***   No One Left To Burn  ***

Chapter 1

9

                The Fiddlers Inn John mentioned was on Highway 90 just before turning off to go to the Burton house.  I found it easily because it was the tallest building on the east side of town and towered majestically over the surrounding buildings which were mostly no higher than two or three stories.  I pulled into the registration parking area and saw that the lot was almost empty, so I was pretty sure they had rooms available.  They did. 

                The young man working behind the desk was flitting about when I walked up.  He was just kind of moving shit around, restacking papers, shifting piles of forms and organizing loose things like pens and pencils.  Being a neat freak.  He fluttered over to where I stood and quickly took care of my check in.  He was highly efficient, very business-like and just a bit sweet.   Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  I went back to my car and he went back to flitting about.

                 I hadn’t come to Pont-Rouge prepared to spend the night, so I needed to pick up some personal items.    Before I put the car into gear to drive off, I got another glimpse of the sweet thing behind the motel desk who was still moving quickly and lightly about.   The sight of him caused me to pause and consider what it might be like to be gay and not have an intense desire to make love to women.  The idea of eliminating such a significant ingredient of my existence was, to me, preposterous.  Jesus, just think.  No beautiful face to gaze upon.  No lovely body to hold close.  No sweet smell to bathe the senses, and no soft skin to gently caress.  Well, obviously, my mental deliberations were neighboring on absurdity, but then it does give rise to pondering.  And then there’s this to consider; maybe he does have all of those pleasures to enjoy.  They just come to him in a different package.

                It took me fifteen minutes of driving around town to find a drug store, and another fifteen minutes to find what I wanted.  After I spent another fifteen minutes standing in line to pay for the stuff, I left the store with a pack of six disposable plastic razors, a small tube of toothpaste, and one toothbrush, medium firm bristle.

                I returned to the Fiddlers Inn and went up to my room to stash the loot.  The room wasn’t too bad, except for the bedspread.  I never have liked chenille bedspreads.  Don’t know why, just don’t.   Three standard motel pictures were firmly secured to the painted cinder block walls.  Next to the window which looked out onto the thriving metropolis of was a small round table with a Formica top and two firm-looking chairs.  A highly polished four-drawer bureau against the right wall also served as a TV stand.  I pulled the drawer of the nightstand open and was glad to see that Gideon’s International had made their presence known.  The room was complete.

                A rumbling sound coming from the pit of my stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten for some time.  The only nourishment I’d taken in all day, was a sweet roll this morning and the potions I drank while talking with John and Meagan Burton.  Perhaps something more solid was in order.   I remembered a deli next door to the motel and thought it might just render forth a handsome corn beef on rye that would satisfy my body’s need for sustenance. It almost did.  As it turned out though, it also took a side order of fries and two cans of Budweiser to complete the feast.

                When I returned to the motel lobby, the large, round clock on the wall above the desk read eight-thirty.  There was a profusion of boisterous activity coming from the lounge, which was off to the left as I came in.  I stuck my head in just to see what was happening.  It was dark as hell, so at first I couldn’t see anything.  Then slowly my eyes began to adjust to the raven darkness.  The slowly moving, fuzzy silhouettes became sharper.  The room was about half full. Some women, but mostly men, were at the bar that was on the right.  Some were standing, some were seated and some were just milling around.  Couples and a spattering of foursomes occupied the rest of the seating area.  I saw an empty stool at the far end of the bar, and concluded that a toddy might just hit the spot nicely and assure a pleasant and restful slumber in my upcoming strange bed.

                I was sitting at the bar nursing a Scotch and water when she came in.  Meagan stepped in several feet then stopped and gazed around briefly in the murky darkness.  I knew her eyes were struggling to see in the lightless room, dauntlessly trying to bring the obscure forms into focus.

                At first it looked as if she hadn’t found whom she was looking for, because she turned to leave.  Too bad, I thought.  If she were looking for me, I’d be okay with that.  Her eyes swept the room a final time. Even if she had been looking for yours truly she couldn’t have seen me, because a cocktail waitress was standing between her line of sight and me.  The waitress left just as Meagan’s head swung back my way.  This time she saw me. I thought I saw a faint smile touch her lips, but that could have just been my male ego thinking.  I really didn’t know why she would be looking for me, although I can’t say that I minded.

