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On Monday Landon Leblanc showed up at Jeff Sands’ office at 1340 Poydras. They had an appointment on Tuesday but Leblanc told him this could not wait. He had something hot off the stove and very damaging.
“Adelaide Blanchard is not who she says she is,” said Leblanc waving the index finger of his right hand in front of Sands like Mount Mutombo after a blocked shot.
“Landon, we’ve been through this before. There is nothing else to be done. Ms. Blanchard, in my opinion, has done a very good job. She exceeded my expectation. There is a lawfully executed contract,” Sands explained his position patiently. “How about let bygones be bygones?”
“How about let’s talk about facts. The fact is I found out there’s a Clause 42. The fact is that a catastrophic event triggers this clause and the terms default to the minimum position of a ten million dollars campaign,” said Leblanc rather hopefully.
“I know that and we both know there is no catastrophe whatsoever, and that’s that. I want to talk to you about a fundraiser for the bayou,” Sands tried to change the subject.
“In a minute. I have some dirt on Blanchard’s mother. Listen to this. Her mother is a witch. I’m talking about bona fide witchcraft in Metairie.”
“You have to be kidding! Even if it’s true I don’t see how it matters. Adelaide is a grown woman.”
“She has grown alright, a nice piece of ass. She has six sisters, or put it another way, the witch has seven daughters and you know what? They came from at least three different fathers, maybe four. It’s a catastrophe!”
“Maybe for them, but I don’t see how it affects the campaign. The girl turned out just fine. Addy must be doing something right to piss you off.”
“The mother has been to jail. More than once we found out. When this ends badly it’ll be on you.”
“What did she go to jail for?”
“Bad news. I’ll give you the sordid details. She told fortunes, with a crystal ball and stuff. The only problem was she fancied herself a real fortune teller. You see, fortune tellers mostly tell good fortunes. Then the dopes will come back often, 'cause who wants to hear bad fortune right? But this old gypsy called herself Lady Calamite and she told such distressing fortunes that people actually committed suicides! It’s amazing that they even believed it. To make a long story short, reports were made against her but the state really didn’t have a case except a clever prosecutor busted her for operating out of her house with no license. She did three years in a state prison for she had priors, drug charges from a long ago,” Leblanc told the story in feverish spurts.
“I still don’t see a connection,” said Sands courteously.
“How can you not, goddam, the point is Adelaide Blanchard learned her filthy fortune-telling from her gypsy mother. She tells people how things will work out peachy but it’s all bullshit I’m telling you,” said Leblanc and glared at Sands.
“I am sorry, Mr. Leblanc. I don’t think you’ve given me anything that I can act on. But you know what? Send me the proofs tomorrow and I promise I will look at this carefully again and reconsider what you told me,” Sands said politically and without commitment.
The folks at Nawlins Tourisme were in buoyant spirits that week, chief of all Addy Blanchard. Addy had put the bayou episode behind her. Her power of telepathy was by no means foolproof. It had picked up irrelevant things before, and coupled with normal human paranoia, she had in the past acted rather irrationally. For example, she had mistakenly thought her best friend in high school had a foot fetish when she only admired how Addy was not pressured like other girls into wearing ridiculously high and uncomfortable heels. Addy was shocked to discover her mother killing small animals as sacrifice to unknown deities when she was actually putting terminally ill and suffering animals out of their misery. Of course, there also was that incident of her blowing up at the end of an interview mistakenly thought that she was prejudiced against, only to end up with the job!
The list goes on, and Addy had decided to give Randall and Thibodeaux the benefit of the doubt. After all, if they really had evil designs on her, they could have prevented her from leaving. Randall even called her in the morning to see if she was safe at home. The first step she took toward reconciliation was to break the news to Ty Johnson about Tom Randall’s willingness to meet with Ty about his book. Ty was understandably fervid. An exclusive one-on-one with the capricious billionaire Tom Randall himself? Count me in, he had said. I’ll set it up, Addy said.
Certainly, she was not going to call him. She would wait for him to call her, or better yet, the next meeting to tell him. Would it be a romantic encounter? She would not mind it, she might even welcome it as long as it was not anything freaky like she sensed, correctly or incorrectly, at the bayou house. While she’s at it, she might also try to find out what really happened to Randall’s wife in Texas.
