Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 06 - Extracurricular Murder by Kent Conwell Page B

quickly as he breezed in, he stormed out. “Back around
ten or so!” he shouted, slamming the door.
    “Hey, wait,” I jumped up and yanked open the door. “How
can I get in touch with you if I have to?”
    He opened the door of his car and paused. “My cell,” and
called out the number. He grinned and slid into the Pontiac.
“See you later,” he called out the window as he sped away.
    I watched until the blue Pontiac turned the corner. At least,
he was all right, and I had a cell number. I picked up the phone
and called Leroi, bringing him up to date on his son.
    Hanging up, I decided to splurge on a thick T-bone and a hot tle of fine red wine out at the Old San Francisco Steak House
on 1-35.

    Sorry AA. I’ll try again tomorrow.
    And splurge I did with baked potato smothered with butter,
heaped with sour cream and sprinkled with crisp bacon.
Homemade hot rolls soaked with butter. And a succulent steak
two inches thick. All washed down with fruity red wine.
    I didn’t consider myself a gourmet even in the loosest definition of the word, but that night, I caught a fleeting glimmer
of the poetry of good food and wine of which the very rich
always speak. In the next instant, my newfound hedonistic
appetite for Epicurean delights vanished when Janice
Coffman-Morrison and a broad-shouldered blond right out of
Gentlemans’ Quarterly walked in. As much as I hate to admit
it, he carried himself with the casual aplomb of the very rich
and spoiled.
    Wearing a black dinner dress with a necklace of diamonds
the size of ping-pong balls, Janice paused in the entrance and
purposely surveyed the room. Her gaze settled on me, and with
a faint smile, she glided in my direction. Gentleman Quarterly
followed. Like a puppy, I told myself, not the least bit jealous.
Not much. I felt my ears tingle.
    Obviously, she’d spotted my Silverado pickup outside. Not
surprising for among Lexuses, Jaguars, Mercedes, and
Luminas, my truck stuck out.
    She paused at my table. “Hello, Tony,” she said imperiously.
    I rose, affecting a casual aplomb of my own. “Why, Janice.
How are you?”
    “Wonderful.” She half turned and held out her hand to her
new beau. “This is Nelson Vanderweg. Of the Montreal
Vanderwegs. He just drove in from Dallas.”
    “Nelson.” I extended my hand, noting the sharp pleat in his
dark slacks and the easy drape of his jacket over his narrow
hips.
    “I’ve heard much of you, Mr. Boudreaux.” His tone was flat and without emotion. On his face was an expression of pained
haughtiness.

    I replied with a nod, then turned to Janice. “How have you
been?”
    She beamed and linked both her arms through Nelson’s.
“Wonderful,” she exclaimed, hugging his arm to her.
    “Good.”
    Nelson coughed.
    A couple of awkward moments passed as the three of us
stared at each other, no one knowing exactly what to say. I
decided to make an effort to be gracious. “Would you and
Janice care to join me, Nelson?”
    He tilted his chin slightly. “No, thank you. We have reservations.” His words were polite, but his tone was brazen with
contempt.
    Despite the urge to stick out my tongue at them, I smiled.
“You two have a good time,” I said, stepping aside so they
could pass.
    Janice giggled. “We will.”
    I glared at Nelson’s retreating back. “And I hope you choke,”
I muttered under my breath, shedding my newly found casual
aplomb for redneck hostility.
    Naturally, my relaxing evening of gastronomic delights was
ruined. I shrugged off my thin veneer of the very rich and
reverted to my redneck ways by demanding a doggie bag so I
could take the remainder of my meal with me. The half-full
bottle of red wine, I stuck in my jacket pocket.
    The maitre d’, his upper lip stiff, eyed the bottle in my jacket pocket with disdain and contempt. I was half a breath away
from grabbing the neck of the bottle and smashing that sneering
little cretin across the bridge of his hooked nose.