Chapter Ten

Dean walked home from Mariah’s Place to let off some steam. He rarely got angry, not like this. Hot heads had no place on the football field. He passed one of the many convenience stores still open this late that sold beer, liquor, sunglasses and souvenirs to the tourists. Pausing, he turned back and entered the place with aisles so crowded with cheap junk only one person could pass at a time. He found the rack he’d noticed out of the corner of his eye. It held cheap scarves in many colors like the ones people liked to wave above their heads when second lining behind the brass bands that often marched through the Quarter.

Dean fingered one of brilliant red made of some synthetic material, not silk of course. He paid a few dollars cash for it and accepted his purchase lumped into a small plastic bag by a sleepy-eyed Indian cashier. Veering toward Stacy’s place, he arrived at the cul-de-sac shortly. Some drunk had puked beneath her pretty planters on the fire escape. The princess could never allow anything to be simply ugly and utilitarian but always had to dress it up. Gently, he tried her door. Good, locked tight. He debated whether to ring the buzzer. Second and third floor lights were still on, but he decided to wait until morning to present his idea. Right now, Stacy was probably still irate because he’d interfered with her life again. She’d be more receptive once she cooled overnight as he had done in walking it off.

Instead, he continued back to his place. Tom sat in the living room watching ESPN and indulging in a late night snack of recently delivered pepperoni and mushroom pizza that made their condo smell like an Italian restaurant. He glanced up as Dean entered. “Glad you’re home. After I dropped Stacy off, I debated whether I should swing by Mariah’s again and see if you needed any help with Prince.”

“Yep, I can see how concerned you were, but it didn’t kill your appetite any.” Dean eyed Tom’s lean build. “Where do you put it all?” He took a seat on the plush brown sofa, tossed the scarf aside, and helped himself after picking the mushrooms off a slice.

“Stacy seemed pretty shaken. I thought I’d stay close in case she needed someone to come over.”

“You did the right thing, bro. I can handle Prince all by my lonesome. I followed you out, but you’d vanished like a volunteer in a magician’s trick.” Dean folded his slice New York style and went to the fridge for a glass of milk. How many times had Mama Nell told them not to drink from the carton?

“I see you calmed down enough to go shopping,” Tom said with a nod to the bag. “A cab was at the curb when we came out. So what are you going to do about this Stacy-Prince thing? You know maybe if you told her how you feel, she’d dump him.”

“More likely she’d jump right into his arms to get away from me. I did come up with an idea in case she needs my help. I’ll tell her about it the morning. You go ahead to team meeting without me. That’s enough pizza for me. Clean this up before you go to bed. Miss Krayola is coming tomorrow.”

“We must be the only men in the world who worry about making work for their cleaning lady.”

“That’s how we were raised.” Dean took the bag containing the scarf into his bedroom and debated if he should wrap it as a gift. No, that would be overkill. Keep it casual. Don’t make the princess feel she is being smothered. The scent of Stacy emanating from the parrot shirt filled his nostrils as he got into bed, but he slept well all things considered.

****

Covered with only a towel from the waist down, Dean leaned close to the steamy bathroom mirror to complete his shave. He heard the bedroom door bump open. Usually, he’d cleared the place before Miss Krayola arrived. A hefty late middle-aged black woman hired by Mama Nell, she came a couple of times a week to dust, vacuum, scrub the bathrooms, and do laundry. He always added a Miss to her name out of deference for her age. As for the rest of her title, her own mama had just liked the sound of the name on a box of crayons but changed the C to a K to make it classier she’d told him.

Dressed in a maid’s white uniform and wearing thick-soled nurses’ shoes but ornamenting her head with a multicolored do-rag, Miss Krayola poked her head into his bathroom. “You still here, Mr. Dean? Well yes, you are, you certainly are.”

She looked him up and down in a highly interested way that Dean found shocking in a woman pushing sixty. “No tattoos, thank Gawd for that. Jus’ gettin’ your laundry together. I suspects this shirt goes in the wash.” She waved the parrot shirt and sniffed the air.

“Ah, no. Leave it where it was, please.”

