Unlike most of the movers and shakers of Black Bayou, Tom Huff generally avoided the Alibi. First of all, he knew it was Juke's second home, and the less contact he had with his hatchetman outside of work, the better. Second, he suspected—based on the time or two he'd actually been there—that the proprietor, Laurent Prosperie, poured watered-down shots of whisky, a cardinal sin in Huff 's book. Third, it was generally known that the saloon was often infested late at night with whores. Though Huff for reasons of self-image didn't indulge in such things, their presence would have the unfortunate effect of reminding him of his nonexistent sex life.
Huff had long been unhappily married to a short, dour, overweight woman named Gertie, who was, neutral parties might agree, as pugnacious as Huff himself. He could honestly no longer recall precisely what had attracted him to Gertie, since she had never been exactly a looker, could never be characterized as cheerful or witty, and seemed always inclined to nag and browbeat Huff, starting when they were newlyweds. He would admit, after a rare thid whisky, that his workaholism was inextricably linked to his disdain for Gertie (and perhaps her disdain for him).
So, Huff had taken to going to the establishment where he now was—the Oaks.
The Oaks was a pleasant, airy place with a façade of rough-hewn cypress and a green tin roof. It sat beneath massive live oaks on the bayouside of Black Bayou's western outskirt and had a nice little screened bayou-view bar set off to one side. The owner was one of those well-spoken, courteous (and thus, Huff believed, subservient) Cajuns who poured an honest drink and minded his own business. It served mainly Cajun food, which Huff detested, but damned if the chef, who had relatives in Texas, couldn't grill a decent steak.
So, Huff would come on the early side of the supper hour, when the place was blissfully uncrowded, sip good, unwatered whisky (occasionally choosing Johnnie Walker Black Label over his standard George Dickel), and eat his early supper—a rib eye, medium rare, with baked potato and sour cream, and a side salad with Thousand Island dressing.
This also made it the perfect place to transact certain business with his business soul brother, B.J. Duplessis; indeed, Duplessis had only minutes ago left, begging off supper after sipping two leisurely whiskys with Huff. This had somewhat agitated Tom, who had expected and wanted B.J.'s company over his meal because he was in a foul mood, owing to the galling incompetence of Juke Charpentier in the aggravating right-of-way matter, and needed a commiserator.
Well, to B.J.'s credit, he'd brought Huff the only bit of cheery news he'd gotten all day.
Oh, Big Tex was saving a big chunk of its antipollution budget, thanks to B.J.'s extremely proficient and clever handling of the project Huff had entrusted to him. B.J. had provided succulent details and even thought two or three moves ahead by refining the concept of plausible deniability. B.J. had even used that damned term, though he'd said it in his Cajun accent.
Man, the guy was something else.
Anyway, it was a brilliant suggestion—that Huff take some pittance of his antipollution budget and spend it through proper channels so that anybody nosing into the matter would see immediately that Big Tex took its antipollution obligations seriously. There was an EPA-certified toxic-waste dump up-country about a hundred miles away. Why not take, say, ten percent of your sludge and dispose of it that way? How could anyone then accuse Big Tex of knowingly poisoning the marsh when it could show proof that it was disposing of its toxic waste in the required manner?
Damn, B.J. was good!
Though Huff usually stopped at two pre-dinner whiskys, Duplessis's departure had left him in a mood for a third.
Spying a waiter, he held up his empty glass with his right hand. The man, who had waited on Huff many times, smiled in acknowledgment, though Huff never tipped—in his opinion, people who couldn't do better than lugging drinks and steaks to the table didn't deserve more than minimum wage. He was vaguely aware that he was overindulging, but, hey, now and then a man had to blow off steam. This business with that Justin Pitre guy had him perplexed.
A way had to be found to crush Pitre and get that right-of-way. Crush him!
A half hour later, Huff had gotten through his steak, potato, and salad, and most of his third whisky. He was of a mind to order dessert. Looking up for his waiter, he was startled instead to see a tall blond woman standing at the entryway to the patio.
Staring at him.
A handsome woman, Huff 's whisky-expansive brain instantly recorded. Damned handsome.
At first Huff thought perhaps the stares were for someone else, but he looked around and affirmed that he was the only person on the patio. Then the woman smiled and walked briskly over.
