The Cajuns

Book by Weill Gus

Chapter One: 1956

Three days before the end of the school year, Bob Boudreaux, Sheriff of Richelieu Parish, Louisiana, walked down a short flight of steps at the rear of the courthouse where his gray unmarked Ford was parked, got in, turned on the ignition, and backed out onto St. Peter Street.

The cruiser was immaculate, kept that way by Herman "Thank You Please" Washington, the trustee who was by far the Sheriff's most dependable employee.

Bob Boudreaux was a neat compact man, not quite six feet tall, who by midsummer would look Spanish. He wore khaki shirt and trousers over polished brown boots. A simple star-shaped, gold badge that read sheriff was pinned to his shirt pocket. His black hair was neatly parted, and you could see his scalp; white was beginning to show above his small ears.

His gray eyes peered out from beneath narrow upper lids, shielding thoughts turned inward. His nose lay flat against his face, broken in a long ago fight and ill set by the late Dr. Prudhomme.

The mouth was a straight line, like something drawn on the ground with a stick. The lips were all but nonexistent.

He turned on the radio as he drove onto Main Street, where telephone poles were festooned with fading pink and gray circulars, old promises from the last campaign. Promises for rural people who wanted to believe. Promise: Drainage ditches are kept clean and open at all times. Promise: Grass is cut monthly in ditches and on roadsides. Promise: Garbage is collected weekly.

All these candidates had lost. People stayed with the tried and the true, Sheriff Bob Boudreaux thought, whatever tried and true meant.

He had been elected by trickery and reelected without opposition, and thought, I am tried but am I true? In some ways, he reasoned, in some ways.

Then he quickly put the thought behind him. What point would be served? What in hell was truth but a sore he kept picking at? He thought of BeBe and with guilt turned on the radio to make that thought go away as well.

He saw Na Na Duhon spinning records, standing in the plate glass window of his radio station, CAJN. Na Na's bow tie bobbed as he sent sweet nothings to his De De: "Daddy's gonna bring home some good ice cream for his De De." Play the music, Na Na, for God's sake play the music! Mean people said, Why didn't Na Na send sweet nothings over the air to his little papoon at Misty's Paradise Inn, huh?

Na Na saw the Sheriff, gave a big wave, then shot him the finger. Boudreaux stared back, face expressionless. Na Na threw back his head and laughed. No way to get a rise out of Bob Boudreaux!

For sure. Music at last. Thank you Jesus. Thought of BeBe now gone.

The only Roman numerals in Richelieu were on the face of the clock on the First National Bank, stuck at 4:00, like Main Street's single stoplight -- stuck on red. There was something comforting about it. Always 4:00, always red. Old-timers leaned against the bank, dressed in Tuf-Nut coveralls, brogans, white socks, cash from their Social Security checks in their pockets. Most were tenant farmers too old to work the land, thrown out of the shacks they had raised their children in, spent a productive lifetime in. That was the catch: you had to be productive.

Big Shot Fontenot exited the bank, high-stepping it to Savoy's Pool Room for one final bourrée game before the wake. Funny how men walked, Boudreaux thought. Big Shot walked like he owned the earth -- which he just about did. Along with the Senator. The Senator made him think of BeBe. Bad. He was saved again by Father Brother-in-law's soothing voice caressing God via the Rosary, which he recited every afternoon on CAJN.

"Hail Mary full of grace..."

Having the Rosary in the background seemed somehow appropriate while going past Hurphy Perrault's law offices, the best looking building on Main. All white brick and glass, like an alien spaceship amid the plain wooden fronts of almost everything else. Hurphy was attorney for the diocese, district attorney for the parish. Hurphy would be left the Bishop's ring upon his death and was the only Knight of St. Gregory in all of Richelieu. Hurphy had a clubfoot, but no one noticed it because Hurphy was also very rich. "He got it coming out the ass," was the way Bad Ass Thibodeaux, the town drunk, described him, and everyone nodded. Bad Ass certainly had a way of putting things. Drunk or sober, although his sobriety was really only a memory.

Bobby drove past Moe Weiss's Notions and Tobacco. Camel cigarettes, Gillette Blue Blades, Vitalis, Keep Moving Cigars.

Doc Alcide Mouton's redbrick clinic was next, the red light on outside the emergency entrance.

Coon's -- Since 1900. Already filled with bourrée players and Jax beer drinkers, slapping their cards down on the table like a fusillade of pistol shots! Catfish Francois stirring the courtbouillon or gumbo or sauce piquant of the day in his big black pot. Drink, play cards, shoot the shit. Coon Soileau should have been a wealthy man, but he was his own best customer and always lost.

