Jazz Funeral

you think I’d go back on that?”
    “But I thought you just said—”
    He interrupted her. “Trust me. Would you trust me, please? I’m just going to ask the guy for advice.”
    He dropped her hands and strode to the phone, not waiting for an answer. He said it was an emergency and waited for the guy to call back. Patty went upstairs to wash her face.
    When she came back, he said, “Let’s go to the Quarter.”
    “But she’s been there. She told Andy Fike she was leaving town.”
    “She’ll be there.” He spoke more grimly than he meant to, teeth clenched, jaw muscles working.
    “You’re so damned arrogant.”
    Could that be Patty speaking? She never spoke to him like that. It was as if Ham’s death had changed her, changed him, changed them all forever.
    He could have tried to mollify her, but he didn’t, he was too impatient. He said, “She’ll be there, Patty. Come on. They all end up there. That’s what the guy told me. There’s a whole scene down there.”
    “Scene?”
    He thought he could see fear in her eyes, hear it in her voice. The guy, the detective, had told him things he didn’t want to hear, didn’t want Patty to know about. He hustled her out the door. “A runaway scene,” he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. “He said to try a place called Covenant House—a shelter for homeless kids.”
    Patty looked puzzled. “Melody’s not homeless.”
    “Come on, dammit, Patty. Listen, it’s a nice place, the guy said. They call it the Hilton for the Homeless.”
    “Where is it?”
    “North Rampart.”
    She said nothing, merely opened the car door and sank down, looking out the window.
    He might as well have said they were going to the Desire Project; no mother wanted to think of her kid on North Rampart, the street that divided the French Quarter from Treme. Right now it was one of the roughest neighborhoods in New Orleans. Still, the Cov was a nice place, the man had said; if Melody were there, she’d be fine.
    It looked okay , he thought. He could see hope in Patty’s eyes as she took in the neat brick building, the large, carpeted, pleasant reception room—well, technically not a reception room, perhaps. The sign called it a Crisis Center.
    “We’re looking for someone,” he told the young woman at the desk. “We don’t even know if she’s here.”
    “A kid?”
    “Yes, a kid. I thought that’s what you have here.”
    A young black woman came into the room, carrying a baby and holding a toddler’s hand. She looked about nineteen.
    The receptionist was looking at them as if they’d just arrived from Mars. “Are you her parents?” She sounded unbelieving, even accusing.
    “Yes.”
    “I’m sorry. We offer sanctuary. We can’t really tell you if someone’s here.”
    “She’s sixteen, for God’s sake.”
    “We can keep underage kids for seventy-two hours before we’re required to notify their parents.”
    “Bullshit!”
    Patty said, “George!” and he realized he’d bellowed. The receptionist was nearly the color of a frying pan, one of the blackest people George had ever seen, yet he had the sense she’d turned pale. She stood and backed away, her eyes jumpy, like a rabbit’s.
    “Ms. Ohlmeyer,” she said. “Could you come talk to these people?”
    In a nearby glass-fronted office, an older woman, perhaps fifty, looked over the rims of her glasses. She was black also, and dressed in a black dress, one that looked comfortable to George, suitable for moving fast if she had to. It had a white band down the front, with buttons on it. The woman was overweight and, though her face looked serious, even stern at first, she had a maternal quality that George picked up immediately, that he associated with overweight women, and liked; that made him feel comfortable. She wore no jewelry except a wedding band and a pair of gold hoop earrings. She looked bored, but she came out of her office and stood politely. “Yes?”
    “We’re looking for our daughter.”
    “Come in.” Her voice was rich as meuniere sauce.
    Like the receptionist, she rather pointedly didn’t ask their daughter’s name.
    “We don’t get many parents,” she said. “You took Johanda by surprise. A lot of our kids aren’t really runaways—some of them are, sure, but a lot of them are what we call ‘push-outs.’” She shrugged. “Their parents don’t want them.”
    “Don’t want them?” George could see Patty struggling with the concept. “Why wouldn’t their parents