CHAPTER 4: Terry Wolf

The diner was hot and crowded. The place was also small, with barely enough room for a ten-stool lunch counter and a dozen or so tables.

Every stool and chair was taken by rednecks stuffing crawfish and gumbo into their mouths and washing it down with tall glasses of beer.

The air inside seemed as thick and stale as the air outside. I started to tell Tony that he could meet with the guy about whatever the thing was while I took the Rover and found a nicer place to eat that had air conditioning.

Then I saw the redhead standing behind the lunch counter staring at us. The old Wolf radar started pinging like a submarine. I could feel the pulse of it in my balls. Tony felt it, too. He gave me a sideways glance and smiled.

“There’s a table coming empty,” Beecher said in a thick Cajun accent. He was a short, older man with thinning white hair and thick glasses. He was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and a black tie that hung lopsided off his neck. According to Tony, the guy was a bona fide genius, like some rocket scientist of the bayou.

Beecher started toward a table in the corner while everyone in the place turned to look at us. They all knew Beecher. It took us a minute to get to the table because he had to stop every few feet to shake someone’s hand and talk about how fucking hot it was outside.

“I can’t believe the shit you drag me into,” I whispered to the back of Tony’s head.

“Relax,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at me. “Did you see the redhead at the counter?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So, put on a smile and be nice,” he said. “Remember, money and pussy.”

“Trust me, that’s all I’m thinking about,” I said. We wedged our way into chairs around the little table, which was covered with the dirty dishes and leftovers of the previous occupants. I winced at the sight. It looked like a table full of dog scraps.

“Hi, Bob,” the redhead from the counter said, appearing just as we sat down.

“Hi, Danny,” Bob said with a smile. “How you doing? Your daddy here?”

“In the kitchen, like always.” She was carrying a tray. She stacked the dirty dishes on it and swirled a damp rag over the table. She passed out one-page, homemade menus and smiled at us. “Let me clear these dishes away, and then I’ll get your orders.”

“Who is that?” I asked, watching her walk away. She was wearing a pair of jeans that hugged her round ass and hips like a second skin. The red hair flowed halfway down her back and bounced when she walked.

“That’s Danny Robicheaux,” Bob said. “She owns the place. Her daddy used to own it, but now he’s the cook. Amazing what that man can do with a crawfish. Do you boys like crawfish?”

“I like redheads,” I said absently. Tony poked an elbow in my side.

“I love Cajun food,” my brother said. “My brother is more of a steak and lobster kind of guy.”

“Well, you’ll love this place then,” Bob said. “Best Cajun food in the state, far as I’m concerned.”

The redhead returned with an order pad in one hand and a pen in the other. When she smiled at me, I had to keep my mouth from drooping open.

Now, let me be clear.

My brother and I had travelled all over the world and we had both had our share of beautiful women.

Some I had.

Some he had.

Some we had together.

But I had never seen a bluer pair of eyes than the ones that were looking at me now. Or a set of boobs that did to a white T-shirt what her boobs were doing. Or a face that was as naturally pretty. If she was wearing makeup, I couldn’t see it.

When I looked at her I could feel little bolts of lightning shooting through my balls.

Tony called it our Wolf Sense.

She held the pen at the ready and let her eyebrows go up.

“So, boys, what would you like?”

I would like you, I thought.

Naked.

On this table.

With your legs spread.

Right now.

Tony nudged me with his elbow again. “Order.”

“Oh, sorry,” I said, shaking the image of her naked body from my mind. I licked my lips. I could almost taste her. “Uh, I’ll just have a small gumbo and a beer.”

“That’s it?” Bob asked. “You come all this way and you’re gonna just have a small gumbo?”

Tony plucked the menus from our hands and tapped them on the table between his fingers. He looked up at her and smiled. That bastard. We had the same face, but he used it so much better than I did.

“What was your name, miss?” he asked politely.

“Danny Robicheaux,” she said. “Well, Danielle, but you can call me Danny. I’m the owner.”

“Pleased to meet you, Danny. I’m Tony Wolf and this is my brother, Terry.”

Bob chimed in like we were old pals. “These are the Wolf boys from New York City, Danny,” he said proudly, like he was presenting us at a coming out party. “Personal friends of mine.”

Tony glanced at Bob and gave his head a little shake. “Obviously, you already know Bob.”

He held out the menus to her. She clipped her fingers onto the end of the menus closest to her. Tony didn’t let go of his end. It looked like they were about to play tug-of-war.

He said, “Can we just get three of everything to eat and a pitcher of draft?”

“Three of everything and a pitcher of draft,” she said, tugging the menus loose from his fingers.

“Don’t you need to write that down?” I asked with a playful smirk.

“I think I can remember that,” she said. Her eyes lingered on my face for a moment, and then she glanced Tony’s way. She didn’t give Bob another thought.

She tapped the menus on the table and said, “Coming right up.”