the line when everyone stood aside to watch you and Stace make a spectacle of yourselves. Why don’t we all sit and get something in our stomachs to go with the beer? Everybody down. Drinks for the house.” Tom handed their buxom waitress a credit card. The gathering crowd followed her bodacious behind to the bar.

Dean dropped his fist but held on to the shirt. “Angel claims he’s gay. I’m not so sure. You saw how he pawed Stacy, and you missed what he called her.”

“I’m an actor. I can play straight or gay,” Angel swore.

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking. I want my cousin treated with respect and taken safely home, you hear. After tonight, you never see her again.”

“My word on that.”

“Nacho?” Tom offered, chowing down on one himself. “Pretty good, spicy, extra jalapenos.”

“I couldn’t eat.” Angel fanned his face with a decidedly limp wrist.

“Well, I believe you’re gay, buddy. We have lots of gay friends, Uncle Brian, Aunt Jackie.”

“We have a few gay friends,” Dean corrected. “Let’s not lie about it.”

Tom offered Angel’s cousin a nacho. The man shook his head. He whispered something to Dean. Dean unbent and took a swig of his beer. “All right. I believe you aren’t lying about your sexual orientation. You treat Stacy like a lady, and we’re square.”

The topic of their conversation rejoined them at the table. She seemed better, more collected, pale, but then she usually was.

“We can take you home if you feel sick, Stacy, and save Angel the trouble. Damn, we brought the pickup. Tom, you’ll have to ride in the bed.”

“That’s illegal.”

“Break a rule for your cousin.”

“No, no, I’m fine. Dehydrated, I think.” She held up a bottle of water she’d stopped for on her way back. “Got it free. Someone is buying drinks for everyone.”

“That would be me,” Tom admitted. “Worth every penny for this evening’s entertainment.” A small brown hand reached over his shoulder and snatched a nacho from the tray. “Xochi! You here with your friends?”

“As I said, a good place for dancing. We were inside taking advantage of the free drinks. The place is packed, no seats anywhere this time of the night.” She took a sip from a pina colada and shook her black hair behind her shoulders.

“Those drinks are courtesy of me,” Tom admitted. “Tell your friends what a generous brother you have. I think I could get into salsa dancing.”

Dean stood. “You looked spastic out there. Take my chair, Xo. I need to get to a luau.”

“That explains the shirt, but why not stay and enjoy the night with us and Angel.”

“I think he might be leaving, too, since you can take Stacy home now.”

Angel jumped from his chair. “Yes, I’m leaving. Buenos noches, everyone.” He squirmed his way through the maze of crowded tables. His cousin followed closely.

Tom negotiated the bar tab so they could be on their way, but he glanced back regretfully at the table now festooned with Xochi’s girlfriends all dressed up and ready to dance. “Do we really have to leave? The night is young.”

“Yes, we do. We have a big game tomorrow. I have a lot to get out of my head.”

They walked into the night under the sign of the tilted margarita and reclaimed the pickup half a block down. “You drive.” Dean tossed the keys to Tom, took the shotgun seat, and stared into the night as if anticipating trouble on every street corner.

Tom kept his eyes on the road, but initiated an unwanted conversation. “How long have you had a thing for Stacy?”

“What thing? I don’t have a thing for the princess.”

“The two of you generated enough electricity on that dance floor to pay Paco’s light bill for a month.”

“It’s just a style of dancing. One you will never master.” He hoped a mild insult would shut up the one person in the world who knew him best.

“There was more to it than wanting to protect Stacy from the wrong kind of guy. I got a strong whiff of something back there, and it wasn’t the nachos. I think I scented jealousy up till the minute you believed Angel really was gay. What did his cousin say?”

“Not a cousin, a lover.”

“That explains why you backed off, but then you couldn’t wait to get out of there. I tell you, I convince you to wear that gross shirt as a joke, and you still come off as Mr. Macho, muy guapo. I think every woman in the place wanted you.”

“Not Stacy. She hates me, always has.”

