The Red-Hot Cajun

  Both ladies shook hands with him, then pointed them toward a casual sitting area in front of a window overlooking the outskirts of Houma. Years ago they’d tried to expand to the lot next door but failed, thanks to the legal efforts of Lucien LeDeux, who had the rundown place declared a national monument or some such thing. That had pretty much clinched the Breaux/LeDeux family ill will.

  “What can we do for you?” Aunt Margo asked her.

  “You did initiate this meeting,” Aunt Madeline added.

  Both were cool but clearly interested.

  Val leaned forward and began. “You know that I’m working on a bayou documentary, possibly a series.”

  “We know,” they both said, frowning their disapproval.

  “After our meetings tomorrow in New York, we will have a better idea of what we can do, but I believe there is a business opportunity in this for your company.”

  “How so?” Aunt Margo asked. Both of them looked disbelieving, but still interested.

  Valerie motioned for Justin to proceed, and a very nice job he did, too, looking extremely sharp in a white golf shirt and khaki pants, even with the ponytail, which they would not like. “A playful thread through all our tapes would be the Juju plant and how it has been contributing to male virility in Cajuns for more than a century.”

  “Male virility? Cajun? I never heard of such a thing,” Aunt Madeline sputtered.

  “I never did, either, but apparently lots of Cajun women have been giving the Juju herb to their husbands and sons for years, just to rev up the old engines.” He waggled his eyebrows at them.

  They were not amused.

  “How did they give them the herb?” Aunt Margo wanted to know. “In what form?”

  “Lots of ways.” Val picked up the ball at the nod from Justin. “Sprinkled in sauces, in salads, but mostly...” She paused for a ta-da moment. “... in teas.”

  “Well I never!” the twins said as one.

  Then Aunt Margo narrowed her eyes at them. “Is there really such a plant?”

  “There is,” Val answered, “but truthfully no one has ever tested it. Maybe it’s just an old folktale.”

  “Why have you come to us?” Aunt Margo had her arms folded over her chest and was eyeing them suspiciously.

  “We’re afraid that if this documentary airs and people get wind of this special plant, they’ll be traipsing all over the swamplands searching for it, thus defeating the whole purpose of saving the environment,”

  Justin explained.

  “Why isn’t that swamp agitator with you?” Aunt Madeline asked Valerie.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t be pert, young lady. Rene LeDeux, that’s who.”

  “He’s down in the car,” Valerie replied truthfully.

  Both aunts smiled then, small smiles but smiles nonetheless. Aunt Margo observed, “Wise decision.”

  “You still haven’t explained where we come in,” Aunt Madeline reminded them.

  “If we get you started on a new tea line—Juju tea, to be specific—and we mention it on air, then people would order it from you, rather than running up and down the bayou.” Valerie looked at them closely when she finished, trying to read their reactions. She didn’t have to use her jury analyst skills at all. It was obvious they were interested.

  “It’s a deal,” Aunt Margo said and Aunt Madeline nodded her agreement. “Come talk to us when you get back from the city.”

  “In the meantime, we would appreciate your not discussing this proposition with anyone,” Justin urged.

  “That would be foolish of us, wouldn’t it?” Aunt Margo said disdainfully. “We are smart business people. Why would we want to breed our own competition?”

  “Riiiight!” Val and Justin concurred, not daring to look at each other for fear they would laugh.

  “It occurs to me,” Val said, “are you at all concerned that there is no scientific research backing up these claims?”

  “Hell, no,” Aunt Margo said. “Half of the claims on our teas have no scientific foundation. Good heavens, we’ve got cures for sleeplessness, upset stomach, diarrhea, weight loss, and so on.”

  “Besides,” Aunt Madeline added, “we could always ask Sylvie to help us with research. She’s a chemist. But that probably won’t be necessary.”

  “One last thing. Can I ask you both a personal question?”

  They arched their well-plucked eyebrows at her as if personal questions were in poor taste. Even so, she plowed ahead. “Have you kept in touch with your brother, my father, over the years?”

