Page 47 of The Cajun Doctor

“Are you still hungry, Lily Beth?” Samantha asked. “I have a frozen pizza in the freezer. Our latest. Sicilian flat bread with garlic pesto.”

“I’m always hungry, but, no, if I eat anymore, I’ll bust.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Samantha still didn’t know why they were here. Or what trouble they were in. “You mentioned your mother. Can’t you go home for help?” Samantha knew she sounded like she didn’t want to help them. Frankly, she didn’t, and she kind of resented being put on the spot by a person or persons who weren’t really her responsibility. Not that she would turn them away. Still . . .

Lily Beth shook her head, seeming to be choked up.

“Lil’s parents died in a car accident last year,” Angus told Samantha.

“I am so sorry,” Samantha said, feeling bad now. “Let’s go in the living room,” she suggested. Because of the brick wall around her property, the interior of the house, from the back, wouldn’t really be visible to anyone circling the perimeter or cruising the alley out back. Like Nick. Still, she would feel better away from all these windows. She would tidy the kitchen later. Or in the morning. She planned to take off work tomorrow, except for a foundation board meeting at noon. And she had to deliver some of these animals to new homes. Thank God!

Lily Beth headed right for the sofa and, instead of sitting at one end and making room for Angus, she laid down on her side, head on a throw pillow, and curled up into as much of a fetal position as she could with her belly, and fell immediately asleep.

With a blush, Angus apologized, “She’s been through a lot.”

Samantha could only imagine. She went over and arranged a soft mohair afghan over the girl’s body, then motioned for Angus to sit on one side chair while she sat in the other. The room was chilly from the air conditioner having been left on all day. So, Samantha also clicked on the gas fireplace, which she rarely did in the summer or in the daytime. It wasn’t even seven p.m. now. But the fire did give the room a warm glow.

Most of her furniture, aside from what was in the sunroom, was antique, gathered over the years through family hand-me-downs or French Quarter antique shop forays, a mishmash of different eras and fabrics and style which was oddly comfortable, especially with the cozy fireplace. The sofa Lily Beth lay on was a tufted camelback in a gold and green floral pattern. The chairs, passed down from her grandmother, were faded velvet and damask in colors that complemented the sofa. The carpet was a very old Aubusson that was threadbare in places; it once graced a bedroom in the former Orleans Crescent Hotel. One of the hurricane lamps had belonged to a cousin of Robert E. Lee. She cherished the history and provenance of all the pieces.

“Now, give it to me straight, Angus. How did you get involved with Nick? And start from the beginning.” She decided not to tell him about Nick’s call. Not yet.

Angus gulped, then started to talk. “I met Nick at Harrah’s in Lake Charles a year or two ago.”

“A casino?” She’d never known Nick to go the casinos, except for the one in Monte Carlo that time when they’d been on vacation. More a touristy kind of thing.

“I have this little problem,” Angus said.

Uh-oh!

“Well, it’s a big problem. Gambling.”

“Oh, Angus!”

“I’m not an addict. But I developed this computer program for beating the odds at Blackjack, all kinds of poker, actually. Not card counting. Something better. Awesome. But so far it hasn’t been perfected.”

“Oh? Just how far from perfection are you?”

He grimaced and disclosed, “Two hundred thousand.”

“Dollars?” she gasped.

“No, doubloons.” He immediately regretted his sarcasm and said, “Sorry. Yeah, that’s my current balance, but it keeps growing every day, no matter how much I pay them. Interest. I even sold my Jag.” Now, that was big. Angus loved the Jaguar that he’d inherited from his mother on his sixteenth birthday. Samantha’s father had bought the red Jaguar convertible for Darla as a wedding gift. Angus’s present situation had to be serious for him to have given that up.

“Pay them . . . who? Loan sharks? The mafia,” she scoffed, then went slack-awed at Angus’s nod. “You can’t be serious. This isn’t New York City, or Sicily, with some Marlon Brando godfatherly character.”

“Not that mafia. The Dixie Mafia.”

Her slack jaw went slacker. She’d forgotten about those Louisiana lowlifes. “Oh, Angus!” She sighed, then straightened and asked, “How is Nick involved? Is he into gambling now, too?”

Angus shook his head. “Nah. I mean, he would if it worked. He needs money bad, even worse than me. But he’s not very good at gambling.”

That was like the pot calling the kettle black, but she refrained from pointing that out.

“Again, what is your involvement with Nick?”

“I work with him.”

“How? You have no medical experience. You’re a tech expert.”