Crescent City Connection

urgent.”
    “That it is, darling. We don’t have much time. I want us to meet so much. But now that may never be possible, and I thought that, just in case, I’d better tell you what I know.”
    “Why wouldn’t it be possible?”
    “Do you actually know your grandfather?”
    “Well, we haven’t seen each other in years.”
    “He’s a very dangerous man, sweetness. An extremely dangerous man. If I die soon, I just wanted you to know.” Lovelace heard her pause. “I need to take a deep breath. I’m so sorry to tell you, but someone has to. I’m afraid your grandfather’s The Jury.”
    “My grandfather’s what?” Her mind searched its files like a computer.
    “The people who killed Billy Ray Hutchison, and then Nolan Bazemore, the guy that shot that nice police chief—that honest one—down in New Orleans.”
    She remembered. The Jury. She’d been self-involved lately, but everyone knew about The Jury. There was no way to avoid it.
    “Why are you telling me this?”
    “I may be in danger, for one thing, and I wanted you to know.”
    “Why not go to the cops?”
    “I’m so sorry, darling, I just can’t do that. There are times when blood’s still thicker than water.”
    “Are you saying you’re keeping quiet on my account?”
    “I’m just so sorry. I don’t know how to say this.” She took another breath. “All right, here goes. I’m afraid your father’s in it with him. I can’t rat out my baby. I owe him that much.”
    The street slang sounded silly, coming from her.
    “Do you understand what I’m getting at? You need to stay away from your daddy right now.”
    Lovelace was silent, absorbing it.
    “Can I ask you a question, darling? Why aren’t you in school?”
    Okay, that was it. The woman was crazy. She was mad as a hatter. Lovelace got off the phone as quick as she could.
    The bartender evidently didn’t like the look of her. “Saved your beer for you. You sit down and drink it now.”
    Lovelace complied, hands shaking.
    “You get some bad news?”
    “I’ll be okay. Do you have any more change?”
    “You drink your beer now. I’ll give you change in a minute.”
    What does he know?
she thought.
Does he know the FBI’s looking for me? Is he holding me here till they can pick me up?
    Her scalp was as prickly as if a large hairy spider had just dropped on her head.
    Just be calm
, she thought.
He can’t know. How could he?
But her mind kept racing. Rosemarie’s phone’s probably tapped, too. They did a tracer, and they called him to have him hold me. That must be it.
    She took a long pull of the beer.
Well, so be it. I haven’t done anything. Let them pick me up and do their worst. If they’re after me because my father’s a criminal, that means they’re not trying to find me to give me back to him. So that’s cool, right? What the hell.
    Once she had gotten past the paranoia, she thought about being the granddaughter of a multiple murderer. That one’s not in the genes, she thought.
No way, I don’t even know the man. I can just go back to school and lead a normal life. Maybe sell my story to the National Inquirer and retire at twenty.
    She giggled. The bartender said, “That’s better. See? Nothin’s that bad.”
    But by the time she’d finished the beer the FBI hadn’t arrived.
Damn
, she thought,
maybe my fate’s in my own hands.
She had another beer.
    She sat awhile and sipped, turning over the possibilities in her mind.
There’s no reason not to go to the cops if they’re on my side. And if my dad’s a murderer, that would explain a lot of things, actually. Like why he’s so damn mean. He’s so damn mean because he’s not a nice person, as history has proved. They’re not going to put me in his custody if he’s a murderer.
    Shit. Could my dad really be a murderer?
    Okay. Cons of going to the cops: It could be a setup. Maybe that wasn’t my grandmother, or even Rosemarie Owens. Michelle might think I’ve flipped and this is her way of getting me to ‘get help,’ as she’d probably say.
    If it’s not a setup, I’ll be hounded by the media.
    I won’t be able to lead a normal life.
    Okay. So much for the cons. Pros: Call this a normal life? I might be able to lead a really normal life. Change my name and transfer to Cornell, enroll in the hotel school, and learn to run a restaurant. After the National Inquirer of course—with the proceeds.
    Also, I might be safe.
    Michelle had said the cop was nice. And not only that, smart. How