Voodoo River (v0.99)

by Robert Crais

  I shut the lights, locked the door, and stopped at a liquor store on the way home. I bought a six-pack of Falstaffbeer from a bald man with a bad eye and I told him that I was going to Louisiana. On business. He told me to have a nice time and to stop in again when I got back. I said that I would, and I told him to have a nice night. He gave me a little wave. You take your friendship where you find it.

  At 1:40 the next afternoon I was descending into the Baton Rouge metropolitan area over land that was green and flat and cut by chocolate waterways. The pilot turned over the muddy wide ribbon of the Mississippi River, and, as we flew over it, the bridges and the towboats and the barges and the levee were alive with commerce and industry. I had visited Baton Rouge many years before, and I remembered clear skies and the scent of magnolias and a feeling of admiration for the river, and for its endurance through history. Now, a haze hung low over the city, not unlike Los Angeles. I guess commerce and industry have their drawbacks.

  We landed and taxied in, and when they opened the airplane the heat and humidity rolled across me like warm honey. It was a feeling not unlike what I had felt when I stepped out of the troop transport at Bien Hoa Air Base in 1971 in the Republic of South Vietnam, as if the air was some sort of extension of the warm soupy water in the paddies and the swamps, as if the air wasn’t really air, but was more like thin water. You didn’t walk through the air down here, you waded. Welcome to Adantis.

  I sloshed down to the baggage claim, collected my bag, then presented myself to a smiling young woman at the Hertz desk. I said, “Pretty hot today, huh?”

  She said, “Oh, this isn’t hot.”

  I guess it was my imagination.

  I gave her my credit card and driver’s license, asked directions to the downtown area, and pretty soon I was driving past petrochemical tank farms and flat green fields ami white cement block structures with signs that said things like FREE DIRT and TORO LAWN-MOWERS. The undeveloped land gave way to working-class neighborhoods and grocery markets and, in the distance, the spidery structures and exhaust towers of the refineries and chemical plants that lined the river. The chemical plants reminded me of steel towns in the Northeast where everything was built low to the ground and men and women worked hard for a living and the air smelled strange and sulfurous. Most of the men in these neighborhoods would work at the refineries, and they would work in shifts around the clock. The traffic in the surrounding areas would ebb and flow with great whistles announcing the shift changes three times a day, at seven and three and eleven, sounding like a great sluggish pulse, with each beat pumping a tired shift of workers out and sucking a fresh shift of workers in, never stopping and never changing, in its own way like the river, giving life to the community.

  The working-class neighborhoods and the refineries gave way to the state’s capitol building, and then I was in the heart of downtown Baton Rouge. The downtown area was a mix of new buildings and old, built on a little knoll overlooking the river and the Huey Long Bridge. The river ran below the town, as much as within it, walled off from the city by a great earth levee that probably looks today much as it did over a hundred years ago when Yankee gunboats came down from the north. Even with the commerce and the industry ,and a quarter million people, there was a smalltown southern feel to the place. Monstrous oak trees laden with Spanish moss grew on wide green lawns, standing sentry before a governor’s mansion sporting Greek Revival pillars. It made me think of Gone With the Wind, even though that was Georgia and this wasn’t, and I sort of expected to see stately gendemen in coarse gray uniforms and women in hoop gowns hoisting the Stars ‘n Bars. I wish I was in the Land of cotton…

  At six minutes before three, I walked into an older building in the heart of the riverfront area and rode a mahogany-paneled elevator to the third floor and the offices of Sonnier, Melancon & Burke, Attorneys at Law. An African-American woman with gray hair watched me approach and said, “May I help you?”

  “Elvis Cole for Lucille Chenier. I have a three o’clock appointment.”

  She smiled nicely. “Oh, yes, Mr. Cole. I’m Darlene. Ms. Chenier’s expecting you.”