                I was still wondering why she was there when her eyes locked on to mine and she began walking towards me.  Her walk was more of a saunter.  She moved casually with her body erect.  She carried herself haughtily and the sway of her hips was a display of spirited tenacity.

                She was wearing a lavender-colored, short-sleeved mini dress with the bottom hem striking her about midway between her knees and hips. It was a perfect garment to show off her long, gorgeous gams.  The dress material was some kind of jersey looking fabric that clung snugly to her body like a second skin.  The cloth was stretched thin across her ample breasts and I could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra.  Her large thrusting nipples looked as hard as diamonds, and had caught the eye of many in the room, including some less full-bosomed ladies who were looking upon the sight with resentful dislike.

                She covered about half the distance from where she had been standing to where I was sitting, when a beefy guy on a stool at the bar about ten feet from me turned around, reached out and took her by the arm.

                He was a big guy who looked very GQish.  He was wearing summer-weight, light gray slacks nicely creased, a white silk shirt that had two buttons open at the collar and a navy blue double-breasted sport coat, also unbuttoned. His highly polished black, tasseled loafers completed his stylish ensemble.  I couldn’t see his socks so I can’t commentate on them, but I can tell you that he was a very spiffy dresser. 

                Meagan tried to pull her arm away with an expression of minor alarm and contempt on her face.   She appeared to be speaking tersely to him. I couldn’t hear their conversation because of the noise in the room, but I looked at Meagan’s face as she spoke, curiously watching her lips move and tried to decipher what she was saying.

                She was turned slightly towards me, and wasn’t talking fast, so I could easily follow her lip and jaw movements. I tried to duplicate them with my own lips and jaw without looking more than a little whacko.   As best I could perceive, the message she was sending the man that I couldn’t hear was, “Take your fucking hands off of me, you scummy son of a bitch.”   I know her description of his hands and her reference to his birth mother are correct, so I got the intent of her statement, as I am sure he did also.

                She tried again to pull her arm away and at the same time sent a wide-eyed glance my way.   It was a no-brainer.  All was not right with the picture here.  I slid off of my stool and weaved my way down the crowded bar towards them.  When I was no more than four feet from them, I stopped, smiled broadly at Meagan and said, “Meagan. I’m so glad you could make it.”

                It was just enough patter to get the guy’s attention, and that was all I really wanted to do. Just enough pause in their conversation to allow Meagan and the cool dude time to decide what would come next.  Meagan moved her arm away when the tightly held grip on it was released.

                I walked up and looked into her face, and I could see that Meagan was tense.  Even under the makeup she was wearing I could see her coloring was pallid.  Now that she was no longer constrained, her chalky features appeared to slowly regain the glowing iridescence she’d exhibited earlier in the day.

                She looked moderately relieved as she smiled unsteadily and said, “Sorry I’m late, Rick. I had some calls to make and some paperwork to catch up on before I could leave.”

                Anytime you’re late for something and you want an excuse, the most unchallengeable and pardonable reasons have always been phone calls to be made or paperwork to be finished.  Sometimes, like Meagan just did, use them both.  Why not?  If one is good two, have to be better.

                Of course the entire conversation was all bullshit.  I hadn’t been expecting Meagan at all.  You knew that - I knew that - she knew that - I knew that she knew that and she knew I knew that she knew that.  Oh well, I thought, what the hell. I guessed we’d just play it out and see where it went.

                While Meagan was speaking, I was watching the beefy one up close.   I could see that he was about my age but bigger by about sixty pounds.  That would put him weighing in at around two hundred seventy.  He had dark brown, wavy hair, receding slightly at the hairline.  A little young for that I thought.  Genetics no doubt.  His olive complexion was smooth and blemish free except for a tiny, almost invisible scar in the cleft of his chin.  He was wearing a gold Rolex on his left wrist, a pinky ring on his right little finger and about a pound of gold chain rope around his neck.  He looked Latin, but I couldn’t be sure.  He was missing the characteristic semi-bushy, Geraldo Rivera-type mustache that would have added the final touch to his machismo persona.

