Crescent City Connection

Daniel could think of no reason in hell why some rich, gorgeous babe would want to talk to a guy wanted for murder.
    A woman answered. “Ms. Owens?”
    “Yes?”
    “Ms. Owens, I’m calling for Errol Jacomine.”
    “Well, there’s a blast from the past.” Her voice had a throaty, been-around quality.
    Daddy, normally so tense he nearly twitched, suddenly underwent a metamorphosis. His shoulders relaxed, he grinned like a clown, and his body language conveyed something else—something Daniel had never seen in him before. What was it?
    Eagerness, he thought. Almost … happiness.
    Jacomine said, “Hey, Miss Rosemarie.” He dwelt on every syllable of the name, as if making fun of her for putting on airs.
    “Hey, Earl. I knew you’d look me up one day.”
    “How you been, baby?”
    Daniel wondered if his mouth was hanging open—his dad and Rosemarie Owens?
    “You must know how I’ve been. I gather you read People magazine.”
    “You’ve had some real bad luck.”
    “Well, some good luck, too. One thing—since I became nationally famous I’ve gotten reacquainted with a lot of old friends.”
    “You sound like you’re almost glad to hear from me.”
    “You know what, Earl? You were never boring. A girl could do worse.”
    “You did, sugar. I’m quite sure you did.” They laughed like a pair of monkeys. When they had subsided, his father kept talking. “Rosie, I’ve got somebody I want you to meet. Daniel, say hello to your mama.”
    She was silent. His father was silent. It was as if Daniel had fallen into a vacuum. His ears roared and it was the only sound in the world.
    “Well? Say hello, son.”
    “You son of a bitch!”
    “Daniel Jacomine, is that any way to talk to your mother? You just went from being half an orphan to having a rich, beautiful, internationally famous mama. Now you mind your manners or she’s going to think I raised you wrong.”
    The throaty, Lauren Bacall voice was quavery. “Daniel? Is that you, baby? Oh, Earl, you don’t know what a gift this is.”
    She started crying in earnest and Daniel thought:
What the fuck is goin’ on ? My mama’s not this woman. My mama’s Mary Rose Jacomine.
    His father said, “You want to meet him, baby?”
    Daniel couldn’t stand it any longer. He shouted. “No! Goddammit, no!” Later, he had no idea why he’d said that. He’d simply been too confused to think, wanted time to stand still.
    “Oh, Daniel,” said Rosemarie Owens. “Ohhh, Daniel, you have no idea. My baby. My little baby I haven’t seen in all these years.”
    Her baby?
he thought.
I don’t know this woman.
    Memories of his mother began to come back to him. She had had brown hair, not blond, and she was skinny and young and had a different name. Though people did call her Rose because Mary Rose was so hard to say.
    Damn! Daddy was so peculiar about this. Why didn’t I put two and two together?
    And yet he couldn’t have, he knew that. Who on God’s green Earth could have seen this one coming?
    “Daniel. Daniel? Your daddy’s a shithead, you know that? Always has been, always will be. He didn’t tell you what was going on, did he?”
    Daniel tried to muster a little dignity. “How about if you tell me.”
    “Well, I can’t yet. It’s too much to hope he’s had a change of heart and just wants to do the right thing. But for some reason he seems to want us to meet, and that’s good enough for me, darlin’. I haven’t laid eyes on my boy since you were seven.”
    “Since you deserted me, you mean.”
    She started to cry again. “You have no idea why I had to do that or how much it hurt me. Come see me, darlin’. Please promise you’ll come see me.”
    He heard himself saying, “Where, Mama?” Calling her “Mama” as if thirty-five years hadn’t passed.

Thirteen
    SKIP ASSESSED HER data: Jacomine’s younger son was an artist who wore white, who had told his mother he worked in a juice bar, and who meditated a lot. Surely it was all part of a pattern—crummy day job to support painting or sculpting habit, nonconformist clothing, off-the-wall state of mind. A fringe kind of person. Someone, it sounded like, who probably lived close to the edge. Not a bad profile at all, and Skip thought she might be able to add something—since he’d worked in a juice bar, maybe he was a vegetarian.
    She picked up the Yellow Pages and turned to “Health and Diet Food Products.” There were fifty-three listings, including all twelve Smoothie King