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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
Lassez le Mal Temps Roulle
Chapter 2
Witch1
Beaulieu Residence
Chartres Street
There was a white van parked on the street outside Beaulieu's house when she found it, thanks to a cabbie who recognized the photo from the paper. There were shiny new magnetic signs on each side: "Centre Security Company". She appraised the house, tilting her dark sunglasses down to give it a better once over. It was a huge three story Greek-revival monster, all gingerbread and deep, heavily-shaded, wrought-iron railed porches, with giant Bouganvilleas, dripping fuchsia flowers, climbing up it's sides and Crepe Myrtles and Sweet Olives massed across it's lawns. She went right up to the front door and rang the bell.
A massive middle-aged woman in a crisp maid's uniform answered after a short pause. She looked Laura up and down once. "Yes?"
"I'm looking for a man named Jarod--" Laura began, thinking she was about to get into a long explanation, but instead the older woman took her by the arm and pulled her inside. "Y'all come in out of the sun. Jarod is just inside. You must be his lady friend, Laura." Surprised, Laura extended her hand to her. "My name is Celeste, child, y'all come into the kitchen. I just fixed Jarod some supper. You know, he was just telling me about you. My, you are one lucky lady-- what a fine young man you have, there! Why, child, you're as thin as he is--y'all need to eat something, you know? Never saw such skinny folks." Laura just shook her head in wonderment--somehow, in the course of only a few hours, Jarod had procured the van, ensconced himself in Beaulieu's house and made fast friends with the housekeeper. She found him seated at a big round oak table in the airy kitchen, chowing down on what was left of a piece of peach pie, with a cold glass of milk beside him. He was wearing a light tan uniform with "Centre Security" embroidered across the back of his shirt.
"Laura," he said with his mouth full, "try this pie! Amazing pie. Very good."
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"This is sort of exciting," Laura said. "You know, I've never been an actual part of one of these stings of your's . . . "
"Could you hand me those needle-nosed pliers?" Jarod asked, reaching behind himself as he crouched in the sweltering attic of the Beaulieu house. "You know," he said, "it's not exactly all fun and games . . . Rigging these cameras, for example," he began, "an old house like this, trying to fish wires up through these walls--"
"How did you know Celeste would be willing to help," she interrupted. "I mean, did you just come right out and ask her if she hated Donny's guts--"
"Of course not," he answered. "There should be a really, really long drill bit in that other box . . . right. But I started talking to her about the family, and she just began telling about what a slime she thinks Donny is. And one thing led to another. She really thought the world of Tug. Can't imagine it, myself, but he was always kind to her. She thinks Donny somehow had him killed, whatever the autopsy says. That's our next stop, by the way--I need to get in to see that autopsy report. And all this Voodoo stuff--how much do you know about that?"
"Enough," Laura answered. "First of all, it's a real religion to the people who believe in it, and they prefer it to be called 'Vodoun'-- 'Voodoo' is more or less a pejorative. It's fascinating--a true syncretic religion, blended from African and Catholic worship. A Vodoun serves the 'loa', the pantheon of gods, which is just incredibly complex--I mean, there's just a slew of 'em, Legba and Erzulie and--"
"Damn!" Jarod exclaimed. "What I need here is about five more fucking inches of wire . . . sorry, didn't mean to interrupt--what you were saying is very interesting . . . You mother-fucking son of a fucking bitch!"
"You OK?"
"Yeah, just dropped the pliers again. Down inside the ceiling, of course--what are the odds of that happening twice? I'll take anything you can find that looks like a pair of pliers, any size--that'll do, thanks! Do you think you know enough about Vodoun to impress Donny?"
"Well, from what Celeste says he's not a believer or anything, so I guess so. I mean, I could convince him I know more than he probably does--"
"Can you check if I'm plugged in?" he asked, "I seem to have lost my power here."
Laura backed up on her hands and knees and found the extension cord and followed it back to where it had come unplugged. She heard him loudly cursing as she did. "How's that?" she asked him, amused that even Jarod had to deal with life's irritations.
The reassuring whirl of a power drill came back out of the recesses of the attic.
