by Julie Smith
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.
When Sheila joined them finally, and Cindy Lou came over, and Layne, they talked of Layne’s miraculous cure and whether there was such a thing as magic. Definitely, said Kenny—he had seen it.
Assuredly not said Sheila. That was for kids.
“But do you really think you have to see something for it to be real?” asked Layne. “I mean, something cured me.”
“True love,” said Sheila. “Maybe that was it.”
Skip was surprised—she wasn’t the kind of kid who talked about love; maybe the Catholic lad was going to be around for a while.
“Could have been God,” said Steve. “Half the country would go for that one.”
“Could have been natural causes,” Layne said. “Maybe I just got used to the dog.”
“Yes,” said Jimmy Dee. “You do.”
“You do what?”
“You have to see something for it to be real.”
“Oh, yeah? How about viruses. You can’t see those.”
“How about God?” said Sheila.
Skip said, “For heaven’s sake, Dee-Dee. You’re the one who sent him to the witches.”
“I can’t help it—it’s too New Age-y. I can’t accept it.”
“So voodoo would be okay?”
“At least it’s part of our heritage.”
Sheila said, “I wasn’t kidding. How about God?”
“What do you mean, how about God?”
“I mean, you can’t see him, but people believe in him. Why is that okay and this other stuff isn’t?”
“Because it’s in the culture,” said Cindy Lou. “And this other stuff isn’t.”
“You mean, like the majority go for it.”
“Just say God’s on your side and you’re in business.”
Skip was starting to hate the conversation. This was the stuff in which Jacomine traded. Because he had used the Judeo-Christian God as a shield, he had quite literally gotten away with murder—and often. Now he was using justice as a shield. She hated the thought that she was going to have to think about him again tomorrow—to have him in her consciousness until she had him in a cell.
She pulled Cindy Lou aside to give her a personality sketch of Isaac.
“Okay, yeah. A little weird,” said her friend. “But who isn’t? I can’t really tell anything from that little data.”
“Damn. I’ve tried juice bars and I’ve talked to every artist at Jackson Square. He meditates, and there’s that white thing—maybe he’s in some religious thing. Maybe I need to—”
“Hey, wait a minute. How about galleries?”
“What do you mean how about them?”
“Why stop at Jackson Square? Maybe he’s hooked up with a gallery.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” She considered it. “I guess I just assumed he was a marginal sort of character.”
“Even if he is, he might have gone in and tried to peddle his work. Someone might remember him.”
“Not a bad idea. Good thing he picked white instead of black for a uniform—in that world, guys in black are a dime a dozen.”
It was curious—it had never once entered her mind that Isaac was any kind of legitimate artist. She’d simply assumed he was more or less a street person with ambition.
Fourteen
NOW THIS WAS a house Dorise could live in, all cool and comfortable, without even the AC running; sunlight streaming in the back, though it was late afternoon; prettiest garden she’d ever seen in her life. The party was a fund-raiser for a school called NOCCA—she didn’t know what the letters meant, but she knew it was a school for kids to learn music and things like that. Plenty of famous people had gone there, lots of them black, including the Marsalises. And plenty of black people were at the party. She wondered if one of them was Ellis Marsalis, maybe even Wynton.
She thought the people who lived in the house were probably musicians as well, or artists—something interesting, anyway. They had a big old grand piano in the living room, and the walls were covered with paintings—not those stiff pictures of people in old-fashioned clothes that were usually deep browns, real depressing; these were all bright colors, and big as the walls themselves, pictures of leaves or something, except not really leaves, just a design.
The house was in a nice neighborhood, out near Audubon Park, so the people must be rich, but there was something real different about these white folks. The house was different, for one thing—it was real, real big, but cozy, with those same rugs on the floor, the ones that looked all worn out, but these had bigger designs in them, not all those little flower-dy things. And there was some silver here and there, and a little bit of crystal, but most things looked like crockery—ceramic, she thought it was called—or were made out of bright-colored glass, all fancy designs. The furniture was kind of worn, too, like the rugs, and the pillows and things were great, huge, old-fashioned flower prints, like in old movies, or those Hawaiian shirts white men like to wear.
Dorise had just never seen a house like it. She wanted to go get Shavonne and move right in.
And the people at this party! Some of them were just regular white folks, little-bitty skirts and great big jewelry on the women; suits and ties for the men; but a lot of them looked like movie stars, or anyway like they just blew in from California. They had on denim vests and they were bare-legged, with good tans, and little catlike glasses, and strange shawl kinds of things, and jewelry that looked as if it had been made by Indians or Africans—turquoise and amber, stuff like that. There were two men with completely shaved heads, one white, one black, and the black one was gorgeous. He could have been Michael Jordan, for all Dorise knew.
Maybe he’s my secret admirer, she thought. Maybe he’s seen me somewhere, and he’s the one who leaves the little things for Shavonne.
