Crescent City Connection

guys like this before. They never told you anything personal—even where they were from, sometimes, and they held you at bay as if with a shield. Like you were the enemy.
    It’s not a bad way to be
, she thought.
I can do it—I’m quick on my feet. I just never needed to. Lovelace Jacomine, Woman of Mystery. That’s me.
    As if on cue, Larry said, “If I’m going to rescue you, could I trouble you for your name?”
    “I didn’t tell you? Jacqueline.” Damn! She hadn’t had time to think and her mother’s name had popped out. “Jackie Daniel.” Her mother’s and her dad’s—at least it was a name she could remember. “Did you say you’re going to rescue me?”
    “I’ve got a friend who works in a place near here. Let’s go check her out.”
    It was just a neighborhood restaurant—a pasta and gumbo kind of place—but that would be fine. Larry sent word that he was waiting in the dining room, and in a moment a flushed, harried-looking woman came through the swinging door. She was older than Lovelace and Larry—older by about fifteen years, but very pretty except for a few too many pounds. Her black hair curled in natural ringlets and her face, red with the heat, was round and sensual.
    Larry said, “Hey, baby,” and his tone was very different from the tone he used with Lovelace. “I brought you something.”
    The woman looked at Lovelace, and Lovelace knew she was either sleeping with Larry or wanted to be. She wished she could drop through the floor.
    “What do I do with it?’
    “Wind it up and it cooks.”
    “You cook, darlin’?” She put one hand on her hip and flashed sharp-looking teeth in what passed for a smile. Lovelace hoped she’d had her rabies shot.
    “I, uh …”
    “Hey, Barb, just give her a chance.” Now Larry was uncomfortable, having belatedly realized what a faux pas he’d made.
    “Sure, sweetheart, anything for you. What’s your name, baby?”
    “Jackie.”
    “Welcome to Marino’s. Go in the back and get an apron and meet me in the kitchen. What can you do, by the way?”
    Lovelace shrugged. “Anything, really.”
    It was filthy in the back. She was pretty sure she smelled rat shit, and, worse, something dead. The dead smell was a ripe, meaty odor that reminded her at first of a butcher shop. It was stronger in the kitchen.
    She came back, still tying her apron. “What’s that smell?”
    Barb shrugged. “Damned rat stuck in the walls—it’s happened twice this month. You know how to make gumbo?”
    “Sure.” With a recipe. For eight people, not thirty or forty.
    “My… how you say?…
saucier
didn’t come in yesterday or today. I was telling Larry at breakfast—I guess that’s why he thought of you.”
    Breakfast. That explained his faraway look back at the coffeehouse. He was trying to figure out if he could get away with this.
    I could walk out
, she thought. But she didn’t quite know how.
    “We usually go through about fifteen gallons a day. You’ll find vegetables over there and everything else…. Carlton’ll show you. Carlton? Help Miss Priss, will you?”
    Carlton was an amiable-seeming guy who didn’t seem to give too much of a damn about his job—or about anything else, for that matter. He was smoking a cigarette that had an inch-long ash on it.
    Lovelace said, “I’m going to need a recipe.”
    “Luis doesn’t use a recipe.”
    “He must use a recipe.”
    “Hell, honey, just cut up all the onions you can find. Then cut up all the peppers. Then we’ll talk, okay?”
    The smell of dead meat was getting stronger. It had a sweetness to it that she hadn’t noticed at first.
    “Where are the food processors?”
    He looked at her empty hands. “You don’t have no tools?”
    “No.”
    “What’s wrong with Miss Barb, anyhow?” Carlton looked around to see if Barb had heard, but she was nowhere to be seen. She was probably outside, laying into Larry.
    “You don’t have food processors?”
    “Sure, we have food processors. But you gon’ need knives, too, aren’t you?”
    Grumbling, Carlton found Lovelace some knives, while she became increasingly aware of a visceral reaction to the stench. She hoped the onions would drown it out, but it never came to that. By the time she had a nice pile of onions and peppers ready to put through the processors, she was so nauseated she didn’t know if she could make it to the back door, which looked like the best bet for an exit.
    She ran for it, and stood there retching with the dry