Crescent City Connection (20 page)

He made the “okay” sign—Good idea.

“But you know—restaurants—I don’t really have any training or anything.” She put her elbows on the table and stared past him, out the window. “There was this ad in the Times-Picayune for a low-fat cook….”

He gave her the “come-here” sign—More, more.

She just smiled and looked at her plate.

He couldn’t stand it. He got up and found his pad. “Did you answer it?”

“No. I don’t know why. I guess I’m afraid to—I couldn’t take rejection right now.”

“Why would they reject you?” he wrote.

“I don’t have references, for one thing.”

He thought a minute, and then drew a picture of himself with a lightbulb over his head. “I used to work in a juice bar and guess what I did? Vegetarian cooking—you know, making guacamole and gazpacho, but still, it was cooking. The owner’s a really good friend. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind cooking you up a reference.”

“Really?”

The Monk nodded.

“I don’t know.”

He wrote, “It’s just a formality—it’s not like you can’t cook.”

She smiled at him, and he knew that she appreciated his caring about her. He was surprised at the way that touched him.

When he meditated and had been sitting quite a while, it occurred to him how eager each was to live the other’s life, Lovelace for Isaac and he for her, and how easy that was. He could plainly see what she could do, what held her back. She could be right about him, too, but she wasn’t him. It was your own life that was hard.

Later, he thought,
This floor is hard, too. I wonder when she’ll leave.

* * *

Things were moving so fast Daniel felt out of breath. They were in the house now, the place he had found on Magazine Street, and there were a lot of them. His respect for his father— his wonder at him—increased every day. He probably had twenty-five or thirty followers in New Orleans with an inner core of a dozen—that was a lot for a man who’d been trashed by the media and was wanted by the FBI. It was enough to really do something.

There were six of them living in the house—all white, so as to draw less attention. The others were couples, and since they had a double, it even looked as if they were two separate households. It was a discreet setup, but a little public. Magazine was a big-deal street and people were so friendly here—or nosy, depending on how you looked at it. They couldn’t have anyone dropping in unexpectedly—in fact, couldn’t have anyone seeing Daddy at all. It would be dicey, but it ought to work as long as the others shopped for groceries and that sort of thing.

Daniel was in an incredibly productive period, thriving on urban activity after the years of rural isolation. He and one of the women had spent an afternoon finding furniture at various junk stores; another couple had bought linens and dishes. That was really all it took to get settled, except for the two armoires Daddy wanted. That took another afternoon.

Meanwhile, one of the other men had installed the office—computer, fax, copier, everything Daddy needed to communicate with his fellow Jurors.

And Daniel had made phone calls and a couple of trips. He’d made virtually no progress on Lovelace, but he’d filed a full report on Rosemarie Owens that included her unlisted number, which he’d gotten by breaking into her house so gently she hadn’t even noticed. She hadn’t had her alarm on because she was home at the time. He’d done the research, but what it was about he had no idea. The woman was no exemplar of virtue, but she wasn’t someone who needed justice either—not a potential target, to Daniel’s mind. Perhaps Daddy saw her as an ally, though why— except for her money—he couldn’t imagine.

Or perhaps it was the husband who was the target. Could that be?

No—dumping your wife just wasn’t a capital offense. The Jury was a serious organization.

After about a week, when he was satisfied everything was in place, Daddy said, “Let’s call that Owens woman. What do you say?”

“Whatever you like, Daddy. You want me to get her for you?”

“Yeah. On the speakerphone. Let’s make it a conference call.”

“What’ll I tell her?”

“Just tell her I want to talk to her.”

“Use your real name?”

“Hell, yeah, use my real name.”

He shrugged. His father amazed him with how much support he could get, how many people he could rally, but when all was said and done, the old man had delusions of grandeur. Daniel could think of no reason in hell why some rich, gorgeous babe would want to talk to a guy wanted for murder.

A woman answered. “Ms. Owens?”

“Yes?”

“Ms. Owens, I’m calling for Errol Jacomine.”

“Well, there’s a blast from the past.” Her voice had a throaty, been-around quality.

Daddy, normally so tense he nearly twitched, suddenly underwent a metamorphosis. His shoulders relaxed, he grinned like a clown, and his body language conveyed something else—something Daniel had never seen in him before. What was it?

