The Pied Piper (53 page)

“But there are other ways,” Boldt said, fishing for a back door through which he might locate the Pied Piper or his accomplice.

“Oh there are!” Miss Lucy said cheerily. “Another one I've heard about is this missing father thing.” She explained to blank looks, “A single mother has a child and does not list a father on the birth certificate. Happens all the time. Either she wants no part of the man that put her in that condition, or she don't know who done it to her anyway. Maybe she's a drug addict, or in some other way where she don't exactly want the child no more. The way they do it, she sells a man—a complete stranger—the chance to put his name onto the birth certificate as the lawful father. Now this is the legal birth certificate we're talking about. This stranger is now the legal father of that child and has custody rights to that child, custody rights that she is willing to surrender for a price. It's a common means of adoption in the minority communities, believe me. Middle-class Cajun or blacks buy a blood right to a child. Cheap and easy.”

“But not only with blacks,” Daphne said.

“No, you're right. White trash, too. Maybe some suburban teenage kids. Thing is, it's legal of course,” she smiled, “as long as you ain't found out by no DNA test.”

“Do the attorneys need special training, licenses, anything like that?” Boldt asked.

Montevette answered. “As far as I know, in Louisiana there are court fees to be paid, paperwork that must be filed. It's a specialty field, but by choice, not requirement.”

“And if an attorney desired to bypass certain elements in the process?” Boldt asked.

“I see what you're driving at. Sure do. But he couldn't arrange a legal adoption without a judge on his side because of the requirement of a court appearance. Flat out, could not do it.”

“But with a judge in his pocket?” Daphne asked.

Montevette and Miss Lucy exchanged looks. Miss Lucy said, “Miss Matthews, Louisiana ain't exactly like other places. An expression like that—it's offensive.”

Montevette explained, “Let me tell you how we operate in New Orleans, Ms. Matthews. I have a little family farm not far from here. Not even an hour's drive. I own a farm vehicle, an old 1960 Ford half-ton. Use it on the farm to haul fallen limbs, move fence, that sort of thing. Run it into town on the odd day for groceries. The law requires I get that truck inspected once a year. Everything on it must function correctly in order for me to obtain my permit to operate the vehicle. It has been a long, long time indeed since everything on that truck has functioned properly, Ms. Matthews.

“Now there's a man named George,” he continued, “whose job it is, for the price of a twenty-dollar permit fee, to inspect vehicles in our parish. I have known George for many, many years. Nearly as many as I have been driving that old Ford. I see him exactly once a year. For an extra twenty dollars George issues me my permit. Always has, always will. And that's just the way it's done around here. Guys like George, like me, we're everywhere. No one is hurting nobody. It is just the way business,”—
bidness
—“is done.”

“Which might include business between attorneys and judges,” Boldt suggested.

“Which on some level
definitely
includes attorneys and judges.
On some level
. Most definitely. And police, no doubt. And doctors and window washers and tree trimmers. Part of the culture, you might say. I am not condoning such behavior, but it is as inescapable as are so many elements of our fine culture. Southern culture.”

Miss Lucy said, “If you are willing to pay for it, if you are willing to wait long enough to find the right person to help you, there is little you cannot do. Which is not to say it's a criminal place. I'm not implying that. It is not! We have crime and we have cops and we have courts, same as any other city.”

“But as a people, we emphasize relationships over the letter of the law,” Montevette said. “Black or white or Cajun, doesn't matter. We make relationships. The man who mows your lawn eats his breakfast alongside your children. Relationships,” he repeated.

“An attorney could buy off a judge,” Boldt said. “Forge documents of a mother surrendering a child, and the rest would all be perfectly legal. Even the adopting parents might never know the adoption was—”

“Improper,” Montevette supplied. “It would not be
illegal
, you see. Not per se. Not with the proper paperwork in place. Only improper.”

“Improper,” Daphne echoed, getting a take on the man's attitude, and cringing internally.

“Mind you,” he said, appealing to their curiosity, “there would be a paper trail to follow,” he glanced at Miss Lucy, “if one was ambitious enough to pursue it.”

Boldt understood the man was making an offer. “The names of the attorney and the judge would appear on the paperwork.”

Montevette said, “The paperwork is filed in the parish where the judge sits. In a large parish, it might seem a little coincidental for the same judge and attorney to process too many adoptions.”

“But not in a small parish,” Miss Lucy informed the two visitors. “There may be only one judge in the entire parish.”

“Certainly possible,” Montevette agreed. The shadow of the fan pulsed across his face, like a curtain being pulled back. A thought had come to him. He said, “No, Miss Lucy, I believe we are wrong. The
originals
would remain with the parish. But in the case of a private adoption, copies would be filed either here in New Orleans, or in Lafayette, depending on the parish of record.” He met eyes with Boldt and smiled coyly. He glanced at Miss Lucy and said to Daphne and Boldt, “It would be our pleasure to help you in this endeavor. I think you may find Louisiana a bit of a foreign country.”

Miss Lucy said, “Perhaps we can translate for you.”

Montevette, his eyes charged with excitement, slapped the table. “It's that paperwork we want to follow.”

