by Cari Lynn
Just as she was about to spit back a sharp word or two, a groan arose from Charlotte, who shifted uncomfortably in her sleep. Mary swallowed back the scolding, not wanting to wake her. She gave a smoldering look in Peter’s direction. He deserved some reprimand for what he’d said. And then it occurred to her—her little brother was a worried father, that’s what this was about. It could be any day now, and the panic of bringing a baby into this world, especially when their own mother . . . No, no, she stopped herself, she mustn’t go there. No need to rile up her own tensions any more tonight.
“You must be tired, Peter,” she said. “Stop worrying and let me be.”
Chewing on his lip, he moved to Charlotte, tightening the blanket around her and softly sweeping the hair from her face. He was a gentle soul toward his wife, and it made Mary’s heart ache to watch his tenderness.
He settled himself into the rocking chair and closed his eyes. “You’ve always been so smart, Mary. Much smarter than me. But when it comes to Lobrano, you hide your smarts. Did you forget? You’re Josie.” He gave a little smile, but his face still seemed bereft. “You’re the conductor.”
Mary knew the passage by heart from their growing-up years. It was a story in a magazine called The Nursery, which a man friend of Mama’s from a place called Boston had pulled from his satchel and given to little Mary. Having just learned to read—Mama made sure her children spent some time in the schoolhouse—Mary read to her brother every night. While Mama was gone working, Mary and Peter would huddle together on the cot they shared and try to cover with giggles each scary creak and crack of their dark, empty shack. Out of all the lines of verse and short stories in that magazine, Peter’s favorite was about Josie the conductor. He’d ask for the story over and over again. He’d call out, “All a-boarrrd” when it came to the part where the train left the station with the passengers in two blue cars, the US mail in the green car and Josie commanding the big red engine.
“I ain’t smarter than you, Peter,” Mary said, knowing full well that wasn’t the point he was after.
“Oh, Mary. Lobrano’s scared of you, can’t you see that? He always has been. I ain’t saying this to be nice. I had a long day, and I’d rather be sleeping than sitting here flattering my sister. I’m saying it ’cause it’s true. He’s scared of your smarts.”
Mary had no response. She’d never thought of herself as smart. She thought a person had to be fully schooled to be smart, and she hadn’t even completed primary school. Although, she could read and write just fine, which was more than most whores could do.
“Get some rest,” Peter whispered to Mary, and she watched as he gingerly crawled into bed, careful not to bother his wife. Mary pulled the curtain that divided the one room, offering a pretense of privacy, and prepared her bath.
CHAPTER THREE
Snitch, eyes wide as saucers, stared at rows upon rows of money. He’d never seen so much money—fives, tens, twenties even, and dozens of stacks. Still out of breath from having raced through Venus Alley to Anderson’s Saloon, his chest heaved as he watched Tom Anderson order the cash. He seemed almost hypnotized as Anderson methodically counted and stacked the bills, his chunky gold and jeweled rings sparkling as he carried the piles of money across the room to a walk-in safe.
A dashing, mustachioed dandy, Tom Anderson was the unofficial mayor of the Underworld, and here, in a mahogany-paneled room in the back of his eponymous saloon, he shrewdly and lucratively—very lucratively—ran Venus Alley.
Snitch wondered what a stack of those bills would feel like to hold, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from asking Mr. Anderson if he could touch one. Wouldn’t it be something, he thought, just to walk down the street with one of those bundles of cash tucked into his shirt pocket! No, he decided, not in his shirt pocket, that would be too obvious. What’s that lump there, Snitch, ya growin’ a teat? That’s what all those nosy whores would say. No, he’d have to divide the stack and line the inside of each of his shoes—he’d be inches taller walking around on that cash. It’s true, y’all, he’d report, money does wonders for a man’s stature!
Anderson’s baritone voice snapped Snitch from his reverie. “You sure there isn’t some small trifle of a detail that you’re forgettin’ to mention, Snitch?”
Glassy-eyed, Snitch looked up. “Oh no, Mistah Anderson, ain’t nothin’ to forget. I’m just reportin’ what all I saw. He was just lyin’ there, fat-assed and dead as a dodo.”
