Crescent City Connection

note. “He’s opened a new juice stand,” it said. “Same menu as last time. His helper’s okay but unreliable—he’d like you to come in for an interview. It would mean taking orders, cleaning up, all that stuff, but you’d get to cook, too—in a modest kind of way. He said cooking’s about a third of the job. Would you be interested?”
    “Sure. At least it would be a jumping-off place.”
    He wrote, “That’s what he said. It’s on Maple Street. Go in the morning.”
    Shit,
she thought.
Damn this stupid hair. What if he expects some Betty Coed?
    She got up the next morning and put on lots of makeup, to make it seem she had done the hair trick to show off her fine, bold features. But the bigger she drew her lips, the more she looked like some kid playing with her mom’s lipstick.
    She put on her only earrings, the ones she was wearing when she was kidnapped, and a short black skirt and a white crop top. That was what waitresses wore, and caterers—maybe it would send a subliminal message.
    Anthony hadn’t given Isaac a specific appointment time, but she figured ten-thirty was about right. It would show interest, but not excessive eagerness.
    Despite the erratic quality of public transportation, she was there by ten-fifteen, and was pleasantly surprised.
    Maple Street was way, way uptown, at what was called Riverbend, where the Mississippi took so major a meander it defined the shape of the city, cradled it into the upriver horn of the crescent that gave it its nickname. To Lovelace’s delight, it was the kind of hip shopping area you get in a university town—bustling with coffeehouses, small galleries, an utterly charming bookstore, and, now, it seemed, a juice bar and vegetarian restaurant.
    In truth, Anthony’s new place—Judy’s Juice—was little more than a hole in the wall, but a clean, inviting one, with about three spotless formica tables, a floor you could see your face in, and a bulletin board where you could find anything from a roommate to a ride to Albuquerque.
    If I lived here I’d be here all the time
, she thought.
I’d go get a book from that bookstore, and I’d come in here and have some carrot juice and a bagel.
    It was the sort of place she’d love to work.
    She patted her head where hair used to be, preparing to enter. The minute she saw Anthony she knew she needn’t have worried about tress-weirdness—he himself sported handsome dreads. That was the first thing she noticed. The second was that her cheeks were getting hot.
    Anthony was a light-skinned black man, or, as they say in New Orleans, a Creole, which used to mean a mixture of French and something else, but nowadays, more often than not, simply meant black and something else. Lovelace had seen plenty of light-skinned blacks in her life, but she’d noticed that in New Orleans, they often had an aristocratic look, an exotic, almost haughty bearing that reminded her of Ethiopians—people who looked as if they’d all been kings or queens in the old days.
    Anthony was one of these. He had a nose that could have been modeled by Phidias. He had green eyes as well, and he wore an olive shirt that matched them. His skin was the color of slightly tarnished brass—pure gold, but too refined to shine. His dreads were exceptionally neat and quite long, about shoulder length. He was five-feet-ten, she thought—about her height, though Lovelace wouldn’t have cared if he’d been a midget. And he was thin, with good shoulders; he was probably a vegetarian.
    So magnificent a man might have caused her to lose the power of speech, but she didn’t feel in the least shy. Probably, she thought later, because some piece of her had noticed his wedding ring. Or possibly because he looked friendly. He said, “What can I do for you today?” and gave her a smile that might well have been sincere.
    “Are you Anthony?”
    “Sure am.”
    “Well, you could give me a job.” She stepped forward and extended her hand. “I’m Lovelace Jacomine.”
    “Lovelace! My Lady Lovelace. Isaac didn’t tell me you had such a pretty name.”
    “Uncle Isaac’s a little vague sometimes.”
    “He really your uncle?”
    “Honest to God. I’ve always worshiped him.”
    “Woo! You’d be the only one.”
    “He’s a sweetie, don’t you think?”
    “Oh, yeah. Pretty worthless cook because he counts to twenty or something before every ingredient he puts in the dish—and that includes sandwiches. But a sweetie for sure.”
    “Have you