Deadly Pedigree - By Jimmy Fox Page 0,6

dust of my past in Europe! I know what you will find there: a dead vine, uprooted and burned and scattered to the four winds. You must find the new shoot, the graft that may have been saved from the fire. No, forget Europe, I tell you! I have seen the death of more genealogy than you can know. The Nazis–may they rot in Hell!–made us carry a card–”

“The ahnenpass,” Nick said. “I’ve heard of it.”

“Yes, that’s it. It had the names of ancestors, so that even they became informers on you. ‘Look, he’s a Jew!’ the Nazis made them shout. They wanted it all written down, so there would be no trouble in a German mind when it came to denying us freedom, travel, property, love, livelihood, life. It’s the law, you see, and the law must be followed. Cut, cut, cut, until our lifeblood flowed from us. Oh, it was all very properly done, stamped and signed and filed. They were rounding us up, drawing in our history to the ovens.

“My every waking and sleeping moment is a vision of what they did to those I loved. What they are still doing to me. You will find nothing of me and mine in Europe, young man, or in Israel. Take my word. But there was a story among my family that a cousin of my grandmother came to Louisiana from Alsace and made good.”

“When was this?” Nick asked, glad finally to have something to write down.

“In the 1840s or ’50s. I remember only his last name: Balazar. It is all that is left, except me. This man’s name is the last prayer in an empty boxcar.”

Damn! Nick thought. There went his chance for some outrageously overpriced overseas research.

“Okay, Max, I’m on the case–that is, if you want me. But I can’t promise any definite timetable. For one thing, I’m extremely busy with current projects”–a slight exaggeration bordering on a lie; Nick had already missed one utility bill. “For another, this is likely to be a bit complicated–and, I might add, worth more than I’m going to charge you. In your case, there are special problems. Usually I begin a pedigree search with fairly specific information on identity or locale. One line is involved, and you work backward from the client himself. Another thing–most of my clients don’t especially want to meet their newfound relations. They’re just curious, or looking for something in their family history that makes them feel important in their otherwise ordinary lives. Say, descent from an early distinguished colonist or from a soldier of the Revolutionary War. Your search may involve several lines, hundreds of people. But I think I can keep within a budget of”–he took a quick look at Corban to gauge the effectiveness of the sales pitch, and doubled his original idea for the fee–“fifteen hundred dollars. A turnkey job.”

“You really should make it $750, young man.”

“Let’s say a thousand, then, plus expenses.” Might as well throw that in, too. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m offering a professional service, not a piece of furniture at auction. It’s not too late for either of us to change his mind.”

His words had come out more harshly than he’d intended. It was the old imperiousness he once used so effectively on students who mistook his kindness and willingness to help as weakness or a sign that he’d do their work for them. He’d always hated himself for a few minutes after crushing a student’s fragile blossom of self-confidence.

With a sour expression on his face, the old man capitulated: “Yes, yes, all right!”

“You can pay me when I finish. I’ll keep you informed of any expenses, which I expect to be minor, anyway.” Damn, too honest. “If you would write down for me the spelling of the ancestor’s name, as well as your phone number.” Nick handed him the pencil and the pad, turned to a fresh page.

“Who? What ancestor?”

Great, the old guy’s got Alzheimer’s, on top of everything else.

“The ancestor you mentioned, the one who might have immigrated to Louisiana. Remember?” The one who sounds suspiciously like the well-known fictional Cajun, Belizaire, Nick almost said, wondering if Corban’s ancestor was a fiction, too.

“Oh, that ancestor! Why didn’t you say so.”

Corban hesitated, then wrote the information.

Still terrorized, watching over his shoulder, after all these years, Nick was thinking. A strange little man. He’d be a bit addled, too, after such horrors.

He decided he’d better accompany Corban on his trip down the stairs, and