The Sheriff rolled past Hot Dog Hebert's Bakery, scent of donuts and cream puffs and fresh French loaves filling the air like perfume. Hot Dog admitted, "It don' taste good as it smells," a puzzle he had never solved. "Like a virgin's pussy," Hot Dog liked to brag. No one argued.

Past Tooky "Best Rates in Town" Trahan's Insurance. Maryland Casualty, Travelers, and Aetna -- he had them all. Blessed Mother in the window, smiling like Tooky had got her a good policy, and a cross over the door. Tooky did a big church business and believed in advertising.

Past Possum Aucoin's Barbershop. Possum asleep in his own chair, the Gazette over his face to keep the sun out. Gossip slept in Richelieu. Rumor took a snooze.

"Blessed art thou amongst women..."

Watch Out Naquin's Funeral Parlor came into view, one of Watch Out's coloreds out front polishing the black hearse. The Sheriff smiled, though his lips barely moved. Watch Out swore to one and all at One Lung Savoy's poolroom (in defense of a direct accusation by Possum Aucoin) that he absolutely "my han' to Gawd!" made the colored boy get out of the room when he embalmed a white lady. Further, Watch Out declared, "I believe in states' rights firs', las', and always!" His mean-spirited listeners snickered. They weren't so sure. Possum had previously stated that the colored boy was Watch Out's son. He was known to prefer black women. Watch Out was forced to take another oath.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven..."

Slowly past Richelieu High School, where Cap'n Eddie, the crossing guard, waiting for the buses that would take the children home, offered a salute which the Sheriff did not return. One of these days real soon he was going to have to do something about Eddie Sonnier, Purple Heart or not. Enough is enough, he thought and tapped his steering wheel in frustration. He dreaded the inevitable.

"Blessed art thou among women..." Father Brother-in-law was reciting the Rosary at an accelerated pace. He too had to get to Ti Boy's wake.

Poor little Ti Boy, an image of him scooting by on his bicycle, the Gazette bag dancing side to side on his handlebars.

Bobby thought, The last time I attended a child's wake it was Hot Dog Hebert's son. The kid couldn't leave his daddy's donuts alone, ate thirty-six of them for breakfast, died of obesity. Took twelve pallbearers. Watch Out Naquin, who'd embalmed him, said the lad weighed in at three hundred pounds. Bobby was unable to eat donuts thereafter, though he still loved their smell.

Father Brother-in-law's final "amen" came as Bobby pulled into Prejean's Esso for a fill-up. President Prejean himself tanked him up. "It's a sad day," President said as he halfheartedly wiped at the window with a dirty cloth. "It looks worse," Bobby muttered, but President paid him no mind. Prejean's mama had named him President so that no matter what, people would have to address her pride and joy as President. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy, as Prejean was in his fourth term as President of the Rotary, Richelieu's only civic club, though it boasted at least eleven Catholic organizations (Sodality of the Blessed Virgin, Catholic Daughters of America, Ladies Altar Guild, Society of the Little Sisters of the Poor, Knights of Columbus, et cetera, et cetera.) No one could say exactly why they voted for Prejean. It had to be the name, Bobby thought as he drove away. Rumor was that Prejean was thinking of running for public office, maybe Mayor, bad news for Big Head Arceneaux, who was both Mayor and Richelieu's only midget. Big Head told the boys at Possum Aucoin's barbershop, "He's gon' find out there's a hell of a difference in being Mayor and being President." Hurphy Perrault offered what he thought he'd heard President's campaign slogan would be: "It takes a big man for a big job." The Mayor, who stood just over four feet tall, said he didn't think that was a damn bit funny and stormed from the barbershop, laughter following him out the door. Hurphy innocently asked, "What the hell's he mad about?" And got some more laughter.

One of the last shops on Main Street was Maybelle's Beauty Parlor. Slogan: "A little corner of Paris in Richelieu." Maybelle actually went to Paris every other year to keep up with the latest in styles. The Gazette followed up on these exotic visits every time with a front-page interview in which Maybelle gave very little away about those new styles. "They're both fascinating and unique" was the most she'd say. But it stimulated her business so much that men even sneaked into the shop at night (by appointment) so that they could be up to date on hairstyles. The radio station owner, Na Na Duhon, was one of her customers for sure. "That and a twenty-dollar bill is how he keeps his little papoon," Possum Aucoin said, not liking the competition one darn bit. Possum also suggested that Maybelle didn't go to Paris at all but slipped away to her sister's in neighboring Port Arthur, Texas. "That's her Paris," he said, g...