Crescent City Connection

parted, but he didn’t want to give out information. The last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself, have the police take him into custody, make him sit for hours, God knew what.
    He simply said, “Excuse me” again, and continued to elbow. No one wanted to physically restrain him, and more police cars were pulling up, all squealing their brakes. There were no other cars: they must have sealed off the street. Police were all over the place now, swarming like hornets, and just as dangerous.
    He kept elbowing, and gained the door in time to see two policemen handing Lovelace into a marked car.
    Thank the gods.
    He waved to the nearest policeman. “Officer, I need to talk to that woman. She’s my niece.”
    The cop shouted, “What?” And the car drove off.
    He started to cross the street, “Where are they taking her?”
    “Let’s try to keep the street clear, sir.”
    “She’s my niece. I need to be sure she’s all right.”
    “Sir, I’m really going to have to ask you to get back on the sidewalk. We’re letting people walk on that side now.”
    The Monk wasn’t at all sure the cop had heard him. He took off walking on the side he was permitted and retrieved his scooter. They’d probably take her to Headquarters, he thought, on Broad Street. He’d go there and try to find her.
    He putt-putted along in severe traffic, and had gone only about a block in ten minutes when he finally saw a clear path, if he passed on the right. This was the good thing about a scooter—it could do that. He zipped out and just as he did, noticed a dude about half a block up the street stepping off the curb, and walking around a white pickup.
    Uh-oh, it looked like he was going to open the door and get in. Cursing, The Monk slowed to accommodate the setback. The man got in and closed the door, just as The Monk came up on him. Perfect timing, he thought, and glanced to the right as he passed, to make sure the man was in and the door properly closed. The man looked like Daniel.
    He tried to look again, but he was already past. He had forgotten about Daniel. This man wore shorts and no hat—it hadn’t occurred to him it was Daniel. He realized he’d assumed, in the back of his mind, that his brother had been arrested.
    He worked his way back into the line of traffic, watched in his mirror as the truck pulled out, and did the same. Once again, The Monk pulled over to the right, between the traffic and the cars parked on the curb, and drove to the end of the block, where he turned around and came back. Traffic was still creeping, but the truck had passed his corner. He came up on it slowly, not even slightly worried that his brother would recognize him with his head shaved. When he was parallel, he glanced over again.
    Daniel.
    He pulled ahead, circled the block, and found himself again behind the truck. He memorized its license plate, and then he followed it.
    It parked on Magazine Street, and The Monk pulled over into a driveway, as if he lived there. He watched as Daniel entered a house, whose address he noted. He pulled out of the driveway, parked the scooter, sat down as if he were a street person, and watched the house for a while. No one came or went.
    What now?
The Monk thought.
Do I keep watching? What happened to the other man? What happened to the big cop? Is one of them dead? It’s my fault if they are. They could both be dead and it’s my fault. I could have moved faster; I could have tried to stop them myself rather than tried to call the police. They could both be dead and I’m responsible. I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to go home.
    But he knew if he went home, he would have to clean the house and shower for a long time and someone could come while he was in the shower. The police could come. On the other hand if he didn’t go home, he might kill someone else. Should he go home or not?
    He walked down the block and got a sidewalk table at a coffeehouse, where he drank espresso and kept up his watch. After a while he switched to water, but kept his table. It grew dark and still he watched, trying to decide what to do next.
    At the house on Magazine, all was quiet.
    Finally, he decided to check into a hotel. At least he’d be inside, where he couldn’t hurt anyone. The problem was, his money stash was back at his house, and by now Lovelace might have told the cops where he lived. They might already be watching his house.
    He couldn’t move. But when they came out to get the tables