“Sho’ will,” she said in a knowing way. “Not like you to leave anything on the bedpost though. Y’all are the tidiest young men I ever did see.”

“My mama wouldn’t have it any other way.” Dean wiped the remaining shaving cream off his face. “Would you mind giving me a little privacy? I’m running late.”

“Be a minute. Jus’ let me get the dirty towels, all but the one you gots on.” Grinning broadly, Krayola emptied the hamper, added the towels to the laundry basket she balanced on one hip, and left the room.

Dean grabbed some boxer briefs from his dresser and shoved his long legs into a pair of worn jeans. He threw on a black knit Sinners shirt with their logo on the pocket and put his feet into his running shoes. Seizing the bag with the scarf, he went into the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee and rummage in the refrigerator for something quick to eat, settling on two slices of cold pizza. Watching the front window as he picked off the mushrooms and wondering why Tom always ordered it that way, he soon sighted Stacy crossing Canal Street for the coffee shop where she stopped most mornings on her way to the World Trade Center.

“Now that ain’t no breakfast for a man. Let me scramble you some eggs and cook you up some grits,” Miss Krayola said as she emerged from the alcove that held the washer and dryer at the end of the kitchen. “You surely gonna need your strength today. I got this feelin’ I sometimes gets.”

“Uh, no thanks. I’m in a hurry.” Leaving a half-eaten slice behind, he grabbed the sack with the scarf, ran down the four flights, and called to the doorman to get his Mustang out of valet parking as he passed.

Rounding the corner, he nearly knocked Stacy and her cup of coffee to the ground. No Angel with her today. “Sorry, Stace. I needed to catch you. Here.” He held out the crumpled bag.

“A gift for me?” She drew the scarf partly out of the sack. “I think cheap red scarves are more Ilsa’s style.”

“Haven’t seen her since she moved out of your place so I wouldn’t know. Look, I have an idea. I know you don’t want me butting into your life, but I need to make sure you’re okay. See, you can put this scarf in your window if you need my help for anything. I can see your place from mine, and I’ll come right over in case a date is giving you a hard time and you can’t get to a phone. Or if we are at the same place and you want to get away from someone, just wave it around a little and I’ll get you get home safely.”

Her smooth white brow furrowed. “Have you been spying on me?”

“No! Hell, no. I mean your shades are always down. All I can see are lights going on and off. Please, would you do this for me, Princess?” When had calling her Princess changed from being an insult to a verbal caress he had no idea, and now he found himself begging her for a favor. He really was messed up. Dean waited for her to throw the small gift in his face.

“Actually, that’s very sweet.” She shoved the scarf into a large gray leather handbag worn crosswise over her chest on its long straps and rooted in its bottom. “Here, this is the spare key Ilsa was using. If you have to rescue me, you’ll need to get in. Thanks, you big lout. I need to get going.”

“Me, too. Have a good day, Stacy.” Dean watched her move away marveling at how sexy she could make a business suit appear. The nicely rounded bottom and long legs did it. Once he pried his mind off her body, it occurred to him that she’d said “you big lout” almost as an endearment. Smiling, he started back for the condo, and then the great start to the morning cracked open like a breaching levee.

The news and tobacco store next to the coffee shop displayed the latest tabloids in its window along with boxes of cigars. There he stood with Stacy in those last seconds of the dance at Paco’s when both of them still seemed to be under some sort of sexual spell. She stroked his rough cheeks, and he swayed against her backside with his eyes closed and his mouth partly open as if he’d orgasm at any moment, pretty close to the nasty truth. Later, he’d been thankful for the long hem of the parrot shirt.

He recalled lots of people taking pictures and thought nothing of it then. Fans photographed him all the time with or without permission. He’d been on the cover of Sports Illustrated twice, appeared in magazines like People and Us often with the starlets and models who wanted some publicity, but basically he’d led a blameless, boring life since coming to New Orleans. Everyone said so. Now the headline of this rag asked the question Kissing Cousins?

His body had blocked the view of the shop as he stood there talking to Stacy. What would she say when she found out? For that matter, what would his parents think?

Head in the game. Team meeting. Couldn’t be late. But he was by a good ten minutes.