  Her question surprised them, she could tell.

  “Occasionally,” Aunt Margo said.

  “More often when he first left,” Aunt Madeline explained. “Not so much in recent years. He remarried, you know.”

  Valerie did know, but only because she’d overheard her mother one time when she was in high school.

  She hadn’t dared ask about it, though, because her father’s name was forbidden in the house.

  “Did he want me?” Valerie immediately wished she hadn’t asked such a pitiful question.

  “Of course he did. What a foolish question!” Aunt Margo looked uncomfortable discussing the subject in front of Justin.

  Still, Valerie persisted. “Did he fight for custody of me? More important, did he ever attempt to contact me over the years?”

  Her two aunts exchanged worried glances.

  “I think these questions should be addressed to your mother,” Aunt Madeline said in a voice that brooked no argument.

  Valerie smiled because, in essence, her aunt had answered her questions. Her mother had a lot to answer for. But not just yet.

  She and Justin said their good-byes, and once they were out in the hall, with the closed door behind them, they gave each other high fives.

  “At least two of the enemy are on our side,” she said.

  “We did well,” Justin agreed.

  When they exited the building, they saw Rene leaning back against the car talking to a pretty, young police officer. He wore jeans, a blue pinstriped oxford collar shirt, a navy blazer and low-heeled boots. Hot, hot, hot! The girl, in her early twenties, was giggling at something he said.

  “Grrrr,” Val growled in an exaggerated fashion.

  Justin laughed.

  “Maybe there’s such a thing as too much Juju,” she said.

  Rene looked up and noticed them. He winked at her, a wink she felt all the way to her toes, and some other significant places.

  “Then again, maybe not.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Taking a bite of the Big Apple

  They flew into JFK later that afternoon.

  Justin went off to stay with a friend in the Village, while Rene and Val took a taxi to her apartment.

  They would meet the next morning in Anderson’s office.

  Rene had been in the Big Apple on several occasions, but he felt particularly suffocated this time because he could see that Val wanted him to love her town as much as she did. Impossible! He was putting on a mask, pretending to be impressed, while all he thought was, I can’t breathe. The smell of auto exhausts, garbage, body odor, perfume, fried grease from restaurants, and pungent garlic from the cab driver—all combined to make his stomach roil.

  He glanced over at Val beside him, about to say, “How can you stand this?” He stopped himself at the expression on her face. She was smiling and gazing raptly at the passing scenery. This is home to her.

  How stupid of me not to realize that!

  He looked out his window of the cab, trying to see what she saw. What he saw were homeless people mixed with the crowds, the same sight that had greeted him each time he had visited Manhattan. Mon Dieu, there were homeless people in Louisiana, too, but they were so out in the open here, and people just walked by, not seeming to care.

  Then there was Val’s building, where they’d just arrived. A skyscraper, as far removed from his Cajun homeland as anything could be.

  She greeted the do
orman warmly. “Lewis, how are you? And your family?”

  “Just fine, just fine. Nice to have you back, Ms Breaux. I saved your mail for you.”

  They went up to the tenth floor on an elevator and soon entered her apartment. He could tell that she was proud of it, of the location overlooking Central Park and the fine furnishings. She kept glancing at him to see his reaction. Man oh man, it’s so freak in’ small. I better not turn too quick or I might k nock something over. Didn’t I leave this behind in Washington, D.C.? Living room, kitchen, bathroom, a closet-sized office, and one bedroom, all of which would have fit in his cabin. He guessed that every square inch of living space in Manhattan was comparable to a square yard in the bayou.

  “Very nice,” he said, looking at the red Oriental carpet and the furniture arranged around a low coffee table, sort of a settee on curved wooden legs and two wing-back chairs. There wasn’t one single place where a guy could stretch out and watch a ball game on TV... if there was a TV. “Where do you eat?”

