Crescent City Connection (7 page)

It had drawbacks, though, not the least being that she had no money. She thought of saying it, knowing they’d give her some, but in the end she just couldn’t mention it—she’d rather steal than sink that low.

They drove for a while in silence, Lovelace getting more and more nervous as various scenarios crowded into her head: They dropped her at the bus station, and he was waiting for her. She tried hitchhiking, and he picked her up. She checked into a hotel, and he broke into her room.

Woody broke her reverie. “Shit! That was Pearl Street.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s okay. I can get off at Lakeland Drive and double back.” He swung off the Interstate, and in a moment they entered an area with a lot of street life—young people, bars, coffeehouses. She might be able to get lost in the crowd.

“Hey, listen… you know—you could just drop me here.”

“Here? Why?”

“I think…” she leaned out the window. “I could swear I see someone … Hey, Michelle!” Lovelace yelled loud enough to grate on their nerves—bad. A girl turned around. Lovelace waved madly.

Woody slowed to a stop.

“Hey, thanks for the ride.” She leapt out of the car and bounded in the opposite direction, just wanting to lose Woody and Candy, not really having any plans.

As soon as she dared, she slowed to the prevailing pace, trying to make herself invisible. She went into a bookstore and pretended to look at magazines, mind racing.

What did she do now? Where could she go?

Woody had been on the money—she was not only a minor, she’d spent a little time locked up once, courtesy of her old pal Depression.

She just wasn’t going to win any argument about why her dad shouldn’t kidnap her if he wanted to—he could always say she was suicidal; she’d phoned and begged him to pick her up. And now she was irrational, she needed her meds.

Michelle would vouch for her, but much good it would do. Her dad would say she was a pathological liar, Michelle didn’t know… she was a danger to herself and others.

Her mother might help her if she could find her. But Jacqueline was in Mexico living on a beach or something, probably stoned out of her gourd.

What a couple of pieces of work. Why wasn’t there anybody nice in her family?

A flashback of her Uncle Isaac’s Christmas card popped into her mind. It was a drawing of an old streetcar loaded up with holiday packages. On its side was written
DESIRE
, and the caption was in red, a holiday wreath around the streetcar: “Here’s wishing you loot, and many a hoot.”

Inside was the usual lovely letter. She got them twice a year— on her birthday and Christmas. Uncle Isaac never forgot. He nearly always made the cards himself—he was an artist. He always told her what he was doing—painting and drawing, lately—and where he was living—New Orleans these days—but mostly he went off on poetic tangents he thought she might enjoy, and she always did.

They were a little sentimental, sometimes a bit embarrassing, actually, but they were as sweet as maple syrup. She wrote him back as regularly as he wrote her—twice a year—and never talked to him, hadn’t since she was ten or twelve—but she felt close to him, truly felt he cared for her and would help her if she got in trouble.

She’d gotten in trouble.

She reconnoitered: He was her father’s brother, not her mother’s, but she didn’t really think that was a problem. Neither of the brothers had ever mentioned it, but she had the feeling there was some bad blood between them.

She’d call him.

But she broke out in a sweat when she remembered she hadn’t a cent.

Where to get money?

In a bar or restaurant, she thought: an unclaimed tip, a careless tray of change, something like that.

She cruised a couple of places and couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Finally, at a particularly busy coffeehouse, she saw a line for the phone and stood in it. When it was her turn, she made a show of looking up a number, fumbling, taking more than her share of time before “discovering” she had no change.

The girl behind her was only too glad to speed up the process.

Lovelace deposited the girl’s quarter and asked for information in New Orleans, intending in the end to reverse the charges and pay back her benefactor. But it never came to that: Isaac wasn’t listed.

She found a table and sat, thinking to move on if anyone asked her to.

Well, no problem: she knew his address. She had answered the Christmas card by continuing his gag with a play on the street name—something about the streetcar named Desire rolling down the street called Royal. The number was the year, with a “20” in front—Lovelace didn’t forget things like that.

All she had to do was get there.

A guy paused at her table. “Excuse me. Would you mind having my baby?”

Seize the day, she thought. She said, “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s go to New Orleans.”

“When you wanna go, sweetheart?”