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Maison Dupoy
"You never stop, do you?" she asked him. It was well after midnight but he was still obsessing--he was on line, searching the Internet for some arcane electronics parts he needed, working on yet another of Celeste's pies and occasionally popping Pez. She sat down on the loveseat in the hotel suite beside him and yawned.
He'd somehow pretended to work at the city morgue and boosted a copy of Tug Beaulieu's autopsy report--as far as anyone could tell until the toxicology stuff was done, it looked like he'd had a stroke. Meanwhile she'd gone shopping for him, picking up yet more surveillance equipment, and he'd set up a monitoring station in an apartment above the Beaulieu garage. Celeste had been more than helpful, giving him a good idea of Donny's schedule, letting him bug his room and phone--and sending him off with an entire fresh-baked pecan pie in a basket. Laura got exhausted just trying to keep up with him.
"Go to sleep," he told her. "Look at you--you're exhausted."
"And you," she asked, "you're like the freaking Ever Ready bunny, still going strong--oh, don't ask!" she insisted when he started to question her about the reference. "Believe me, it's not important. Hey--that's my laptop, isn't it? That screen looks different . . . ""
"Yeah--I got rid of all that Microsoft bullshit you had on here: Explorer and Exchange. I was getting so damned frustrated by the total inefficiency of it I wanted to throttle Bill Gates . . . You know, there are times I'm tempted to turn myself back in to the Centre just on the offside chance they have some nefarious plot going to assassinate the over-rated, smug son of a bitch. One of these days I'm going to resolve this--all this inefficiency and sloppy code, not to mention the spam all over the Net . . . I know exactly what I need but I can't find a source that will FedEx it to me. You'd think they'd be somebody out there . . . "
"And sleep, Jarod?"
"Actually, in a bit I'm going back to the morgue--I want to take a look at Tug Beaulieu's body. I don't buy the autopsy--they're hiding something. It's the most cursory post-mortem I've ever seen."
"You think Donny had him killed?"
Jarod looked off into the distance--she'd seen that look on his face before, that look of loathing and the smug assurance that soon someone would pay. "I've met Donny. I know what he is."
"Jarod, look--I know you're deep into this thing, but we really have to talk . . . "
"It's not a great time, Laura--"
"When will be? It's always something with you. It's just, now that you've told me what happened when you went back to the Centre--all that stuff with Kyle and Harriet Tashman--I just keep thinking . . . "
"What, Laura? I don't mean to be rude, but I do need to get to the morgue . . . "
"It's about Jenn, Jarod: You're right, we really, really need to find her."
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"What changed your mind, Laura? You've been saying I should just let it alone . . . "
"It's this bullshit with your family, Jarod, I mean: what's up with that? What the hell has the Centre been up to all these years? This isn't just a handful of stolen kids, Jarod."
"And you think the Centre will want Jenn because--" he paused, uncomfortable, "--because she may be pregnant."
"Because it's your baby if she is, Jarod! And because of my family, as well. I mean, I haven't been totally clear about that with you-- I'm no geneticist or anything, but what are the odds that going back twenty generations or more, all the Greggor children are girls? Slim to non-existent, right?"
"NO boys?" he asked, "Never?"
"Not in the genealogical list Margrit has. Never a mention of a Greggor boy. Clearly there WERE boys, but what happened to them?"
"And what would happen to Jenn's baby if it's a boy--evidently Margrit wouldn't want it. Perhaps she thinks the Centre would--my son. Do have any idea what that would do to me, if they did to my son what they did to me?" she heard the rage just building in his voice. "All that bullshit with you and Parker being locked up--she was testing me, figuring out how I work, and sending Jenn to me for--ah, for--"
"Stud service," she provided.
"Yeah. OK--after this Beaulieu thing is taken care of I'll find her. There's got to a paper trail, a money trail--there always is."
"You know, I don't mean to impugn your virility or anything, but Jenn may not even be pregnant. It's not like it always takes the first time . . . "
"Well, we sort of--I mean, it wasn't just once."
"Or even the second time . . . " She looked at him--he couldn't meet her gaze. "Geez, Jarod, what were the two of you doing, fucking like a couple of deranged Hobbits?"
