Sinners Football 02- Wish for a Sinner Read online

  “Try these.” He tossed her the smallest pair. They were red and pointy-toed with a rearing stallion embossed on both sides. “I think they belong to one of my nieces.”

  Joe pulled on his own no-nonsense cowboy footwear of scarred brown leather. He took down a stained Stetson from a wall peg, looked over the selection and chose a pink cowgirl hat for Nell. “Probably belongs to the same niece, no taste, that girl.”

  “I’m supposed to wear this stuff?”

  “Smallest we have. Make do.” Joe led the way out of the mud room to the double carport where a new Silverado and a nice, clean white Honda sedan sat side by side.

  “I got my parents those with part of my bonus. They won’t let me buy them a new house, but I’m building one for myself on the ranch. You hear what went on in there? And Mama wonders why I don’t come home more often. I’d stay with one of my sisters, but they’re just the same. Joe, when are you gonna settle down? Joe, when are you gonna marry?”

  He held the door to his Porsche open for Nell, then got in and backed his car down the gravel drive between two young live oaks about the same age as the house and just starting to spread their limbs.

  “They’re concerned about your lifestyle. You know you could get something much worse than a football injury.”

  Joe glanced over at Nell as they bucketed along the road. “I take precautions. The Sinners have me in for checkups all the time, if that’s what’s holding you back.”

  “Nothing is holding me back. I have no desire to sign your book,” Nell said.

  “Don’t want you to.”

  The Porsche hit a pothole throwing its passengers against their shoulder belts. “Damn, I’ll need another alignment. I need to get a truck for when I’m home.”

  They drove for a mile or so between endless rows tufted with low clumps of winter-planted sugarcane.

  “My daddy farms this acreage with his two brothers. Three Brothers Plantation they call it. The ranch is right down here. Used to belong to my Uncle Hal. He kept a dairy herd, but the dairy industry in Louisiana isn’t what it used to be.” He gave a sharp laugh. “I sound just like Uncle Hal. Anyhow, he wanted to retire to a place on Toledo Bend Reservoir, so when I came into money, I bought him out. Better than having family land go for a sub-division. Their son, my cousin Bijou, is taking care of the ranch for me. He’s still living in the old family place.”

  Joe gestured toward a white frame house set up on stacks of old brick. Its gingerbread trimmed porch and the moon window on the second floor said latter nineteenth century to Nell. An added-on bathroom with a butterfly screen jutted out of one side of the building. The place needed paint, but sweet olives framed the walkway and large camellia bushes still bearing a few pink blooms dotted the yard giving it a less neglected look.

  “Looks like Aunt Flo’s daffodils came up without her help. She’ll be upset with Bijou for parking his truck in her patch of yellow iris. Bijou, he isn’t as ornamental.” Joe gave the man lounging on the porch a brief wave.

  His cousin sported a greasy mullet of black curls and a small pot belly. Looking like Joe Dean gone to seed, the unshaven Bijou had on a dingy sleeveless undershirt and worn jeans. He saluted them with a cold, sweating beer and a flash from his large pinkie ring as they passed on to dirt side road and under the rusting wrought iron arc that read Lorena Ranch.

  “Lorena was my great-grandmother. Looks like Bijou isn’t going to Mass either,” Joe explained as they bumped along the farm road sadly in want of grading. He pulled over into a grove of granddaddy live oaks, all stretching their long, low arms to the brown bayou flowing by slowly at the bottom of a gentle decline of the land.

  Parking in the shade, Joe got out and patted one of the oaks. “Best climbing trees ever and over there is a good barn with a sound tin roof. I can keep half a dozen horses, maybe some Charolais cattle just because they’re pretty. I’m setting my house in this grove. Used to be a place here before the Civil War. The family claims the Yankees burned it down when they brought the gunboats up the river. Later, they rebuilt out near the road.” He tested a stout oak limb by chinning up on it.

  “Look at this. I could hang a swing here for my kids or a tire to pass a football through.”

  Nell was touched. “Planning on a big family?”

  “Am I Cajun? Some day. Plenty of time for that. In the meantime, maybe your patients would like to visit here,” Joe said, backing away from the idea of his own kids.

