Crescent City Connection

with my head shaved, he doesn’t.”
    Ferguson said, “Gentlemen, take this woman seriously. Do you hear what she just offered?”
    Abasolo was staring straight at Skip, as if sizing her up, deciding whether she was up to it. They’d been through a lot together—his opinion meant a lot. “The gun thing’s not so hard,” he said. “You could pad something so they don’t feel it when they pat you down.”
    “Forget it,” said King. “She’s not doing it.”
    Goerner glared at him.
    Abasolo was still looking at her. “There’s this guy who does theatrical makeup—we’ve worked with him a few times.”
    “Are you guys in kindergarten or what?” Goerner snapped.
    Skip said, “Listen, please. We can’t let Jacomine take control.”
    “Excuse me, Officer Langdon. The Federal Bureau of Investigation has had some experience in these matters.”
    Stung, she crossed her arms and glowered.
    * * *
    Jacomine called back. “Penny, I want to meet you.”
    “Well, let’s talk about that.”
    “I have something for you.”
    “What is it?”
    “It’s a Polaroid picture of Shavonne. We just took it.”
    “I’d like that, Reverend. How about if you let me speak to Shavonne a minute?”
    “You don’t trust me? Is that what you’re saying?”
    “I’d just like to be able to reassure her mother, that’s all.”
    “Penny, you must really underestimate me. You really think I’d call you up and not let you talk to Shavonne? Sure, I’m gonna let you talk to Shavonne. Shavonne, honey, come on over here and talk to Miss Penny. Okay. Say hello.”
    A childish “Hello” galvanized the room.
    “Shavonne? Hi, honey. How’re you doing?”
    “Fine.”
    “Your mama says to tell you she loves you.” Ferguson was improvising here. “You want me to tell her anything for you?”
    For a moment there was no answer, and then some sibilants, like whispering. Finally the child said, “Tell her I want to come home real bad.”
    Jacomine spoke again. “Okay, Penny, how long will it take you to get down here?”
    “Not long—a few minutes, maybe.”
    “I’m gonna send a pregnant lady out with the picture. She’ll be unarmed and so will you.”
    “I thought I was going to get to meet you, Reverend.”
    “Well, I’d love that, Penny, I really would. But I’ll be watching you from inside. It’ll be just like we met.”
    “I’m coming myself; I want you to come, too.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous, honey. Be there in ten minutes if you want the picture.” He hung up.
    “Dammit!” The Ferguson underneath the VNL was starting to show. “It’s pretty fucking hard to negotiate with someone who isn’t there.”
    Once again, Jacomine called back. “Oh, yeah. One other thing. Bring my granddaughter.”
    “Are you ready to give up Shavonne?”
    “We’re not at that stage yet, Penny. Here’s what’s happening now—I’m giving you a picture of Shavonne; you’re giving me a look at Lovelace.”
    “Well, now. Reverend, what if Lovelace doesn’t want to see you?”
    He yelled through the phone. “Well, goddammit, ask her! You goddamn, incompetent, motherfuckin’ bureaucrat! This is how the taxpayers’ money gets spent? You be there in ten minutes. With my granddaughter.”
    Goerner said, “Fine. Let’s give him a picture of her. We get one of Shavonne, he gets one of Lovelace.”
    “Wait a minute, I’ve got a great idea.” Skip spoke like a cheerleader—anything to get them to listen. “I accept the fact that you won’t send me in there. But why not let me impersonate her out on the street? Why don’t I get made up and come with Penny and talk to him—tell him I don’t want to join his stupid movement.”
    Ferguson said, “We might get some mileage out of that.”
    Goerner drummed his fingers—now that Taylor was gone, it seemed someone had to do it. “We might. We might.”
    King looked wary.
    “I’m worried about the voice problem,” Shellmire said. “You sound like you and she sounds like a young girl.”
    “Maybe I don’t have to speak. At least at first. If Lovelace is willing, maybe we could completely switch identities.” She was making this up as she went along. “Abasolo gave me an idea when he mentioned hiding a weapon under padding. I’m heavier than Lovelace, but we could pad her clothes—because nobody knows what she really looks like. The only constants are height and eye color—and I’ll bet you a million dollars her grandfather’s never noticed her eye color.