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Garden by the Front Door

123

*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.

Disclaimers: Yes, I need an Editor; no I do not want an Editor. Yes, there's too many people to keep track of. Yes, it jumps around too much. Yes it's too long. Yes it's too short. Yes it's in the wrong category. Yes, this is stupid shit, confusing shit. And, yes, I am barely literate, hardly legible. Honestly? Why even bother?

Just scroll down to the bottom and leave comments based solely on the Disclaimers.

For everyone else, I hope you enjoy this little tale.

*****

**2008**

Storm clouds were on the horizon; Joe Gaudet had seen them brewing from a while. He slowly decreased his activities, always keeping an eye on the line of clouds.

The housing market was far too tumultuous. People that did not qualify for home loans were being given home loans. People that could ill-afford their monthly payments were given ARM loans with false ceilings. As soon as their rates were inflated to their true value, those people would go from paying three and four hundred a month, to suddenly being responsible for twelve to fifteen hundred a month. With no way to pay those exorbitant notes.

There were more buyers than sellers, people in and around DeGarde, Louisiana were building houses at a frantic pace and the homes were being snatched up before the sheet rock was even hung. Joe knew that the frenzied pace simply could not be sustained.

The storm clouds of the late spring of 2008 were not just in the housing market, or the political arena. There were also storm clouds in his own happy home.

The CFO of St. Elizabeth's Water & Sewage pulled up to the modest home he and his wife Gretchen and her two daughters, Glenda and Gertrude Longlinais lived in. The grayish white brick structure had a dark Forest green trim. The overhangs and gutters were painted forest green. The front door and faux wooden shutters were painted forest green. The garage door was painted a stark white, though, to tie the grayish white brick and green together.

"Leave it to a woman to think of that crap," Joe muttered as he parked to the left side of the driveway, leaving Gretchen room to pull her minivan in and out of the garage.

It was a two car garage, but Joe's side of the garage was taken up by his Harley Davidson Fat Boy.

From driveway to front door was a small walkway. And between walkway and the exterior wall of the home was a grayish white brick flower box. When he and Gretchen had bought the house, the 'perfect little house for you and me and the girls,' that flower box had contained nothing but raw dirt. Now there were flowers planted. Clumps and clumps of colored blooms, brightening up the home. Brightening it up on the outside.

The inside was a different matter altogether. Inside, Gretchen, for whatever reason, had become more and more dissatisfied. Yet she would not say why she was dissatisfied.

Glenda, at thirteen years old, and Gertrude, 'Rudy' at eleven years old, were constant sources of irritation to him. Both girls constantly reminded him that he was not their father; they did not have to listen to him. Both girls, however, were very quick to come to him with a hand out when they wanted something.

When they had first come together, Gretchen had asked Joe if he would consider adopting her then ten and eight year old girls.

"What? Gretchen, they already have a father," Joe reminded her. "I am not going to take any child away from their father."

Vickie, his first wife had done exactly that to Joe. She had met and run off with a Columbian national. They had taken J.J., Joseph Junior back to Columbia with them. Nine years and Thousands of dollars later, Joe was no closer to ever seeing his son than he had been the day Vickie had emptied his bank account and flown out of the country with the then six year old J.J.

"David Longlinais might be an asshole, but he is still their father," Joe had said.

Standing in front of the house, Joe looked again at the flowers, then shook his head. He dug in his trousers pocket for his keys and pulled the screen door open.

"Joe? Hey Joe?" a man called out.

Joe turned and saw a morbidly obese man waddling toward him as quickly as his tree trunk legs could carry him. The man's face was bathed in sweat, his cheap suit looked sodden with sweat.

"Son of a bitch it's hot, huh?" the man wheezed as he neared Joe.

"Yeah and it's not even June yet," Joe agreed.

"And, you've been served," Reynold Reynolds said, handing Joe a manila envelope.

"What a shock," Joe said drily.

"Sorry, Joe; it's just a job, you know?" Reynold shrugged.

"No, no, guess you don't remember. Nine years ago, you did the same thing when my wife Vickie skipped the country," Joe said.

"Oh. Sorry," Reynold said, actually looking uncomfortable.

Joe did not respond, just unlocked the door to his home and stepped in.

"Son of a bitch!" he bellowed, seeing the bare living room.

The kitchen was also devoid of any furniture.

The den, the room he used as his home office was also stripped clean.