  “I’m sure they would love it.” Nell put her foot into the crotch of the tree and pulled herself up on to the second branch where she settled into a patch of resurrection ferns.

  She pushed aside a curtain of dangling Spanish moss and gloated, “Look at me. I’m taller than Joe Dean Billodeaux.”

  He took her by the waist and bumped her down to the lower branch, pulling himself to a seat beside her. “Not. You know what I thought when I saw you yesterday wearing that green dress with the raggedy hem? You look just like Tinker Bell—you know, in Peter Pan.”

  “It was a handkerchief hem and Tinker Bell was a blonde.”

  “Yeah, I go for blondes. I never could figure out what Peter Pan saw in Wendy when Tink was so built.”

  “Maybe he had problems with interspecies marriages or any marriage at all.”

  “I can understand that, but what about interspecies fooling around?”

  He was coming in for the kiss when an SUV pulling a horse trailer sounded its horn. Joe jumped down to saunter over to the trailer. Her heart thumping wildly, Nell stayed put.

  The burly driver wearing boots, jeans and a red western shirt, pumped Joe Dean’s hand and said, “Earl Goody here. We spoke on the phone. It’s great to meet an athlete like you.”

  Then, he thumped down the tailgate of the trailer to make a ramp and carefully backed out an enormous sorrel horse whose copper coat gleamed even in the shade of the oaks. Its mane was trimmed in what looked to Nell like a long row of bangs and his tail was squared off.

  “This here is Three B’s Lazy Boy. Did some racing in his early years up at Evangeline Downs. Good record, don’t let the name fool you. He’s eighteen hands and look at the rump on him. Smart, too, retrained for cutting, but the owner was thinking of putting him out to stud when you called. He’ll pay for himself in fees.”

  All the while, Earl Goody walked and turned the horse, showing him off from all angles. “Flashy, too, if you do any parade riding, four white socks and a blaze. Could let his mane and tail grow out.”

  Nell came up behind Joe but kept her distance from the gigantic hooves. Joe curled up the horse’s lips and checked the big yellow teeth for wear. He felt up and down the legs, lifted the hooves, nodded and asked Earl Goody what else he had. Tossing the halter rope to Joe, Mr. Goody backed out another horse.

  “Nice little Arabian mare, used to be my daughter’s ride until she up and married and moved away. Got papers if you want to breed her, but she’s a good, gentle riding horse, not quite fifteen hands.”

  Earl Goody did the walking and turning routine again. Joe repeated the teeth, leg, and hoof check and led the mare over to Nell. “What do you think?”

  Nell patted the coat dappled faintly like the shade under the oaks. The horse, its long white forelock and mane fluttering in the breeze, turned a mellow dark eye on her. Nell stepped back. Joe opened her hand and gave her a sugar cube filched from his mama’s bowl.

  “Hold it out flat on your palm.”

  The mare lipped up the sugar with her soft pink nose rubbing against Nell’s hand. The animal crunched the cube and nosed for more.

  “Her name is Fatima, but if she doesn’t get some exercise and lay off the sugar cubes, we might have to rename her Fatty,” Mr. Goody joked.

  “She’s like a fairy tale horse, Joe, with that white name and dainty feet.”

  “Hooves, sugar. Want to ride?”

  “I brought their tack. Take ’em for a spin,” Earl offered.

  Nell stood way back while the men saddled the m
ounts. Joe tossed Nell onto Fatima and vaulted himself on to the tall Lazy Boy. With the reins knotted over the horn, Nell sat there terrified.

  “I don’t know what to do here!”

  “They’re western trained, sugar. Lean left for left, right for right, back for whoa, and give her a good kick to get her started.”

  He turned his animal and walked him out along a faint path running along the bayou. Fatima came along without urging, her nose stuck almost in the stallion’s tail. They ambled along until they reached a meadow with space to turn. Lazy Boy turned on a dime. Fatima settled in to graze.

  “Give her a nudge, Nell,” Joe Dean shouted.

  Nell flailed her booted heels. Fatty kept eating. She flapped the reins. Nothing. “Joe, don’t leave me! It’s like she doesn’t even know I’m here.”

  “Well, pull her head up.”

