by Julie Smith
“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.”
She touched him, and then withdrew her hand, knowing that he couldn’t be touched, which made him so ashamed he wanted to go in the bedroom and lie there till he died.
Oh, no! He couldn’t think about death. That one was back. “Life. Life,” he said to himself, so deliberately he moved his lips.
She said, “What? Did you say something?”
He shook his head.
“Isaac, I’m so sorry. But you don’t have to worry. I won’t say where you are, or anything about you. I’m meeting the cop at the Camellia Grill. She’ll never even know you exist.”
He wrote: “Are you kidding? They have dossiers on everybody. They’ll have them on me. They’ll know I exist. They’ll come here and get me.”
“What for?”
“For questioning, I guess. Who knows what for? Can you imagine what would happen to me if I had to go to the police station for questioning?”
“I think it’s pretty funny. I bet they’ve never questioned a man who’s taken a vow of silence.”
She meant to make him laugh, but he just couldn’t. He was thinking of how to get her to say what he needed her to say. He couldn’t stand it.
He wrote, “Lovelace, quick. Who’s the son of Mary and Joseph?”
“Jesus Christ?”
She had said it, but with a question mark. Was that good enough?
“Say it again.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Thanks. Do me a favor. Please don’t say my father’s name anymore.” And then he wrote “Jesus Christ,” to offset having written “my father.”
Lovelace frowned, evidently puzzled, but seemed willing to humor him.
It wasn’t good enough. He had used the possessive with “my father”. He wrote, “In Jesus Christ’s name,” but he couldn’t leave it at that—it made him look too crazy, so he kept on writing. “In Jesus Christ’s name, please don’t do this.”
“Well, what the hell’s the alternative? They’ll just find us and spray us with automatic gunfire.”
He wrote, “I have to get out of here.”
“No. I’ll go. It isn’t fair to put you in jeopardy this way.”
But they would find him. They were going to find him. And that was big trouble. Because he couldn’t be absolutely sure he wouldn’t kill someone.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. That’s back.
That was a thought that had been gone for a while. Now, with this mention of the police, he knew the possibility existed. He might kill someone. There was simply no way in hell to be sure he wouldn’t. He might have done it already.
He wrote: “I can’t talk about this anymore. I have to meditate.”
“Okay.” She went back in the kitchen, and pretty soon he smelled garlic and onions and squash. She was probably making a vegetable pasta.
He sat there and thought: I have to get out. I might hurt someone. Even now, I can’t be sure I haven’t killed anyone; I just can’t. There’s no way to be sure, is there? Absolutely no way. If there were, I’d know what it is.
And I can’t be sure I won’t do it again.
I can’t go to prison. I can’t control the contamination. There aren’t enough showers in the whole prison system of the whole country to control the contamination.
I have to leave.
Twenty
STEVE WAS PULLING a roast chicken out of the oven when Skip got back.
“Hi. You hungry?”
“Starved. That looks great, but we’ve had a development—I’ve got to call Shellmire. Oops. My beeper just went off.” She recognized the number instantly—Shellmire’s. Eagerly, she dialed. “I was just about to call you. Guess what?”
“I give up.”
“The kid’s coming in out of the cold. We’re meeting tomorrow—at the Camellia Grill, of all places.”
“How do you know it isn’t a setup?” Shellmire asked.
“I don’t. We’re talking mega-backup. You want to be there?”
“It’s no setup. And yeah, I’d love to. Can’t though. Bigger fish to fry, as your pal says.”
“What could be bigger than this? And how do you know so much about it, anyway? Evidently she talked to Michelle. Do you have her line tapped?”
“Sure we do, we’re Big Brother. Our guys heard the conversation, but Lovelace called from a bar—we didn’t get her phone number. But here’s the big news—Michelle’s not the only one she talked to. Take a wild guess at who her other phone friend is.”
“Her dad.”
“You’re never gonna guess. I better tell you—her grandmother.”
It took a moment to figure out who he meant. “Rosemarie?”
“We’ve got a majorly interesting tape of those two ladies. Rosemarie told her her grandpa and her dad are The Jury.”
“No!”
“Sure did. Why, I’m not exactly sure. I don’t think she had in mind Lovelace calling you, but she could have.”
“Never mind why she did it—how does she know?”