A check of the closet door showed some tool marking; someone had tried desperately to pry the closet door open. Joe pulled his key ring out and unlocked the closet door. He then breathed a sigh of relief. The file cabinet as still there and a quick check of all the drawers showed that they had not emptied the files.

The safe on top of the sturdy cabinet was also still there. He quickly spun the dial and again breathed a sigh of relief.

Locking the closet securely, Joe completed his inspection of the rest of the house. The two bedrooms, Glenda and Gertrude's rooms were barren.

While the master bedroom was bare, the closet still held his suits. His jeans and underwear and socks, those things that had occupied the dresser had been flung onto the floor in a careless pile.

Then he returned to the closet one more time. His gun safe had been removed. He mentally kicked himself; the contractor had suggested bolting the massive safe to the concrete floor, but Joe had not done this. It had taken four men with straps to get the bulky cabinet into the closet in the first place; surely no thief could be able to get it out.

"A bitchy wife? Well, that's a different matter, ain't it?" Joe muttered to himself, looking at the depression the massive safe had made in the plush carpet.

Joe returned to the kitchen and looked at the envelope that Reynold Reynolds had given to him.

"Kenneth Prejean," he muttered.

"Jesse Johnson's office," Terri Broussard, Jesse Johnson's latest personal assistant intoned.

"Jesse Johnson please, this is Joe Gaudet," Joe said.

"And whom may I say is calling?" Terri asked.

"Joe Gaudet," Joe repeated.

Jesse did not hire personal assistants for their brains. He hired them for their bra size. His favorite joke was that it was not their 'dictation' that impressed him as much as it was their 'dick taking.'

"Jesse speaking," Jesse said.

"Jesse, this is Joe," Joe said. "Gretchen filed for divorce, came home to an empty house."

Joe described the condition of the home, then had a horrifying thought. He ran to the garage and screamed in rage when he saw that his Harley's cover was lying on the ground, but his bike was nowhere in sight.

"Said Kenneth's one representing her?" Jesse asked, almost laughing with glee.

Joe called the police, reported the thefts, also reported whom he suspected had stolen all his furniture and guns and motorcycle.

"Guy right down the street here?" one officer was telling his partner as they walked around the house. "Found out his old lady was cheating on him? Burned the house to the ground."

"I remember that!" the partner said. "Guy just stood there, holding his cat in a carrier, watching the house burn to the ground."

"Don't give Gretchen any ideas," Joe said drily.

Because it was Friday, and it was after five pm, there was little that could be done.

With nothing to sleep on, without even his favorite pillow to lay his head on, Joe dumped some clothing into a plastic garbage bag, set the security bar on the front and back door, then set the alarm. He then exited the house through the garage door and reset the garage door code.

"Sure she'll never figure that out," Joe chuckled mirthlessly as he punched in that day's date as his new code.

Men strolling into the lobby of the DeGarde Inn, carrying a garbage bag was nothing new to the clerk. Men with angry scowls requesting a room was also quite commonplace.

Professional decorum prevented her from asking, "So did she turn the sprinklers on after she dumped your clothes in the front yard?"

Professional decorum also prevented her from smirking when his debit card was declined. She just quietly informed him that his card had been refused.

"Figures," Joe spat and handed the woman his American Express card.

"May I see some identification?" she politely asked.

"Very good," Joe praised and did show her his driver's license.

Jesse Johnson was in court Monday morning, police report in one hand, file folder with Joe's receipts for the items stolen in the other. Judge Steven Hill did agree that Joe Gaudet was the rightful owner of the furniture and all should be returned to him, in the condition that they were in when they were removed from the home.

Kenneth Prejean did what he could to forestall the proceedings, but Jesse's client prevailed.

"Come on, Joe, let's go get your stuff," Jesse said.

Joe rented a U-Haul truck, hired three of his employees from the plant, and followed the same two police officers that had filled out the police report the previous Friday evening.

"Should have known," Joe said as he pulled up to Keith Blanchard's home.

Keith Blanchard had started off as a painter, working for Scandurro Construction. He had even briefly dated Anna Scandurro, the daughter of Dan Scandurro, owner of Scandurro Construction.

When Tony Clark broke the iron grip Dan Scandurro had on new construction in St. Elizabeth Parish, the iron grip Robert Scandurro had on real estate sales, and the iron grip Danny Scandurro had on rental properties, Keith went to work for Clark International. Within months, he was a project supervisor, commanding crews of up to twenty men.

Then he went out on his own. He did work fast, and he did work cheap. But his work, just as Scandurro's work was often suspect, often shoddy.