"'Hobbits'?" he asked.
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She woke up to drizzle the next morning, and, as always, Jarod had already long since been up. Actually, she wasn't sure if he'd slept at all, but had long since stopped worrying about him or trying to keep up with him. He was assembling some sort of electronic gizmo, cursing softly to as not to wake her, clearly not happy, soldering some tiny parts together, running some sort of program on his lap top, drinking coffee, scurfing down yet another of Celeste's amazing pies, and flipping through TV channels all at the same time. As she watched he popped a Pez into his mouth.
"Could you possibly be doing more things at once?" she asked.
"Come sit on my lap and we'll find out," he answered.
She just shook her head in wonderment. "Keep your hands off me until I've had some coffee. What's that?" she asked, sitting down across from him.
"Well, if it works it's going to sure as hell wake Donny Beaulieu up-- the problem is I'm having to make do without a few components I just can't seem to find . . . "
"Welcome to reality. If my own experience is any guide, as soon as you longer need 'em you'll stumble across a whole boxful of the damned things. So, Donny's in for a big surprise, huh?"
"You betcha," he said. "He had Tug killed, Laura: there was a deep puncture wound at the base of his skull and the autopsy covered it up. He was ice picked. Donny paid someone to murder his uncle in prison, and then to hide the evidence. I think Donny's wake up call is long, long overdue. And I'm going to make sure it goes through this time."
He had that 'gotcha' look on his face, of course, which she knew all to well. And which still gave her the creeps.
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The Beaulieu Residence
Chartres Street
It was two o'clock in the morning and Laura dozed, curled up on a loveseat in the above-the-garage apartment. The windows were snugly covered, but Jarod still had only one dim light on next to his seat in front of a bank of flickering screens. He checked once more--all the cameras he'd installed were functioning, although the house--and therefore the screens--were dark. He got up and jostled Laura's shoulder lightly. "It's time," he said. "I hate to wake you but . . . "
"Are you kidding? I don't want to miss this," she answered, getting up and pulling a chair up beside his. Jarod reached out and tapped a few lines of code into the keyboard in front of him and the monitor in front of him came to life--it scrolled rapidly through a dozen or so lines of characters and then stabilized at the ready. He hit a few more keys and Laura heard a strange tapping sound, not very loud.
"From Donny's bedroom," Jarod explained, pointing to the screen for that room. It was still dark, but Laura heard the tapping become more insistent, and then be joined by another rhythm, and then another.
"What the fuck is that?" a voice said: Donny's, she presumed. "What fucking bullshit--" His words broke off in mid-sentence with the unmistakable shattering of glass. "Holy shit!" he exclaimed, and the screen was suddenly brightly lit: he'd turned on the beside light. Laura saw a slight man standing beside the rumpled bed amid a bizarre chaos--it looked like every object in the room was vibrating. Pictures were jumping back and forth against the walls, every object on every surface was dancing, and a tall crystal vase filled with fresh flowers toppled over the edge of a dresser, smashing on the floor. Donny stood rooted in place, clearly terrified, and the window right behind him just blew outward with a deafening explosion of glass shards. He fell right down on the floor, assuming an arms-over- head defensive position instinctively, as things broke and jiggled all around him.
Jarod reached out and quickly tapped in another combination of keystrokes and instantly the room returned to normal. All the movement and clattering stopped. They saw Donny slowly peek around one arm, and then heard Celeste's voice from outside the room: "Mr. Beaulieu! Are you alright, sir?"
It took a few minutes for Donny to respond. Cautiously he stood up and looked around at the destruction. "Crap!" he said.
"Mr. Beaulieu! I'll call the police--"
"No!" he shouted, tugging the door open. Another camera in the hallwall showed them Celeste's commanding presence in a vast white nightgown standing before him.
"No fucking cops!" he continued. "Never--you hear me? I don't care what you hear, what you see--I want no cops in this house! Ever!"
"I hear you, Mr. Beaulieu," she answered meekly, backing up. "I understand."
"Good! Now go back to bed!"
"But, Mr. Beaulieu, what happened?" They saw Celeste peer around him at the room beyond. Donny blocked her field of view into the room.
