Crescent City Connection

heaves.
    Carlton said, “You sick, girl? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
    The back door gave onto a courtyard where they kept the garbage. The smell was almost worse here than inside, and there was no way out. She had to go back through the kitchen, and then the restaurant proper to escape.
    As she streaked through, she was dimly aware of Barb and Larry sitting at a table holding hands.
    She heard Barb say, “What the hell?” and then she heard footsteps behind her.
    “Jackie. Jackie, stop a minute.”
    She was running as if The White Monk were chasing her again, crook in hand; as if her dad were behind her. Only this time it felt good because there was nothing to worry about, and she was putting yards between herself and the dead thing.
    Larry got to her first. “What’s wrong, Jackie? What happened?”
    “I got sick. The thing in the wall.”
    He looked bewildered, but by that time Barb had caught up. “Oh, shit. The rat. I know how she feels.”
    “What?”
    Between ragged breaths, starting to sob a little, Lovelace explained.
    “Barb, that’s disgusting.”
    “You brought her over. I didn’t ask.”
    “You said you were desperate without Luis.”
    “Oh, shit.”
    Lovelace started walking.
    “Hey, Jackie. Wait.” Larry grabbed her arm. “Hey, Barb. She just got to town. I was trying to help.”
    “Yeah? Well, you’re a hero. You and Miss Sorority House have a nice afternoon in bed.”
    Lovelace had to laugh. “You’re like Tom Jones or somebody.”
    “Picaresque hero, that’s me. Listen, I’m sorry. I wanted to help you.”
    “I think you wanted to fuck me.”
    “No, really. How can I make it up to you?”
    “You can’t. ’Bye now.”
    “Listen, I was trying to help you. Don’t you get that?”
    “Nobody can help me.”
    “What do you need? Just tell me what you need.”
    He had fallen into step beside her, which meant she couldn’t even go back to Isaac’s without leading him there. She wasn’t sure how to get rid of him, and besides, he was seriously cute. So she told him. “I need a reference. You think Barb’s going to give me one?”
    “A reference?”
    “So I can get a good job.”
    “A reference? That’s all you want?” He started laughing.
    “What’s so funny?” They had now reached the Cafe Marigny, where they’d met, and she sat down again.
    “I’ll give you a reference.”
    She stared at him.
    “Tell them to call Remoulade and ask for me. They won’t know I wasn’t your supervisor.”
    It could work. She was pretty sure it could work.
    “You’d do that for me?”
    “Of course. I like you a lot.”
    She wasn’t sure the feeling was mutual, but she really did need a reference. She ended up giving him her phone number.
    She went home, sat in The White Monk’s pristine white living room, and worked up the nerve to call the number in the ad, the one for a family of four that needed a low-fat cook.
    “Jacqueline? What a lovely name.” The voice that answered, a woman’s voice, was husky and warm, almost intimate; one of those voices that might have been trained but probably wasn’t; that probably made men propose on hearing it. “When can you come over?”
    “I—well… now if you like; tomorrow. Whatever’s good for you.”
    “Could you really come now? My husband’ll be home and you need to meet him. Oh—I guess I should ask … what’s your experience?”
    “Well, I…”
    “No, don’t tell me. Let’s meet first.” She spoke slowly and sounded impossibly sophisticated. Her name was Brenna Royce and her husband was “with” a shipping company, though for all Lovelace knew he was a deckhand.
    She lived in the Garden District which, according to Brenna, could be reached by streetcar. “You know it?” Brenna asked.
    “I’m afraid not.”
    “Good God, you’re even newer here than we are. Well, get your passport and hurry on down.”
    As the streetcar began to pass absolutely improbable mansions, mansions as large as a normal city block, it seemed, Lovelace got an idea what Brenna meant. It was a foreign country and not only on an economic level—it just didn’t look like America, certainly not like your average burb in, say, south Florida, where her mom lived.
    Lovelace found the Royce home behind an intricate iron lace fence, a gracious, curving, columned structure painted a sort of muted peach color, so that it managed to look both exuberant and stately at once. She was almost afraid to ring the bell.
    She expected a