But it wasn’t going to be that easy. Half an hour later, she realized he was just flirting, but at least she had a plan.

She was tall (very tall—five-feet-ten) and had a pretty good figure (though she wouldn’t mind losing ten pounds) and reddish sandy hair. She’d just ask people if they’d take her— nonthreatening-looking male people. Surely someone would bite.

The first one had bought her some coffee, so the coffeehouse people let her keep her seat awhile longer.

But finally, she went out to the street and simply stood, grabbing any lone male or two males she saw. Her approach was simple and straightforward: “Hey, I’m looking for a ride to New Orleans. You wouldn’t want to go, would you?”

They all wanted to go. But, alas, they all had previous engagements.

She had about given up and was blinking back tears, trying to think up a new plan, when a blond man spoke to her, one she’d barely noticed, he looked so conventional. “Well, hey, pretty thing, why’re you so sad?”

Make it good, she thought to herself.

Instead she blurted, “I want to go home,” which wasn’t even true, and started to sob. The man opened his arms, gathered her against his polo shirt. She felt the sturdiness of him, the thickness of his chest, and it was comforting.

“It’s okay. That’s right. Cry now, baby. Go ahead and cry.” He was like some great male mom.

What a weird thing
, she thought.
I
must be really fucked up—there are no male moms. You call them fathers, right?

She realized she was starting to calm down.

“Now tell Sam about it. You tell ol’ Sammy all about it. Let’s just sit on that bench over there and we’ll have a little talk.”

“I can’t. I mean—do you mind if we walk?” The bench faced the street, and the last thing she wanted was to be conspicuous to cars driving by. What she really wanted was to go inside someplace, but she didn’t want to ask for anything—not yet.

“We’ll just do any little thing you want.” He put an arm around her waist and started to walk.

She knew it wasn’t right. It was way too familiar—taking advantage, at this point, rather than offering sympathy. But two things about it—it felt good, and Sam was all she had right now. He might be dicey, he might even be dangerous, but she sensed he had a heart.

He had a baby face, one of those more or less Irish visages with a smallish pink nose, chubby cheeks, blue eyes, usually a dimple (Sam’s was in his chin), and a curl of blond hair dripping down a broad brow.

He was a little shorter than Lovelace, but he had heft. Lots of comforting heft. Maybe he worked out, maybe his ancestors had been built like barrels, or maybe it was a combination, but the result was plenty of beef inside his now-damp Ralph Lauren pullover. The shirt was faded purple and he’d tucked it into faded jeans, which in turn topped a pair of running shoes. He might have been twenty-five or he could have been a little older—at any rate, she got the feeling he was a little old for the neighborhood.

She had the vague feeling he didn’t smell quite right, but it was sufficiently vague that she dismissed it.

“First of all, we should probably meet don’t you think? I’m Sam Marshall.”

“I’m Michelle Jackson,” she said, thinking she probably wasn’t fooling him, but at least she hadn’t said “Smith.”

“Ms. Jackson from Jackson,” he said, and she wondered if he was mocking her.

She couldn’t be bothered worrying about it. “No, I’m not from here. That is—I was going to move here, but things didn’t work out. Oh, God, I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid!”

“Easy now. Just take your time.”

“I came to visit my boyfriend and we had a fight.”

“Umm-hmm.”

“And he said he was sorry he’d ever spent a penny on me and I wasn’t worth a penny and he was taking his own back. And he took all my money out of my purse and stuffed it in his pocket and threw my purse out the window. And then …” she thought fast, trying to make it believable that there was no going back “… he leaned over and smacked me across the mouth.”

“You’ve got to be kiddin’.”

“And he stopped the car and said, ‘Get out, whore.’ And I just sat there stunned, and he gave me a shove, and I landed on my butt in the street, and he peeled off with my suitcase.”

“Well, no wonder you’re so shook up.”

She turned her face and looked into his, about six inches away.
Oh, God, I hope he doesn’t try to kiss me.

Instead, he said, “Where you from, Ms. Jackson?”

“New Orleans.”

“Well, I’ll take you home.”

“You will?” Finally.

“Hell, yeah. Been wantin’ to go there myself. Just got to take care of a little business. You wait for me?”

