Passion Play Read Online Free PDF Page A

three. When she gets too old for them—hardly a girl now, if you know what I mean,” he broke into a slight smirk, the first Fabian had noticed, “the young lady again needs a foster home. Her last adopter now starts looking for another child—girl—of the age he is most at home with—if you know what I mean?” His smirk glided into a leer.
    “I think I know what you mean,” Fabian said.
    “There is, of course, a greater demand for white girls,” the lawyer said, his official manner returning. “Finding a girl up for her first adoption is usually more expensive,” he added in a cautionary tone.
    “Not yet a lady,” Latin Hustle crooned half to himself.
    “But after two or three adoptions, the welfare people get more cooperative, and the girl gets cheaper,” the lawyer reassured Fabian.
    “Not a lady anymore,” Latin Hustle cut in.
    “And what is the cost of adopting an average foster child?” Fabian asked.
    “That would depend, of course, on the child, her color, her background, her looks, et cetera,” the lawyer said speculatively, making some calculations.
    “The et cetera adds to the price,” said Latin Hustle.
    “But I daresay a little girl could fulfill all your expectations for no more than you might pay for a pleasure-riding pony,” the lawyer concluded.
    “Pleasure-riding it is!” Latin Hustle erupted.
    As if the matter were settled, the lawyer quickly placed in front of Fabian a large portfolio of neatly mounted photographs of boys and girls. “They’re all here,” he said. “Unfortunately, some pictures are of inferior quality.”
    “But fortunately, the girls are not.” Latin Hustle winked.
    “Vital statistics—age, body size, height, weight, et cetera—are noted under each picture,” the lawyer said briskly. “The initials refer to the file we keep on each child—family records, church, school and foster-care agency affiliations, prior accidents. . . .”
    “Arrests for vagrancy.” Latin Hustle was growing bolder.
    The lawyer tried hopelessly to wither him with a stare. “Vagrancy is a hazard with adventurous children,” he said coldly. Then, anxious to regain lost ground with Fabian, he hastened to add: “To protect the adopter from unwarranted legal surveillance, we never fail to provide him with statements from certain welfare caseworkers, among others, who certify that the foster child has had a history of insinuating—even inventing—that her new father has shown her the wrong kind of affection. In other words, we try to make it legally clear that she is susceptible to flights of fancy.”
    “Is there a lot of paperwork involved in such an adoption?” Fabian asked.
    The lawyer waved his hand. “There is. But, as I said, those we do business with are most enlightened, and they’re our friends.”
    “What if the girl turns out to be a disappointment?” Fabian asked.
    “She might be helped to run away,” Latin Hustle suggested.
    “As I said, we can put her up for adoption again,” the lawyer said, a shade testily. “You might then want to adopt another child, older, or perhaps younger,” he went on.
    “A real professional father.” Delight could be heard in Latin Hustle’s voice.
    The lawyer stood up, his business at an end. “Please feel free to take your time with this,” he said, depositing the heavy album in his client’s trust. Latin Hustle ushered Fabian ceremoniously out of the cubicle, settled him on a bench in the waiting room and again disappeared behind one of the plywood walls. Three men remained in the room. No flicker of curiosity disturbed them as Fabian turned the thick, glossy pages of the portfolio; the book held no surprises for them.
    Most of the photographs had been taken with a Polaroid camera or in an automatic booth at some amusement park or bus station. Several bore traces of having been torn out of a family album, or from a newspaper or magazine illustrating the more blatant or lurid cases of child abuse. Every photograph