  Darlene led me back along a corridor that was solid and enduring, with heavily lacquered pecan walls and art deco sconces and framed prints of plantations and cotton fields and pordy gendemen of an age such that they might have shared cigars with old Jeff Davis. … Old times there are not forgotten. … The whole effect was unapologetically Old South, and I wondered what Darlene felt when she walked past the slave scenes. Maybe she hated it, but then again, maybe in a way I might never understand, she was proud the way any person might be proud of obstacles overcome and disadvantages defeated, and of the ties with a land and a people that adversity builds in you. On the other hand, maybe not. Like friendship, you take your paycheck where you find it.

  She said, “Here we are,” and then she showed me into Lucille Chenier’s office.

  Lucille Chenier smiled as we entered, and said, “Hello, Mr. Cole. I’m Lucy Chenier.”

  Lucy Chenier was five-five, with amber green eyes and auburn hair that seemed alive with sun streaks and a wonderful tan that went well with the highlights. She seemed to radiate good health, as if she spent a lot of time outdoors, and it was a look that drew your eye and held it. She was wearing a lightweight tweed business suit and a thin gold ring on the pinkie of her right hand. No wedding band. She came around her desk and offered her hand. I said, “Tennis.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Your grip. I’ll bet you play tennis.”

  She smiled again, and now there were laugh lines bracketing her mouth and soft wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Pretty. “Not as often as I’d like. I had a tennis scholarship at LSU.”

  Darlene said, “Would you like coffee, Mr. Cole?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Ms. Chenier?”

  “I’m fine, Darlene. Thanks.”

  Darlene left, and Lucy Chenier offered me a seat. Her office was furnished very much like the reception area and the halls, only the couch and the chairs were covered with a bright flower-print fabric and there were Claude Monet prints on the walls instead of the plantation scenes. A blond wood desk was end on to a couple of double windows, and an iron baker’s rack sat in the corner, filled with cascading plants. A large ceramic mug that said LSU sat among the plants. The Fighting Tigers. She said, “Did you have a nice flight?”

  “Yes, I did. Thank you.”

  “Is this your first time to Louisiana?” There was a southern accent, but it was slight, as if she had spent time away from the South, and had only recently returned.

  “I’ve visited twice before, once on business and once when I was in the army. Neither was a fulfilling visit, and both visits were hot.”

  She smiled. “Well, there’s nothing I can do about the heat, but perhaps this time will be more rewarding.”

  “Perhaps.” She went to the blond desk and fingered through a stack of folders, moving with the easy confidence of someone who trusted her body. It was fun watching her.

  She said, “Sid Markowitz phoned yesterday, and I spoke with Jodi Taylor this morning. I’ll bring you up to date on what we’ve done, and we can coordinate how you’ll proceed.”

  “All right.”

  She took a manila folder from the desk, then returned to sit in a wing chair. I continued to watch her, and continued to have a fine time doing it. I made her for thirty-five, but she might have been younger. “Yes?”

  “Sorry.” Elvis Cole, the Embarrassed Detective, is caught staring at the Attorney. Really impress her with the old professionalism.

  She adjusted herself in the chair and put on a pair of the serious, red-framed reading glasses that professional women seem to prefer. “Have you worked many adoption cases, Mr. Cole?”

  “A few. Most of my experience is in missing persons work.”

  She said, “An adoption recovery isn’t the same as a missing persons search. There are great similarities in the steps necessary to locate
the birth parents, of course, but the actual contact is a far more delicate matter.”

  “Of course.” She crossed her legs. I tried not to stare. “Delicate.”

  “Are you familiar with Louisiana’s adoption laws?”

  “No.”

  She slipped off her right shoe and pulled her foot up beneath her in the chair. “Jodi Taylor was relinquished to the state for adoption on an unknown date thirty-six years ago. Under the laws of the state at that time, all details of that surrender and all information pertaining to Jodi’s biological parents were sealed. When Mr. and Mrs. Taylor adopted her, their names were entered as parents of record, and Jodi’s birth name, whatever that might have been, was changed to Judith Marie Taylor. All records of that name change were also sealed by the state.”

