Crescent City Connection (28 page)

“Sho’ darlin’.” He gestured with his head. “You need some change?”

He was an older man, sixty perhaps, and Lovelace could swear she saw concern in his face. She wondered what she had done to provoke it—her hair was far too short to be disheveled. Her anxiety must show on her features.

She walked down a long dark corridor, thankful the phone was far enough away to afford privacy.

Michelle answered on the first ring.

“Hi. I need a shoulder to cry on.”

“Lovelace, for Christ’s sake. Are you all right?”

“Physically, but—”

“This phone’s probably tapped, so don’t say anything. Just be quiet and let me talk. A lot’s happened. The FBI picked me up.”

“The FBI?”

“They were looking for you. I didn’t tell them anything but—”

“Good.”

“Don’t interrupt, okay? This is really important. They flew this cop in from New Orleans—”

“New Orleans. They know—”

“Lovelace, be quiet. I’m telling you this line isn’t safe. Listen to me—this woman’s not what you think. She’s a cop, but she’s really smart and she’s really nice. I mean really nice; she’s worried about you.”

“Oh, sure.”

“Try to keep an open mind, okay? The main thing is, she’s had a personal experience with your grandfather. He kidnapped a kid close to her and the cop got the kid back—but not before some people died. You hear what I’m saying, Lovie? Your grandfather’s a murderer. You really can’t forget that.”

Lovelace hated the schoolteacherish sound of her friend’s voice. She spoke petulantly. “He wouldn’t hurt me. I’m his own flesh and blood.”

“You don’t know what he might do. The cops and the FBI think you’re in danger. I’m worried sick, to tell you the truth— this is not something to mess around with. I want you to call Detective Skip Langdon at the New Orleans Police Department.”

“That’s the cop?”

“Yes. She’s in Homicide.”

“Homicide!”

“I keep telling you—this thing is serious. Call her. Promise me you’ll call her.”

Lovelace wished she’d never picked up the phone. “Why did they send a cop from New Orleans?”

“Because the thing with your grandfather—the other kidnapping—happened there.”

Lovelace felt tremendously betrayed. If Michelle was asking her to turn herself in, whose side was she on? “Michelle, what did you tell her?”

“Look, I had to make a decision. I told her you’re with Isaac.”

“Dammit, Michelle!”

“Shut up. There’s really a lot to say. I didn’t know his address, so all I could do is describe him. I’m sorry, Lovelace, but I’m just so damn worried about you—you’ve got to call this cop, I’m not kidding—this is far, far the best move you could make right now. You need as much protection as you can get from Errol Jacomine.”

“Goddammit, you’re supposed to be my friend!”

“I am your friend, and I have another message for you. A bigger bombshell than the FBI—are you ready?”

No, I am not ready. Don’t you dare say another word.
But she managed not to hang up.

“Your grandmother called.”

“But my grandmother—”

“Right. Dumped your seven-year-old father at your grandfather’s, and hasn’t been heard from since. This woman told me the story. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Anybody could know that.”

“Is your dad’s middle name Theophilus?”

“Holy shit.”

“Guess who your grandmother is?”

“What do you mean, guess who she is?”

“I mean she’s a famous person. Rosemarie Owens.”

It took a moment for the penny to drop. “Rosemarie Owens. The one whose husband was just killed. After he dumped her for some supermodel.”

“Good thing you read People magazine.”

“Rosemarie Owens called me? What the hell does she want?”

“Now, that I couldn’t tell you—but she said it’s urgent. Do you want her number?”

“God, yes.” She’d rather call her than a cop.

Michelle gave her the number. “And here’s Skip Langdon’s,” she said. “Just take it down, okay? What can it hurt?”

Things were moving way too fast. Her best friend had betrayed her, her grandmother was not only alive, but some kind of pop culture celeb, and the FBI was looking for her.

This is a joke, she thought, it can’t be real, and dialed the number Michelle had given her.

A machine answered, a woman’s cigarette-voice. “We may be home and we may not. It depends how intriguing your message is. Start talking when you hear the tone, and you better make it fascinating.”