Smiling John's Pleasure and Social Club, a corner establishment in an ethnically mixed neighborhood of Cajun, Caribbean and Afro-American, caught between the opulence of the Garden District and the commerce of downtown, smelled of a rude combination of perfume, stale beer and vanilla air freshener. The soles of LaMoia's ostrich boots stuck to the wooden plank flooring. Obnoxiously loud Cajun accordion music roared from distorted ceiling speakers as six women—girls really—played pinball.

He sidled up to a set of recently waxed legs that disappeared into a tiny piece of red leather. The look she offered LaMoia was sad and distant—a junkie. He passed. The second machine received its hip bumps from a Creole girl still in her teens who filled out the denim overall shorts and white camisole so that any man would want to take up farming.

“Hey,” LaMoia said.

“Not now, sweetie. I got two thousand to go for the bonus.”

“Got all the time in the world,” he lied.

Alarms sounded, announcing she had crossed into bonus territory and sending her into a blinding frenzy of bumps and flipper thrusts. She kept the ball alive for three full minutes, having cleared the next bonus as well. He had never thought of pinball as sexy. The ball died on a bad left flipper.

“You could be here all day,” he said.

“Unless I had a better offer.” Her voice gave away her age, perhaps still a minor, although her equipment suggested otherwise.

“There's a guy works here name of Jimmy.”

“So? Am I going to play this next ball or not?”

Before he could explain the twenty dollars he proffered onto the machine's glass surface, she advised him, “That won't even buy you a hummer, sweetie.” She drew back the springed metal ram preparing to launch another ball, but LaMoia grabbed her hand, stopping her.

“Need a little face to face with Jim-bo,
sweetie
. The twenty's just to keep the meter running.”

The twenty disappeared into the bib of the overalls. There wasn't a lot of room left up there.

“A location where I might find him would be nice.”

She pointed to the ceiling. “He goes on in an hour. His is the first room on this side,” she said. Eyeing LaMoia actively, she added, “Another twenty you go home with a smile on your face.”

He offered her a big, toothy smile. “I'm smiling just thinking about it.”

“You got a car with a backseat? Pull it around back. Lemme know.”

“We'll talk,” he said.

“No we won't,” she corrected. She released the plunger and launched the steel ball into the flashing lights, bells and buzzers.

LaMoia found the stairs and climbed them to the second story. From the far side of the first door
Oprah
played loudly. He thought she had given him the wrong room—one of Smiling John's active employees, he thought. He knocked carefully.

“Yeah?” came a male smoker's voice.

LaMoia fished two twenties under the crack in the door. Probably a night's wage in a dump like this. The twenties disappeared. LaMoia stood there for a full minute expecting an inquiry or the door to open. “Hey!” LaMoia spoke to the door.

Oprah
went louder.

LaMoia knocked for a second time. He teased a hundred under the door, but brought it back to his side. He teased it through again. The information he sought could not be valued—nothing less than the Pied Piper's identity.

“I think you got the wrong room.”

“Jimmy?”

“Heat?”

“Was once. Not anymore. Repo now. Don't want you. My thing is with an individual from your last known address.”

“I don't think so.” The forty came back through the door.

“The guy wears the same eagle as you do, only on his forearm. Yours is on your right biceps. That bird is the only connection to you. I'm not carrying any trouble for you. The artwork was done at your last address.” LaMoia fished the hundred half through. “Take it.” It sat there, and he suddenly saw it not as currency but as Sarah caught in a deadly tug of war.

The door came open a crack. Jimmy wore a goatee and glasses in dime-store frames. His dark hair was pulled into a ponytail. He looked dumb, like so many of them did.

“Three of you got the same tattoo. I checked with the prison. Of the three, they remembered you. You stayed a little longer than was on the original invitation.”

“You gotta be heat.”

“Was once,” he repeated. “The guy—the one with the eagle on the forearm—is laying bad plastic from San Diego to Seattle. He's late on payments for a Taurus. I'm representing the car dealer.”

“Never knew him.”

“A name would help. That tattoo was seen laying down the plastic, but we got nothing but aliases. Medium security. You had to run into him.”

The man glanced down at the hundred on the floor.

“Plus the forty,” LaMoia said. “Name of a friend. Anything I can use?”

“Never knew him. Not personally. Not so as I knew a name or nothing.”

“Listen, if you're milking me. … I'm light as it is—”

“It's not that.
I didn't know him
. You listening?” Disgusted, he said, “He was smooth, that's all I know about him. Talk his way into anything, out of anything. Was a stunt man—”

“Con artist.”

“Right, a stunt man. In for some kind of something. Sucked up to the screws and the chief. Got his way: butts, weed, booze. Didn't want to know him. You know? Fuck the little kiss ass.”

LaMoia ate up every detail. “But he got the same tattoo as you,” he reminded, hoping to spur some rivalry. Inmates were little more than boys in this regard.

“Got mine first, Goddamn it. Everyone admiring it, like. Hisself included.” He eased the door open wider, more relaxed.
Oprah
was on a small color set that favored yellow. Jimmy saw LaMoia checking out the TV and he said, “Got hooked on that bitch in the joint. Can't give her up.”

“Know what you mean.”

“You watch?”

LaMoia shrugged. “You're saying all the sucking up won him special treatment. That's why you didn't hang with him.”