  “Okay.” Maybe I should take notes. If I took notes, she might think me professional.

  “Louisiana maintains what we call a voluntary registry of birth parents and adopted children. If birth parents or adopted children wish to contact each other, they register with the state. If both the parent and the child are registered, then, by mutual consent, the records are unsealed and an intermediary working for the state arranges a meeting between the two.”

  “Did Jodi enter the registry?”

  “Yes. That was the first thing we did. Neither of her birth parents are registered. I filed a request for special leave with the state to open the records, but we were turned down.”

  “So, legally speaking, that was the end of the road and now it’s up to me.”

  “That’s right. You’ll conduct the actual investigation to try to identify Jodi’s birth parents or locate a bio-family member who can supply the information she seeks, but you won’t make contact with them. If contact has to be made, that will be my job. Do you understand?”

  “Sure.” Strong back, weak mind.

  She took a folder from the larger file and passed it to me. “These are local maps with directions to Ville Platte, as well as some tourist information. I’m afraid there isn’t much. It’s a small town in a rural area.”

  “How far away?” I opened the folder and glanced at it. There was a Triple-A map of the state, a Chamber of Commerce map of Ville Plane, and a typed sheet listing recommended restaurants and motels. Everything the visiting private eye needs in order to swing into action.

  “A little over an hour.” She closed the larger file and placed it in her lap. “Our firm is very well established, so if there’s any way that we can help with research or access to state agencies, don’t hesitate to call.”

  “I won’t.”

  “May I ask how you’ll proceed?”

  “The only way to ask about a child who was given up for adoption is to ask about a child who was given up for adoption. I’ll have to identify people with a possible knowledge of the event, and then I’ll have to question them.”

  She shifted in the chair, not liking it. “What do you mean, question them?”

  I smiled at her. “Questions. You know. ‘Where were you on the night of the fourth?’ Like that.”

  She nodded twice, then frowned. “Mr. Cole, let’s be sure that you appreciate the complexities involved. Typically, the birth parents of a child given for adoption in the nineteen-fifties were young and unmarried, and great pains were taken to keep that birth secret. It’s just as typical that, years later, those birth parents are leading lives in which their current friends and families know nothing of that earlier pregnancy and the fact that a child was born. Nothing must be said or done that could possibly give away their secret. It’s as much your job to protect the birth parents’ confidences as it is to uncover Jodi Taylor’s medical history. Jodi wants it that way, and so do I.”

  I gave her my most winning smile. “I just look stupid, Ms. Chenier. I can actually spell the word ‘discretion.’ “

  She stared at me for a surprised moment, and a trace of color crept onto her cheeks and neck. She was wearing a necklace of large silver shells and they stood out against her skin. “That did sound like a lecture, didn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m sorry. You don’t look stupid at all. Perhaps I should tell you that these issues are important to me. I’m an adopted child myself. That’s why I practice this kind of law.”

  “No apologies are necessary. You just want to make sure I respect everyone’s privacy.”

  She was nodding. “That’s right.”

  I nodded back at her. “I guess that rules out the ad.”

  She cocked her head.

  “Famous actress seeks birth mother! Huge reward.”

  The laugh lines reappeared at the corners of her mouth and the flush went away. “Perhaps we’d be better served with a more conservative approach.”

  “I could tell people that I’m investigating an alien visitation. Do you think that would work?”

  “Perhaps in Arkansas.” Regional humor.

  We grinned at each other for a moment, then I said, “Would you join me for dinner?”

  Lucy Chenier smiled wider, then stood and went to the door. “It’s very nice of you to ask, but I have other plans.”

  “How about if I sing ‘Dixie’? Will that soften you up?”

  She opened the door and held it for me. She tried not to smile, but some of it got through. “There are several fine Cajun restaurants listed in the folder. I think you’ll like the food.”