“Okay, okay, don’t rub it in. Guess you were right. There’s probably a reason the hubby turned up dead. We got her in custody in Dallas—I was calling to ask if you want to fly over and get in on the interrogation.”
“Good God, yes. But I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
“At the Camellia Grill, along with the burgers.”
“Turner, do you realize what this means? I’ve got to call Cappello. And Joe.”
She hung up.
“Steve! The FBI’s got evidence pointing to Jacomine.”
“Hey, congratulations—hometown girl makes good.”
“It’s not over till it’s over. But, man, this is hot. Maybe they’ll finally give me some help. We’re this close—” she held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “We’re gonna get the bastard.”
The Camellia Grill, which never closes, did at five A.M. the next day, while staff and customers were replaced with policemen.
By six, the transition was complete. By six forty-five, Skip was sitting at the counter, sipping coffee. At seven, she began to feel restless. She kept fighting the urge to look over her shoulder, or even at the door. She was well covered. She stared at her coffee.
A man came in and sat next to her, a man in coat and tie, looking as if he were on his way to work. “Morning,” she said.
He grunted and ordered coffee. The place was starting to hum. A woman in a miniskirted power suit flipped in and got something to go—a woman too old to be Lovelace.
Two other customers took counter stools. One—apparently a regular—asked where the usual staff was. The wait-cop shrugged. “Out, I guess.”
Skip thought, That should cover it. She looked at her watch.
Seven-ten. Still in the ballgame.
Her coffee cup was empty.
She got a refill and tried to focus on breathing. In, out, in, out—people were staring. She smiled at the man in the suit, the grunting nonspeaker. “Yoga breathing.”
He frowned back.
She thought, Maybe Lovelace doesn’t know what this place is like at this hour. Maybe she thought it’d be deserted.
There were plainclothes cops outside who’d seen Lovelace’s picture. If anyone came near who looked anything like her, they’d follow; and they’d say what they were doing on their radios.
Maybe she’s not coming.
She didn’t let the thought solidify until seven-twenty. By seven-thirty, Abasolo’s imitation of a fry cook was wearing thin. The real customers were getting testy. The place smelled as if there’d been a forest fire. Skip was sweating.
At seven-forty, the owner got pissed and insisted on replacing Abas
olo, which, at that point, was fine—the place was full of civilians, anyway.
At seven-fifty, Skip’s clothes were soaking wet with flop-sweat. The policemen outside were on their radios more often than not, making progress reports—who they were ought to be obvious to anyone on the block. But Skip had a feeling it didn’t matter. Lovelace wasn’t coming.
They made it official at eight.
Skip killed an hour or two at Headquarters, doing paperwork and returning phone calls, waiting for the business day to start at Rough Trade, The Monk’s gallery. Any idea of sending Abasolo to try a kid-gloves approach now seemed absurd—it could take days, and she was overloaded on adrenaline.
She got in her car, drove to the French Quarter, and found a parking place. Jittery with coffee nerves and fury, she blew into the gallery like a hurricane.
The door slammed behind her. “Dahveed! Dahveed, come out here! Skip Langdon, NOPD—get your cute butt here in two seconds.”
He seemed shaken when he arrived, about half a second ahead of her deadline. “Uh—what is it? Can I help you?” He looked undecided, and she knew he was trying to get up the nerve to ask her to lower her voice.
“I want you to let me walk through your gallery.”
“Walk through my… what is this?” He actually burst into tears. It was quite a spectacle—she’d never seen a grown man do that. A drop or two on the cheeks maybe, but not a full-fledged tantrum straight from Queen Central.
Dahveed pleaded as if beset by Mongol hordes. “You can’t do this. Please don’t do this. I promise you I don’t have any phone numbers. I swear to you. Please, please, please, please, don’t rip apart my place of business. I’m begging you—please. If you have any human feeling.”
“Hey, take it easy.” She knew she’d come on a little strong, but she must have yelled louder than she thought—or maybe she was just giving off a very nasty vibe.
Revelas came in from the courtyard. “What you doin’ to Dahveed? He don’t know nothin’.”
“Look, I don’t want to hurt Dahveed. But I need to find The Monk. Is he here? Is that what’s going on?”
“Naw. He ain’t here. But I just remembered somethin’ I know about The Monk. Maybe it could help you.”