"It ain't nothing! Just some sort of earthquake or something--I don't know. Is the whole house this fucked up?" He switched on the light in the hallway, where everything looked perfectly normal.
"No sir, the rest of the house is just fine." Celeste tried to see into his room again, but he pulled the door shut behind him.
"I better check," he said, starting down the hallway, turning on every light in every room he came to. They watched his progress on the monitors as he moved downstairs, checking each room in turn. He was standing in the middle of big parlor when Jarod typed in a few more commands. A heavy silver urn that stood on the big marble mantle seemed to literally leap off the surface and launch itself at him. He ducked, letting out a terrified yelp, and cursed as the urn thumped into the wall across from him, breaking the glass over a large watercolor painting that hung there.
He looked around, clearly expecting another bombardment. Then retreated, leaving all the lights on.
Laura sat there with her mouth open, astonished. "How exactly did you do all that?" she asked Jarod after a few minutes.
"Sound waves," he answered, "outside of human hearing, of course. And a few more old fashioned touches: if Donny had taken the time to look closely at the mantle he might have found the little lever that propelled the urn. But I didn't think he would. Donny isn't the type to think things out clearly."
"You always count on that don't you? On people doing what you expect them to," she asked.
"You'd be amazed," he answered, "at how predictable most behavior really is."
But he then did a double take, looking at the monitors again. Donny was standing in front of the one picture that was still hanging perfectly flat and straight on his bedroom walls. He pulled at one side and it hinged away from the wall, reveling a wall safe built in behind it. Jarod watched closely as he spun the lock back and forth and opened the door, tugging out a black duffle bag. He carried it to his bed and quickly unzipped it. Laura caught her breath in an audible gasp: it was literally stuffed with neatly bound stacks of cash. Donny sighed in relief and sat down heavily beside the bag, hugging it to his body, looking around the room again.
"Well," said Jarod, "what do you know."
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"Let's walk over to the Quarter and have a drink," Jarod said after they'd left Beaulieu's house. "It's three in the morning, I doubt even you could sleep right now." It was a wonderful early summer evening--cooler, the air scented with a million flowers from the Sweet Olives that lined the streets. He put his arm around her shoulders as they walked along. "I wonder about that money," he continued. "Where did Donny get all that cash? The way he was so concerned about it--I'm thinking maybe it's not his, that he's laundering money for someone, or that it's drug money. You know, I was just going for the easiest path, here--getting him to confess that he killed his uncle. Rig his house, convince him he's being haunted by Tug, and then have him meet you. You're this expert on Vodoun, you do a séance, whatever, tell him that if he just confesses and asks Tug to forgive him, it will all stop. And of course the confession would be on tape--there are cameras and mikes in every room. Simple. But that bag of money makes me wonder if I'm not missing something. Perhaps there's a more satisfying way to work this thing . . . "
"Do you want my advise?" Laura asked him. "Look, keep it simple. If you want him put away, let's stick with your original plan. I think it sounds fine. Why change it because of the money? What does it matter? I mean, unless you want him dead--then by all means grab the cash--I think you're right, I think he's holding it for someone. But unless he's really stupid--"
"He's an asshole," Jarod explained, "but he's not stupid."
"Just take the simplest way, OK?" She stopped walking, turned and touched his face. "You're playing with fire, Jarod. I don't want you to get burned."
"Come have a drink with me," he asked, pulling her toward a tiny bar. The band was still playing and the place was packed, even at three in the morning.
"What's he singing?" Laura asked Jarod as he handed her a Jim Beam, straight up. He sipped his Hurricane. "'Lassez le bon temps roulle'," he quoted: "'Let the good times roll.' This is the most amazing town I've ever seen! Is anyone here ever sober? Doesn't anyone ever sleep? "
"Let's dance," she said, gulping the rest of her drink.
"I want to finish this," he insisted, clutching his big, frosty Hurricane.
"Hell, Jarod, there's no place to sit and it's about a hundred and twenty in here, everybody is totally blasted and I'm suddenly wide awake. Swig your drink and let's dance! Oh, my--a slow dance--come on, Big Guy, the lady is asking you to dance!"
