Crescent City Connection

been drying her hands on a dish towel.
    “Nolan? What you doing here in the middle of the day?”
    The man had stepped out of the truck. Skip slammed on the brakes and hopped out of the car, hand on her gun. “Nolan Bazemore, freeze. You’re under arrest.”
    For an instant, he did freeze, utter amazement written on his dim features. Then he dived back toward the truck.
    The woman screamed and started running toward the vehicle. “Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot.”
    In a second she’d be in the line of fire.
    “Mama! Mama, no!”
    Skip heard Boudreaux calling for backup. She said, “Freeze” once more, but she was acutely aware that for crucial seconds she herself was frozen by circumstance, the other woman controlling the action.
    The woman reached her son and knelt beside him. He said, “Get back, Mama. I’ll handle this.”
    Boudreaux shouted, “Back up, Mrs. Bazemore. That’s it. You’re okay. Everything’s okay now.”
    Nolan Bazemore lifted his chest, rearing up on his arms, obviously flabbergasted. Astonishment seemed his only emotion.

Six
    SHE SHOULD HAVE known her uncle Isaac didn’t live here—the neighborhood was dicey at best, and scary was more realistic. Various dudes had given her the eye, though she had to admit none had actually accosted her until this crazy started chasing her.
    She tried apologizing. “I’m sorry, mister. Listen, I didn’t know I was trespassing. I thought my uncle lived there.”
    The footsteps continued. He had that damned, heavy crook thing. Who but a screwball would carry something like that? Her neck prickled as she imagined it around her waist, her neck, even her leg, tripping her. She stepped up her pace, but she was no match for the crazy. He was gaining on her. She tried shouting: “Help! Somebody! Please help me.”
    Almost immediately a hand went round her waist, at least not the hook, thank God, but still she was being grabbed. She was being kidnapped a second time. A harrowing idea occurred to her—maybe this was some employee of her dad’s, sent to wait for her at Isaac’s.
    A hand went over her mouth. But she wasn’t truly frightened. It had to be impossible to get kidnapped by two entirely different men in two days—therefore, this guy had to be working for her dad. So, big deal, she was back to Square One, but she probably wasn’t going to die.
    The man took his hand off her mouth, spun her around, and put a finger over his lips. Was he kidding? Why in hell should she keep quiet?
    “Let me go.” She struggled in his grasp. “Let me go or I’ll yell some more.”
    To her great surprise, he did. He simply took his hands off her and held them up in front of his chest, palms out, as if to show he had no weapons.
    He touched his mouth and shook his head at the same time, why she couldn’t imagine.
    “I’m going now,” she said. “If you try to follow me, I’ll yell so loud they’ll hear me in Alabama.”
    Now he put his hands together, as if praying, and shook his head vigorously.
    She began to catch on that he was communicating in some sort of sign language—apparently he was a mute.
    Well, he hadn’t hurt her yet. In spite of herself, she was intrigued.
    He made writing motions. She shook her head—she had no pen or pencil.
    He scratched something on his palm, but she didn’t get it. Finally, he pointed to his chest.
    “You,” she said.
    He shook his head and pointed at her.
    “Me.”
    He looked so chagrined that for a moment she felt sorry for him. Finally, he pointed to his eye.
    “Eye.”
    He nodded, and made a curve in the air.
    “S. Is.” She was puzzled.
    He made an A in the air, and another one. Finally she got it—he was drawing his air C when the police car arrived.
    A young black cop got out of the car, heavyset, a little sullen. “Everything all right?”
    She realized they must look friendly, just standing there staring at each other, no matter that she’d been screaming for her life two minutes ago. Someone must have heard her and dialed 911.
    “Everything’s fine. We were just having an argument. He’s my boyfriend and … I got mad.”
    “About what?”
    “Another woman.” She tried to look philosophical, as if this kind of thing happened all the time.
    The cop didn’t look convinced. He stared back and forth, first at one, then the other, and finally said, “You got any ID?”
    “Sure. Back at the house. I got mad and I ran out and he chased me. But we can go back and …”
    He gave her