Crescent City Connection

nodded slightly, raising a hand again, like a priest, to acknowledge the warning. It was as close as he got to saying thanks.
    “Shit, Whitey, you trouble. I don’ know why the fuck I bother.” He headed back to his spot.
    The cop wanted Lovelace. The Monk knew hardly anyone, talked to no one at all, and had broken no laws. Therefore the cop wanted Lovelace.
    Fear clawed at The Monk’s stomach, squeezed at his chest. He ducked around the corner, where no one could see him, and dropped to the curb, taking in air, finding his center.
    When he had stopped hyperventilating and could breathe once again from the diaphragm, some oxygen finally got to his brain, along with a good shot of adrenaline. His mind raced.
    This was about his father. Daniel had kidnapped Lovelace for his father—why, The Monk had no idea—but somehow the cops had found out. They thought, perhaps, that Lovelace would lead them to Errol.
    More likely they’d lead him to her.
    It would mean breaking the rules, but he couldn’t go to the gallery now. He had to go home.
    Lovelace was gone when he got there.

Fifteen
    LOVELACE WAS HUMILIATED at the way she’d acted. She should never have asked Larry over, should have been more respectful of Isaac’s space. And she should never, ever have tried to hug her uncle; she knew how he’d take it, she could sense it. He’d probably had to stay up half the night taking showers.
    She was also depressed. She wasn’t going to get the job, that was obvious. The Royces were going to call Remoulade and ask for Larry, and he was going to say he’d never heard of her—if, in fact, he worked there at all. It occurred to her that he might not, since he’d tried to collect on his fabulously generous gift before she even had a chance to claim it.
    She lay in bed, on the futon The Monk had bought for her, cheeks flaming because she’d been so stupid, tears flowing because she had no prospects, unable to budge. She heard her uncle open the door and slip out, which was unlike him. Usually she could hear him making breakfast. Clearly he didn’t want to risk her waking up, didn’t want to see her or speak to her; probably just wanted her out of there.
    She would have stayed in bed all morning, except that she had to pee so bad. Isaac had the only bathroom on the side of the door he had so abruptly closed the night before.
    Once she was up, she saw that it was overcast, but there was a lot of humidity, and that excited her, made her blood flow. She might as well go get some coffee—but at PJ’s, not Cafe Marigny. The last person she wanted to see was Larry.
    As the caffeine entered her bloodstream, she began, against all odds, to feel optimistic. She bought a Times-Picayune and looked at the ads.
    It isn’t the end of the world
, she thought.
I can apologize. I can simply say I’m sorry and we can go from there. If he wants me to go, I can… what? Borrow money from Michelle. I can just call her up and get her to send some and then check into a cheap hotel. I can go back to doing temp work.
    There were ads for sales jobs, some in good stores; even one in a little gallery. Maybe one of those. That might be better than filing. The Royces’ ad was still running. She felt it pull on her. Was there a chance Larry wouldn’t sell her out?
    None, she thought.
    I could do a free tryout. Why don’t I just call them before they have a chance to call him? Why don’t I
say I’d be glad to work a week, free, and see what they say. Who could resist an offer like that?
    While the fit was on her, before she had a chance to think it over, she found a phone and called “Mrs. Royce? Jackie Daniel.”
    Brenna spoke before she had a chance to finish. “Jackie. We’ve been trying to call you. Someone picked up the phone, but didn’t say anything. Are you home?” She opened her mouth to answer, but Brenna kept talking. “We want to offer you the job.”
    “You do?” Surely it couldn’t be real.
    “We like your credentials and we like you. When would you like to start?”
    Real or not, she was going for it. “How about tomorrow?” It would take her a day to get some cookbooks, get some recipes together.
    “Fabulous. It’s Saturday—the kids will be home.”
    All she could think about was telling Isaac. If he wanted her to leave, she’d leave, but she had to tell him. He was odd; he was a very peculiar man, but she thought that, deep down, he had affection for her. After all, he’d kept in touch all those years.