Mr. New Orleans: The Life of a Big Easy Underworld Legend by Frenchy Brouillette & Matthew Randazzo

Author:Frenchy Brouillette & Matthew Randazzo [Brouillette, Frenchy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MRV Entertainment LLC
Published: 2014-06-18T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter VIII

Mr. Lucky Dog

1960s

“Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”

Jesus Christ

(In one of his more reasonable moments.)

IF YOU ASKED THE USUAL SUSPECTS WHAT THEIR FAVORITE FRENCHY BROUILLETTE STORY WAS, THOSE NO-GOOD JACKASSES WOULD PROBABLY TELL YOU ALL ABOUT “MR. LUCKY DOG.”

Since I know better than to hope that this story won’t get out, I feel like I might as well tell you myself. The Mr. Lucky Dog story is the Monica Lewinsky to my term as Mr. New Orleans, the one little indiscretion that overshadows a lot of good work. Take it from me: trifling with a celebrity is enough to ruin an honest crook’s reputation.

If there’s anything I’ve learned as a criminal, it’s that the most crooked people you are ever going to meet are the ones who make the biggest production about how good and holy and straitlaced they are. For example, one of my call girls’ best clients was the high-and-mighty priest presiding over St. Louis Cathedral in the French Quarter, the basilica where I married Isabella.

This fraud would deliver sermons that would convince gullible teenagers not to use birth control or condoms — saddling them with wives and children, and me with new clients — and then he’d call me up and order up a trick. To compound his sin, the bishop once invited me into the cathedral and made sure that I saw that he was paying with money straight out of the “Poor Box” at the front of the cathedral. I guess the old fuckface got off on showcasing how low he had fallen.

I assume there was a similar dynamic with the celebrity I will call the Holy Roller, or the Roller for short. Trust me, baby, I’ve been waiting for this jackass to die for decades so I could print his name. I’m sorry – this religious SOB clearly isn’t in any apparent hurry to see his Redeemer. He’s older than Methuselah now, and he’s still hustling.

This gentleman was a sneaky horndog like the rest of us, only he made his millions pretending that he was anything but. This phony pipsqueak had the cleanest-cut, holier-than-thou Christian reputation in all of show business.

I ran into the Roller early in my career as a pimp. I was still living in my penthouse apartment above the Chez Paris, playing kindergarten teacher to the dozen squabbling girls who were idly sitting around my apartment waiting for a date. With only a dozen girls left, that meant dozens more were already out making money; this was a great night for business. I didn’t need any trouble, and I didn’t need to take any risks.

As I was counting an admirable stack of cash, my phone rang. It was the doorman at the Fairmont Hotel, who was overly excited, even for a doorman looking to make a commission. “Frenchy, man!” he shrieked into the phone. “We got a celebrity here, [the Roller] is in our place tonight, and, man, he need a boy as quick as you can send ’im.

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