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“I assure you, my dear cousin, I have not besmirched the name of Robicheaux. We have had thieves, robbers, philanderers, soldiers, sailors, statesmen, and worse,” he smirked. “My small pirating would not place a dark mark on our name.”
“Thieves? Robbers? Who stole?” asked Gaspar.
“It was well before my time,” said Marcel. “We were all told stories of Robicheauxs who stole food or clothing for those in need.”
“Well, that makes me feel a bit better,” said Martha. “Stealing for those in need is more — admirable.” Gaspar just shook his head.
“He said y’all were sailors,” grinned Nine, staring at Gaspar. “You should have been a sailor.”
“Don’t be an asshole.”
The mood lightened somewhat as they made their way toward the throngs of people enjoying their meal out in the grove. Nine and Gaspar stopped, staring at the images before them. Who would have believed that when they joined decades before, that they would become a village?
Dozens of couples, children running around, everyone enjoying the spring weather. Mattie, Micaela and Tanner’s little girl, came running toward them. Hot on her heels was Patrick, Bogey and Alice’s son.
“Unca Gasfer, Unca Gasfer, make him stop,” she cried, leaping into his arms.
“Oh, what’s wrong,” he cooed, hugging her to his big, wide chest.
“He wants a kiss, and that’s yucky!”
“You’re absolutely right! That is yucky!” he grinned.
“Uh, uh,” said Patrick. “I see you kiss Aunt Wawex all ‘da time.” Gaspar cleared his throat, Nine laughing at him.
“Well, that’s because we’re married. It’s not yucky when you’re married.”
“Then I’m gonna mawwy her,” said Patrick.
“No!” screamed Mattie. “’Den I hafta do dishes.”
Nine couldn’t help but laugh at the children. He missed when Cam and Ellie were this small. Even his own grandchildren weren’t babies any longer. He scooped up Patrick, tossing him in the air.
“I tell you what,” he said to the boy and girl. “For now, just be friends. No kissing. No crying. No fighting. Just be friends and play together. Friends are always good.”
“Okay,” said Patrick, looking seriously disappointed. “But when she wants a kiss, I might not want one!” He hopped down from Nine’s arms and took off to play with the other children. Nine could only laugh, watching as Mattie squirmed in Gaspar’s arms.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To play wif Patrick.” She ran towards him, her dark ponytail flying behind her as her little legs ran toward the boy who’d made her cry. Both men shook their heads.
“How many times have we seen scenes like that?” smirked Gaspar.
“Not enough. Not nearly enough.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Max took Callan into the city to help him find Imron, his friend whom he believed had tattooed at least some of the kids. With more than a hundred tattoo parlors in the New Orleans area, their work was cut out for them.
Both men had tattoos up and down their arms, although Callan’s were far more eclectic and colorful. Spending time in the Army, he’d perfected his art, tattooing many of his fellow soldiers for a side income. Always doodling new images, learning from others, even the men in the motorcycle shop. He often saw things that others did not, which made him not only a great tattoo artist but a great operative.
“Let’s try this one,” said Callan. “I used to know the owner. A real dick, but he did a good job with his customers.”
The bell above the door rang, and a voice from the back yelled out, ‘welcome – be with you in a minute.’
“No rush,” said Callan. They took a seat, waiting for someone to come and speak to them. It was more than twenty minutes later that a man appeared from the back.
“Hey there. What can I do for y’all?” he asked.