                While I was eyeing him, he was scowling angrily at Meagan.  I could see him moving his lips to form the same words she was speaking to me.  He was trying to mouth the words she was using like he was just learning to talk.  It looked queer as hell.

                I did a quick scan around the room and spotted an empty table for two in the far corner directly across from the bar on a raised platform adjacent to the dance floor.  I was about to suggest to Meagan that perhaps we go forth to yon pulpit when the man shifted his glare from Meagan to me.

                He said, “Fou toi.”

                He wasn’t as Latin as I previously and quite erroneously speculated.  My French isn’t very good.  I can’t really carry on a conversation in the language, although I can lay claim to a pretty fair vocabulary.  I know enough words that I can sometimes master phrases if they are not spoken too rapidly.  I was able to do this, and what I interpreted was that I’d just been told in a most disparaging manner, “Fuck You.” 

                As he spoke, he slipped off the stool and stood erect.  In addition to outweighing me by sixty pounds, he also towered above me by almost half a foot.  This guy was huge.  He was a mastodon.  He stood a scant over six foot six inches and appeared not one bit friendly.

                I stood there for a few seconds most likely looking a little dumb and unsure, but at the same time not wanting to do anything stupid that might result in getting the shit beat out of me.  There was no way to take his statement other than the way he had meant it, and that was as a challenge.  He’d thrown down the gauntlet but as far as I was concerned, ye olde medieval combat glove was just going to lie there at my feet, because right then, in that crowded bar, I knew it was not the time for me to be messing with this massive son of a bitch.  Perhaps some other time, or some other place and perhaps with me holding a tire iron in my hand, who knows.

                To leave seemed to me the prudent thing to do.  Nothing was lost here that I could see.  No blood and no teeth and certainly not my pride.  I just pretended I didn’t understand what he’d said. I simply smiled at him beamingly, took Meagan’s arm and led her away to the small table in the corner. 

                It took a while to catch the attention of a waitress, even though there were three of them hustling their asses off trying to keep up with all the customers’ demands.  Finally one came by and took our order.  Meagan asked for a glass of Chardonnay and I stuck with Scotch and water.  The waitress stopped at two other tables before she headed for the bar to fill our needs.  It would be a while before she returned. 

                Out of the corner of my eye I continued watching cool dude at the bar with just a little concern.  I didn’t think anything was going to happen, but you never know.  I was a stranger in a strange town and sometimes, strange things happen.  As a lad, I had been a Boy Scout and you know their motto, “Be Prepared.”   And so I was.  As much as I could be that is, which was just being alert to what was going on around us, at the other tables, at the bar, and the entire room in general.

                 Meagan slouched back in her chair, semi-relaxed and looked around the room.  Then she looked back at me and said, “I don’t like that Louie one damn bit. He’s a mean son of a bitch.  I’m glad you came over when he stopped me, Rick.  I must say, that was some fast thinking you did.  Could you tell that easily that I needed help getting away from him?”  She seemed to be monopolizing the conversation with four quick statements and one quick short question.  A bunch of oneliners.

                “Yeah,” I said.  “You didn’t look to me like you were real keen on carrying on any lengthy exchange of dialogue with him.  What did you call him?  Louie?”

                “Yes,” she answered.  “That’s Louie.”  She offered me a weak, pained smile and looked as if she were about to say more, but then, almost as an after thought, she leaned forward with her elbows on the table and remained silent.  I had been leaning toward her waiting for her to continue speaking, but when her discourse stalled, I felt left in the lurch.

                The waitress finally returned with our drinks and by then I was ready.  I took a hefty pull on my Scotch and water and queried, “Who is Louis?  What does he do?  I thought he looked Latin, but he said something that sounded French.” I tossed out a few oneliners of my own.

                Meagan sipped her wine, once - twice, then held the glass up in front of her and looked deeply into the liquid as if she were looking for something.  Apparently not finding anything, she sat the glass down.  Twisting the stem of the glass, she made little rings on the tabletop in a small puddle of water that had been missed by the clean up towel.  Then she said, “It’s not Louis, Rick.  It’s Louie.  Louie Chardon.  He’s a local shrimper.  He moved here from Venice , Louisiana maybe ten years ago.  Venice is the southern most town on the Mississippi River with a road to it.  It’s as far south as you can drive.”