Anderson made a dubious face. “A dodo? You even know what that is?”
Snitch shrugged. “Somethin’ awfully dead.”
Anderson chuckled to himself. Didn’t this child know fear? he wondered. He was used to people feeling uneasy around him, but Snitch seemed unaffected. To most everyone else, Anderson cast an intimidating presence. Six feet tall with a solid, robust frame, he always appeared impeccable, from his exquisitely tailored suits to his sable-colored mustache groomed into perfect curlicues. His dark, penetrating eyes were attuned to every detail—they could charm you or shame you. But most notable was his reputation: he was a man who always got what he wanted, no matter what it took.
Tonight’s unfortunate incident of a dead body on Venus Alley wasn’t sitting well with Anderson. The others in the room, his two henchmen, Tater and Sheep-Eye, were too dim to surmise the possible impact—but not Snitch. Anderson knew how cagey Snitch was, and he watched the boy with a precise eye. Watched him staring down the table of cash like a lizard at a fly, figuring the boy might even be snaky enough to have a projectile tongue, or at least figure how to use his own to nab a bill if he thought no one was looking.
“Someone refresh my memory,” Anderson said, “as to how we disposed of the last heart attack.”
Tater and Sheep-Eye groggily looked at each other. They were as gruesome as Anderson was handsome. Both bulky with muscle, they also had the swollen, crooked features and jagged, raised scars of men whose faces had been on the receiving end of too many fists. They’d flanked Anderson for years, dealing with the unsavory issues that tended to arise when one ruled the Underworld.
“I recollect we’s dumped him in the Pontchartrain,” Tater said.
Sheep-Eye nodded. “I recollect that too.”
Snitch piped up, “Nothin’ was in his pockets, Mistah Anderson. Ain’t found no money for my troubles.”
Anderson cast a weary sideways glance. “Ain’t subtle, are ya, Snitch?”
Snitch twisted up his face, another word out of his reach. “Don’t rightly know, Mistah Ander—”
“Well, you ain’t,” Anderson said. Deciding he might as well have a little fun with the boy, he took a dollar from a pile, watching Snitch’s eyes narrow in. “Now, Snitch, you gonna tell me which of my properties this dead trick came out of?” He dangled the dollar, and Snitch, nearly cross-eyed, followed its every move.
“Somewheres on Venus Alley,” Snitch insisted. “I promise I didn’t see nothin’.”
“So the body just appeared in the middle of the road?” Anderson snarled, lifting the dollar higher—maybe the more Snitch tilted his head, the more of a chance something might leak out of it. But Snitch held defiant, the best little liar on Venus Alley. Like taunting a dog with a steak, Anderson teased him a few seconds more, until he finally relented, tossing the boy the dollar and waving him off.
“Thank ya, Mistah Anderson!” Snitch gushed. “You know I do my best for ya!” He gleefully scampered out.
Anderson shook his head, then turned back to his henchmen. “Boys, this ain’t good. The City Council’s got a stick so far up its ass they can taste wood. One misstep like this may be all it takes for them to release their holy fury.” He leveled his gaze. “You ever seen holy fury, boys?”
Tater and Sheep-Eye vigorously shook their heads like children hearing a ghost story.
Anderson’s eyes grew large with warning. “Holy fury is the worst kind.”
He counted off several bills, handing a few to Tater and a few to Sheep-Eye. “Go to Venus Alley and g
et that body outta there and into the icehouse quick and quiet. By half past I want no sign that sorry bastard ever stepped a fat foot on the Alley. Then I want you to find out who he was. Someone from the bayou? Was he a son of a bitch from money? Is a posse gonna turn up lookin’ for him? Does the whore he was riding need to end up floatin’ down the Pontchartrain? Only pay for solid information, and for fuck’s sake, if Snitch is the only one you can find who’s seen something, hang him by those skinny ankles till he talks.”
Tater and Sheep-Eye obediently piled out. Glad to see them go, Anderson closed the door behind them, then shut the safe and spun the lock. Damn whores—this wasn’t what he wanted to spend the evening thinking about. He reclined into a buttery leather armchair and stretched his neck from side to side.
