Globusz^® Publishing 

The lazy Baton Rouge River swelled and rippled in the afternoon sun. Jean Pierre looked up to hear Cajun music blaring from the Riverboat Princess. It was a common sight these days, gambling boats on the Bayou.

A cry was heard from the other side of the field. Jean Pierre looked over from his plantings of corn and rhubarb and stared at the black curly hair of his son. Paulie was five, sitting on the tractor playing conductor. “Paulie!” he cried. “Be careful, you might fall off!”. Paulie ignored him, riding the thing wildly until he lost his balance and toppled off the front seat. Jean Pierre raced over to him. His son lay rolling on the ground in a fit of hysterical laughter. “Oh, you silly boy, mon tiens, you scared me”.

Jean Pierre was forty two, divorced and nearly broke. The farm had taken every cent that he had and he struggled to keep it running.He was Cajun, his great grandparents had been French. He was proud of his heritage. He kept traditions alive by storytelling, his great pleasure. Tonight was Saturday night. There would be stories later, with wine and God willing, women.

“Come on so, it’s time to wash up, alons!”. Paulie followed him into the farmhouse. The house had been in the family since 1920. It was a grand old structure, with wooden shingles painted bright red. The barn matched and was enclosed by a white fence, carefully tended by Jean Pierre.

The screen door creaked as it swung open. They entered into the house, followed by Bastille, the hound dog. Bastille liked to be inside, anywhere near the kitchen to grab a quick buscuit. Jean Pierre opened the fridge which had drawings by Paulie plastered all over it. There was plenty to eat, he always kept a well stocked fridge. He pulled out a ham and some bread and mustard and popped open a beer. He put two glasses on the table and poured one glass almost full and one glass half full.”Only a little for you”. Paulie took a sip of the beer and made a face. “Pappa, why do you like this? It’s yukky!” Jean Pierre laughed, “It’s what men drink after a hard day in the field”. “Well, I don’t like it. I want Coke”. He opened a Coke and Paulie sipped it. “Ah, that what I like.......” Jean Pierre bit into his sandwhich. “You’ll learn in time”.

They ate in silence awhile. Suddenly Paulie blurted out, “When I grow up I want to be President”. “President of the United States?” “Yes....”. Jean Pierre bit into a pickle half. “Yes, well, we better get going on your education....Its’a long way from Baton Rouge to Washington. “I don’t like Washington, I want to stay here”. Jean Pierre smiled, “All Presidents live in Washington. Thats where the important people are.” Paulie retorted, “Well, you’re important, and you’re here!”

There was a loud knock at the door. Jean Pierre looked out the window. There was a green Ford Taurus in the driveway. He looked out on the porch. A young woman was standing there, brunette hair to her shoulders, carrying a briefcase. Jean Pierre opened the door. “Yes? Can I help you?” Upon closer inspection, her face was young and unlined, her complexion smooth. She was plain but pretty.

Christine Hudson was nervous. She had convinced herself that Jean Pierre Montagne was the perfect candidate for her story. She didn’t know if he would be willing to talk, but she was ready to try. They had told her in town that The Storytellers were proud people. They didn’t like being questioned about much. She smiled at him. “Hello. I’m Christine Hudson”. Jean Pierre was dubious. “Are you from a bank?” He looked concerned. “No, I’m a freelance journalist. I write stories and I found your name from Ben Galois in town. They said you were the best Storyteller in Louisianna”.

“Please, come in”. She followed him inside through the rustic living room. The walls were covered in wood panelling and there were shelves lined with books everywhere. Fishing momentos crammed every corner and pictures in silver frames were spread out on little wooden side tables. She sat down on a plaid sofa, moving a small cushion from her back. The dog guarded her closely. “He’s alright, he doesn’t bite....Just wants a sniff”. She smiled. He seemed to be responding well so far. She hoped he would grant her an interview.

Jean Pierre sat in a chair facing her. “So, what do you want to know?” She pulled out a small black microcassette recorder from her briefcase and set it on the table. “Mind if I tape you? “No, I suppose not”.....Jean Pierre was a bit nervous. It wasn’t too often that a pretty young lady showed up at his door. “Alright”. She pulled out a notepad and jotted down his name and the date. “So, tell me about your roots”.....”Well, my grandparents were Arcadians, they came over from France”. They settled here, this farm is theirs, just as they left it, with some updated plumbing of course...My grandfather had his own shrimping business, did well in the depression. But they were Storytellers too.” She leaned foward, “What sorts of stories do you tell?” He smiled, “Ah, that is the question. Like most other storytellers, i tell of happenings from my days. I observe and remember. I see and I say, it is not complex. Just the art of speaking. I tell animal stories, stories of hardship, stories about the farm and stories about my son”.