                I noticed the deep red lipstick that transferred to the rim of her glass.  I thought about it and wondered if it transferred to food as well.  I thought about what it might be like to go to a Mexican restaurant to eat tacos and munch on shells that tasted like fresh berries. Interesting.

                “Yeah,” I said, licking my lips.  “I know.  I know Venice .  I went fishing down there once with some friends.  We did damn well, too.  We were out all day and the guide drank too much.  We got lost in the tall grass marshes.  It scared the hell out of us for a while.  Not the guide though. I guess he knew that eventually he’d spot something that looked familiar.  And some miniscule land mass or an almost submerged, knurled stump of a cypress tree would reset his internal compass, so to speak, and lead him on a path that would take us to safe harbor.  Or, and this could very well have been the case, maybe he was just too drunk to give a shit.”

                She looked at me with a light smile on her face and she said, “Dean Martin used to say that you’re not drunk if you can lie flat on the floor without holding on.”  She rolled her eyes a bit before she continued.  “It’s beyond me how those people can live like that in the swamps.  Living in shacks built on stilts with rusty tin roofs that rattle like crazy when it rains.  Jesus, they’re surrounded by constant dampness and decay, and everything is touched to some degree by mold, moss or mildew.  Some don’t even have electricity for crying out loud.”

                I may have been mistaken, but probably not, when I suspected her last statement was made while she tried to imagine life without her electric hair drier, curling iron, and hot rollers.

                She took another sip of wine and said; “I’ve heard that when Louie was young he was the bayou’s number one hoodlum, a mean bastard who was in and out of trouble all the time.  Now he’s a thirty-nine year old juvenile delinquent.  He’s a true Cajun, which accounts for the French dialect.”

                Many people are familiar with the term Cajun but for those of you loyal readers who aren’t, let me explain.  Cajuns are a unique group of people who live mostly in Southwest Louisiana .  They originally came from Acadia in Canada in the mid-1760s.   They were French settlers who were expelled by the British.  They made their way down the Mississippi River to the rich fishing and shrimping areas of the Louisiana bayous.  Today the descendants of those original pioneers speak a French dialect and have a very distinct culture, of which they are very protective, and work very hard to safeguard up to the point of violence.  If a stranger should carelessly boat into one of the desolate swamps that are inhabited by a colony of Cajuns who zealously protect their isolated life style, the stranger and his boat may disappear without a trace and never be seen again.  Louie looked like one of those kinds of Cajuns.

                Meagan shifted on her chair and looked over at Louie Chardon who was still standing at the bar where we’d left him.  “He only has a sixth grade education and although he doesn’t seem too bright, he’s quite successful in his business.  Actually, he isn’t just a local shrimper.  He owns a fleet of shrimp boats.  About five or six I think.  He’s a friend of Lila’s, much to my father’s and my own chagrin.”

                The shrimp business must be good.  Louie’s success was evident by the way he dressed and the ornate jewelry that he wore, although I had to take her word for how bright he was.  But he didn’t have to be real swift to know that standing almost seven feet tall and weighing in at two hundred and sixty pounds, he could say just about anything he wanted to and get by with it, especially when dealing one on one with a normal-size person.  Like he did with me back at the bar.

                Meagan continued to make rings on the table.  Then she spoke again.  “Lila started hanging around Louie and some of his scummy friends, who aren’t any better than he is, about six months ago.  Lila dates a guy named Charles Whitney, another loser as far as I’m concerned. He lives in New Orleans , but he travels back and forth to Pont-Rouge. He works for Louie.  Has something to do with the selling and distribution of shrimp in the New Orleans area.  When Charlie is in town, Lila and he are inseparable.   That’s how Lila came to know Louie.   Through Charlie.”

                I gazed at my empty glass and then glanced around the room in search of a cocktail waitress.    I caught the eye of a good-looking, big-titted redhead, who must have just come on, because I hadn’t seen her before.  And there is no way that I would have missed her.  She sashayed our way, smiled and bent over to take our order.  Believe me, she was a sight to behold.  I smiled right back into her spectacular cleavage and placed a refill request for the two of us.  This time I asked for Glenlevit Scotch.  I wanted a drink with some flavor to it rather than the well booze they were pouring.  Unfortunately, if you add enough water to the mixture, you can still manage to ruin even the best single malt scotch. Which is exactly what they did.