  I stood in the door. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. Maybe Paul Prudhomme will see me for dinner.”

  “Not even if you sing ‘Dixie.’ Paul Prudhomme lives in New Orleans.”

  “That makes two fantasies you’ve destroyed.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ask.”

  “Good night, Ms. Chenier.”

  “Good night, Mr. Cole.”

  I walked out singing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” and I could hear Lucy Chenier laughing even as I rode down in the elevator.

  I had a fine catfish dinner at a restaurant recommended by Lucy Chenier’s office, and then I checked into a Ho-Jo built into the base of the levee. I asked them for a room with a view of the river and they were happy to oblige. Southern hospitality.

  I ordered two bottles of Dixie beer from room service and sat drinking the beer and watching the tow-boats push great strings of barges upstream against the current. I thought that if I watched the river long enough I might see Tom and Huck and Jim working their raft down the shore. Of course, river traffic was different in the 1800s. In the old days, there were just the paddle wheelers and mule-drawn barges. Now, Huck and Jim would have to maneuver between oil tankers and Japanese container ships and an endless gauntlet of chemical waste vents. Still, I trusted that Huck and Jim were up to the job.

  The next morning I checked out of the hotel, drove across the river, then turned north and followed the state highway across a wide, flat plain covered with cotton and sugarcane and towns with names like Livonia and Krotz Springs. Cotton gins and sugar-processing plants sprouted on the horizon, the sugar plants belching thin smoke plumes that gave the air a bitter smell. I turned on the radio and let the scanner seek stations. Two country outlets, a station where a man with a high-pitched voice was speaking French, and five religious stations, one of which boasted a woman proclaiming that all God’s children were born evil, lived evil, and would die evil. She shrieked that evil must be fought with evil, and that the forces of evil were at her door this very moment, trying to silence the right-thinking Christian truths of her broadcasts and that the only way she might stave them off was with the Demon Dollar Bill, twenty-dollar minimum donation please, MasterCard or Visa accepted. Sorry, no American Express. I guess some evils are better than others.

  I left the highway at Opelousas, then went north on a tiny two-lane state road following what the map said was Bayou Mamou. It was a muddy brown color and looked more like standing water than something that actually flowed. Cattails and cypress trees lined the far bank, and the near bank was mostly wild grass and crushed oyster shells. A coupl
e in their early twenties poled a flat-bottomed boat along the cypress knees. The man stood in the stern, wearing an LSU T-shirt and baggy jeans and a greasy camouflage ball cap with a creased bill. He pushed the little boat with steady, molasses-slow strokes. The woman wore a pale sundress and a wide straw hat and heavy work gloves and, as the young man poled, she lifted a trotline from the water to see if they had caught fish. The young man was smiling. I wondered if John Fogerty had been thinking of Bayou Mamou when he wrote “Born on the Bayou.”

  I passed a wooden billboard that said THE KNIGHTS OF COLUMBUS WELCOME YOU TO VILLE PLATTE, LA. “HOME OF THE COTTON FESTIVAL,” and then the highway wasn’t the highway any more. It was Main Street. I passed gas stations and an enormous Catholic church, but pretty soon there were banks and clothing and hardware stores and a pharmacy and a couple of restaurants and a record store and all the places of a small southern town. A lot of the stores had posters for something called the Cotton Festival. I turned off the air conditioner and rolled down the window and began to sweat. Hot, all right. Several people were standing around outside a little food place called the Pig Stand, and a couple of them were eating what looked like barbecued beef ribs. A million degrees outside, and these guys were slurping down ribs in the middle of the day. Across from the Pig Stand there was a little mom-and-pop grocery with a hand-painted sign that said WE SELL BOUDIN and a smaller sign that said FRESH CRACKLINS. Underneath that someone had written no cholesterol—ha-ha. These Cajuns are a riot, aren’t they?