Eagerness, he thought. Almost … happiness.

Jacomine said, “Hey, Miss Rosemarie.” He dwelt on every syllable of the name, as if making fun of her for putting on airs.

“Hey, Earl. I knew you’d look me up one day.”

“How you been, baby?”

Daniel wondered if his mouth was hanging open—his dad and Rosemarie Owens?

“You must know how I’ve been. I gather you read People magazine.”

“You’ve had some real bad luck.”

“Well, some good luck, too. One thing—since I became nationally famous I’ve gotten reacquainted with a lot of old friends.”

“You sound like you’re almost glad to hear from me.”

“You know what, Earl? You were never boring. A girl could do worse.”

“You did, sugar. I’m quite sure you did.” They laughed like a pair of monkeys. When they had subsided, his father kept talking. “Rosie, I’ve got somebody I want you to meet. Daniel, say hello to your mama.”

She was silent. His father was silent. It was as if Daniel had fallen into a vacuum. His ears roared and it was the only sound in the world.

“Well? Say hello, son.”

“You son of a bitch!”

“Daniel Jacomine, is that any way to talk to your mother? You just went from being half an orphan to having a rich, beautiful, internationally famous mama. Now you mind your manners or she’s going to think I raised you wrong.”

The throaty, Lauren Bacall voice was quavery. “Daniel? Is that you, baby? Oh, Earl, you don’t know what a gift this is.”

She started crying in earnest and Daniel thought:
What the fuck is goin’ on ? My mama’s not this woman. My mama’s Mary Rose Jacomine.

His father said, “You want to meet him, baby?”

Daniel couldn’t stand it any longer. He shouted. “No! Goddammit, no!” Later, he had no idea why he’d said that. He’d simply been too confused to think, wanted time to stand still.

“Oh, Daniel,” said Rosemarie Owens. “Ohhh, Daniel, you have no idea. My baby. My little baby I haven’t seen in all these years.”

Her baby?
he thought.
I don’t know this woman.

Memories of his mother began to come back to him. She had had brown hair, not blond, and she was skinny and young and had a different name. Though people did call her Rose because Mary Rose was so hard to say.

Damn! Daddy was so peculiar about this. Why didn’t I put two and two together?

And yet he couldn’t have, he knew that. Who on God’s green Earth could have seen this one coming?

“Daniel. Daniel? Your daddy’s a shithead, you know that? Always has been, always will be. He didn’t tell you what was going on, did he?”

Daniel tried to muster a little dignity. “How about if you tell me.”

“Well, I can’t yet. It’s too much to hope he’s had a change of heart and just wants to do the right thing. But for some reason he seems to want us to meet, and that’s good enough for me, darlin’. I haven’t laid eyes on my boy since you were seven.”

“Since you deserted me, you mean.”

She started to cry again. “You have no idea why I had to do that or how much it hurt me. Come see me, darlin’. Please promise you’ll come see me.”

He heard himself saying, “Where, Mama?” Calling her “Mama” as if thirty-five years hadn’t passed.

SKIP ASSESSED HER data: Jacomine’s younger son was an artist who wore white, who had told his mother he worked in a juice bar, and who meditated a lot. Surely it was all part of a pattern—crummy day job to support painting or sculpting habit, nonconformist clothing, off-the-wall state of mind. A fringe kind of person. Someone, it sounded like, who probably lived close to the edge. Not a bad profile at all, and Skip thought she might be able to add something—since he’d worked in a juice bar, maybe he was a vegetarian.

She picked up the Yellow Pages and turned to “Health and Diet Food Products.” There were fifty-three listings, including all twelve Smoothie King franchises—about forty-seven more than she’d expected. She phoned them all and asked to speak to Isaac. When that failed, she enlisted Abasolo to help her call on them. He took twenty-six and she took twenty-seven, both wishing fervently for the task force they’d been denied.

They tried to see managers and owners or, failing that, at least to find out who they were, to call later. And then they talked to the employees about a regular customer dressed in white.

At Whole Foods, the girl at the deli counter raised a finger at Skip, seemingly pointing at her. Skip looked behind her and sure enough, a man in a white polo shirt and white jeans was perusing canned goods. Another man, not three feet away, stood by the beet and carrot chips in a white linen shirt and shorts.