And she literally pulled him onto the dance floor. And he pressed his pelvis against hers and twirled her around the tiny dance floor, spinning her out and reeling her in, as the huge guy at the mike, his face literally dripping sweat onto the wooden floor, sang:
"When I hold you, hold you in my arms, I feel the world, the world can do us no harm-- Girl: it's a shame--for me, to be lovin', lovin' you this way."
"I love this!" Laura gasped, "I love the night and the music and Mr. Jim Beam and hell, I love..." But she broke the thought off unfinished.
"Come here," he insisted, leading her right out the door onto the sidewalk. "Explain that Laura--why the hell can't you finish that sentence, huh? The only time you can tell me you love me is if you're drunk or stoned or both--"
"Oh, come on, let's just dance and then go back to the hotel and screw! So I can't say the fucking words--big fucking deal! Hey, they say it's the thought that counts."
And he went back to the bar and bought them another round--this time hers was a double. "Drink," he said, "get bombed and maybe you can finally bring yourself to say the words, Laura."
"You know what I'm thinking about, Jarod? I'm thinking about the first time we met, and you sitting in that scummy bar in Philly, and I made you drink that truly awful house Cabernet, and I thought you were going to choke to death on it--"
"And the next day you took me upstairs to your bedroom and took off your clothes and threatened my life if I didn't fuck you immediately. You've taught me a lot of things, Laura."
"Right: how to drink and curse and chase anything in a skirt and smoke dope. I'm not a good person," she said, suddenly quite serious, "I'm not a good influence. You were so sweet and innocent and idealistic--"
"Let's go find an alley or something and screw," he said, slamming his empty glass down on the corner of the bar and pulling her with him, heading out the door. She was trying to finish her drink and allowed herself to be pulled along, into a narrow alley between two buildings, and was still trying to finish it when he took the plastic cup from her hand and tossed it aside.
"Now, littering, Jarod--that's taking it too far--" he pushed her up against the wall and reached under her short skirt. Her legs were bare and he was tugging her panties down while she was laughing, still thinking he was just kidding. They were right around the corner from the bar and she could see people passing by on the sidewalk, just feet away, and hear the band playing another blues number:
"Someday, someday--it's goin' to be your time to cry. Someday, baby, it's goin' to be your own damned time to cry-- And I might not be around, to dry, to dry your weepin' eyes."
He was kissing her, way too hard, pushing her back up against the rough brick wall. "You're kidding, right?" she asked, trying to push him away. "Back off, Jarod, there are people watching us--"
But of course that was exactly the wrong thing to say: he was pulling her panties down her legs and trying to rip them off. "Slow down," she said, "you're not going to able to--" And she gasped as he gave the thin silk one good pull and they ripped away in his hand. The bourbon had kicked in and she felt his hand on her crotch, his mouth against her throat, then just the slightest pause while he unzipped his pants and pressed himself against her.
"Put your leg around me," he directed, pulling her into position, lifting her leg around his waist and thrusting up from underneath. She opened her mouth wide in shock and grabbed onto him harder, worried she was going to fall over, absolutely amazed at what he was doing, feeling him enter her completely without any further warning.
"Jarod, we have a huge bed waiting for us back at the hotel," she tried to reason, but he was too involved to even acknowledge her suggestion, working himself deeper inside her and banging her up against the wall. She knew, logically, that it was up to her to be adult and reasonable and tell him to stop, but she was long past that point, so sex-drunk with lust for his body she just didn't give a damn. She felt the music, the bass reverberating right through the wall, moving through her spine as he pushed her against the wall, the heat and humidity suddenly pressing around her, and then tilted her pelvis a bit, closing her eyes, enjoying him immensely, feeling a flood of lust and unthinking, uncaring desire. He was so big, so wonderful, and she really wanted to tell him, she even tried to open her mouth to say those words, and the others he wanted to hear, but the best she could manage was an animal moan.