                While waiting for the waitress to return with our tipple, we made some small talk. Stuff like how shitty the weather was and how the humidity could absolutely drain the energy from a person, and how the moisture in the air made the heat feel hotter and the cold feel colder.

                The waitress placed our drinks on the table, and I wistfully watched her stand erect, turn and leave.  Then, I looked back at Meagan and said, “tell me about Lila.   What kind of person is she?  What does she like?  Who are her friends?”

                “Well, let’s see,” she said.  “Lila just turned twenty-one.  You knew that.  She’s now old enough to drink legally, which I don’t really believe ever stopped her in the past.  Always been a little on the wild side.  That’s Lila.  She just finished her third year at Nicholls State in Thibodaux , and like me, she always worked during school breaks for spending money.    Daddy doesn’t know this, but she told me last month that she might not be going back to school next year.  I think it has to be that bad crowd she’s mixed up with.”

                Meagan’s eyes moved around the room and then came back and fixed on mine again.  “When Lila associates with someone who only got through the sixth grade and who still wears enough gold jewelry around his neck that it almost makes him stand stooped shouldered, well, I can see where she might lose her focus.

                “I think Charlie has been after her, too.  He wants her to leave school and move to New Orleans to be with him.  Brother, talk about a dismal future.  Yuck!  It’s a shame, too.  She’s sharp as a tack.  She’s always been very popular with lots of friends.  She was Homecoming Queen last year at State.  And I’m sure that you could tell from that photo that daddy gave you that she is very pretty.”

                “Yes she is,” I said, looking at Meagan’s black, curly locks.  “And, except for the color of her hair, you two could pass for identical twins.”

                She sensually ran her tongue over her lips and said, “Does that mean, Rick, that you think I’m pretty?”

                She had to be pulling my leg, I thought.  She knew she was a fucking knockout, and I was sure every one in Pont-Rouge thought so, too.  I could have said something like you gotta be shitting me, girl.  Do you think I’m blind for Chrissake?   But instead, I said, “I think you’re extremely attractive, Meagan.”  Old silver-tongue Rick.  Never at a loss for words.

                She hoisted her glass as if to toast then smiled and whispered a silent thank you to me.  I waited for her to lower her glass then I said, “tell me about you.”

                “Okay,” she said, and leaned back in her chair.  “I was born right here in Pont-Rouge just like Lila.  We’re both small town girls.  I’m twenty-four years old and in grad school at Louisiana State .  I live at home during the summer and I like to party.”

                With that she lifted her glass to her lips and while eyeing me with a twinkle over the rim, took a good pull of the wine.

                “I spend a lot of time, well weekends really, in New Orleans .  I have friends there.  Daddy isn’t too happy about it when I do.  He would like me to spend more time here.  Even when I’m at school in Baton Rouge , some of my friends and I try to make it to the Big Easy at least once or twice a month.  There are some bars in the French Quarter where you can really have a blast.   I haven’t missed Mardi Gras in New Orleans since I was eighteen.”

                She paused and threw her hand up in mock despair.  “But, God, when I’m home, there’s nothing to do here.  I’ve worked every summer since I was sixteen for spending money, and believe me; I work my butt off in school.  Now I want to live a little when I’m on summer break.”

                She did a little thing with her mouth, sorta crunched her lower lip off to the side while she thought, “Oh yes,” she said with some minor enthusiasm.  “I was women’s state tennis champ my senior year at Nicholls State .  I’ve always enjoyed athletics, and I’ve tried to keep myself in good physical shape.”

                  Oh yeah, I thought.  Yes you have.  You have certainly done that.

                “There was a time, Rick, when I thought that I really would have liked to go into sports medicine.  You know, help athletes who become injured to recover through the use of therapy.  Sports medicine has become a true science and a valid profession.”

                I thought of the personal struggle I’d gone through trying to recover the last time my knee went under the knife.  I easily saw how much better rehab would have been if I’d had someone like Meagan in her snug, white short shorts and halter-top to help out.  I’m sure she could have prevented things that were not supposed to get stiff to not do so, and any that were supposed to stiffen up, well I’m sure she would have succeeded in that regard as well.  Remember that I’d found both problems to be relevant at the same time.

