“Hey, Buddy, it's Joe T. Listen, we've hit some traffic but we'll be by your place in about fifteen minutes, tops. You'll be ready to roll, right? I'm in the mood for some serious partying.”
Buddy Dupere, on the other end of the phone, said, “Hey, yeah, Governor. You bet. Me, I'm ready now. I got on a green shirt and some khaki pants and—”
“Buddy, podnah, I know what you look like,” the governor said jovially. “Be waiting in the parking lot of your complex. I'm with Ray in the Town Car. We've got a cooler of cold Dixie stashed behind Ray's seat, and he's the designated driver. You and me can have us a beer or two and shoot the shit. We'll be feeling righteous by the time we get down to Chacahoula Parish.”
The Guv hung up and turned to address Ray in the driver's seat. “Listen, I'm serious about bein’ in a partyin’ mood. In fact, I think I'm in the mood for findin’ the Day's Lucky Winner.”
Joe T.'s driver and bodyguard looked at his boss in the rearview mirror. “Really, Guv?”
“Hell yes, why not?”
“Well, damn, that's great to hear. It's been a while, is all. But is your friend gonna be there?”
“Now, what friend would that be, Ray?”
“You know—Julie Galjour. You seemed pretty hot for her.”
When the Guv didn't immediately answer, Ray glanced in his rearview mirror again, wondering if he'd overstepped some boundary.
“Ah, hell, I dunno, Ray,” the Guv replied. “The girl seems to have gone missing on me. You know how it is with some women—easy come, easy go. I think she's a good person and, I have to admit, smart and damned attractive. But she's, well, kinda hard to predict. Squirrelly, if you know what I mean.”
“Ah, that kind of gal. I know the type, Guv. Yeah, well, too bad. Too bad for her, is what I mean.”
The Guv didn't respond to this, though he appreciated what 'ti-Ray was trying to do. And it was too bad. It was too bad that Julie Galjour continued to snub him for reasons he couldn't fathom. It was too bad he felt—what? Betrayed?
Well, maybe “stung” was a better word.
Stung so badly, in fact, that it had stung him back into reality. Finally!
To hell with her!
The Guv had decided that his first step toward resurrecting his old life— his fun, guilt-free, bon vivant life!—would be to call up Buddy Dupere to invite him on a weekend ramble. The event was called Lagniappe on the Bayou, a three-day fund-raiser held annually by Saint Gaspard Catholic Church on Upper Chacahoula Bayou.
Taking place on Saint Gaspard's rambling church and school grounds, Lagniappe was a fair that more starched-and-ironed parishes might both envy and deplore. You couldn't find punch or a Waldorf salad anywhere, but cold beer was sold at a reasonable markup and drunk in huge quantities, assuring Saint Gaspard's a hefty profit, given the profligate thirst for beer of the mostly Cajun Catholic attendees. Local antigambling laws were temporarily set aside so that rich and poor fairgoers alike, in the name of charity, could play slot machines and blackjack in a tent set up for those purposes. The fair took the house share, and the casino raised about $50,000.
Food stalls serving gumbos, étouffées, jambalayas, boudins, and shrimp boulettes turned the fair into a culinary wonderland. The stalls, too, did a huge business. Altogether, Lagniappe raked in about $200,000 a year in profit, allowing the church to renovate its school and fund scholarships for its poorer students. Beyond that, the Guv knew from experience that the fair was reliably attended by a surplus of bayou beauties, who came to promenade the fairways and dance the two-step on one of the several dance floors set up around the fairgrounds.
He also liked the fact that he was Lagniappe's most celebrated annual attendee. He came because he honestly loved everything about the fair—the food, the ambience, the music, the beer. But what he loved most was the guileless way he was reliably greeted here—like something between a rock star and the smart older brother who'd left the bayous and done extremely well in the wider world. The crowd would be ninety-five percent Cajun, and unless some dour member of the press shadowed him, asking annoying political questions, the Guv could put political concerns aside. The men just wanted to shake his hand, laugh at his jokes, buy him a beer, and light his cigar. The women—well, that was a more complicated matter. At the fair a couple of years ago, a Cajun farmer had basically offered to give Joe T. his nineteen-year-old daughter—and she was eager to go!
Thus, when Minna had reminded him that the fair was this weekend, the Guv had taken it as a sign. He'd found the perfect antidote to his glum feelings about the missing Julie Galjour.
Two hours out of Baton Rouge, the Guv and Buddy—with Ray ceremoniously holding open the door—emerged from the air-conditioned cool of the Town Car into the warming sun of a spectacularly blue-skied Indian-summer afternoon. Joe T. donned dark glasses and smoothed his salt-andpepper hair in the reflection of the car window. Loosening another button on his polo shirt, he strode crisply across a rutted parking lot covered in dusty oyster shells, Ray leading the way, Buddy having to walk in brisk steps to keep up. The sound of Cajun music drifted from a pavilion in the distance. The pungent aroma of boiled crawfish and shrimp pierced the air.
