humongously thick glasses that made his eyes seem tiny and far away, and the lenses were speckled with white flecks of matter. There were liver-colored blotches on his forearms and ears that looked like birthmarks, and a large misshapen lump riding the top of his right shoulder like a second head. His skin looked like tree bark. I said, 'Jesus Christ.'
Jimmie Ray said, 'That Rene is somethin', idin' he? Had him a job in a carnival down 'round Bossier City. Useta bill him d' Swamp Monster.' Jimmie Ray liked Rene the same way he liked the two-headed turtle. Something in a jar.
LeRoy still had the narrow eyes on Jimmie Ray. 'Jus' some guy? You callin' names wi' jus' some guy? How goddamn stupid you are?'
Jimmie Ray raised his hands like what's the big deal? 'It's nothin', man. Eve'body cool here.' The sharp smile fell away and you could see that Jimmie was scared.
LeRoy said something in French.
Jimmie Ray nodded. 'Hey, Cole, there's nothin' I can tell ya, all right? Now, I got business. Go on.'
LeRoy had put the narrow eyes on me. 'Whatchu lookin' at, podnuh?'
Rebenack came around the desk and took my arm. 'C'mon, Cole. Out. I gotta go.' Now he was trying to get me out of there and damned anxious to do it.
I said, 'Are you okay with this?'
Jimmie Ray Rebenack looked at me with wide, surprised eyes. 'Hey, yeah, no problem.'
LeRoy squinted at me, then at Rebenack. 'Who dis guy?' Then back at me. 'You his boyfrien', what?'
I said, 'If you're in trouble with these guys, Rebenack, don't go with them.'
Rebenack waved me toward the door, making a big deal out of showing me that everything was fine. 'Hey, these are just a couple of pals. It's not your business, man. Now, c'mon, I gotta lock up.'
I let myself get shown out, and then I went down the stairs and back across to the little coffee shop. In a couple of minutes, LeRoy and Rene and Jimmie Ray came down and climbed into a rusty, gold Polara double- parked at the curb. When Rene got in, the Polara groaned and settled on its springs. They eased away down the street, did a slow K-turn, then headed back to Main Street and swung left.
I ran hard around the corner to my car, jumped in, pushed it hard through the little alley behind the fish market to Main, then jumped out of the car, climbed onto the hood, and looked both ways to find them. The gold Polara was moving south, just winding a bend in the street maybe three blocks and a dozen cars away. I followed them.
Jimmie Ray might be a turd, but he was my turd.
CHAPTER 7
T hey were easy to follow. I trailed them south of Ville Platte, staying four to six cars back. LeRoy drove slowly, and a train of cars piled up behind them, unable to pass because of the narrow road.
Six miles south of Ville Platte we crossed a little bayou, and the line of traffic slowed as LeRoy turned west. I didn't turn after him because no one else had, and the land was wide and fiat and empty of trees. Sweet potato fields, maybe. I pulled onto the shoulder and waited until the Polara was out of sight, and only then did I turn. If Jimmie Ray was doing the following, he'd be tooling along a couple of car lengths behind, thinking he was invisible because he was playing the radio. Hmm. If I was the world's greatest detective and Jimmie Ray was the world's worst, maybe this was some kind of karmic coming together.
Maybe a mile off the main road another road branched away, this one going through a gate with a big sign that said ROSSIER'S CRAWFISH FARM, MILT ROSSIER, PROP. The farm was hidden from the road by a heavy windbreak of hardwood trees, and I couldn't see beyond the windbreak into the farm. I could see pretty far up the tarmac road, and the gold Polara wasn't visible. No dust trail, either. Hmm, again. I drove a hundred yards past the gate, pulled onto the shoulder, then trotted back into the trees.