She smiled at someone across the room and mouthed, “Hello, darlin’,” more or less just so she could smile to herself and not look like a lunatic. “Secret Admirer” was just a game she played with herself. She was pretty sure she knew who left the Christmas stocking, and the JazzFest T-shirt, and the little House of Blues souvenir that time. Once she had seen her. She knew it was a white woman, a big one, and she knew the candy wasn’t poisoned or anything, because she was pretty sure what it was all about. She just didn’t meet it head-on, kept it on kind of a back burner so she wouldn’t have to think about it, instead playing this game with herself.
My secret admirer loves me so much he knows the way to my heart is through my child.
My secret admirer is handsome and rich and plays football for the Saints—but he can’t declare himself because first he must make me love him for himself.
My secret admirer will buy me the best house in Eastover, and Suzanne Nickerson will come to my parties.
Suzanne Nickerson was here, at this party. She was the gorgeous anchorwoman Dorise had met before and who was more or less her idol. “How you, darlin’?” Dorise said and Nickerson said, “Hello there—nice to see you again,” just as if she meant it, as if she remembered Dorise, and she was so nice Dorise thought she really did, no matter what her sister said about her being just the help.
There was dignity in being the help. It was honest work, and the Bible praised honest work.
Just to make the party complete, a fine-looking man even talked to her. She was passing a tray of crawfish beignets, and he said, “You have the prettiest smile. I was noticing the way you say hello to everybody.”
“I like meeting people,” she said. “It’s my favorite part of the job.”
He waved a denim-clad arm in a wide, careless arc, nearly upsetting her tray of goodies. “These people? My God. You enjoy meeting t
hese people?”
She saw he wasn’t nice. He was just a bitter white man trying to make himself feel better by talking to a black person, thinking he was giving her some kind of crumb of charity because he probably felt inferior to these people. He was probably an unpublished poet, or a music critic who never made it as a musician. Or—maybe this was it—the husband of somebody good. An artist, maybe, or even a doctor or lawyer. A bitter, pathetic little man who had tried to drag her down with him.
When she got to the Michael Jordan-looking guy, he said, “Hey, baby. Lookin’ good,” and in its way, it was more polite. He didn’t think she looked any better than anybody else, and probably not nearly as good as that skin-and-bones white woman hanging on him, but he said what he said to make her feel good, not him. There was thoughtfulness in that.
And all the women were nice. These weren’t those little tongue-clucking flutterbies like at that brunch that made her so mad she’d told Troy about it.
Dear Jesus, is that what I did? Did I tell him so he’d do what he did? Is it my fault that poor little dog died?
“Dorise? Dorise, watch out.” The hostess had seen her about to run into a table, nearly bruising her leg and sending little balls of cholesterol all over the living room.
As she caught her balance, got her bearings, she happened to glance out the window and see Troy Chauvin waiting for her in a black Trans-Am.
The hair on her forearms stood up. She thought, Lord Jesus strike me dead if I ever look at a man again. Any man. Ever. Just get that Troy Chauvin out of my life and I promise to dedicate my life to the church.
* * *
Lovelace was sitting outside at the Cafe Marigny, working on a cappuccino and trying to get up her nerve when this guy with a puppy came by. It was a little brown-spotted puppy, totally irresistible. She bent down and held out her hand for it to lick, not even looking at the guy. She was patting the puppy’s head when he said, “Mind if I join you?”
She looked up at him. Cute. Brown hair, brown eyes. Preppy-looking. Almost certainly gay. “Sure,” she said. And they talked.
His name was Larry, he was from Connecticut, and he’d been living with this crazy girl who read the tarot in Jackson Square, but she’d thrown him out on account of the puppy. Not gay, Lovelace noted, and suddenly wasn’t sure she wanted male attention. She wondered if the guy was hustling her for a place to stay.
But then he said he’d moved in with his brother, and that was even better because he realized the girl didn’t have all her marbles anyway. “Do you have all your marbles?” he asked.
She laughed and then considered the reality, which wasn’t even slightly funny. “I’d run like hell if I were you. There’s not one sane person in my whole family.”
“You must be Southern.”
“Oh, don’t be so superior.” He really had no idea. Nobody could.
“So what are you doing here? Do you work in a restaurant?”
She started. It was like he was reading her mind, almost.
He said, “It’s daytime, which is work time. Ergo, you must be a night worker. Like me.”
“What do you do?”
“Open oysters at Remoulade. But really, I’m writing a book.”
Lovelace murmured, “Aren’t they all,” and was instantly ashamed of herself. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”
He shrugged. “It’s true. Everybody is. What’s yours about?” His hair was curly and long, and he had incredible dimples.
“I’m not quite that ambitious. I just want to cook.”
“Is this a proposal?”
She felt herself go pink. “More like a plea. They don’t have any jobs at Remoulade, do they?”
“Ah. So you just arrived in town. Do you have a place to stay?”
She nodded. “With my uncle. I was doing temp work but—”
“Bleeeah.”
“Yeah. I couldn’t hack it. And I really am a very good cook. I did it in high school. Of course, that was just a pizza kind of thing, but I’m not kidding, I can do it.”
“Hey, I don’t own the joint. And I don’t think it’s the kind of place we could sneak you into with no experience.” He seemed to be taking her on as a project.