Randall called on Monday night when she was in bed with a biography of Shek-a-Tack. Shek-a-Tack was a bear that terrorized Indochina before he was captured and sold to a bear bile factory. Shek-a-Tack escaped within a year and killed three people in the factory including the cruel owner of the factory. It was a race against time to see who recaptured the wild bear first, the government forces who would kill it or the rescue workers who would bring Shek-a-Tack to a zoo, probably to one in the West. What’s so unique about this biography was that it was told in the perspective of the bear. The author had done a remarkable job with the bear-person narrative; Addy was totally engrossed when Randall called.
He asked her to accompany him to a party on Thursday night. She said yes. It was a private event at a nightclub in the Garden District for the celebration of Global Warming Day. At first, only the founding fathers and original contributory discoverers of global-warming effects celebrated this special blessed day. Soon everyone who was concerned about global warming joined the fray, and eventually those who were guilty of causing global warming but who were actively working to improve their essential but evil industries also joined the party. Therefore, in effect nowadays Global Warming Day embodies the embrace of world peace, where friends and enemies get together in spite of their differences and because of their willingness to work out their issues.
Addy was quite excited at the prospect of going. Even if she did not have a good time with Randall, she might very well pick up a few connections for a future ad campaign for or to debunk global warming. She was not an expert on the subject but that usually only let her come in with a fresh perspective and worked out in her favor. This was a statewide event. Only 300 of the most prominent Louisianans who believed in the cause would be invited to the party and they were each allowed only one guest. The criterion of prominence here was not the social status of the person, but his or her willingness to defray the cost of this swank nightclub party. Tom Randall was one of the “prominent” Louisianans, although, in this case, he would meet both the traditional and new definition of prominence.
She had had a few days to mull on it, and on Thursday morning she decided to take the next day off. The doors would open at 9pm and Randall was to be in front of her building at a quarter till 10. He did not offer dinner – probably had to work – so she would get something after work. The dress code was gender-free formal and ravishing, which means in a party of two either the man or the woman can be formal and the other one should be ravishing, and the same would apply to a party of two men or two women.
The driver dropped them off at the conservatory nightclub building. Addy wore a long formal dress while Randall looked ravishing in a bespoke polka dot suit and tie without a shirt. They planned it that way. Addy was hoping to avoid the kind of attention she may or may not have drawn from Thibodeaux at the bayou house.
The place was already crowded – not a good sign according to Addy’s conventional wisdom of inverse relationship between fun and punctuality. This wisdom of hers is not scientific, just a general observation that people who are punctual are less likely to let go, and thus not as fun, which really means not as likely to make a fool of themselves.
There was a round couch reserved for Randall that they had to share with four others, a young environmentalist couple and a flamboyant geyser who introduced his date as his favorite sugar baby. A waiter brought an outrageous tray of 100 vodka shots to their little table. A note stated: Complimentary to the most generous contributor.
A good number of people recognized Randall and stopped by. There was quite a bit of shoptalk. Randall was giving away the vodka shots left and right when Addy suddenly thought it would be fun to get hammered – she seemed to recall it was fun the last time she was silly drunk. In between half a dozen shots Addy struck up conversations with the neighbors. The young environmentalists believed globalization was the main cause of global warming. Imagine if Americans did not have to eat wagyu beef from Japan, Kimchi from Korea, and Mediterranean fish, there would be no emissions from long-distance transportation and refrigeration. Addy thought they had a point. She added that beer drinkers were guilty too. If all beer drinkers would switch to high alcohol content liquor, they would not have to drink as much and there would be a lot less emission.
The old man and his sugar baby turned out to be hilarious. It helped that Addy was drunk, but not that drunk she thought. Life must be fun for these two; they laughed about everything. Addy picked the old man’s brain and discovered that he was trying to get the stunning youthful woman drunk. What do you call a sugar baby, girlfriend or mistress? Addy wondered. Regardless, she decided to help. She kept toasting the girlfriend with vodka shots. Between the two of them, they emptied the tray.