  Nell jerked the reins up. Fatty continued to strain for the spring grass. Finally, Joe circled, took the reins and got the mare’s attention. They headed back to the grove where Mr. Goody waited and hoped for a fat check from a rich quarterback, but the sales debate continued.

  “Not a proven stud, then.”

  “No, but he got what it takes,” said Earl pointing to the part needed which had decided to come out and take a leak. Embarrassed, Nell turned her head. “What do you say, little lady?”

  “Ah, I can see he and Joe are two of a kind. Fatima is beautiful, but she should watch her weight.”

  “See, your girlfriend likes ’em.”

  “Sold, but I’d like to get a sperm count on the big guy before we finalize.”

  “Done.”

  The rich man wrote a big check.

  Sneaking back into the Billodeaux home while his parents were at Mass, Nell changed back into her wedding clothes and folded his sister’s jeans and shirt neatly on the bed she had made that morning. She could hear Joe Dean jiggling his keys and thrumming his fingers against the doorframe.

  “In a hurry, Joe?” she asked as she opened the door.

  “My parents will be home from Mass soon and we don’t have time for any foolin’ around. Let’s get out of here.”

  “I wasn’t planning on doing any fooling around.”

  Joe glanced into the tidied bedroom. “You could keep the shirt if you want. It was mine before my sisters stole it. Wouldn’t fit me now anyhow and you looked so sweet in it.”

  “I can’t take clothing from your parents’ house. Besides, just because I’m little doesn’t mean I’m sweet. I can be a fighter when I have to be.”

  “Whatever you say, sugar.” He prodded her toward the carport and his escape route. They made it as far as the mudroom door when a car turned into the drive crunching gravel beneath the tires. Joe all but carried her to the Porsche, got the sports car in gear and backed up before his mama could block him in.

  “Don’t you want to stay for Sunday dinner, Joe? I got a pork roast and cornbread dressing in the oven,” Mrs. Billodeaux called after them. “Your sisters might come over.”

  “Nell has to get back. Gotta hurry.”

  They were slamming down the hardtop before Nell could shout her thanks for the hospitality. Oh well, she could send a bread-and-butter note later.

  At Joe’s rate of speed, they got back to the Mardi Gras ballroom in minutes. Evidently, the Chapelle police slept late on Sundays. Nell’s reliable Toyota sat a little distance from the dumpsters out back, which now overflowed with black trash bags. A few busy yellow jackets crawled over the rims of soft drink cans and beer bottles. The lot was dotted with cars belonging to those who had overindulged or found someone interesting to escort home.

  “It was kind of rude running out on your mother like that, Joe.” Nell rolled down the window of the Toyota to let out the March warmth.

  “That was a trap for sure. I guarantee you don’t want to be interrogated by my sisters.”

  “But you looked so adorable sticking your little, curly head into their prom pictures. They still have your photos up on the bulletin boards in their room after all these years. Besides, your mother said they spoiled you.”

  “Ma never packs anything away. You were staying in Allie and Eenie’s room.”

  “Eenie?”

  “Yeah, my sisters, Alise, Darlene, Lizette, and Isabelle—or Allie, Eenie, Lizzie and Izzy among the family.” Joe leaned against the side of her car.

  “Gee, I wonder what they would call me.”

  “Tinker Bell, Tink for short.”

  Nell turned pink. “As it so happens, someone else calls me that.”

  “A guy?” Joe inquired with a shrug, indicating he had no trouble with a little competition.

  “My dad. If you will remove your carcass from my ride, I need to get going.”

  “I’ll follow you just to make sure you get back to Metairie safely.”

  “No need. I drive these roads all the time.”

  “As a gentleman, I have to see you to your door. Mama taught me that.”

  Nell gave up. Maybe she could lose him on the Atchafalaya Causeway or in Baton Rouge when the traffic got heavy.

  Three hours later, Joe parked beside her in the apartment complex lot. No matter how slow she had gone, he stayed behind her. Now, he followed her up the stairs to her second-story home. She turned her key in the lock, but did not open the door.

  “Joe, this was fun, the reception, meeting your parents, the horses and all. Thanks.” She turned his way.