Stopped at a red light, Tom shot him a glance. “You couldn’t see her face when you were twerking her bottom or when you had your head buried in her neck like a vampire starting to feed. Oh, Dean!” He ran his own fingers over his freckled cheeks and up into his mop of red hair making it stand on end.

“Angel twerked her. Not me. I only rubbed lightly, and even that almost did it for me.”

“When did this passion for Stacy start? Level with me.”

The light changed. Tom had to pay attention to traffic and that helped, not having his eyes staring at him. Dean wouldn’t have to see the shock.

“When I came home from my freshman year of college. I’m eighteen, she’s fifteen. I go away to training camp the summer before, play football for LSU, don’t get home very much. I take my semester and spring breaks in Cancun and on the Cajun Riviera in Florida. I return late that spring, and she’s not a kid with a flat chest, the legs of a colt, a baby doll face, and a smart mouth any more. She’s got all these curves on display when Dad opens the pool, and she’s wearing this bikini, not even a tiny one, but it might as well have been.”

“The twins were wearing them, too,” Tom said objectively.

“The twins look like Mom. Stacy doesn’t. There’s another thing. She never fawned on me, never expected me to be the best all the time. I liked sparring with her. Not physically. I never touched her except maybe to dunk her to the bottom of the pool—until tonight. Jesus, why do you think I volunteered to go to Haiti that summer? Sure, I wanted to help with Rex Worthy’s mission, but not for the purest of reasons. Lusting after a kid who is almost your sister is sick.”

“You handled it. If I didn’t notice, no one did. You know once a person is past twenty-one, three years is no big deal when it comes to age.” He stopped in front of their brownstone condo and gave the night valet the keys and a tip. The conversation continued as they crossed the lobby, but Dean passed the elevators and took the stairs.

“I need some hard exercise.” He started running. “Don’t encourage me when it comes to Stacy. I know what I feel isn’t right.”

“You should talk to Mom about this.”

“Mom must never know. You were still in high school with that jerk-wad, Kent Gonsoulin, the biggest braggart in the locker room. I couldn’t let him bag Stacy and tell everyone. Then she says I ruined her life, those big blue eyes filled with tears, lots of slamming doors. She didn’t talk to me in all the time before I left for Haiti, not a single insult.”

Tom shrugged as they rounded the second floor landing. “Girls, especially teen-aged girls, are like that, and our house was filled with them. So much emo. I’m sure she’s over it by now.”

“Not Stacy,” Dean said very definitely. “Then, the second I graduate from college and can’t watch out for her, she takes up with Rivera.”

“Better that than any of the guys on the Tigers’ team, I guess.”

“Oh, I warned them off the second she set foot on campus.”

“But you had no influence on a professor. Hmmm.”

They started the final climb to the fourth floor. “Big help Mom was then. Young women must make their own decisions regarding their sexuality when they are over eighteen, she says.”

“Pretty much what she said when you stopped coming home for most vacations. That really tore her up, but she told Dad you needed to establish your own identity away from the family.”

“Yeah, I’m still Joe Billodeaux 2.0, plays great but isn’t much fun. I guess that’s how Stacy feels considering the guys she’s been seeing lately. Mom is the best. I’m sorry I hurt her, but I couldn’t be around the princess.”

“Talk to her.”

“No way.”

They arrived at the small foyer fronting their condo. “You’re not in such bad shape for a kicker.” Dean punched in their access code.

“I’ll still need a shower.”

“Me, too—a cold one and good night’s sleep, that’s all I need.”

Inside, Tom veered toward to his own suite. “Night.”

Dean went to his room and peeled off the parrot shirt stuck to his chest with sweat. He gave it a good sniff to see if it needed to go into the wash and inhaled Stacy’s perfume. He’d held her so close, so very close, the way he’d always wanted. Dean hung it on the corner of his studded maroon leather headboard and made for the bathroom repeating, “Cold shower, cold shower, cold shower.”

That didn’t help. Nor did a glass of milk or reading the playbook. He slept very poorly that night.