The windbreak was maybe a hundred yards deep, with more fields beyond cut through by a regular crosswork of shell roads. The gold Polara was parked on the far side of a large rectangular pond about the size and shape of a football field. There was another pond of identical size and shape beyond it, and another one after that, and a couple of long, low cinder block buildings. The Polara was parked beside a white Cadillac Brougham and an Evangeline Parish Sheriffs department highway car. Jimmie Ray and LeRoy and Rene were standing at the edge of the pond with a guy in a tan sheriffs uniform. The sheriff was maybe in his fifties, and everybody seemed to be talking to a heavy guy with baggy trousers and a cheap white short-sleeved shirt and a straw field hat on his head. He looked about the same age as the sheriff, but he might have been older, and he carried himself with the unmistakable bearing of an overseer. He gestured out toward the pond, and everybody looked. He gestured in the opposite direction, and everybody looked there, too. Then he leaned against the Cadillac and crossed his arms. Milt Rossier, no doubt. Proprietor.
I watched for another few minutes, and then I made my way back through the trees, drove back to town, and let myself into Jimmie Ray Rebenack's office. It was as we had left it, quiet and smelling of raw shrimp, the sounds of the alley and backyards below drifting nicely through the open window. A lawn mower was growling a few houses away, and the rich smell of cut St. Augustine grass mixed nicely with the shrimp. The two-headed turtle was milky in its jar on the sill, and Tom Selleck looked bored in his frame atop the file cabinet. I could see Jimmie Ray Rebenack, watching Magnum reruns, watching Tom Selleck drive the fast car and mug with the beautiful women. Jimmie sitting in his little duplex in Ville Platte, thinking, yeah, I could do that, then taking some mail order course,
I opened his desk to see what he had been reading, and suddenly the lawn mower sounds faded and the office was very quiet. Jodi Taylor smiled up at me from the cover of Music magazine. The cover and an accompanying article had been clipped from the magazine and stapled together. The People article was under it. I took a breath and let it out. Sonofagun. I went through the rest of the desk, but the rest of the desk was empty. I moved to the file cabinet. Two cans of Dr Pepper were hiding in the bottom drawer, and a single roll of prank toilet paper, the kind with Jerry Falwell's face printed on each of the sheets. Office-warming gift. The second drawer was empty, and the third was nicely outfitted with hanging file folders in various colors, only the folders were as empty and as clean as the day Jimmie Ray had installed them. There were eight hanging files in the top drawer. One of them held a Polaroid snapshot of a nude woman with a Winn-Dixie shopping bag over her head. A lot of blond hair peeked out beneath the bag, and she was cheap-looking, wearing rings on her diird and fourth fingers. Girlfriend, no doubt. Another held a surveillance report that Jimmie Ray Rebenack had written for a Mrs. Philip R. Cantera, who was convinced that her husband was playing around. Jimmie Ray's report said that he had observed Mr. Cantera in intimate embrace on several different occasions with (a) a young woman who worked at Cal's Road House and (b) another young woman who sold beer at the Rebel Stock Car Oval. The next three files contained case notes from similar jobs, two of them involving suspected infidelity, and the remaining being a grocery store owner who suspected an employee of stealing houseware products. The fifth folder contained more pictures of Jodi Taylor clipped from magazines and newspapers and what looked like studio press release sources, only sandwiched in with the articles were the Xeroxed copies of the first two pages of a document relinquishing the care and trust of one Maria Sue Johnson, a baby girl, to the State of Louisiana from her natural parents, Pamela E. Johnson and Monroe Kyle Johnson, on 11 July, thirty-six years ago. The document was incomplete and bore no signatures. Jodi Taylor's birth certificate was paper-clipped to the document along with a second birdi certificate, this one stating that Maria Sue Johnson had been born to Pamela E. Johnson and Monroe Kyle Johnson on 9 July. Jodi Taylor's birthday.
Jesus Christ.
An address had been written in pencil on the back of the birth certificate: 1146 Tecumseh Lane. I copied it.
I stared at the birth certificate and the relinquish-ment document for quite a while, and then I put Jim-mie Ray's office back as I had found it, let myself out, and went back through the smell of wet shrimp to the little diner across the street. The same cook with the cratered nose was leaning on the counter. The same crinkled old man with the snap-brimmed hat was smoking at the little window table. Dignified. I said, 'Use your pay phone?' They