                “But now I’m not sure,” she continued.  “Maybe I will and maybe I won’t.  Maybe I’ll wind up getting married to someone locally and settle down here in Pont-Rouge and raise a family.   I know that would make Daddy very happy.  He needs to have one of us around to keep his life reasonably normal.  I don’t know what he’d do if he were alone.  Well, he does have Martha.  She’s our maid.  She wasn’t at the house today.  But that’s different.  It’s not the same.  She can’t take the place of family.  I love Martha.  She’s been with us for years but let’s face it.  Family is family and domestic help is just that.  You can’t mix the two.”

                She paused, raised and tipped her glass and allowed the last of the wine to flow over her lips.  Then she set the glass down and turned to look about for the waitress.  I gathered that she was ready for another Chardonnay.  I was still good.  I caught the attention of big red, and she came over.

                “I’ll bet your father would get along just fine by himself,” I said, after the waitress left.  “He looks to be in good physical shape.  How old is he?  He looks about sixty.”

                “You’re pretty close.  He’s sixty-one but he keeps active and that’s good.  He was president of the Pont-Rouge State Bank. 

                “Daddy’s been a widower for almost three years now.  He goes out once in awhile.  Occasionally he likes to put on his tux and go to the Country Club for dinner.  He has a few lady friends he meets there.  Not all at the same time - you know what I mean.”

                I smiled and nodded and told her that I did.  She thanked the waitress when she returned with her wine.  Then again she held it up to gaze through the pinkish fluid.  Still nothing.

                “Daddy made it big in sugar cane,” she said after she set the glass down.  “He started with about a hundred acres back in the mid-sixties and the last year before we sold, he harvested cane from over two thousand acres just south of Raceland off Highway l.  That’s all gone now.  He sold off his cane operations after he lost so much when the stock market tumbled in 1987.  He still has some stocks, and he has his pension from the bank, so financially he’s in pretty good shape.  It’s good that the house is clear.  If he has a need for a large sum of money, he sells some of his holdings.  There’s never been a time when I would say that money was tight.  Daddy always felt that Lila and I should work, even though we both receive an allowance.  It’s not much, you understand, or working wouldn’t be a learning experience.”

                Then after a pause she said, “now, how about telling me something about you, Mr. Stevens?”

                “Okay,” I said, after a sip of potion.   “I can do that.  I was born in Grand Island , Nebraska , also a small town like yours.  Only mine had a population of just under forty thousand, which is a little over twice the size of Pont-Rouge.  But it’s still a small town, if you know what I mean.  No opera, no symphony and no real cultural development other than the small town museum that had mostly local and midwestern United States artistic and historical objects on exhibition.”

                “I know what you mean,” she said.  “That’s why I like to go to New Orleans .  Age?”

                “Age?”

                “Yeah.  How old are you?”

                “Oh.  Thirty something.”

                “Okay.  I’m okay with that.  School?”

                “School?  Yeah.  I graduated from the University of Nebraska at Lincoln .”

                “You’re a pretty big boy, Rick.  Did you play football?”

                “Three years.  Damn good, too.  Didn’t get drafted by the pros though because I spent the last half of my final season on the bench with a bunged up knee.  I graduated with a ROTC commission, which entitled me to spend three years in the U.S. Army.  Join the Army and see the world.  No.  That’s the Navy isn’t it?  Join the Navy and see the world - through a porthole.  Only they don’t tell you that.”

                “What did you do in the Army?  I thought about joining the Army once when I was in high school.  I’m glad I got over it.”

                “I had a good job.  I was assigned to a special intelligence outfit of the military police.  I enjoyed it and actually considered making a career out of it.  But it got to a point where I couldn’t handle all the bureaucratic bullshit.”

                I took a sip of Scotch.  “Let’s see,” I said.   “After the Army I was a walk-on at a Dallas Cowboy’s training camp and spent four years as one of a dying breed.”

                “Dying breed?”

                “Yeah.  A white running back.”

                “Yes,” she said.  “I know what you mean.  Basketball’s seventy percent black,  and football’s at least sixty percent.  After baseball turns what’s left, hockey?  Jesus.”