“Do you know a place where we could?”
He looked off somewhere in the distance. “I’m thinking.”
“Why would you help me?”
“Because you’re cute.”
“Oh, please.”
“And because you need me. You have a sad look around your mouth. A little bit sad and a little bit worried. You’re too old for a runaway, though. Tell ol’ Larry—what’s the matter?”
“Well, how about you? You look like some refugee from the Wharton School of Business. What are you doing opening oysters?”
“Trying to keep from cutting my fingers off.”
She had met guys like this before. They never told you anything personal—even where they were from, sometimes, and they held you at bay as if with a shield. Like you were the enemy.
It’s not a bad way to be, she thought. I can do it—I’m quick on my feet. I just never needed to. Lovelace Jacomine, Woman of Mystery. That’s me.
As if on cue, Larry said, “If I’m going to rescue you, could I trouble you for your name?”
“I didn’t tell you? Jacqueline.” Damn! She hadn’t had time to think and her mother’s name had popped out. “Jackie Daniel.” Her mother’s and her dad’s—at least it was a name she could remember. “Did you say you’re going to rescue me?”
“I’ve got a friend who works in a place near here. Let’s go check her out.”
It was just a neighborhood restaurant—a pasta and gumbo kind of place—but that would be fine. Larry sent word that he was waiting in the dining room, and in a moment a flushed, harried-looking woman came through the swinging door. She was older than Lovelace and Larry—older by about fifteen years, but very pretty except for a few too many pounds. Her black hair curled in natural ringlets and her face, red with the heat, was round and sensual.
Larry said, “Hey, baby,” and his tone was very different from the tone he used with Lovelace. “I brought you something.”
The woman looked at Lovelace, and Lovelace knew she was either sleeping with Larry or wanted to be. She wished she could drop through the floor.
“What do I do with it?’
“Wind it up and it cooks.”
“You cook, darlin’?” She put one hand on her hip and flashed sharp-looking teeth in what passed for a smile. Lovelace hoped she’d had her rabies shot.
“I, uh …”
“Hey, Barb, just give her a chance.” Now Larry was uncomfortable, having belatedly realized what a faux pas he’d made.
“Sure, sweetheart, anything for you. What’s your name, baby?”
“Jackie.”
“Welcome to Marino’s. Go in the back and get an apron and meet me in the kitchen. What can you do, by the way?”
Lovelace shrugged. “Anything, really.”
It was filthy in the back. She was pretty sure she smelled rat shit, and, worse, something dead. The dead smell was a ripe, meaty odor that reminded her at first of a butcher shop. It was stronger in the kitchen.
She came back, still tying her apron. “What’s that smell?”
Barb shrugged. “Damned rat stuck in the walls—it’s happened twice this month. You know how to make gumbo?”
“Sure.” With a recipe. For eight people, not thirty or forty.
“My… how you say?… saucier didn’t come in yesterday or today. I was telling Larry at breakfast—I guess that’s why he thought of you.”
Breakfast. That explained his faraway look back at the coffeehouse. He was trying to figure out if he could get away with this.
I could walk out, she thought. But she didn’t quite know how.
“We usually go through about fifteen gallons a day. You’ll find vegetables over there and everything else…. Carlton’ll show you. Carlton? Help Miss Priss, will you?
”
Carlton was an amiable-seeming guy who didn’t seem to give too much of a damn about his job—or about anything else, for that matter. He was smoking a cigarette that had an inch-long ash on it.
Lovelace said, “I’m going to need a recipe.”
“Luis doesn’t use a recipe.”
“He must use a recipe.”
“Hell, honey, just cut up all the onions you can find. Then cut up all the peppers. Then we’ll talk, okay?”
The smell of dead meat was getting stronger. It had a sweetness to it that she hadn’t noticed at first.
“Where are the food processors?”
He looked at her empty hands. “You don’t have no tools?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong with Miss Barb, anyhow?” Carlton looked around to see if Barb had heard, but she was nowhere to be seen. She was probably outside, laying into Larry.
“You don’t have food processors?”
“Sure, we have food processors. But you gon’ need knives, too, aren’t you?”
Grumbling, Carlton found Lovelace some knives, while she became increasingly aware of a visceral reaction to the stench. She hoped the onions would drown it out, but it never came to that. By the time she had a nice pile of onions and peppers ready to put through the processors, she was so nauseated she didn’t know if she could make it to the back door, which looked like the best bet for an exit.
She ran for it, and stood there retching with the dry heaves.
Carlton said, “You sick, girl? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
The back door gave onto a courtyard where they kept the garbage. The smell was almost worse here than inside, and there was no way out. She had to go back through the kitchen, and then the restaurant proper to escape.
As she streaked through, she was dimly aware of Barb and Larry sitting at a table holding hands.
She heard Barb say, “What the hell?” and then she heard footsteps behind her.
“Jackie. Jackie, stop a minute.”
She was running as if The White Monk were chasing her again, crook in hand; as if her dad were behind her. Only this time it felt good because there was nothing to worry about, and she was putting yards between herself and the dead thing.
