Pansy laughed. “Uh, right. He was too young anyway, but I did have some of those The Graduate fantasies.”
“The man’s trying to bring in a bar when we just got rid of Maggio’s. Don’t you remember wading through puke to open the store? Or how about the night you worked late and someone broke into your car? Or maybe you’ll remember the drunk asleep in the alcove who pooped by the garbage bin?”
Pansy twisted her lips. “But it’s Dez Batiste. He’s back in New Orleans. And I can’t imagine that he’d—”
“A bar is a bar. It’s not going to bring us business. It will only be a headache. Trust me.”
Pansy walked toward the register. “You need to get laid.”
“You need to do your job,” Eleanor said, heading for the rear of the store and her small office, which was crammed into a room the size of a coat closet. Damn Pansy for not being on her side.
“I do my job every day,” Pansy called, her tone slightly hurt but more perturbed. Pansy didn’t take crap off anyone...not even her employers and friend. “And you still need a good f—”
“Don’t say it,” Eleanor growled, slamming her office door, blocking out Pansy and her unwanted advice.
Eleanor sank against the door and gave a heavy sigh.
Sweet Mary Mother of Jesus, she’d been such a fool.
Dez Batiste.
He wasn’t what she’d expected. Oh, Pansy had raved for days after finding out Dez Batiste and his partner had bought the old building across from them. Oddly enough, Eleanor had prayed for someone to snap up the old bank with its pretty mosaic tiles flanking its doors and the interesting fresco reliefs trimming the upper floor. But she’d hoped for a yarn shop or an organic health food store.
Not a nightclub.
Run by a hot young jazz musician.
Well, she wasn’t going to think about how hot he was or the sort of challenge he’d flung back at her.
He’d change her mind.
Huh.
Not likely.
Even if she’d likely have erotic fantasies about him all night long.
Pansy was right. She needed to get laid.
CHAPTER TWO
TRE JACKSON LIFTED the heavy bookcase with ease and placed the piece where Mrs. Dupuy indicated it should sit in her husband’s den. The bottom slipped a little on the slick Oriental carpet, but settled snug against the ornate baseboard.
“Perfect, darling,” the older white lady trilled, clapping together hands with fingernails tipped in fancy white polish. She then ran one hand along the aged wormwood that had been painstakingly restored. “Tommy loves pieces with history, and it’s perfect.”
Tre stood back and nodded, though he had no idea why anyone would want some old piece of furniture with marks and grooves all in it. He just didn’t get white people. Why buy something old when you could have something new, something solid steel, something that wouldn’t rot? But rich white ladies strolled into the Queen’s Box and dropped crazy money on old stuff all the time.
But he didn’t have to understand antiques junkies to do his job. For the past few months he’d been working for Eleanor Theriot, and he wasn’t sure how it had happened. One minute he was standing there looking at the help-wanted sign, the next he was filling out a W-2. Crazy stupid to be working for someone who could have him arrested in the blink of an eye, but he’d needed a job...and that sign had called out to him.
Mrs. Dupuy turned toward him, handed him two twenty-dollar bills and gave him a weird smile.
This particular crazy white people habit didn’t bother him so much. Rich ladies always tipped good unless they were real old. Real old ladies—black, white or purple-polka-dotted—didn’t part with money too easy. He bobbed his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Dupuy.”
“Oh, no. Thank you, Tre. And please tell Eleanor she made a good find with that piece. Exactly what I envisioned,” she said, smiling at walls the color of blood and sweeping a hand toward blossomy drapes. “Now if I could only find an antique secretary’s desk to fit between those two windows. You tell her to be on the lookout, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am. I will.” He slid toward the wide double doors that opened to the marble foyer. Mrs. Winnie Dupuy was a lonely woman, spending much of her time shopping for things her too-busy husband might like. Which meant she could talk a blue streak if someone took up the other end of the conversation. Tre wasn’t. He had another delivery