                “Somehow I doubt that, Meagan,” I said to her.  But I didn’t comment on her sports analysis.

                “How about women, Rick?”

                “How about them?”

                “You know what I mean.  Are there any women in your life?  Serious, I mean.”

                “Depends on what you mean by serious, Meagan.  I’m always serious when it comes to women.  But if you’re asking if I’m married or engaged, the answer is no.  I was married once in my early twenties, but it didn’t work out.  I met her at the Cornhuskers public ice rink just off campus.  I met her and married her in my senior year.

                “She was a hell of a skater.  Every time I looked at her when she was on the ice I saw Olympic gold in her eyes.  That was her dream, to stand on that platform and receive her medal.  When she didn’t make the team the disappointment completely changed her attitude and her outlook on life.  Jesus, she loved to skate.  She must have had rink ice in her veins.   Our marriage went south after that.  It wasn’t her fault or mine.  We were just too young.”

                Meagan had a faint frown on her face when she asked, “Where is she now, Rick?  Do you ever see or hear from her?”

                “She has a really great job.  She’s the head choreographer for a big ice show.  She loves it.  Makes big bucks doing what she really wants to do.  I saw her once since we split up. That was three years ago when I went back home for my grandmother’s funeral. She got married again about a year ago, so that part of my life is over.”  I felt a little melancholy when I thought about it.  I drained the last of my drink. 

                I used to get misty eyed when I thought about Claire.  That was her name.  I’m a lot better now.  But right then I still felt like I wanted a drink, I guess, maybe for old time’s sake.  The wine level in Meagan’s glass hadn’t gone down more than a couple of sips.  We were out of synch, so I ordered one for myself.

                “How long have you been doing investigative work, Rick?  And how did you get into it?”

                “I’ve been a private investigator for the past five years,” I said.  “My military training led me right into it.  It’s a tough job and some times a rough job, but I like it.  I like being my own boss.  I can take a case or pass it up.  The pay’s pretty good and I meet a lot of different kinds of interesting people.”

                She smiled and said, “I’ll bet it is interesting work.”

                I smiled back at her and let my eyes drift across her lavender dress and said, “Yes it is.”

                There was a notion that I’d been cogitating since I saw Meagan step into the cocktail lounge.  Although the rain had let up periodically throughout the afternoon and evening, it had, for all practical purposes, been coming down in a torrential downpour for most of the day, and for sure, the last hour or so tonight.  The vexing question that so puzzled me was why Meagan, or anybody for that matter, would come out on such a night.  I took a sip of my more expensive Scotch but not much better drink and asked, “What brings you out in the monsoon, Meagan?”

                She looked at me with a coquetry smile and answered, “In case you didn’t notice, I was watching you with more than just casual interest this afternoon when you were at our house.  And to be completely honest Rick, I find you most provocative, and at the same time I find myself more than slightly ruffled.”

                Provocative?  Ruffled?  Hum, I thought.   If she was being completely honest now, did that mean that earlier she wasn’t?   Could be.  Who knows?  But right then, I thought, who cares?

                “So,” Meagan continued.  “When you told father that you had decided to stay in town because of the rain, and might very possibly stay here, I thought it might be fun to come over and just see what happens.  You never know, do you?”

                She took another sip of wine and while looking at me over the top of her glass, smiled that smile again.  Ruffled huh?  The town of Pont-Rouge , Louisiana , population fourteen thousand plus, was starting to show some signs of promise.

                “You’re right.  You never know,” I agreed, and then asked, “What is there to do at night in a town this size when they roll up the sidewalks at sundown.  And especially on a night like tonight when it’s pouring down rain?”

                “Well,” she purred, and leaned forward on the table so that her face was just a few inches from mine.  “I thought that I might just come over here, see if I could find you, and if I did, I might just put the move on you.”

                She said it straight forward and matter of factly.  Just like she had talked when we were discussing the weather earlier.  Ruffled, huh?  Her answer caught me by surprise and I was momentarily dumbfounded, so I’m sure I didn’t sound or appear overly astute when I said,                “Put the move on me?”  Now every one knows what that means.  She must have thought me a nerd, but like I said, her answer was unexpected.

Page Ten and Eleven

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