She moves the microcassette closer. “How do you feel that modern life has affected you?” Jean Pierre looks a little baffled. “Well, it’s hard on me. Being a single parent, trying to maintain the farm, the tradition. It’s a struggle to survive, no doubt. It’s not easy being a farmer”.

She puts down her pen. “Thank you so much”. He nods. “No problem, anytime”. She gets up. “I’ll let you know if I get this story to print. They walk through the house. She notes the framed prints on the walls of Cajun dancers and musicians. “I’m having a little party tommorrow night, if you’d like to stop by. There’ll be some good food and some stories to hear.”. She smiled at him, “Why yes, that sounds good. I’d love to come by”.

Christina pulled out of the drive and waved goodbye. Jean Pierre stands on the porch and watched her drive away. She was heading back to town, to the newsroom.

The Guardian was the only local paper in Baton Rouge. She needed a story to get her in the door. It was tough being a woman in a small town. Tough being taken seriously. She was a graduate of Louisianna University with a degree in English yet no one would hire her as a writer.

She pulled up to the newsroom. The building was a two story brick building with a big sign that reads, “The Guardian - Honor The Truth”. She walks into the newsroom. It is cold and gray. Yound men sit typing in little cubicles, old coffee cups at their desks. She wishes she had her own cubicle there, a place for her little yellow stickies and her trusty laptop.

All eyes were on her as she made her way towards the bosses door at the end of the hall. She walked towards the door and stopped. A secretary looked up. She was blonde and had wispy hair pulled back in a bun. She was wearing a pink cardigan and looked like a scene out of a Rockwell Americana poster. Christina felt like a freak. What was she trying to prove? Could she really pull this off? Get this job? Be a success? The secretary stared at her. “Mr. Adams will be with you in one minute. Please have a seat.”

She sat and stared at the ugly prints on the walls. They were cheaply framed golf prints in plastic frames. Tasteless. The door opened and a geeky guy walked out. A voice is heard from within. “Come on in” She enters the office. It is painted a deep hunter green and the floor is covered with astroturf. There is a big cherry desk in the center of it and a golfing hole set up in the corner. Mr Adams is sitting at his desk with his feet up. His big, balding head shines in the flourescent lights. He leers at her.

“Well, well....So you’re Christina.....Have a seat young lady”. She sits down and looks at him. He does not look like a nice man. He looks like a snake. “ Nice to meet you”, she smiles. He looks at her, skimming her breasts carefully concealed under two layers of protective clothing. “ Look, Christina, I don’t want to get your hopes up here, but this is a serious newspaper. The only females that work for me are secretaries and cleaning staff, you understand. Not reporters”.

She was aghast. Could this really be happening in this day and age? isn’t this against the law?”Well, I am a serious reporter. I have journalism experieince. i worked for the Sun-Sentinel for six months as a writer.” He smiles an evil smile. “That’s great honey, but this is different here. This is a privately funded paper”.She was confused. “So?”

He leaned forward and whispered. “So, my boss calls the shots. He gets what he wants. News. Hard core news. The facts. No fluff.What have you got to offer me?” She unzips her bag and pulls out the recorder. “I will not disappoint you. Right now I am working on a piece about a Storyteller.”

He laughs. “A what? Oh, you mean those old yahoos in the sticks who weave old wives tales and get drunk all day...Yeah, i knew this was going nowhere fast....Listen, sweetie, I hate to waste your time and mine. This is a newspaper. It was nice to meet you”.

She gets up. “Yeah, nice to meet you too.” He goes over and pulls an iron out of the holder. He swings it. “If you want to have dinner sometime, give me a buzz”. She smiles a sarcastic smile.”I’ll see you later, Mister. Much later.” She walks out past the secretary. He yells “ Good luck with your fairy tale”.*

Christina headed out of the office feeling nervous and depressed. She knew she could be a damn good reporter if she got the chance. She had been in town for four months now and had not had a bite at a decent job offer. She was running pretty low on cash. It was time to work and soon.

She stopped by the Sunflower Diner, the local eatery on Delancy Street. The place was full of old timers and some farmers, housewives and businessmen. She slid into a booth with a window seat. There was a newspaper lying on the seat and she picked it up and glanced at the headline. It read, “Local Politician Passes Casino Bill”. Boring. She glanced through the paper until she got to the classifieds. The waitress appreared with a cup of coffee.

“Here you go hon”. The coffee sloshed around in the mug. The waitress had red hair and a freckled face. She was wearing pink earrings and had a little pink bow on her black uniform.