  He caged her with his arms against the door. Nell squirmed trying to reach the doorknob. He lowered his head to her level. His lips, firm and warm, touched hers and stayed there. He prodded gently with his tongue. When she opened her mouth to protest, he was in. Joe raised her by the waist to a more comfortable height and sandwiched Nell against the door. He was as ready as the stud he had purchased this morning. Her hand found the knob and they tumbled into the apartment. She fell free.

  “Out, out, out!” Nell pushed against his chest to no avail.

  Joe looked around her place. Nice, warm, cozy, small. On the balcony sat an aluminum table and chairs pressed with a rose pattern to look like wrought iron. The window boxes hanging on the railing burst full of freshly planted purple petunias, golden marigolds, and trailing ivy. An overstuffed floral sofa with a matching chair dominated the living room. Her refrigerator blossomed with magnets holding up pictures of her patients.

  Finally deciding to take notice of her pushing efforts, Joe looked down and asked, “What would it take to get you to let me stay the afternoon?”

  “A health certificate!”

  “I doubt if I can get one on a Sunday, Nell.”

  “So, go call number seventy-five.”

  “Seventy-six, actually.” He shrugged as if to say Joe Dean Billodeaux did not have to force himself on anyone and she was a lot of work. An eloquent shrugger, that Joe Dean.

  “If you insist. So long for now.”

  Nell locked the door behind him.

  FIVE

  He should have known number seventy-six was a ringer by her name alone, Fanny Goodenwilling. Who named their girls Fanny anymore? But then, New Orleans bulged full of women with stage names like the famous Blaze Starr. Joe cranked the weight machine up another notch trying to work out his annoyance in the Sinners’ training facility. The place stood fairly empty with most of the team indulging in their off-season pleasures: golf, deep-sea fishing, whatever—as he had been indulging in his, women—and having a good time, too.

  When little Nell Abbott had pushed him out her door he had called the next person on his list, Fanny. The headlines in the tabloids last week read Call Girl Says, “I did Joe Dean for free.” No wonder she knew her way around a man’s body and had given the best swirly in town. Today, he crossed through her name and all five stars following it. The woman had sent him a thank-you note, pink and perfumed, saying her business was up by fifty percent because so many wanted to be where the Sinners’ quarterback had been. He guessed that was a compliment, but somehow, it disgusted him
.

  On silent athletic-shod feet, Coach Marty Buck came behind him and positioned himself, arms folded, by the side of the Nautilus. Great, on top of everything, he was going to get a lecture. Might as well be done with it. Joe sat up, wiped the sweat from his hands and face and prepared to have his ears chewed.

  “Son,” Coach Buck began, “you’ve got a problem with women. It’s just not healthy, what you’re doing. If you catch something serious, you know the suits will find a way to cancel your contract. Probably, they’d use that clause about pursuing dangerous off-season activities. Could cost you millions…and your career, too.”

  “I’m careful, Coach. Besides, I don’t hear any complaints from the general manager or the publicity people. They told me women are buying up season tickets, supposedly for their husbands.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head. This isn’t being careful.” Coach Buck unrolled the tabloid he had tucked under his arm and bared the damning headline. “Boy, if I had a son instead of the three daughters by two wives, I’d be telling him the same thing. Why don’t you go have another talk with Dr. Funk? He got your pal, Connor, straightened out.”

  Joe Dean gritted his teeth. The last time he had been dragged into the team psychiatrist’s office, the doctor had theorized that Joe overcompensated with women because he felt insecure in his role of quarterback and team leader. That was one Super Bowl and six fuckin’ months of celibacy ago. Besides, he felt he and Stevie Dowd had helped Connor with his head problems, not any shrink.

  He had nothing to prove or to say to Dr. Mind Fuck, as Joe liked to call him, but all he said to Coach was, “I don’t have a sexual addiction. I’m making up for six months without sex is all. When the season starts, I plan to cut way back on dates, but that celibacy thing, it’s just too hard. I’ve been thinking about getting a health certificate though.”

  “Good idea, son. You might think about settling down to maybe one or two girlfriends after you get it.” Coach Buck ran his hand over his silver bristle cut in a gesture that said the uncomfortable issues that went along with running a football team most people would not believe.