This mahogany back room was his haven, more meaningful to him than any room in his own house. To look around was to know Tom Anderson: on the wall hung a framed eighteenth-century map of the Louisiana Territory, entitled “La Louisiane.” Several bottles of fine, aged Scotch waited on a hutch. A shelf of books announced interests of capitalism, politics, and persuasion: The Wealth of Nations, Personal Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant, The Federalist Papers, Plato’s Republic, and A Treatise of Human Nature.
Reaching for his velvet-lined cigar box, Anderson removed a fat J.C. Newman Diamond Crown and dragged it under his nose, inhaling heavily; for a moment, he rested there, savoring the ritual. Then he cut the tip and hovered a silver lighter engraved with his initials, puffing until the cigar was lit. He leaned his head back as he exhaled.
He’d smoked his first cigar when he was twelve. That cigar was the only thing he’d ever stolen from his father, even though he’d detested the old man. He was born and raised in Atlanta, where, as far as he knew, the Andersons still resided on a sprawling cotton plantation originally cultivated by his great-grandpop. If there were such a thing as Atlanta aristocrats, the Andersons were them.
Tom was an only child, for his mother had taken ill during his birth and never fully recovered. Spending most days in her sickbed, she secretly blamed her son for stealing her health; it was Tom’s father who blamed him outrightly. The household tended to be painfully quiet, and Tom spent his childhood hushed and shooed, away from Mother, who was always resting, and away from Father, who was creased with worry over his ailing wife. Try as he might to be obedient and helpful, and never wanting to cause more strain than he apparently already had, Tom was nonetheless treated as a bother, a nuisance, and—perhaps worst of all—he was overlooked.
It was the mammies of the plantation, their kind hearts swelling for this lonely, neglected child, who treated him as one of their own. They cooked for him: grits, barbecue brisket, and hoecakes with honey. They brought him along to their spirituals, where Tom ardently clapped and sang and took such an interest that he taught himself how to play gospel on the church organ. They sent him outdoors with their own children, where, in the fields, they’d play for hours. Tom’s favorite game was Chickamy Chickamy Fox, where a “fox” tried to outrun the gatekeeper and capture the “chickens.” Tom—then as now—made an excellent fox.
It was in those fields that Tom and the plantation kids smoked their first cigar—hand-rolled from a local buckeye dealer—which Tom had slid from his father’s desk drawer early that morning. Coughing, they passed around the cigar until they finally got the hang of how to smoke properly.
But all the while, Tom silently ached. He yearned for what he would never have: his mother’s affection and his father’s acceptance.
He knew he was invisible to his parents and vowed not to be that way to anyone else. No, he decided, to all others he would be essential, charming even, the center of the room, the talk of the schoolgirls, the first team pick of the schoolboys. He would be no one’s enemy and everyone’s friend—or at least they all would think so. Only he would know the truth: he would need no one. He would be disappointed by no one ever again.
He went about inventing a person who, in a world far from Atlanta, would gain immeasurable acceptance and affection—acceptance of the highest powers that be, and affection from the most beautiful women in the land. He made himself believe he would one day have an empire of his own.
And he would succeed. The irony—perhaps so profound that Anderson himself couldn’t grasp it—was that his empire was made up of the sort he knew all too well: the castoffs, the unwanteds, the nobodies. Within this world, Anderson would earn much power. He would enjoy his reputation in the city of New Orleans as a savvy businessman and a charming Southern gentleman—but he would take pride in his Venus Alley reputation as a notorious playboy and a feared leader.
It was at sixteen years old that Tom disappeared from Atlanta. His parents awoke to find their only child gone, no note, no indication as to his destination, no good-bye. For all those years since, Tom held fast to the belief that they never missed him.
Four distinct staccato raps on the door jarred Anderson from his musings. He lazily rolled his head. “Come on in, Mayor.”
The door swung open and portly, red-faced Mayor Walter Chew Flower waddled in, carrying a bottle of Raleigh Rye.
“Have I become that much of a jackass that you gotta bring your own whiskey?” Anderson said.
Mayor Flower laughed, his cheeks turning even more splotchy. “It was a gift from the Public Order Committee,” he announced. “In full disclosure, they also sent over a box of Dominican cigars, which I opted to keep for myself.”
