Read Online Voodoo River (1995) by Robert - Elvis Cole 05 Crais - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert - Elvis Cole 05 Crais
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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 have a pay phone on the wall by the restroom.
The cook nodded help yourself. Watching me gave him something to do.
I fed a quarter into the phone and dialed Martha Guidry, who answered on the second ring. I said, "Martha, it's Elvis Cole."
"What?" The Raid.
I had to yell. "It's Elvis Cole. Remember?" The old man and the cook were both looking at me. I cupped the receiver. "Her ears." The cook nodded, saying it's hard when they get like that.
Martha Guidry yelled, "Goddamn bugs!" You could hear the flyswatter whistle through the air and snap against the wall, Martha cackling and saying, "Gotcha, you sonofabitch!"
"Martha?" Trying to get her back to the phone.
Something crashed, and she came back on the line, breathing harder from her exertion. "You have a bowel movement yet? I know how it is when I travel. I cross the street, I don't go potty for a week." A living doll, that Martha.
I said, "The people you were trying to remember, were their names Johnson?"
"Johnson."
"Pamela and Monroe Johnson."
There was a sharp slap. "You should see the size of this goddamned roach."
"The Johnsons, Martha. Was the family named Johnson?"
She said, "That sounds like them. White trash lived right over here. Oh, hell, Pam Johnson died years ago."
I thanked Martha Guidry for her help, then hung up and stared at the address I had copied. 1146 Tecumseh Lane. I fed another quarter into the phone and dialed Information. A pleasant female voice said, "And how are you today?" She sounded young.
"Do you have a listing for a Pamela or Monroe Johnson on Tecumseh Lane?"
She didn't say anything for a moment, and then she said, "No, sir. We've got a bunch of other Johnsons, though."
"Any of them on Tecumseh Lane?"
"I'm sorry, sir. I don't show Pamela or Monroe Johnson, and I don't show a Tecumseh Lane, either."
I hung up.
The cook said, "No luck?"
I shook my head.
The old guy at the window table said something in French.
"What'd he say?"
The cook said, "He wants to know what you want."
"I'm trying to find Monroe and Pamela Johnson, I think they live on Tecumseh Lane, but I'm not sure where that is."
The cook said it in French, and the old man said something back at him and they talked back and forth like that for a while. Then the cook said, "He doesn't know these Johnson people, but he says there's a Tecumseh Lane in Eunice."
"Eunice?"
"Twenty miles south of here." Ah.
I smiled at the old man. "Thank him for me."
The cook said, "He understands you okay, he just don't speak English so good."
I nodded at the old man. "Merci."
The old man tipped his hat. Dignified. "Il y a pas de quoi." You take your good fortune where you find
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 have a pay phone on the wall by the restroom.
The cook nodded help yourself. Watching me gave him something to do.
I fed a quarter into the phone and dialed Martha Guidry, who answered on the second ring. I said, "Martha, it's Elvis Cole."
"What?" The Raid.
I had to yell. "It's Elvis Cole. Remember?" The old man and the cook were both looking at me. I cupped the receiver. "Her ears." The cook nodded, saying it's hard when they get like that.
Martha Guidry yelled, "Goddamn bugs!" You could hear the flyswatter whistle through the air and snap against the wall, Martha cackling and saying, "Gotcha, you sonofabitch!"
"Martha?" Trying to get her back to the phone.
Something crashed, and she came back on the line, breathing harder from her exertion. "You have a bowel movement yet? I know how it is when I travel. I cross the street, I don't go potty for a week." A living doll, that Martha.
I said, "The people you were trying to remember, were their names Johnson?"
"Johnson."
"Pamela and Monroe Johnson."
There was a sharp slap. "You should see the size of this goddamned roach."
"The Johnsons, Martha. Was the family named Johnson?"
She said, "That sounds like them. White trash lived right over here. Oh, hell, Pam Johnson died years ago."
I thanked Martha Guidry for her help, then hung up and stared at the address I had copied. 1146 Tecumseh Lane. I fed another quarter into the phone and dialed Information. A pleasant female voice said, "And how are you today?" She sounded young.
"Do you have a listing for a Pamela or Monroe Johnson on Tecumseh Lane?"
She didn't say anything for a moment, and then she said, "No, sir. We've got a bunch of other Johnsons, though."
"Any of them on Tecumseh Lane?"
"I'm sorry, sir. I don't show Pamela or Monroe Johnson, and I don't show a Tecumseh Lane, either."
I hung up.
The cook said, "No luck?"
I shook my head.
The old guy at the window table said something in French.
"What'd he say?"
The cook said, "He wants to know what you want."
"I'm trying to find Monroe and Pamela Johnson, I think they live on Tecumseh Lane, but I'm not sure where that is."
The cook said it in French, and the old man said something back at him and they talked back and forth like that for a while. Then the cook said, "He doesn't know these Johnson people, but he says there's a Tecumseh Lane in Eunice."
"Eunice?"
"Twenty miles south of here." Ah.
I smiled at the old man. "Thank him for me."
The cook said, "He understands you okay, he just don't speak English so good."
I nodded at the old man. "Merci."
The old man tipped his hat. Dignified. "Il y a pas de quoi." You take your good fortune where you find
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