Alligator Moon. Joanna Wayne
out a 70s rock song at a decibel level just below that of a freight train.
A typical Saturday evening at Suzette’s. Later the families would leave and the drinkers and partiers would take full charge, not staggering back to their homes until the wee hours of Sunday morning. John planned to be long gone by then.
He dropped into the rickety wooden chair across the table from his brother. A young waitress he’d never seen before appeared at his elbow.
“You want a beer?”
“I’ll take a Bud.”
“Draft?”
“In the bottle if you’ve got a real cold one.”
“Icy cold.”
“Bring me another while you’re at it,” Dennis said. “And keep ’em coming.”
“You looking to have a good time tonight?” she asked, staring at Dennis through long, dark lashes so thick they had no use for mascara.
“I might be,” Dennis said, giving her a once-over. “You looking to be invited to the party?”
She blushed, but smiled. “I’m just here to bring the beer.”
He and Dennis both watched her walk away, her white shorts hugging her firm little ass above great thighs.
“How would you like to have those legs wrapped around you tonight?” Dennis asked.
“Not enough to do jail time.”
“Those breasts look like they’ve been growing at least eighteen years to me. Besides, a sweet thing like that might inspire you to clean up a bit—at least use a razor once in a while. You’re starting to look like a mangy dog.”
John rubbed his chin and the spiky growth of half a week. “Hope you had a better reason for this visit than insulting me.”
“We’re brothers. We should see each other once in a while.”
“I’m easy to find.”
“When you’re not out in the Gulf. How’s the fishing business?”
“It’ll do. I’ve got a group of guys down from New York for a week starting Monday. Long as Delilah don’t come calling, we’ll be fine.”
“Supposed to be a bad year for hurricanes.”
“Don’t take but one to be bad if she hits you dead-on.”
“Yeah.”
The waitress returned with the beers. Dennis took a long, slow pull on his. “You ever miss your old life?”
“Mais non.” John drank his beer slowly, letting the cold liquid trickle down his throat. He wasn’t about to rehash the past or his mistakes. Old horror stories should not be washed up by cold beer.
“You could be rich by now,” Dennis said. “Driving a Porsche, picking up high-class babes.”
“High-class babes don’t screw any better than poor ones, sometimes not as well. Besides, one successful Robicheaux is more than Beau Pierre ever expected to see.”
Dennis cracked his knuckles, a nervous habit he’d picked up from their grandfather. “I’m thinking of leaving Beau Pierre.”
The statement was the night’s first surprise and the first clue as to what had really prompted Dennis’s call. “I thought you and Guilliot were close as two crabs in a pot.”
“Guilliot’s all right. I just think it’s time I move on. Beau Pierre’s starting to feel more and more like one of Puh-paw’s old muskrat traps.”
“You didn’t knock up some local jolie fille, huh?”
“Nothing like that.” He stretched his legs under the scarred old table. “It’s just time I move on. That’s all.”
“You didn’t feel that way last time we talked.”
“Things change.”
“They changed real fast. This doesn’t have anything to do with losing a patient on the operating table, does it?”
Dennis choked on the beer he’d just swallowed, coughed a few times into his sleeve, then slammed his almost empty bottle onto the table. “You talking about Ginny Lynn Flanders?”
“Who else?”
“That wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t nobody’s fault. She just had a bad heart condition that had never been diagnosed. Guilliot’s gonna win that lawsuit easy.”
“I just asked.”
“Well, I just answered.”
Not honestly, John figured, judging from Dennis’s reaction. But he sure as hell wasn’t in a position to tell anyone how to live his life. “When will you be making the move?”
“Soon, but keep it quiet. I haven’t told Dr. Guilliot yet, and I want him to hear it from me first.”
“Good idea. Have you told anyone else?”
“Nobody I can’t trust. You ought to think about a change, too, John. You can’t live in that old trapper’s shack and avoid life forever.”
“I’m not avoiding.” He chased the lie with a swig of beer. “Where are you planning to go?”
“I’m thinking about Los Angeles. I got a buddy out there I went to medical school with. He says the field’s wide open. Lots of job opportunities and enough sun-bronzed hotties to make me forget my Cajun bellos.”
“Might not be as good as it sounds. The rules are different once you leave the bayou country. No buddies watching your back when the gators come after you.”
“I don’t think they have a lot of gators in Los Angeles.”
“Oh, they got ’em all right. Only the gators out there wear high-priced suits and designer shoes from Italy.”
“Maybe I won’t go that far.”
But he was going. John could tell the decision had been made. He’d liked to have asked more questions, but that wasn’t the type of relationship they had. He didn’t answer questions so he forfeited the right to ask them. Still, he hated to see Dennis leave town, especially if he was being driven out.
And that was a possibility he wouldn’t put past Norman Guilliot. “It’s your call, Dennis. Just make sure you’re the one doing the calling.”
The waitress stopped by their table again. “You want another beer?”
John looked at her again, letting his gaze take it all in, from the dark, straight hair that curved around her face and fell down the back of her neck to the perky breasts and hips that flared from the narrow waist.
She was a looker, and the way she was batting those eyes at Dennis, seemed like she might have changed her mind about wanting to party.
“Make mine a whiskey,” John said. His little brother was leaving town. Reason enough to hit the hard stuff.
DENNIS KEPT both hands on the wheel as he slowed and maneuvered the sharp turn. He shouldn’t be driving at all after so many beers, but it wasn’t far to the old house he’d rented from Guilliot’s nephew. Another mile or so and he’d be home.
His mind wandered back in time. Shrimping out in the bays with Puh-paw. And on Saturday nights Muh-maw would make the big pot of gumbo. And the stories Puh-paw would tell about trapping and hunting back in the good old days before there was such a thing as licenses and limits. They’d been terrific grandparents.
John and Dennis had different mothers; it didn’t matter much since Muh-maw and Puh-paw had raised them both anyways.
Dennis didn’t remember his parents at all. He’d been only two when their father had gone to jail up in Jefferson