Jarod caught movement out of the corner of his eye and glanced slyly to his right--an actual audience of passersby were gathering at the entrance to the alley, intent on what he and Laura were doing. He didn't think it possible, but he felt his erection become even more demanding at the thought of their being watched. He drew back away from Laura just enough to reach down and unbutton her white linen blouse, pleased beyond words that she was braless, thrilled to cup one of her breasts in his hand, pinching her nipple into rock-hardness, thinking of those watching eyes, quickening the pace of his thrusts.
"Is this what you want from me?" he was asking for some reason she didn't understand, "Is this all I am to you, just a cock, just some guy that can fuck you the way you want?" She had no idea what he was talking about. Clearly she loved him. Anyone could see that. All he had to do was ask for a vote. Why the hell did he need her to keep telling him? "Like this, Laura?" he gasped, beating her against the wall relentlessly, faster. "Like this: you total--fucking--bitch!"
"Oh shut up, will you, Jarod," she managed to say between thrusts, "I love you! I love you! How many fucking times do I fucking have to fucking tell you--" And then they both lost the ability to speak coherently, reduced--perhaps all for the best--to gasps and moans, lost to anything but that final moment of sensation.
He backed away from her, then, staggering a bit, and she struggled to balance against the wall, feeling like she was about to collapse, pulling her skirt down, desperately buttoning her blouse. She opened her eyes and saw a small crowd of strangers standing around in the entrance to the alley, watching.
"I love this town, man", one guy clutching a huge Hurricane managed to say. He was wearing a tee shirt that said, 'Let me show you my Big Johnson.' He raised his glass and saluted them with his drink. There was a pause and then a smattering of applause broke out. Jarod came over to her and took her in his arms. The band was playing yet another slow, sad song, and he just started to dance with her, right there in the alley.
"I'm a man, out here on my own," the singer told them all, "But I haven't forgot you, you're not alone. Before it's too late, I want to say, want to say: I love you."
"That's beautiful, man," another guy said, quite sincerely, watching them dance, "that's fucking beautiful." He hugged the girl he was with and the crowd began to disperse.
"I love you, too," Jarod told her, kissing her hair, pulling her closer to him.
And Laura just laughed.
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Maison Dupoy
Laura came out of the bedroom and spun around in front of Jarod. "How's this?" she asked. "It's not too much, is it?"
"Perfect", he answered. She was wearing a tight white cotton dress with thin straps over her shoulders and a built-in push-up bra that lifted her breasts into tempting mounds. "Wear heels, though," he added.
"Jarod, I'm already going to tower over Donny--"
"Trust me: he'll love it," he said.
"You know, not every man has your self-confidence, in fact I've never met ANYONE with your self-confidence. I tend to scare most men . . . "
"Nonsense! I see the way they look at you. They always want you."
"Yeah," she answered, "but it's one thing to want and quite another to do something about it. I intimidate the hell out of most guys. Most of the time I have to make the first move. They just stand around drooling, tongue-tied and terrified."
"So I'm not the only one you've tossed onto a bed and climbed on top of--"
"You were sort of a special case, Jarod--you just didn't know what to do--"
"Actually, I knew exactly, precisely what I wanted to do. In great detail. I'd had plenty of time to think about it. I just couldn't believe I would actually finally get to do it with a real, live, flesh and blood woman."
"And you weren't just a little scared of me? I mean, I'm five eleven in my bare feet and built like a brick shithouse and have more muscles than most guys . . . "
"'A brick shithouse'?" he asked.
"You know, I've never really understood that one. I guess it's a good thing. Intriguing saying, though."
"I like the way you are. I like the muscles, I like how hard your body is and if brick shithouses looked like you then indoor plumbing might not be such a great thing."
"Well, like I said: you're not like other men. Believe me, I can be scary. I just don't want to terrify Donny, is all. Or send the wrong message, make him suspicious--"
"Laura, he's going to take one look at you in that dress and fall in love and all you'll have to do play along. But one thing: I don't want him to touch you. I can't stand the thought of his hands on your body--don't let it happen. Come here," he added after a pause, "come sit on my lap, you big, strong, nasty woman you."
She laughed and complied, smiling as he nuzzled against her breasts. "Good lord, Jarod, don't you ever get enough?"