As he moved from the parking lot onto a grassy fairway, Joe T. found himself mobbed by well-wishers, with a sprawling crowd behind them. A few he recognized from previous visits. Father De La Breton, the Saint Gaspard Parish priest, pushed through the crowd and clasped the governor's hand with both of his. The old padre smelled faintly of bourbon, as usual, but the governor liked him. He was a Jesuit, among the smartest, best-educated men Joe T. had ever met (and, after a couple of highballs, a dependable repository of bawdy jokes).
“God bless you for coming, Governor. Our little fair wouldn't be the same without you.”
“Aw, Father, it's great to be here,” said the Guv, lapsing into the colloquial Cajun accent that he put on easily as a hat. “But it don't look so little this year. You got a great crowd here.”
“Well, you help bring them, Governor—you and, I suppose, the shrimp boulettes. They are extremely tasty this year.”
Hearing this, Buddy Dupere, having skipped lunch, asked the priest for directions to the shrimp boulette stand. Father De La Breton pointed, and Buddy trundled off, vowing to catch up with the Guv later.
Joe T. spied the copious frame of Go-Boy Geaux pushing slowly toward him through the crowd. He gave the priest a mischievous wink and pointed to the sheriff. “Here he comes, the best sheriff that money can buy.”
Though Go-Boy supporters unquestionably filled the throngs, there was a roar of laughter from the immediate crowd. The sheriff, stuck in a knot of spectators, smiled and waved, oblivious to the joke at his expense.
The governor, flanked by Ray and pressing on, found himself staring into the tiny, wrinkled face of a baby being thrust upon him by his mother. Ray started to gently intervene when the Guv held up his hand, signaling it was okay.
“Governor, 'member me from last year—Audrey Samanie? I made you a boudin sandwich at the boudin stand. This is my new one, baby Joe T.—number nine!” The plump Mrs. Samanie smiled proudly.
“Aw, Miz Samanie, I'm flattered you would name him after me. And what a fine-lookin’ boy he is.”
“It ain't no boy, Governor—it's a girl! I just wanted to name one of my kids after you. I spell it J-o-T-e-e. I hope that's awright?”
“Miz Samanie, I'm touched. Just be sure to get that baby registered as a Democrat as soon as possible, okay?”
He turned to survey the scene ahead—and found himself staring into the face of the most beautiful woman he had seen all day.
Maybe all week. Hell, maybe all year.
She extended her hand. He took it, felt a proffered slip of paper, and captured it in his palm.
“Grace Pitre,” the woman said softly. Her smile was dazzling.
Joe T., despite his assertions in the car, wasn't actually sure he was ready to anoint the Day's Lucky Winner. Still, he felt an old familiar uptick in his pulse at the woman's presence. Maybe this was fate. Maybe this woman had been sent to expunge his gloomy thoughts about Julie Galjour!
“We haven't met but we should,” the woman added. “I have something to show you.”
Before the pleasantly startled governor could say a word, she had slipped away into the crowd.
Joe T. had locked in on several things: her sparkling green eyes, her somewhat low-cut blouse, and the way she did incredible justice to the Levi's she was wearing. He deftly tucked the sheet of paper into his pants pocket.
He suddenly found himself being pounded on the back by the painfully effusive sheriff. It wasn't that he didn't like Go-Boy. He just found him tedious. Go-Boy was Buddy Dupere without Buddy's humility or everyman insights. He was also a singularly unattractive man—plump and pasty, with porcine eyes and bad skin. He slicked his hair back like some bad interpretation of a movie Dracula.
“Governor, podnah!” said the sheriff. “Comment ça va? I'm so glad you're here! Now the party can really begin! You had a good trip from Baton Rouge? Man oh man, it's good to see you!”
“Hello, Sheriff. Yes, we had a good trip, and we might have a better trip back if you can give me directions to that gambling joint you got hidden away out in the marsh off of Bayou Chacahoula Road.”
“Say what?” stammered the startled sheriff.
“Relax, Go-Boy, relax,” Joe T. replied. “I don't personally know anything about the place. But some of my undercover State Police agents say it's real nice.”
The sheriff turned crimson. “Your what? Undercover who?”
The Guv slapped Go-Boy on the back. “Listen, I'm jokin’. As far as I know there are no undercover agents in that gambling joint because, well, such a place couldn't possibly exist under the present law.”
The sheriff, regaining his composure, said, “Whew, Joe, you really had me goin’ there for a minute. Man oh man. Listen, enough of this b.s.—you wanna beer? I'm buyin’.”
“Why, that's mighty generous of you, Sheriff. Sure, lead the way.”
Actually, what the governor really wanted was to read the contents of the note passed to him by the lovely but fleeting Grace, whose last name had already escaped him. As they approached the beer stand, the governor spied a row of appropriately placed portable toilets.
“Go-Boy, order me a Dixie. I gotta go make an executive decision,” said the governor, nodding in the direction of the johns.
The sheriff laughed and Joe T. turned to Ray. “Keep the sheriff company, and make sure he stays out of trouble.”
Locked safely inside the Porta Potti, Joe T. suddenly remembered how vile portable toilets could be. He fished the note from his pocket and read it quickly. It said: “The green tent at the end of the fairway behind the white power generator. Come (alone) as soon as you can—you won't be sorry.” It was unsigned. The handwriting, he noted, before tossing the note into the unspeakable filth of the Porta Potti, was beautiful.