  Her face flushed. “I don’t eat at home much. When I do, it’s standing up at the kitchen counter, or on the coffee table, or I pull out that gate leg table against the wall over there.”

  That’s just great. An apartment that probably costs an arm and a leg, and it doesn’t even have aplace to eat. “Oh. That’s nice.” That’s ridiculous.

  “What do you think of this?” she asked brightly, pointing to a chair that sat in one corner.

  It looked old. He didn’t want to offend her by saying it would be uncomfortable for a guy his size.

  “Great. Is it an antique?”

  “Yes. It’s a violet ebony piece made by a New Orleans furniture maker named Seignouret about the time of the Civil War. I inherited it from my great-grandmother.”

  What do I say to that? “Must be expensive. Betcha it would go for at least a thousand dollars.” What a stupid thing to say!

  “Hah! More like twenty.”

  “Twenty what?”

  “Thousand.”

  For chrissake, she has a chair that costs as much as my car. Talk about! “You’re kidding.” He immediately took his hand off its back, not wanting to get fingerprints on it or anything. Jeesh, he hoped he didn’t trip and knock it over.

  “Let’s freshen up and go out to eat,” she suggested. “We can walk to my favorite restaurant.”

  He used her tiny bathroom and came out wearing the same clothes he’d worn on the plane, except for exchanging his dress shirt for a white T-shirt under the jacket. She came out of her bedroom wearing a white dress that resembled a tank top with full skirt reaching to her calves. It was the fabric that about did him in. Sort of a T-shirt material that clung to her body like it was magnetized. If he didn’t already know the shape of her champagne breasts, he did now. And when she turned to grab a purse, he saw her heart-shaped ass clearly delineated. Maybe I could grow to like the city if this is how they dress here.

  She turned and said, “Why are you smiling? Is something wrong with my dress?”

  “No, baby. Something’s right with your dress.” He made sure she walked in front of him to the elevator.

  Her favorite restaurant turned out to be a Moroccan one. They sat on rugs on the floor before low tables. The menu included a bowl of soup that cost twenty dollars. A meal for the two of us will cost three hundred dollars, if we’re lucky. It wasn’t that Rene didn’t know about expensive restaurants, couldn’t afford to spend the money or didn’t appreciate fine food, but jeesamighty this was a ridiculous waste, in his opinion. Not that he was about to voice that opinion to Val, who was beaming with pleasure.

  They both ate the spiced lentil soup. I should tell Tante Lulu again that her gumbo would bring in a fortune here. Val ordered lamb shank tagine with apricot couscous—a fancy name for leg of lamb. He ordered simple beef kebobs, which pretty much amounted to beef and veggies on a stick, after declining the brains with sauce or calf foot entrees which were also on the menu. They sipped at an alcoholic drink that resembled curdled milk in funny cups.

  Actually Rene was not a picky eater and this food was delicious. A belly dancer moved about the rooms of the restaurant, scantily clad and undulating nicely to the beat of her tambourine and some Arab music in the background. The dancer had a very nice navel, he happened to notice, especially with that pigeon-egg-sized jewel in it; he thought about asking Val how the woman kept the stone there, if she used glue or what, but one look at Val’s frown, and he decided not to. The dancer took a particular liking to him, twirling her scarves around him and swaying her hips in front of his face. He pretended to be really interested just to be nice, and when the dancer moved on, he winked at Val and said, “Remember what Charmaine said about belly dancers and orgasms? Do you think I should ask this one if it’s true?”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “She has nothing on you.” He was still fixated on that clingy white dress of hers, which was sexier any day than a flimsy harem outfit.

  “Tsk -tsk -tsk ,” she said, but he could tell she was pleased.

  On the way home, they walked hand in hand. It was nice. He didn’t even mind the smell of garbage coming from some of the alleyways. When they passed a below-street level nightclub with big band-style music coming from its open door, he suggested they go in. Rene loved music of all kinds, except maybe rap, and he smiled with appreciation as they entered. They sat at a table near the small dance floor. He ordered a beer, she ordered white wine. At first they just watched the six-piece band with singer, and a half dozen couples, mostly older folks, on the dance floor move to the slow and swing tunes made popular in the 1940s:

  “Sentimental Journey.” “In the Mood.” “Chatanooga Choo-Choo.”