Addy could only remember bits and pieces of the night after that. She remembered going back with Randall to his house a few streets away in the grand part of the Garden District. When she woke up the next day in Randall’s bed, it was noon and she was naked. The other side of the bed looked slept in but no Tom Randall, who left her a voicemail saying he had to go on an emergency trip for two days and she was welcome to stay at his home and he would be more than happy to see her there on Sunday. Addy felt dirty, nevertheless, she left in a huff without a shower.
For the following days, Addy ignored Randall’s calls and text messages. It was not easy as she almost returned his call a few times. And then disaster struck. The skies opened up over southern Louisiana. A mini biblical flood developed. New Orleans was spared but the areas to the west were devastated. Jeff Sands summoned Addy’s bosses to an emergency meeting at an attorney’s office with the campaign’s financial backers.
The only plan of action for Addy was to wait. She finished reading the biography of Shek-a-Tack in her office and chewed off one-and-a-half nails. She played it cool when her bosses Dude and Angie Weatherby came back from the meeting. They had a week to contest Clause 42 in the contract. Even if it was triggered it would not be a total loss to the company. The No-Fas campaign would still go forward but in a measured domestic launch rather than the original megabuck international campaign.
The news did not seem to devastate the Weatherby’s. While they were glad to salvage something, to Addy it was a total loss. However, all was not yet lost. Addy did not think twice when she made up her mind to play her last card – it was the ultimate card which all attractive women had, and which some held to the very end.
She did not even have to call Randall. She went through the text messages from him. Gosh, has it been this many? She liked the one that said he was craving to go with her on a conventional dinner and a show date. She hit reply and typed a single word “When” and hit send. He replied: Awesome! She spent the rest of the day working out the contingencies, what barebones would remain in the No-Fas campaign.
Leaving the office Addy was beginning to wonder the meaning of “Awesome!” when Randall whisked her into the back of his car. The driver sped away. He turned down North Carrollton and down Canal. It was a heart-pounding secret mission, complete with cloak and dagger. Randall warned Addy about a strict time schedule that must be followed. He pleaded with her to take the surprises to come with equanimity, at which she nodded her accent.
The getaway car pulled up in front of Saks. The agent emerged with his charge. He told her she had eight minutes to pick out a dress for the night’s assignation. She took all of three minutes to grab a Dior mini dress and another two for a pair of matching heels. Her handler bought three of each, her size plus one size up and one size down. They held hands and walked inconspicuously with their eyes on the floor out of the mall entrance of Saks into The Shops at Canal Place. The agent steered her to a salon and spa which they walked past and doubled back. They slipped into the entrance when he was confident that they were not followed. The attendants led the spy away and she disappeared from view. The agent pretended to read a magazine for a while before he too disappeared to the back.
When they came out two hours later they were unidentifiable, sporting new clothes, new shoes, new hair, new makeup, new smile. They left through a different entrance with waiting taxis at the curb. They took a taxi to a steakhouse on Fulton. They found a table against the wall next to the emergency exit. They surveyed the dining room and finally relaxed.
“This is so exciting, Tom,” Addy beamed.
“It may be. Let’s keep a level head. The mission has barely begun,” Randall said barely above a whisper.
“You’re killing me, Tom,” said Addy, matching his voice tone and level. “What is the rest of the mission? Am I allowed to know?”
“It is best if you don’t know, Sydney,” replied Randall.
“What?”
“Sydney is your codename. Please use Thomasson to address me.”
“Thomasson, I love you. Can we stop playing?”
“Sydney, I love you too. Please, this is serious.”
“Fine. I want to know about your wife in Texas.”
“I’m glad you asked. She was murdered. We had a meeting with another man that night. He disappeared and was never found. We had only just met him earlier.”
“I’m so sorry, Tom um, I meant Thomasson. I don’t know what to say.”
“I’m fine. I wasn’t for a long time. Moving out of state helped.”
“I’m glad. I hope this mission will help. Are we allowed to drink on the job?”
They shared a porterhouse steak for two and a bottle of wine. Time went quickly and they had to proceed to the next phase. Ready? asked the agent.
Yes, replied the spy. We’re going to walk over to the casino, he said. Am I still Sydney? she inquired. Yes, please stay on the dark side of the road. Okay, Thomasson, are you a swinger?
Not really, it turns me on to see my woman flirting with another man, drives me crazy.
We’ll see if I can help, I’m not wearing underwear, she said.