The Guv bolted out of the door into the fresh air. He mopped beads of sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, took an exaggerated breath in, and spied the knot of people surrounding Go-Boy Geaux. He realized how much he actually wanted a cold beer, though he and Buddy had drunk two apiece on the way down.
An hour later, the governor—after polishing off his second beer and nibbling with relish at various Cajun treats—was in the process of making Lagniappe on the Bayou history. The fair sponsored a crafts auction that the Guv never missed. An aide with an art-history degree and a deep love of American folk art had tipped him off that quilts made by Yulone Champagne, an aging local widow, were of museum quality. Joe T., feeling more expansive than usual, had bid one of the quilts up to a staggering ten thousand dollars before buying it.
The cheers from the crowd of a couple of thousand, gathered under and near the auction canopy, were stupendous. But the governor wasn't finished. When the auctioneer brought out the second quilt, Joe T. raised his hand again. “I bid one thousand—in the name of Sheriff Go-Boy Geaux!”
Wild cheering.
“I raise it to fifteen hundred—for Black Bayou mayor Johnny LeCompte.”
More wild cheering.
“And now, I bid two thousand—for Representative Mamou LeBlanc, who's come all the way from my neck of the bayou in Ville Pierre!”
Even wilder cheering.
The Guv pointed to Representative LeBlanc, who had no choice but to smile and wave to the crowd.
“And if these cheap bastards don't get the biddin’ up to five thousand dollars, y'all have my permission to run 'em out of office!” the governor said.
“Thank y'all very much. Merci beaucoup, et laissez les bons temps rouler! I'll be back!”
As he bounded off the makeshift stage, stranding his flabbergasted political cronies in a sea of expensive expectations, the governor realized he'd just given an astonishing performance. It would be remembered for years. And it was a brilliant way to temporarily get rid of Sheriff Geaux and the gaggle of other tailgaters.
The governor, after all, had a rendezvous to keep.
Of course, he wasn't sure how far he would take this. But he was curious about what this extraordinary woman had in mind.
'ti-Ray caught up with him, and the Guv whispered in his ear, “Walk fast, Ray, like we're goin’ to an important meeting. We got a constituent to meet.”
Ray grinned. “The one who slipped you the note?”
The governor laughed. “Very good, Ray. You don't miss a thing, podnah.”
Fifty yards beyond the auction stage, the governor spied what he took to be the power generator. He and Ray walked around behind it and, about twenty-five yards away, encountered a large green canvas tent. The governor glanced around and, seeing no one, told Ray, “Wait here. And get rid of anybody who comes around. Tell 'em it's official and extremely private state business.”
Ray grinned. “Gotcha, Guv.”
Joe T. pulled back a flap and entered the tent. It was warm and stuffy, smelling faintly of mildew, and empty, save for a portable camp stool on which sat the lovely Grace.
She rose, smiling, as the governor entered. “I'm glad you could come, Governor Evangeline. I thought for a while I was being stood up.”
“Now, Grace—that is right, isn't it?—only a moron would stand up a beautiful young woman like yourself.”
“Yes, my name is Grace—Grace Pitre. And what a sweet thing for you to say, Governor.”
“It's absolutely true. Now, what can I do for you?”
“Oh, a great deal,” said Grace. “I'd like to take you somewhere—I have something to show you.”
The Guv noticed that Grace had a beautiful, lilting, playful voice with just a trace of a pleasing Cajun accent. He also noticed that she seemed a little, well, nervous.
Was she uncertain that the Guv would be charmed?
A woman who showed a little deference—even reverence—for his position might be a refreshing change of pace.
His grin was almost involuntarily. “Grace, this is perhaps the most interesting offer I've had all day. Well, maybe all year. And where would this place be?”
“Oh, nearby. But it would just have to be me and you—not your bodyguard. I heard you talking outside the tent. It would be, well, awkward, Governor, if he were there.” Grace smiled sheepishly and added, “To say the least.”
“Ah, Grace, believe me, Ray is a pillar of discretion, as befits his job. But I take your point. I'd like to just give him a heads-up. How long do you think we'll be gone?”
“Why, Governor, I have no idea. I know you're a busy man, but some things shouldn't be rushed, don't you agree?”
“I couldn't agree more,” the Guv replied.
Something vague flickered in the far back of his mind—some caution light. But the Guv dismissed it. Hey, go with the flow, Joe!
“Give me a moment, Grace, to have a word with my man.”
“Of course.”
Joe T. exited the tent and found Ray leaning up against the fender of a nearby parked car. “Uh, Ray, I'm going to take a little walk with my new friend. Give me thirty minutes, an hour max. If anyone comes looking for me, well, you know what to say.”
“No prob, Guv. I'll be right here. Yell if you need anything.”
Joe T. smiled. “I may be yellin’, Ray, but not because I need anything from you.”
Ray laughed uproariously and the Guv motioned for him to quiet down. He didn't want Grace to hear any boy talk that would put her off.
“Awright,” Ray whispered to the Guv. “Joe T. Evangeline is back!”