Huff found the physical virtues of the stranger impressive. She wasn't just tall but unquestionably buxom, and also reasonably broad at the hips, which didn't bother Huff in the least. Blond, careful observation might have revealed, was not her natural color, but her hairstyle, though not terribly modern, instantly and fondly reminded Huff of a honky-tonk angel he'd once line-danced with back in Amarillo in his single days. (He'd gotten lucky that night.) Dark red lipstick accented her full and luscious lips. Even before she reached the table, Huff picked out her perfume—White Shoulders.
This was the beauty's only regrettable feature, since Gertie Huff wore the same perfume.
Perhaps it was his mood, the third whisky, or the testosterone-driven rise of the gladiator in Huff as he pondered the coming battle with Justin Pitre; perhaps it was just Huff 's affinity for tall, big-boned, buxom blondes with big hair. At any rate, as she approached the table, Huff suddenly found himself conjuring up improbable thoughts of having his way with her.
“Mr. Huff ? Tom Huff ?” the woman said. She had a slightly nasal pitch to her voice, and her enthusiasm was unmistakable.
Huff looked up. “Yes ma'am?”
“Oh, it really is you!” the woman said.
“Oh, no, but I know you. I saw you in action at one of those Petroleum Club meetings.”
Huff 's brain made a quick radar sweep of his memory. He couldn't recall seeing anyone nearly as attractive as this woman at Petroleum Club meetings. The only females usually present at these things were the dour old black ladies who carted out the lunch.
“You've been to our meetings?” Huff ventured.
“Only one. ’Member you had one catered a few months back?”
“Hmm, yes, maybe I do recall that,” Huff replied, though in truth he recalled no such thing.
“You were having Cajun Day and we brought in the gumbo, the crab bisque, the potato salad, and jambalaya. It was my boyfriend's—uh, I mean, my ex-boyfriend's—catering company. I peeked out from the kitchen. And there you were!”
“Is that the meeting where I gave my little sermon?” Huff asked.
The woman nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, it was that meeting. Unfortunately I was too busy making sure the crab bisque was hot to catch everything you said. But my boyfriend—my ex-boyfriend—told me all about you. He said you were just about the most powerful man in all of Chacahoula Parish. When I heard the end of your speech, I knew he was right!”
Huff, in fact, thought he'd done a masterful job, sternly warning his Oil Patch brethren about the perils of government overregulation of the oil industry. In his unbiased view it had been a huge triumph, and he'd gotten a standing ovation (though—of course—he'd seen that asshole Randy Penwell slip from the room before he was done).
Huff looked the woman over and felt his admiration grow ever more profound. Warming to her flattery, he asked, “So, darlin’, what is it you do?”
For the first time, the beauty frowned. “Unfortunately,” she sighed, “nothing at the moment. That's why I'm here. To see Bill Toups, the owner, about a job. Waitressing, I guess, unless he needs a hostess.”
“Waitressin’?” Huff said, registering a tone bordering on astonishment. “Waitressin’?!”
The beauty arched her eyebrows, mildly startled by this outburst.
After an awkward moment, Huff realized the impact of his zealous statement. He reached over to give her a pat on the arm meant to reassure her that he wasn't some kind of crank. He'd merely given vent to righteous in dignation. Even thinking about losing someone of her obvious beauty and intelligence to such a mundane and put-upon occupation was beyond his imagining.
He tried again, this time at normal volume. “Darlin’, I know Bill Toups real well and I spend a lot of money here. I'm reasonably sure that if you want a job waitressin’, I can have a word with him and get you that job. But why on earth would you want to do that?”
Huff found himself rising, offering his hand, even taking off his cowboy hat, which he kept on most of the time as a manly sartorial preference. Doing so exposed his hairstyle, a combover, which he actually spent considerable time at the barbershop trying to perfect. Huff fussed with his appearance a great deal more than people might have guessed, since he saw good grooming as a way to compensate for his short stature. He wore immaculately tailored suits, and in his expensive cowboy boots fitted with lifts, Huff could claim to be five foot five on some days.
“Oh, I'm sorry—for being so rude,” he found himself saying. “Would you care to join me?”
The woman, recovering from Huff 's abrupt and unexpected concern for her career, smiled sweetly again. “Oh, Mr. Huff, are you sure I'm not disturbing you? All I really wanted to do was come over and say hi. Oh, and I guess I should introduce myself. I'm Daisy. Daisy Ledet.”
“Well, Daisy,” he said, “it's my pleasure. And disturbin’ me? Why no, you certainly aren't disturbin’ me. I was just finishin’ supper and thinkin’ about dessert. Care for some?”