"Laura," he said, "about last night . . . I'm sorry. I don't know why- -I don't know where the anger came from. I really wasn't angry at you . . . I know it's not fair."
"I know that. And don't get started on what's 'fair' or not, OK? It just IS, the anger just IS. You were abused, lied to and just generally jerked around your whole fucking life. You'd have to be some kind of saint NOT to be angry. And we both know you're no saint . . . "
"Not hardly," he answered. "You don't suppose you could just sort of roll that dress up a little do you? And straddle me . . . "
She bent down and kissed his mouth. "You want to fuck me before I go meet Donny-boy, right? That's sort of like a dog scent-marking his territory, isn't it?"
"Well, sure," he agreed, "and trust you to phrase it so romantically . . . "
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Arnaud's
The French Quarter
The restaurant was dimly lit--a wonderful, cool oasis after the mid- afternoon swelter of the street. Laura slipped off her black sunglasses and glanced quickly around--just as Celeste had predicted, Donny sat alone at his personal table against the back wall. It was one of the string of clubs and restaurants his uncle had owned, and which soon would be his. He was reading a newspaper and hadn't even noticed her entrance. She saw the hostess approaching and decided to take the bull by the horns, crossing the room slowly to Donny's table, standing silently by his side for a moment until he looked up at her.
"Hi," she said. "I couldn't help noticing you're alone. I hate eating alone, don't you?"
He didn't take the cue and just sat there, staring her up and down. She felt his thoughts then, alright, and wasn't a bit surprised at their graphic nature. Not much subtlety there.
"My name's Laura," she pressed on, extending her hand and leaning forward to let him get a better look at her cleavage.
He stood up, nearly knocking the small table over, and took her hand. He was opening his mouth to finally speak when she let him get just a small hit off the energy tunnel that surrounded her, the psychic link she simply thought of as 'That Which Is', the thing that seemingly allowed her to read people's minds. Stunned, he opened and closed his mouth a few times much like a fish and looked up at her with wide eyes.
"Mind if I join you?" she asked.
"I'm Donny," he said, finally, then recovered, snapping his fingers at the nearest waiter, who promptly held Laura's chair and hurried to lay a place setting for her.
"You think I'm terribly forward," she prompted, getting a bit desperate--he just couldn't seem to say a word, but she knew his imagination was already fully engaged.
"No, no," he stammered. "You're right, it's no fun, eating alone. That's why I always bring the paper. I'm just--" Laura smiled as he struggled on, but then was surprised as quite suddenly he seemed to hit his stride--"I'm just shocked a beautiful woman like you would ever be alone. And then want to eat with me. That's real nice. A nice surprise. I'm sorry if I'm tongue-tied. Nice stuff like this, just doesn't happen to me everyday."
Laura smiled, genuinely relieved. This wasn't going to be so hard, after all.
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Maison Dupoy
"Would you stop?" she asked again. "He didn't touch me! We had lunch. It was OK, except that he just couldn't believe I'm a vegetarian. That's one thing I hate about Nawlins--they keep shoving these giant platters full of crayfish at you: all those tiny, dead animals." She shuddered in disgust. "Anyway, he was trying really hard to be charming. I gave him the line--you know, that I'm in town helping solve a kidnapping, that I'm psychic, that I help people that way-- pretty much the truth. I gave him my phone number here at the hotel. The rest is sort of up to him."
"I just don't like you being alone with him, is all. I won't feel good until this is over."
"So how did it go at his house?" she asked him.
"Fine," he answered. "Tonight is going to be interesting. If Donny thought last night was rough he's in for a big surprise. Want some pie?" He held out the pie plate he was eating directly from, talking with his mouth full. "Celeste sent two back with me. This one's incredible. Blackberry. I left some for you."
"Right! If I eat it within, like, two minutes I'll have little blackberry-shaped cellulite lumps popping out on my thighs . . . "
He took another big bite of pie, clearly pleased he wouldn't have to share. "There's part of a blueberry pie around somewhere, too, I think I left some for you . . . You know, I think if you'd ask she'd give you her recipe . . . "
"Right--in your dreams will I be baking pies for you!" Laura snapped.
"Everyone," he reminded her, "has to have dreams."
