Jazz Funeral

want them?”
    “They can’t afford them. Say the mother gets a new boyfriend and her daughter’s sixteen—well, she’s a threat two different ways. Sexually and economically. The boyfriend’s a meal ticket— the mom doesn’t want to lose it.”
    “But that’s terrible.”
    “Or some of the parents are crack addicts.”
    “Not white people!” Patty blurted, and George could have kicked her.
    But Ohlmeyer smiled. “You’d be surprised.”
    George struggled for control. “Look, Ms. Ohlmeyer. We didn’t push our daughter out—she ran away.”
    Ohlmeyer’s face took on a wary, purposefully cheerful, but slightly phony look, the look people get when they’re about to tell you bad news. “You know, kids usually don’t run to something; they don’t call them runaways for nothing. They leave because they can’t handle conditions at home. Our kids are here for four reasons: neglect, emotional abuse, sexual abuse, or other physical abuse. Ninety percent of our kids have been abused.”
    She leaned back in her chair, letting them take it in.
    Patty said, “You don’t understand. This isn’t anything like that.”
    If he didn’t shut her up, she’d probably say, “Melody goes to Country Day. She takes music lessons.” He realized that he was on the verge of saying it himself.
    Ohlmeyer said, “She must have had a reason for running away.”
    “Look, this isn’t your average runaway case—”
    Patty interrupted him. “Do we look like most of the parents you get in here?”
    “We don’t get that many parents. But look, I think I can reassure you on one thing—we do offer the kids sanctuary, but if a kid isn’t being abused, home is where she belongs. We encourage all our kids who can to go home.”
    “But you won’t tell us if our daughter’s here?”
    Ohlmeyer stared at them, assessing. “I’ve got a funny feeling. Look, I’m about to go out on a limb—are you the Brocatos by any chance?”
    George saw Patty’s eyes close with relief.
    “Yes,” he said, and Patty said, “She’s here.”
    “Well, no, she’s not here. I just recognized you from the papers. You have all my sympathy, Mr. and Mrs. Brocato.” She clucked like a hen. “Mmmmm mmm, you surely do. You’re right, this isn’t your average runaway situation. I’ve been thinking about Melody a lot; we all have—that poor child.”
    Patty looked as if she might cry. George said, “We won’t take up any more of your time.”
    But Ohlmeyer said, “You’re serious about trying to find her?”
    “We’re her parents!”
    Ohlmeyer shrugged. “We’ve got kids in here who came home one day and found their parents had moved. But look, Melody’s out there somewhere—” She stopped. “Pray God.” She looked seriously at both the Brocatos.
    George said, “We know she is. She’s been seen.”
    “Well, probably what she’ll do is what they all do—she’ll try to meet other kids. That’s how they get along here. They help each other; live off each other. They get jobs as waitresses or, uh, dancers. Your best shot at finding her is to go where the kids go.” She started writing things down. “Go to Decatur Street—here’s the names of some bars they like. Go to Jackson Square. If you think she’s dancing, Bourbon Street.”
    “Dancing?” said Patty.
    It was preposterous. Melody dancing on Bourbon Street?
    Ohlmeyer shrugged. “Go sit on a balcony. Watch the crowds go by—you might get lucky.”
    “That’s your best advice? Go sit on a balcony?”
    “At least there they can’t see you. If you go in the bars, you’ll stick out.”
    After the initial shock, George had rethought the dancing idea. Melody was too young to get a legal job, and probably not desperate enough—he fervently hoped—to turn tricks or deal drugs. Dancing might seem an adventure to her. “Which clubs hire underage dancers?” he said.
    Ohlmeyer looked almost pleased. “Bayou Babies gets most of them,” she said. “The one with the ugly sign.”
    They all had ugly signs. Bayou Babies, in fact, looked less offensive than most.
    It was only afternoon, but a near-naked young woman gyrated on a stage clearly visible from the door. Or visible until a man blocked the doorway, a man who’d been wearing the same wilted clothes for a while and had splashed cologne over stale sweat. He stood so close George felt himself start to gag.
    “I’ll have to ask you to—”
    “We’re coming in!” George snapped, handing him a folded bill