fished a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and dangled it from his lip. “‘Frenchie' Delahoussaye. The man you were stickin' up for out there.”
The man behind the bar was in his late sixties, short and stout with sloping shoulders and no neck. He was bald as a cue ball on top, with shaggy steel gray hair ringing the sides of his head and sprouting in fantastic tufts from his ears. A cloud of curly gray hair spilled out of the V of his plaid shirt, and a thick mustache draped across his upper lip and trailed down past the corners of his mouth. His eyebrows were so bushy, they could have been pads of steel wool glued to his forehead. He looked like a nutria that had taken human form by enchantment. He moved purposefully if slowly, filling tall mugs with beer from a tap.
In contrast, the woman behind the bar with him moved at the speed of light, dashing to fill glasses, grab a pack of cigarettes, call an order for a po'boy back through the window to the kitchen. She was younger than Ovide, though not by a lot, and her face showed every day of her years, with lines etched beside her eyes and thin mouth that was painted poppy orange to match her tower of hair. Her skin had the leathery look of a lifelong smoker. It was stretched taut and shiny against the bones of her skull, giving added emphasis to the large dark eyes that bulged out of her head as if she were perpetually startled. Despite her obvious age, she was still petite, with a hard, sinewy body beneath tight designer jeans from the seventies and an electric blue satin western shirt.
She snatched the two mugs from Ovide and plunked one down on the bar in front of Laurel, scolding Frenchie nonstop.
“What'sa matter wit' you, Ovide? Jack, he don' wan' no damn glass, him!”
She snatched a long-neck bottle of Pearl from the cooler and popped the top off while she grabbed a rag with the other hand and wiped a trail of water off the bar, her mouth going a mile a minute.
“Ovide, he don' know which way is up,
cher,
what wit' all this preacher and ever'ting all the time carryin' on outside our door.” She sucked in a breath and cast a glance heavenward that looked more like annoyance than supplication. “
Bon Dieu,
what dis world comin' to wit' the like of dat Jimmy Lee callin' himself a man of the cloth?
Mais, sa c'est fou!
It pains me to see.”
She cocked a thickly penciled brow at Jack and chastised him for being remiss in his manners, as if he could have gotten a word in edgewise. “So,
cher,
you gonna introduce me to
une belle femme
or what?”
Jack threw back his head and laughed, his arm automatically tightening around Laurel. She stopped breathing as her breast came into contact with his side.
“T-Grace,” he announced, “meet Miss Laurel Chandler. Laurel, T-Grace Delahoussaye, Frenchie's right hand, left hand, and mouthpiece.”
T-Grace slapped at him with her wet towel, even as her attention held fast on Laurel. “You say some pretty smart things to dat horse's ass Jimmy Lee,
chère
.”
“Miz Chandler is a lawyer, T-Grace,” Jack offered, a comment that made T-Grace lean back and eye Laurel as dubiously as if he had announced she was from outer space.
Laurel shifted uncomfortably on her stool and tried in vain to discreetly tug some of the wrinkles out of her blouse. “I'm not practicing at the moment. I'm just in town to visit relatives.”
T-Grace eyed Laurel critically, then said, “Ovide, he's jus' beside himself over dis ‘End Sin' thing with dat preacher and all,” as she accepted a tray of empty glasses from a waitress and whirled to set them next to the bar sink.
Laurel glanced at the impassive Ovide, who stood beside his wife, silently pouring drinks and lining them up on the bar for distribution. Either T-Grace was psychic or the man's moods were too subtle for normal human eyes to detect.
“You say some pretty hard things to make a man think,
oui
?” She gave a snort and swiped a fly off the bar with her rag. “If dat
The man behind the bar was in his late sixties, short and stout with sloping shoulders and no neck. He was bald as a cue ball on top, with shaggy steel gray hair ringing the sides of his head and sprouting in fantastic tufts from his ears. A cloud of curly gray hair spilled out of the V of his plaid shirt, and a thick mustache draped across his upper lip and trailed down past the corners of his mouth. His eyebrows were so bushy, they could have been pads of steel wool glued to his forehead. He looked like a nutria that had taken human form by enchantment. He moved purposefully if slowly, filling tall mugs with beer from a tap.
In contrast, the woman behind the bar with him moved at the speed of light, dashing to fill glasses, grab a pack of cigarettes, call an order for a po'boy back through the window to the kitchen. She was younger than Ovide, though not by a lot, and her face showed every day of her years, with lines etched beside her eyes and thin mouth that was painted poppy orange to match her tower of hair. Her skin had the leathery look of a lifelong smoker. It was stretched taut and shiny against the bones of her skull, giving added emphasis to the large dark eyes that bulged out of her head as if she were perpetually startled. Despite her obvious age, she was still petite, with a hard, sinewy body beneath tight designer jeans from the seventies and an electric blue satin western shirt.
She snatched the two mugs from Ovide and plunked one down on the bar in front of Laurel, scolding Frenchie nonstop.
“What'sa matter wit' you, Ovide? Jack, he don' wan' no damn glass, him!”
She snatched a long-neck bottle of Pearl from the cooler and popped the top off while she grabbed a rag with the other hand and wiped a trail of water off the bar, her mouth going a mile a minute.
“Ovide, he don' know which way is up,
cher,
what wit' all this preacher and ever'ting all the time carryin' on outside our door.” She sucked in a breath and cast a glance heavenward that looked more like annoyance than supplication. “
Bon Dieu,
what dis world comin' to wit' the like of dat Jimmy Lee callin' himself a man of the cloth?
Mais, sa c'est fou!
It pains me to see.”
She cocked a thickly penciled brow at Jack and chastised him for being remiss in his manners, as if he could have gotten a word in edgewise. “So,
cher,
you gonna introduce me to
une belle femme
or what?”
Jack threw back his head and laughed, his arm automatically tightening around Laurel. She stopped breathing as her breast came into contact with his side.
“T-Grace,” he announced, “meet Miss Laurel Chandler. Laurel, T-Grace Delahoussaye, Frenchie's right hand, left hand, and mouthpiece.”
T-Grace slapped at him with her wet towel, even as her attention held fast on Laurel. “You say some pretty smart things to dat horse's ass Jimmy Lee,
chère
.”
“Miz Chandler is a lawyer, T-Grace,” Jack offered, a comment that made T-Grace lean back and eye Laurel as dubiously as if he had announced she was from outer space.
Laurel shifted uncomfortably on her stool and tried in vain to discreetly tug some of the wrinkles out of her blouse. “I'm not practicing at the moment. I'm just in town to visit relatives.”
T-Grace eyed Laurel critically, then said, “Ovide, he's jus' beside himself over dis ‘End Sin' thing with dat preacher and all,” as she accepted a tray of empty glasses from a waitress and whirled to set them next to the bar sink.
Laurel glanced at the impassive Ovide, who stood beside his wife, silently pouring drinks and lining them up on the bar for distribution. Either T-Grace was psychic or the man's moods were too subtle for normal human eyes to detect.
“You say some pretty hard things to make a man think,
oui
?” She gave a snort and swiped a fly off the bar with her rag. “If dat
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