Anderson shook his head with amusement. “They’re trying to get to you in all the right places.”
“Figured I’d enjoy the irony of sharing their bottle with the infamous Tom Anderson.”
“Nothing wrong with taking a gift with one hand . . . and pouring it with the other.”
“I like that, Tom. You do have a way with words.”
Anderson opened a hutch to reveal rows of glasses for every occasion—stemware, shot glasses, absinthe glasses, highballs, snifters. He reached for two tumblers.
“I never thought I’d say this about a Puritan,” Anderson began, “but the new head of the Public Order Committee has some interesting ideas about vice in our city. And I mean interesting as in, I wholeheartedly agree with the man. Imagine that!”
“Ah yes, Alderman Sidney Story,” the mayor mused as he stuffed himself into a chair. “He might as well nail a soapbox to the soles of his shoes. Every corner I pass he’s in the middle of a Bible-wavin’ tirade.”
Anderson sniffed the whiskey, gave it a pleasant nod of approval. “Oh, I’m sure Alderman Story wouldn’t so much as shake my hand. But his notion of setting up a legal district to contain, as he calls them, the ‘lewd and abandoned women,’ well, that’s a notion I get behind one hundred percent. I’d get up on a soapbox of my own and stand right next to him to show my support.”
“Ha!” the mayor said, batting the air with his arm. “You’d sooner become a monk than get the entire City Council to support a legal district of prostitution. The alderman is as good as talking nonsense. Oh, but I do love picturing you planting a soapbox right next to his. He’d be mortified!” Flower broke into little-girl giggles.
Anderson reclined back into his chair, savoring a gulp of whiskey as he watched the already-strained buttons on the mayor’s vest struggle against his fit of laughter. He didn’t mind Flower, and he’d certainly benefited from how close they’d become, but he couldn’t help but often wonder: How did this roly-poly get elected into office? If bullshit were music, he should have his own brass band. It occurred to Anderson that he, himself, should run for office. But not local government—Lord no, the Cabildo was so full of hypocrites. Those local politicians, they were nothing more than reeds in the wind, over here one minute, over there the next—and pocketing kickbacks all around. Bigger sights were in view for Tom Anderson: the Louisiana State Legislature, perhaps. And there was always Washington, DC, still so pearly white—he could go in there and actually have a chance at tarnishing things up.
“It doesn�
�t quite make sense, Mayor, why the City Council’s so opposed to Alderman Story’s proposition,” Anderson said as Flower caught his breath. “After all, creating a legal prostitution district would limit whores to certain boundaries. Folks could stop arguing that whores were corrupting family neighborhoods and that they lived in fear of a whorehouse popping up next door. As we both know, whores’ll do many things, but they don’t do the real estate market any favors.”
It took the mayor a second before the pun sank in. “Oh, favors, Tom,” he said, dissolving again into giggles. “The City Council could certainly benefit from a favor or two, believe you me! So uptight, all of them. But trust me, they won’t ever legalize a prostitution district, even if it mandated whores to be chained to the lampposts.”
“Now that’s an interesting picture,” Anderson said, swirling his drink.
“Hell’s bells.” The mayor snorted. “The City Council’s been plotting the demise of Venus Alley for as long as I’ve been in office. One alderman’s voice, and a pretty darn mousy one if you ask me, ain’t gonna make a damn of difference. People ’round here don’t take kindly to change, you know that. Pour me some more drink, will ya?”
Setting down his own still nearly full glass, Anderson refilled the mayor’s drained one, marveling at how the sot could really suck it down.
Reaching for his refill, Flower wedged himself out of the chair to pace the room—for effect, of course. It was an important point Anderson had brought up, and, as the mayor, he wanted to do his best to expound. “See, Tom, the only thing Alderman Sidney Story’s accomplishing is to make the City Council riled up. And now they’re looking for a way to lash back at Story’s unorthodox ideas, show that new alderman he doesn’t call the shots, that he can’t just traipse in here—oh, and he does traipse! Have you seen him, Tom?” The mayor’s cheeks bulged with more giggles.