She nodded, feeling numb. What else was she going to do?

“Back in ten.”

She went back in the coffeehouse and found the bathroom. One glance in the mirror convinced her that wasn’t something she should try again.

She had no idea if Sam would show, but for the moment at least, she didn’t have to think of a new plan.

He came up behind her. “Hey, Miss Michelle. I want you to meet my friends—Chip and Mimi. They’re going with us.”

They looked okay—a little rednecky, but not bikers or anything. Both wore jeans and T-shirts, which now made four of them. Mimi had a lot of long curly hair, cut in layers. Chip was tall, had a gut, and he was gray at the temples. She wondered if Sam was even older than she’d first thought.

“Hey, Michelle. Sorry about your hard luck.”

Sam said, “Y’all ready?”

Later, Lovelace couldn’t remember getting to the car, which was a four-by-four, a Blazer or something, or getting in or taking off. She did remember that once they were in the thing, somebody fired up a joint and all three of the others cracked open beers and offered her one, but she was so tired by then she could barely shake her head no.

She must have fallen asleep right away.

The drug her father had given her had probably never really worn off, but she had operated on adrenaline for a couple of hours, as long as she needed to, and the minute she could, she crashed.

She fell asleep sitting up, strapped into her seat belt, Sam driving, the other two in the back.

She awoke to find someone’s hand between her legs, stroking her. She was aware that that was what had awakened her; she had dreamed about sex with someone—a stranger, perhaps, or an old boyfriend; just a fragment of a dream. She opened her eyes a crack, saw the car, remembered where she was, and closed them again while she tried to think what to do.

No thoughts came.

Finally she simply sat up straight, opened her eyes, and looked around, preparatory to any sudden moves.

To her horror, she saw that the owner of the hand was not Sam but Chip, who was now in the driver’s seat. She stared at him, wild, riveted. He smiled, puckered his lips, and kissed the air in her direction, jamming his hand tight against her crotch.

She shook her head and pushed at his hand.

He smiled, not budging.

What the hell was this? A cat playing with a mouse, smiling because he’d won? Or his idea of seduction?

And there were other issues—why Chip, not Sam? Had they flipped for her, or what?

The air was heavy with beer breath, and she realized that was why Sam hadn’t smelled right—he was probably half-loaded when they met (as were Chip and Mimi), and now they were no doubt fully tanked.

She felt fear trying to close her throat and forced it back down. No time for that now.

She said, “Where are we?”

“Almost there.”

“Almost to New Orleans?”

“That’s where you want to go, idn’t it?”

Which wasn’t the same as a yes. And she thought she heard a slight edge to his voice.

Still, she nodded. “I’m tired.”

He said, “Want to go to bed?”

Men are so damn predictable
, she thought, and she nodded again. “I’m pretty tired. Could I have a beer?”

“Sure.” He smiled, as if happy to see her entering into the spirit of things, and when he removed his hand to give her the beer, she seized her advantage and changed positions.

The sun was coming up when they entered that long, lonely stretch of Highway 55 that seems more like a bridge over a swamp than a highway. Lovelace was still holding her barely touched beer and thinking. She couldn’t come up with a plan that didn’t involve the police, but she wasn’t too worried—yet.

Sam woke up. “Yecch. I feel horrible. What’d we do last night?”

“You did a little speed, buddy. Little booze, too.”

“Well, lemme have some more speed.”

Speed. Did that dull or enhance the sex drive?

She couldn’t remember.

“We better find a place to crash. There’s gonna be nothin’ within miles of the French Quarter.”

Lovelace said, “Why not?” before she caught herself.

“Never on the weekends.” Sam sounded offhand, but a moment later he put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey. Thought you lived there.”

She turned to the backseat. “That’s why I don’t stay in hotels.”

“Wait a minute,” said Chip. “Why don’t we just stay at your place?”

“Are you kidding? I live with my parents.”

Sam said, “Well, why are we giving you this ride, anyhow?”

Lovelace thought, Oh, boy. But she was starting to feel like herself again, the shock and numbness of her experience receding, the drug wearing off. She said, “Because you are fine Christian men helping out a damsel in distress.”