82 Desire

of development,” meaning he stayed holed up in his room all the time, probably masturbating, coming out only to heap scorn on everyone and everything in his immediate vicinity.
    Margaret Ann tended to get sulky around him, but in fact that wasn’t her nature at all, a delightful fact Ray had almost forgotten. The three of them had had meals together, had gone shopping, even sandwiched a movie in between appointments, and his daughter hadn’t once tried to duck out of sight, embarrassed to be seen with her parents. At Vanderbilt, she’d acquitted herself splendidly, chatting and asking intelligent questions as if there was something she cared about besides The X-Files. Ray had for the first time a sense of who she really was, the nearly formed adult they’d be shipping off next fall.
    They got back late Sunday night, and even after the flight and the seemingly endless drive across the causeway, he had felt exhilarated. Margaret Ann went off to her room, Ronnie didn’t come out of his, and he and Cille had an unaccustomed nightcap, drinking to the excellent job they’d done, bringing up this child to be a credit to her age and sex and social position. In fact, they were feeling so warm and fuzzy about it all, they went upstairs and made love.
    Ray was feeling on top of the world when he went in to work the next day. It wasn’t ten o’clock before the phone rang and an unfamiliar voice spoke to him: “Mr. Boudreaux. This is Russell Fortier over at United Oil. I wonder if I could talk you into having lunch with me?”
    Just like that. Lunch, for no reason. These Big Oil bozos behaved this way—as if anyone in the world would be thrilled to pieces just to spend a couple of hours in their boozy presence.
    Ray decided to jolly him along. “United? Really? I used to work there myself.”
    “Oh, yeah, we all know you—bought a lease from us and built yourself a nice little company. Must be nice being your own boss.”
    “Can’t beat it.”
    “How about Galatoire’s on Friday?”
    Ray didn’t know what this guy wanted, but he evidently thought he was going to get it—Russell Fortier had the confidence of some high school football captain who didn’t know any better. Ray said, “I’d rather eat my gun.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Last thing I want to do is get into that kind of trouble.” Galatoire’s on Friday was more like Mardi Gras than lunch. People went at noon and didn’t come out till six P.M . It was a place for a power lunch in the networking sense only, unless of course you were the object of the power play—in which case, it was a great place to get you drunk and friendly toward your host. Serious business was sure to be interrupted by table-hopping friends, single women on a flirting mission, even, sometimes, too-friendly waiters with a snootful.
    Fortier laughed to show he wasn’t put off. “How about Thursday?”
    “I think maybe you ought to give me some idea what this is all about.”
    “I’ve got a little business proposition I thought you might be interested in.”
    “You? Or United?”
    “Why, United, of course. I’m in Acquisitions over here. We’re interested in Jefferson Parish.”
    “You mean Hyacinth? Hold it, I bought it from you.”
    “Now isn’t that an ironic note?” Fortier laughed long and hard, but to Ray the humor sounded forced.
    “Sure,” Ray said. “I’m free Thursday. How about the Rib Room?” Just because Fortier had picked Galatoire’s. He believed in keeping his opponent slightly off-balance. And, till he found out what was going on here, he decided to consider Fortier an opponent.
    The guy wasn’t a bad sort—Ray liked him on sight, found him less slippery, maybe a little smarter than your average urban corporate robot. He did notice that they had barely ordered their Caesar salads when Fortier got it on the table that he was married to Councilwoman Bebe Fortier.
    Well, Ray didn’t blame him. He was proud of his own wife and he could certainly understand the impulse. As it happened, he and Cille both were great fans of Bebe Fortier, though they lived in St. Tammany Parish, and couldn’t vote for her. “We admire from a distance,” Ray told Fortier, spearing a crouton and jumping right to the point. “Now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
    His lunch companion was staring out the window at some ragtag redneck street band. “You know, I love those guys. They’ve been playing on Royal Street for years.” He had a