René was wearing jeans, boots, and an accordion. That was all, except for the tattoo on his right shoulder that resembled an ink splotch but was probably a shrimp. Joining them in this madness were a few Cajun pals of René’s: a fireman who no doubt looked spiffy to some people in his suspenders and plastic pants and boots, not to mention helmet; a second-team football player from the New Orleans Saints, who appeared to have no underwear on under his uniform; and Luc’s old pal, Ambrose “Rosie” Mouton, in his cop outfit. Rosie seemed as uncomfortable as he did.
Though he wasn’t showing any skin, his boss might fire him over this misuse of official apparel.
Needless to say, they were going to be the Village People of Southern Louisiana. To the music of “Macho Man,” they would be singing, “Ca-jun, Ca-jun man. I want to be a Ca-jun man.”
If his heart wasn’t broken and his brain in temporary meltdown over Sylvie, Luc never would have agreed to this insanity. He had put his pride in his pocket two weeks ago when he’d gone to Sylvie’s home, but she’d pretty much told him to take a hike. He’d kept expecting her to change her mind, but no such luck. Each day that went by saw his dreams being chipped away bit by bit, till they were practically nonexistent now.
Everyone kept telling him not to give up hope, especially Tante Lulu, who was going overboard on the St. Jude stuff this week. He was almost afraid to look up at the sky for fear of seeing a Goodyear Blimp in the shape of St. Jude. Cha-maine had even told him she’d heard a rumor that Tante Lulu had the ladies’ auxiliary at Our Lady of the Bayou Church making a novena for him. Imagine that! A love novena.
It had been a foolish fantasy to begin with, he supposed. The Cajun bad boy and the Creole princess. An impossible mix.
But, God, it had been sweet while it lasted.
“It’s all for a good cause,” René was protesting for the zillionth time, calling Luc back to the present. He was still trying to justify the madness he’d conned them into.
“How come we couldn’t make a hundred-dollar donation like everyone else?” the fireman griped.
“And I’m not having sex with a pole, either, René, so just forget it.”
“Mon Dieu! I never heard so much complaining in all my life. Those Cajun dockworkers from Morgan City are gonna be the Cajun-dales. You know, like the Chippindales. And all they’ll be wearing are G-strings made of shrimp shells. They have no qualms about dancing with firemen’s poles.”
The jaws of a lawyer, cowboy, fireman, football player, and cop dropped open at that. You never knew for sure when René was kidding.
The only saving grace for Luc was knowing that Sylvie wouldn’t see him like this. She’d never be caught dead at such a low-down, rowdy affair.
But, damn, he’d like to see her one more time.
Their Cajun version of the Village People was an overwhelming hit. The stage was spotlighted, but they could see out into the neon-lit darkness where people were standing and clapping and singing along and letting loose wild rebel yells.
All of them on stage got a little caught up in the magic, and, yes, they did swing their hips a bit. Hey, they were Cajuns, after all; there was music in their souls. Even the stoic Remy had the women drooling when he did an ever-so-subtle roll of the hips during one of their syncopated turns, like those old Motown groups… or like, well, the Village People. Rosie did this thing with his baton that was… well, there were no words for it. The crowd loved it, though. Every time the fireman snapped his suspenders, the young girls in the crowd practically fainted. When the football player shook his bootie at them, catcalls and wolf whistles filled the arena.
All Luc did was dance a little, and once he flashed the edge of his Valentine boxers, for which he’d developed a fondness. That seemed to satisfy the mob, though some women kept yelling at him to “Take it off! Take it all off!”