Crescent City Connection

girl over there, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ve met your husband, though.”
    “Well, here’s my mama. Mama, you met Dashan Jericho? He just moved here from Monroe.”
    “Why Mr. Jericho, you and your family are very welcome here.”
    “I’m afraid it’s only me right now. I’ve got one little girl, about your granddaughter’s age, but she’s with her mother up in Monroe.”
    Dorise was so unnerved she went and cut herself a slice of coconut cake. She could slip away easily now—wander off in another direction—but leaving Dashan Jericho with her mother was like leaving a helpless rabbit with a great big friendly-looking hound. He wasn’t going to know what hit him pretty soon, and neither was Dorise. He’d know everything about Dorise, down to how Delavon had died, and how well she could make a pecan pie, if she left the two of them alone for long. So she went back to rescue him.
    He looked broken-hearted. “Oh, Ms. Bourgeois! I’m so very, very sorry I made that remark about your husband. Your mother told me you’re a widow, and I feel the biggest fool. You must find me the rudest lout you ever met.”
    “Lout?” Dorise said, and she laughed in spite of herself. “Is that the kind of word they teach you in law school?”
    Seeing his confusion, she stopped herself. “I mean, I guess I don’t know that word. I bet there’s lots of things I could learn from you.” Oh, God. She stopped. “I didn’t mean to say that.” Her cheeks felt hot enough to blister.
    He smiled kindly, as if nothing had happened. “May I get you some coffee?” She nodded, feeling numb, and for a few minutes he was gone, giving her time to collect herself. But instead, her heart seemed to pick up speed, flapping like a heron in the middle of her chest. She felt her palms get sweaty.
    When Dashan Jericho returned with the coffee, which he handed her only after taking away her empty plate and setting it down for her, he said, “I surely have enjoyed this fellowship here today. It’s been a real delight to meet you and your charming mother—I don’t know when I’ve felt so welcome.”
    “It’s been real nice to talk to you, too.”
    She watched him go around saying his good-byes, looking like a racehorse—lean, long of flank, aristocratic.
    Too bad I’m not in the market for a man
, she thought.
That one’d probably do just fine.
    Her mother started in on the way home. “Well, now. I think we got us a buddin’ romance.”
    “Oh, Mama, come on now.”
    “You know what I’m talkin’ about. You saw the way he kep’ looking at you, how he kep’ comin’ back to talk to you.”
    “He was just bein’ friendly.”
    “No, ma’am, he was not just bein’ friendly. I know when a man’s interested, and that one is.”
    “Well, I’m not.”
    “You ought to be, girl. You ought to be. Trouble with you is, you’re always pickin’ the wrong man.”
    “Once, Mama. Just once.” She couldn’t possibly know about Troy.
    “Mmmph. I know all about you and Troy Chauvin.”
    “My sister ought to keep her damn mouth shut.”
    “You ought to give that young man a chance.”
    “Jesus and I’ve got a deal, Mama. I’m gon’ devote myself to Him, and He’s gon’ keep me out of trouble.”
    Still, she was disappointed it took two whole days for Dashan Jericho to call. Every time he entered her mind, she banished the thought. No more men for her. Not for any reason. No way; no how.
    When she picked up the phone, he said, “This is your Secret Admirer.”
    She hung up.
    He waited half an hour to call back and when he did, he said, “I’m so sorry. That was disrespectful. I’m so embarrassed I almost didn’t call back.”
    She said, “Michael Jordan, if you don’t quit callin’ me, I’m gon’ get my Secret Admirer to go over there and tan your hide.”
    She hadn’t meant to say that. Somehow it just slipped out.
    * * *
    The wiretap on Rosemarie Owens’s phone bore fruit almost immediately after the death of her husband. Skip heard it through Shellmire: “The call came.”
    “Jacomine? He called Rosemarie?”
    “Daniel did. At least we think it was Daniel Jacomine.”
    “What’d he say?”
    “He said, ‘Hi, Mom. It’s Daniel.’ We highly trained G-men call that a clue.”
    “Then what? What’d she say?”
    “She hung up.”
    “That’s all?”
    “Every crumb.”
    “Damn. How’s the tail working out?”
    “Two of ’em. They’re depressed as hell. Spend most of their time trying to