When she hesitated, Huff pressed. “Please,” he said, pulling out the chair next to him. “Have a seat.”
“Oh, my goodness, Mr. Huff, how very nice of you.”
“Daisy, really,” Huff replied, “I may run the operations of the biggest company in this ole town, but I don't stand on formalities. Call me Tom.”
“Well, if you insist, Tom!”
She put her hand on Huff 's arm and giggled like a schoolgirl. “You know, I shouldn't but I will.”
Huff, momentarily flummoxed, said, “Will what?”
“Have dessert!” said Daisy.
An hour and a half later the patio had drawn a handful of other diners, but Huff didn't seem to notice. He hadn't touched his banana cream pie. Daisy had eaten two slices and was delicately nibbling on a third. She also had managed a glass of white wine and a Bud Light; Huff had settled on another whisky.
In this remarkable interlude he'd learned that Daisy had graduated in the top half of her high school class and the top ten percent of her beauty school class, and had ditched the moronic sandwich-maker because he lacked personality and wasn't an honorable fellow in his business dealings. She had since held an extremely important job handling appointments in Black Bayou's premier beauty salon until the ungrateful owner, extremely jealous of Daisy's smarts and good looks, had fired her on the utterly false pretense that Daisy spent her entire day chewing gum, polishing her nails, and reading trashy romance novels. She did chew gum, but only on break, and as for those novels, why, what was wrong with reading while a bunch of blue-haired biddies got chemicals dumped in their hair? It just demonstrated that she wasn't one of those women who sat around watching dumb soap operas all day!
Anyway, she and her ex used to come to the Oaks for supper, and Bill Toups, at least she believed, had taken a liking to her—an unwitting confession that raised in Huff a serious alarm. So she was here thinking Bill might give her a job.
Huff, upon this last pronouncement, waxed ever more expansive. “Daisy,” he said, “surely you know you can do better than carryin’ platters of steaks for Bill Toups. Now, don't get me wrong—Bill's a helluva nice fella. But Daisy, Daisy—you've got, uh, charisma.”
Daisy, in the middle of a bite of banana cream pie, stopped chewing. She looked mildly alarmed and said, “I have what?”
Huff reassured her. “It's just a fancy word that means you're somebody that everybody should take seriously.”
She pressed Huff 's arm again. “Do you think so? Earl, you know, never did.”
“Earl?”
“My ex.”
“Daisy, sweetheart, forget about Earl. He's the past. Girl, you've gotta look to the future.”
Daisy smiled. “Oh, Tom, you have such a way with words.”
Huff had to admit that he did.
Daisy took another forkful of pie into her mouth, chewed rapturously, then swallowed. “Well, tell me, please, what should I do? I could use some intelligent advice for a change.” She was leaning forward, squeezing his arm instead of merely pressing it.
Huff found himself staring away, so as to avoid the prospect that he might otherwise ogle her swelling breasts. Finally he spoke. “Well, Daisy, let me ask you a question. Do you type?”
“Some,” she said.
“Shorthand?”
“A teeny-tiny bit.”
“I'll bet you have great telephone skills.”
“Oh, Tom, yes, I do! I just love talking on the phone.”
“Then you're hired.”
“Hired?”
“You'll come and work for me. My current secretary is—now, how can I put this delicately, Daisy? Let's just say that my current secretary, while efficient, leaves much to be desired in the public relations end of our business. She's a little too, uh, serious, and, well, dull. And public relations are important. What I need is somebody like you, with great people skills. Someone with spark.”
Daisy looked at Huff admiringly. “Tom!” she said. “Do you mean it?”
Huff paused, letting his expansive nature show again. “Well, only if you can stand to work with somebody like me.” Looking around and seeing the rest of the diners preoccupied, he put his right hand on Daisy's left hand and stared intently into her big brown eyes.
“Oh, Mr. Huff!” she said. “Oh, Tom! Well, yes, of course, I'd be, uh—”
Daisy stopped, looked around, and, having made sure no one was staring at them, leaned toward Huff and whispered, “Do you want to get the bill and take a walk along the bayou?”
Huff was impressed; Daisy was a woman of passion but also of discretion and good sense.
“Daisy,” Huff replied, “what a great idea. As soon as I can get Bill Toups to give me a bill, let's go someplace private.”
Huff knew he was moving the ball forward, and he eagerly awaited Daisy's response.
She didn't let him down.
Leaning into him again, she said, “Oh, Tom. Yes, take me. Please, take me someplace private.”