Neither of them matched the description Isaac’s mother had given her. The simple truth was, men in white weren’t that uncommon at this time of year.

Pursuing the artist avenue, Skip walked around Jackson Square, where street artists could hawk their wares with no overhead; some good artists had started this way. Not-so-good ones also made a living.

They were a friendly bunch, these artists, and they didn’t miss much—they all knew a guy who wore white and had a spot a block or so over, by St. Anthony’s Garden. Unfortunately, he was African American.

No one knew Isaac, and she wasn’t that surprised. For all she knew, he did six-foot metal sculptures rather than French Quarter scenes.
Oh, well
, she thought,
I can talk to Cindy Lou on the weekend. Maybe she’ll
have an idea.

It was Easter weekend, when hardly anyone would be working. But Cindy Lou was coming over for Easter dinner, which Jimmy Dee was cooking, “For Layne, darlings, for Layne—our first holiday since the Troubles.”

Skip hadn’t seen the two of them, had barely spoken to the children, since the Jury case started to break. She said, “Wait a minute. I think I missed a chapter. Does this mean the Troubles are over?”

“The allergy’s at bay, anyway. It only comes a little bit now. The odd sneeze or sniffle.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Hey, the witch cure was your idea.”

“Hold it. You’re saying it worked?”

“Darlin’, I can’t tell you what worked. Call it the placebo effect, or call it voodoo. All I know is, for the moment, this marriage is saved.” Ostentatiously, he knocked on wood.

“But that’s great, Dee-Dee. That’s fabulous. Why didn’t anybody tell me?”

“Tell you? You mean fax you at FBI headquarters?”

She uttered an all-purpose “ummm.” “Is there anything else I missed?”

“Let me think. Kenny dyed his hair green. Angel became a lesbian. Sheila’s going to church tomorrow.”

“Very funny.”

“Well, the last one’s true. I think she’s got a Catholic boyfriend.”

“Good. Catholics are still against premarital sex, right?”

“Bad. That just makes them want it more. What are you doing tonight? Rare night out with the Bear?” His name for Steve.

“We’re dyeing Easter eggs.”

In fact, they went to an early movie first, and then stopped by the Napoleon House for dinner. Skip was in a fine mood when they got home, suffused with a feeling much like children get at the start of summer. She put on water to boil, and found herself enclosed in a rear-approach bear hug. Steve said, “Want to make love?”

“Have to, to celebrate the season. Renewal of life kind of thing. Soon as I get my eggs dyed.” She wiggled her butt against him and then wriggled out of the hug.

She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a dozen eggs.

“You’re serious about this? You’re really dyeing eggs?”

“Hey, get in the spirit. It’s not Easter every day.”

“What the hell.” He started getting out cups for the different colors, and she remembered how much fun dyeing eggs used to be. Steam everywhere and the kitchen smelling of vinegar.

When the eggs were done, she opened some brown paper bags filled with the stuff of the season—an Easter basket, fake grass, chocolate bunnies, jelly beans, marshmallow chicks.

“I know that’s not for Kenny or Sheila.”

“Listen, you’re going to think I’m crazy.”

“I already think you’re crazy, and we’ve already talked about this—it’s for Shavonne, isn’t it?”

She looked at him, willing him to understand. “The least I can do is—I don’t know—something.”

He smiled at her, apparently at a loss for what to say. She knew the obvious was so very obvious:
Nothing you can do could make up for not having a father.

He drove with her to the building in Gentilly where Shavonne lived with her mother, going so far as to creep up on the porch and and ring the buzzer. They left the basket with a note that said: “For Shavonne from the Easter Bunny.”

“She probably hates egg salad sandwiches.”

“Oh, God. We used to have those for days after Easter.”

Napoleon barked when they entered their own courtyard and for once she wasn’t bothered by it, even rather welcomed it. A nice, warm animal, she thought, glad she had a human one to take to bed with her.

She and Steve made love a long time and she went to sleep more relaxed than she’d been in days, the case momentarily out of her head.
Life’s too short,
she thought,
to do what I’ve been doing.

Easter, as usual, was a perfect spring day. They got Kenny and Jimmy Dee (Sheila being at church) and wandered all day, from one parade to another.