Keith Blanchard had come into First Union Bank, hoping to secure a loan to develop a condominium complex. Joseph Marcoloni, the bank manager was in favor of capitalizing on the recent housing boom. Two others on the board were also in favor of the deal. Three were not; those three saw the same clouds that Joe saw. The three also knew of Keith Blanchard's shoddy workmanship.

Joe Gaudet cast the deciding vote and voted 'No' on Keith Blanchard's condominium venture. If looks could kill, the looks Keith Blanchard, his brother Kevin Blanchard, and their attorney, Kenneth Prejean were shooting Joe Gaudet, the man would have been dead several times over.

Now, pulling up to the man's home, Joe felt sick to his stomach. His bike was in front of the house and it looked as if it had been run over by Keith's three quarter ton pickup truck.

"Half of this shit's mine!" Gretchen screamed as she came charging out of the house.

"But you had no right to remove any of it from the marital home until a division of assets decision's been reached," Jesse Johnson intoned.

"But it's mine! I picked it all out," she screamed, trying to reach Joe.

"Ma'am, calm down; I don't want to have to arrest you, ma'am!" one of the police officers implored.

"Ma'am! Your children are right there! They're watching you," the other police officer stated firmly. "You really want them seeing their momma behaving like a wild woman?"

"Hi Mr. Joe; like what we done to your bike?" Rudy Longlinais smirked.

"Shh; wasn't supposed say nothing," Glenda reminded her younger sister.

"You broke it, you buy it," Joe said to a slightly more composed Gretchen.

The furniture that had come out of the marital home was ruined. Urine liberally stained the couch cushions. And Joe's favorite leather recliner and leather office chair had been slashed and someone had defecated on them.

"Don't know what I ever did, but..." Joe muttered.

"Oh right," Gretchen snarled angrily. "You know what you done. Keith told me all about it."

His desk drawers were empty; Gretchen claimed ignorance of where his paperwork, the photographs he had of his son, the photographs he had of his parents had disappeared to.

Someone had taken a sharp tool and savagely ripped the bottom drawer out, snapping the lock. Joe had kept those few precious photographs in that drawer.

"God damn!" he actually sobbed, seeing his grandfather's desk so mangled. "Key was right there, in the middle drawer."

"Oops," Gretchen smirked.

"Ma'am, is there anyone can watch your kids?" one police officer asked.

"What? Why?" Gretchen asked.

"Because we're placing you under arrest, ma'am," the man said.

The whole time, Joe had noticed that Keith Blanchard was absent. Jesse noticed this as well, called his office and had one of his associates go to Judge Steven Hill's chambers to file a warrant for Keith Blanchard's arrest.

Joe stoically pulled his cell phone out and hit a number.

"Hi, David? Hi, it's Joe," Joe said.

Over Gretchen's screamed protests, Joe told Glenda and Rudy's father where his two girls were. So, his U-Haul and his three hired laborers were put to use. Joe had them take the furniture he'd bought for the two girls out of Keith Blanchard's home and bring the furniture to David's trailer.

"I don't know what I ever did to get you two girls so angry with me," Joe told the two still smirking girls. "But I do love you."

"You was fucking that n*gger; Mr. Keith told us," Glenda smirked.

"And we don't love you," Rudy snapped. "We hate you."

"What? I wasn't, I never..." Joe protested.

Gretchen called Kenneth Prejean from the DeGarde Police Department. Kenneth did remind Gretchen that he was Keith Blanchard's attorney, Keith Blanchard's legal representation.

"Well, I'll pay you," Gretchen said.

"With what, Mrs. Gaudet?" Kenneth asked. "Mr. Gaudet's attorney had your accounts frozen."

David Longlinais looked at the caller ID on his land line telephone. Thanks to his last girlfriend, a stripper/prostitute at Club Fantastic's, he recognized the number of the DeGarde, the Bender, and the Kimble Police Departments.

"Yellow?" he asked, hoping it might just be Trish calling for help.

"David, listen, this is Gretchen," Gretchen pleaded. "Listen, please, I need a little help here."

She screamed in outrage when the telephone went dead.

Joe did not recognize the number and answered.

"You are kidding me. This is a joke, right? This has got to be a joke," he interrupted Gretchen's plea.

"No, Joe, it's no joke," Gretchen whined, then switched to a cooing voice. "I mean, I'm in trouble, and you? Well, you're always so good at knowing just what to do."

"And I know just what to do now," Joe husked.