  “Wanna dance?” he asked, nudging her sandal with his boot.

  She smiled. “Sure.”

  For the next two hours they danced and danced. Slow dances to songs like “It Had to Be You” and “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore” and jitterbug-type dancing to songs like “Sixty Minute Man,” “Mack the Knife,” and “It Don’t Mean a Thing.” Rene was in his element on the dance floor, and Val followed well.

  People watched them move expertly to the beat and sometimes even clapped. He was hardly aware of all that, he was more interested in watching the movement of Val’s body in the white clingy dress.

  To him, dancing—specifically, dancing with Val— was foreplay at its best. They looked into each other’s eyes. They brushed body parts. They held each other close in a dance embrace. They moved in a sexual rhythm. Hell, he was a walking half-hard-on for a full two hours. If he were a betting man, he’d say Val was in a similar condition, whatever they called it for a woman.

  They walked back to her apartment with her tucked under his right arm and her left arm around his waist.

  “That was fun,” she said.

  “Ummmm,” he replied. “Have I told you how much I like your dress?”

  She laughed and he felt the movement against his chest. “Only about fifty times. You look pretty good yourself, Mr LeDeux.”

  “I know.”

  She swatted him playfully.

  He kissed the top of her head and squeezed her tighter.

  When they got back to her apartment, he took off his jacket and tossed it on a chair, not the antique one, God forbid. Following her toward the bedroom—he already had his T-shirt off and over his head—he asked, “Is that bed an antique?”

  “No. Why?” She turned halfway to look at him, which gave him a nice profile view of her breasts and butt in the fuck-me dress.

  “Because I plan on giving it a good pounding, and I don’t want to have to worry about the bill.” Before she had a chance to ask him what he meant, he picked her up by the waist and tossed her onto the bed.

  Then he crawled up and over her, cat-style. “Leave the dress on, baby. I’ve been fantasizing about this all night.”

  To his surprise, she replied, “Me, too.”

  They were a hit

  The meeting with Amos And
erson was going very well.

  Val looked around the conference room where they were showing their proposal on a flat-screen wall TV, with her and Justin providing the commentary and Rene answering questions about the bayou when they came up.

  She was so proud of them all. Rene and Justin looked so New York casual in their T-shirts, jeans and jackets over well-worn boots. She was wearing a beige silk suit with a brown tailored blouse and alligator high heels. They’d each taken turns presenting portions of the proposal—verbally, with poster boards and video—as they’d practiced. Rene’s passion for the bayou ecosystem brought tears to her eyes. Justin’s camera expertise showed through beautifully.

  She could tell that Mr Anderson was impressed, but did that translate into a go-ahead? He ordered them to hit pause at a point where she and Rene were smiling at each other while eating raw shrimp. “Do you see what I see here?”

  They all looked, but no one spoke.

  “You two,” he said, glancing pointedly at her and then Rene, “throw off more sparks than a Fourth of July sparkler.”

  “Mais, oui,” Rene responded, waggling his eyebrows at Val. “That is the truth.”

  “That’s what I keep telling them,” Justin said.

  Valerie folded her arms over her chest, waiting for Mr Anderson to make his point.

  “There are several important things to consider here. The bayou is and always has been a character in itself, whether it be as the backdrop to a movie or an investigative piece. I agree that the Juju plant stuff is a great hook, which might very well merit some network and national media attention. That old Cajun lady with the herbs is a pistol. But in the end, you two add the sizzle that would sell this piece.”

  Valerie crossed her fingers in her lap, hoping.

  “I have to talk with some of my associates, but I’m thinking you have enough material here for a six-segment program. Do you agree?”

  They nodded, all of them smiling.