Despite the aggressive tone of the message, the voice was somehow playful, in a Mae West kind of way. She took a deep breath. “This is Lovelace Jacomine calling Rosemarie Owens.”

There was a click as someone picked up the receiver. “Lovelace, baby, I’ve been worried sick about you.”

Could this really be her grandmother? This stranger who called her “baby”?

“I got a message to call you.”

“I’m so glad you did. I didn’t even know you existed until a few days ago, and now you’re the most important thing in the world to me.”

What in hell did the woman want? Lovelace was speechless.

“Are you there, darling?”

“Is this Rosemarie Owens?”

“Mee-maw to you, sweetness.” Was the voice slightly slurred? Had she said “shweetness”? “I’m just so very, very glad you called.”

“Michelle said it was urgent.”

“That it is, darling. We don’t have much time. I want us to meet so much. But now that may never be possible, and I thought that, just in case, I’d better tell you what I know.”

“Why wouldn’t it be possible?”

“Do you actually know your grandfather?”

“Well, we haven’t seen each other in years.”

“He’s a very dangerous man, sweetness. An extremely dangerous man. If I die soon, I just wanted you to know.” Lovelace heard her pause. “I need to take a deep breath. I’m so sorry to tell you, but someone has to. I’m afraid your grandfather’s The Jury.”

“My grandfather’s what?” Her mind searched its files like a computer.

“The people who killed Billy Ray Hutchison, and then Nolan Bazemore, the guy that shot that nice police chief—that honest one—down in New Orleans.”

She remembered. The Jury. She’d been self-involved lately, but everyone knew about The Jury. There was no way to avoid it.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I may be in danger, for one thing, and I wanted you to know.”

“Why not go to the cops?”

“I’m so sorry, darling, I just can’t do that. There are times when blood’s still thicker than water.”

“Are you saying you’re keeping quiet on my account?”

“I’m just so sorry. I don’t know how to say this.” She took another breath. “All right, here goes. I’m afraid your father’s in it with him. I can’t rat out my baby. I owe him that much.”

The street slang sounded silly, coming from her.

“Do you understand what I’m getting at? You need to stay away from your daddy right now.”

Lovelace was silent, absorbing it.

“Can I ask you a question, darling? Why aren’t you in school?”

Okay, that was it. The woman was crazy. She was mad as a hatter. Lovelace got off the phone as quick as she could.

The bartender evidently didn’t like the look of her. “Saved your beer for you. You sit down and drink it now.”

Lovelace complied, hands shaking.

“You get some bad news?”

“I’ll be okay. Do you have any more change?”

“You drink your beer now. I’ll give you change in a minute.”

What does he know?
she thought.
Does he know the FBI’s looking for me? Is he holding me here till they can pick me up?

Her scalp was as prickly as if a large hairy spider had just dropped on her head.

Just be calm
, she thought.
He can’t know. How could he?
But her mind kept racing. Rosemarie’s phone’s probably tapped, too. They did a tracer, and they called him to have him hold me. That must be it.

She took a long pull of the beer.
Well, so be it. I haven’t done anything. Let them pick me up and do their worst. If they’re after me because my father’s a criminal, that means they’re not trying to find me to give me back to him. So that’s cool, right? What the hell.

Once she had gotten past the paranoia, she thought about being the granddaughter of a multiple murderer. That one’s not in the genes, she thought.
No way, I don’t even know the man. I can just go back to school and lead a normal life. Maybe sell my story to the National Inquirer and retire at twenty.

She giggled. The bartender said, “That’s better. See? Nothin’s that bad.”

But by the time she’d finished the beer the FBI hadn’t arrived.
Damn
, she thought,
maybe my fate’s in my own hands.
She had another beer.

She sat awhile and sipped, turning over the possibilities in her mind.
There’s no reason not to go to the cops if they’re on my side. And if my dad’s a murderer, that would explain a lot of things, actually. Like why he’s so damn mean. He’s so damn mean because he’s not a nice person, as history has proved. They’re not going to put me in his custody if he’s a murderer.

Shit. Could my dad really be a murderer?