“Thanks”. “How have you been? Haven’t seen you round here much”. “Well, I’ve been busy moving”. “Oh yeah....movin’s a bitch girl”. So much we accumulate, it’s all junk in the end”. “You said it. I don’t have much though, moved here from Gavensport four months ago, just tryin’ to make things happen”. “What are you lookin at the classifieds for? You lookin for a job?” “Yeah”. She leaned closer to her and said under her breath. “I heard old Gus Pappadopoulos was hirin’ on the Princess.” “The Princess?” The waitress looked at her incredulously. “You never heard of the Riverboat Princess? She’s the grandaddy of casino boats.” “Well, I don’t know....” “Well, you need to make some cash, don’t you girl?” “Thanks for the tip...I’ll definitely think about it”. “You’d look cute in one of them skimpy uniforms....”. “Yeah, I can just picture it. Me and my thunderthighs”. “Coffee, tea or me sugar”. “Yeah, thanks”..... “I’ll be back with your sandwhich.”

Christina thought about it. it would be interesting working on a boat. She hated the thought of being a waitress but the money was probably good. She needed it, that was for sure. She would have to put the writing career on hold for awhile.

Jean Pierre looked at his watch. It was six fifteen. His guests would be arriving any minute. He straightened up the living room, fixing the pillows and pushing old newspapers out of the way. He set six chairs around the dining table and lit some candles on the table and on the mantlepiece. He hoped that the reporter woman would show up. She was a pretty woman, there was no doubt.

He laid out some food, some chicken legs and some potatoes. He opened a bottle of red wine to let it breathe a bit. He glanced over a the candles flickering on the mantel. The mantel had pictures of him and his son, their fishing trips, school pictures and one small picture of his late wife, Simone.

Simone had been his high school sweetheart, a dark haired beauty with long, curly brown hair. He looked at her picture and his heart sank . She had been gone for three years now and each time he thought of her was agonizing. They had had such happy times together, fishing together in the Bayou and telling each other stories for hours and hours. She had been part Indian and her family lived out West. She told him stories of how her father made tents out of old skins.

She had been the love of his life and now he was alone with a boy to raise. He had not been with another woman since her death, fearing to get close to anybody again. Oh, there was some interest in town. But he had stayed solitaire. He vowed to stay clear of women for awhile. And now this reporter woman. No, he would be careful. No attatchments.

There was a knock at the door. Mr Le Blanc was there, standing beside his wife, Tante Bertha. They were river people and they were both at least seventy pounds overweight. Tante Bertha was carrying a big dish of Jambolaya.

“Come in, come in”. Jean Pierre opened the door. “Come here and give me a kiss”. Tante Bertha puckered her lips. Jean Pierre gave her a big kiss on the cheek and slapped Monsiure Le Blanc on the back. “So glad you came”.

The jambolaya smelled delicious and he poked his finger in the dish. “I made it fresh this afternoon”. Bertha remarked. “I know how you boys can eat”. “She’s the best cook around. I guess I’ll put up with her”. Old Le Blanc joked. “If you won’t have her I will. “

They all laughed and filed into the living room.

Beau Baxter was at home for the evening. The phone had stopped ringing and the help had gone home for the day. He poured himself a glass of brandy and sat back in his favorite leather chair. He was a lucky bastard and he knew it. He glanced at the newspaper headline which read, “Local Politician Passes Casino Bill”.

He had been in office for two years now and he had all he wanted. Or almost all of it. Once he had the Princess in his pocket he would be a wealthy man. It was a cash cow, no doubt and he intended on milking it for all it was worth.

The Princess was one of seven casino boats operating on the river. It was the largest, most luxuious boat owned by fast food magnate Gus Pappadopoulos who registered in England. Beau’s job was to make sure that some of the money went into local businesses, like brothels and drug operations. Hey, give and ye shall receive.

Gus was a small time guy made good. His parents had come off the boat from Greece with nothing but some woolen clothes on their backs and Gus had built an empire fifty years later. He had started out his career as a cook in a restaurant. He was an ambitious guy and soon opened up several locations which he later sold as a chain. Taking his first million he started a string of stripclubs and finally worked his way up to Casino boats. Gus had befreinded a wealthy tycoon in England Peter Dorf who had one Rolls Royce for every day of the week. Dorf bankrolled the entire operation, making Gus a wealthy man. Gus had wildly lavish taste and this was reflected in the Princess, which had original Oriental carpets, mahogany fixtures and crystal chandeliers. The boat was like a floating brothel with beautiful young girls to wait it’s customers hand and foot.

Gus Pappadopoulos had come a long way from the sandwhich shop. Beau would never let him forget his humble beginnings, calling him Papou” for short. Papou was Greek for Grandfather. Gus was far from being a grandfather. He had a steady supply of young women at his beck and call and stockpiled his money into tech stocks and sports betting.

Beau picked up the phone.

“Good evening Papou” “Hello”. “Are you setting sail on time?” “I’ll send a car for you”. Beau looked at his watch. It was seven fifteen. “Alright. I’ll see you soon. I have some new business to discuss with you”. Click.