"Oh yeah?" Gretchen husked back, then squealed in indignation when Joe disconnected the call.

Keith evaded detection for a week. But finally, he forgot and used a credit card to pay for gas. That signaled the DeGarde Police Department of his whereabouts. Twenty minutes later, two policemen, wearing the khaki uniforms of the Oakleaf, Texas Police Department showed up at Keith Blanchard's motel room. Nineteen hours later, he was in front of a judge in Oakleaf County. Nineteen hours and thirty four minutes later, he was in the rear of a DeGarde Police Department cruiser.

Forty three hours after being picked up by the Oakleaf PD, Keith Blanchard was arraigned, bail was set at one hundred thousand dollars, and he bonded out.

"And Gretchen Gaudet's looking at some pretty serious charges," Kenneth Prejean said as he and Keith Blanchard got comfortable in Kenneth's office.

"So? Fuck her," Keith snapped.

"Thought you did," Kevin Blanchard guffawed.

"Know the problem with pretty women?" Keith said, even as Kenneth's personal assistant brought in two cups of coffee and one bottle of water. "They think just flopping on their backs and letting you get your dick wet should be good enough."

The woman almost retorted in defense of women. Instead, she bit her tongue and left the room.

"And the problem with men is they don't know what to do with a woman," she snarled under her breath when the office door closed.

Kenneth Prejean was able to get all of the charges against Keith dropped down to misdemeanors, vandalism of property. Keith was also ordered to pay restitution for Joe's Harley-Davidson.

Kenneth was also able to do the same for Gretchen Gaudet. The attractive blonde looked around as they stepped outside of the courthouse. Then she looked at Kenneth.

"I uh, so what I do now?" she asked.

"Now? I suppose we need see about that divorce. You still want that divorce, right?" Kenneth asked.

"I uh, yeah, I guess. He was cheating on me; I'm not about to put up with that," Gretchen said. "But, I mean, where's Keith?"

"Think he's laying the foundation; DeGarde National Bank got him the financing First Union didn't want give him," Kenneth shrugged.

Kenneth resolved he'd charge Gretchen AND Keith an additional service hour for having to drive Gretchen to Keith's home.

And when Keith arrived home, he was not happy in the least to see Gretchen sitting on his couch.

"I uh, what you doing here?" he snarled.

"I uh, Kenneth got the charges reduced," she said, puzzled at his angry outburst.

"No, no, stupid cunt, I mean, what the fuck you doing here? In my house?" he demanded loudly.

"I uh, I live here now, remember?" Gretchen said, confused. "And what happened to, where's all my clothes?"

"Fuck you do," he snorted. You and your dumb little cunts are out of here. All your shit's at that guy's trailer."

"Joe doesn't, wait, David? You gave my stuff to David?" Gretchen asked, voice rising.

"Nuh uh, don't be getting all loud and shit," Keith said. "Need get your ass on out of my house."

"But, but I live here; I live here," Gretchen protested.

"What part of 'no you don't' is fucking you up?" Keith roared.

He reached over the coffee table and yanked her to her feet. Then he pushed her toward his front door. Gretchen grabbed her cell phone and purse and marched to the front door. She wasn't moving fast enough for Keith, so he 'helped' her by shoving her again.

"Hi Gretchen," David said when he answered his phone. "Girls aren't here; their bus don't drop them off until about four."

"David I need..." Gretchen started.

"Damn, why's it always about what you need?" David interrupted. "Oh, and, St. Richard's asking about next year's tuition. Oh. And St. Thomas is asking if Glenda's going be going there next year."

"Shit," Gretchen said.

The girls had been in Andrew Jackson Elementary school when she and Joe had started dating. Joe had managed to get the girls transferred over to St. Richard's. The girls loved that school, loved their teachers, their friends.

But unless Joe paid their tuition, they'd have no choice but transfer Gertrude back to Andrew Jackson and Glenda would be starting at Northside High School.

"Still there?" David asked.

"Yeah, yeah," Gretchen said, sitting down on Keith's door stoop.

The sandals, with their four inch heels, were not conducive for walking. It was at least three miles to Joe's house and five, almost six miles to David's trailer. She had no idea where her minivan was; she'd checked Keith's garage when she'd let herself in earlier that day.

"So, you got my clothes and stuff?" she listlessly asked.

"Yeah, God damn, that's a bunch of shit, huh?" David asked. "Five suitcases and three boxes? Why you need all that shit?"

123
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