Okay. Cons of going to the cops: It could be a setup. Maybe that wasn’t my grandmother, or even Rosemarie Owens. Michelle might think I’ve flipped and this is her way of getting me to ‘get help,’ as she’d probably say.

If it’s not a setup, I’ll be hounded by the media.

I won’t be able to lead a normal life.

Okay. So much for the cons. Pros: Call this a normal life? I might be able to lead a really normal life. Change my name and transfer to Cornell, enroll in the hotel school, and learn to run a restaurant. After the National Inquirer of course—with the proceeds.

Also, I might be safe.

Michelle had said the cop was nice. And not only that, smart. How could calling her hurt?

Lovelace said to the bartender, “How about that change?”

But of course, the cop wasn’t working at that hour. What was Lovelace supposed to do—leave her name and number?

Well, why not?
she thought. They can beep her. If any of this is true, she’ll probably call back in two minutes.

But something was wrong with that. They’d look up the number in the reverse directory and come get her.

Well?
she thought.
Wouldn’t that be okay?

She was just sober enough to decide it wasn’t. She’d talk to the cop first, decide for herself what was going to happen. Besides, she had to let Isaac in on it.

In the end, she ended up saying she’d call back in half an hour; if Langdon was there, she’d talk to her.

She went back to the bar and waited, sucking down another Abita. But when she went to make the call, she didn’t feel buzzed at all. She was scared shitless.

Langdon picked up on the first ring.

“This is Lovelace Jacomine. I hear you’re looking for me.”

“You hear right. We need to talk.”

“About my grandfather?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know where he is. Or my father either.”

“We think they’re looking for you—to kidnap you again.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Listen, I’m really sorry about what happened to you. Tell me about it.”

Lovelace thought:
I don’t feel like it, standing up here in this damn dank corridor.
Her scalp prickled again. It was too long a story for the phone. She said, “Wait a minute. Michelle said you were simpatico. But you’re trying to trace the call, aren’t you?”

“Lovelace, you’re in danger—I’m trying to help you.”

“Well, forget this method. Meet me at seven tomorrow morning…” Her mind searched for a place. “The Camellia Grill.”

It was near the juice bar.

But maybe it wasn’t a good idea. Maybe the cop would follow her to her job—did she want to be followed? How did they plan to protect her anyway? House arrest of some kind?

Isaac was home when she got there. He indicated a note he’d already written. “What gives? I called Anthony and he said you left hours ago.”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she wrote him a note: “Are you my uncle or my mom?” and went into the kitchen.

Pasta, she thought. Some nice, comforting noodles. She was just pulling things out of the refrigerator when her uncle came in and joined her. He wanted to talk, if you could call it that.

* * *

She had forgotten and said the name. If he could just keep his ears from hearing the name, or his eyes from reading it, or his mind from thinking it, he could get through most days okay. But this was the big one, he didn’t know why.

Things had to equal out. Lovelace had said it, and so she had to offset it. She had said “Errol Jacomine” and now she had to say “Jesus Christ.” The Monk couldn’t; that was clear. It had to be Lovelace.

He could ask her to say it, but was that really fair? Would it work? He wasn’t sure. It might be good enough, it might not.

And what a hell of a thing to come now, when she was talking about calling the police. It was too much. What was this about her grandmother being some floozy who’d lost her husband to some younger floozy? And she had a harebrained story about his father being a vigilante killer, not that The Monk wouldn’t believe it of him.

Jesus preserve us,
he thought, so as to offset the thought of his father. Now he needed to get Lovelace to say it. Did he have to provoke it, or would it be good enough if she simply said it on her own?

He wrote, “I can’t do this, Lovelace. I’ve been running from this all my life. I can’t have it in my life, don’t you understand?”

She said, “Jesus, Isaac, did I ask for this?”

Oh, thank the gods, she said it. But it probably wasn’t enough. She had said “Errol Jacomine”; that meant she now had to say both names, “Jesus” and “Christ.” He couldn’t leave her until she had. And he had to leave. He absolutely had to get out of here, because if he didn’t, there’d be cops all over, and they’d be saying the name and bringing in contamination, and it would be a contamination of the spirit as well as of his house and his body.

He wrote, “I thought I left all that behind.”