Madam: A Novel of New Orleans

by Cari Lynn

  “Well, show him in.”

  The butler cleared his throat. “Judge, she be waitin’ in the foyer.”

  Beares felt a sudden pang of heartburn. He thrust his empty glass at the butler and hurried to the foyer.

  There awaited precisely whom he’d feared: Countess Lulu White, cinched into an ivory corseted dress and ablaze in diamonds. Dramatically, she removed her mink stole and flashed the judge a perfectly disingenuous smile.

  “Didn’t know you were hosting a soiree, mon cher,” she said, her tone silky yet biting at the same time.

  “Oh . . . my . . . uh . . .” Beares stuttered, then lowered his voice. “You’re early.”

  The Countess brought a monocle to her right eye, which intensified her glare. “Then you have plenty of time to introduce me ’round.”

  Beares halfheartedly chuckled at what must surely have been the Countess’s attempt at a joke. But she expectantly stared at him in an unblinking way that only the Countess could pull off, making the judge squirm even more. “Why don’t you go on upstairs and wait for me,” he offered. She raised an eyebrow in return, and Beares tried to soothe her with a deep, hushed snarl. “I sure can’t wait for you.”

  All this while, Alderman Story had been strategically eyeing the judge. When he’d noticed that Beares had left the parlor, Story swiftly meandered his way through the crowd, plotting that this would be the perfect opportunity to corner the judge and reinforce his mission. But as Story approached the foyer, he froze at the sight of the garishly dressed, flame-haired, white-powdered octoroon. There was no questioning what walk of life the flashy woman inhabited. Story let out a gasp and instinctively averted his gaze. “Christ forgive you,” he blurted.

  From the corner of his eye, Beares spotted Story, and, as it quickly sunk in that the situation looked as compromising as it actually was, Beares began to flutter like a fly trapped in a jar. He batted Lulu away, not caring that she balked—she, of all people, didn’t take kindly to being shooed.

  “Alderman, you’re not leaving so soon, are you?” Beares pandered, his voice nervously loud. He hurried over and threw his arm around Story’s slight shoulders. “Come back to the party!” Story was stiff as a board as Beares tried to chummily usher him toward the parlor. “Oh, it’s always something with the help,” Beares flouted. He gave a snide shake of his head in Lulu’s direction. “They should be called the helpless, don’t you agree, Alderman?”

  The judge’s words pierced Lulu like a hornet’s sting. She watched Beares waddle out of sight, staring cold and hard after him before she finally retreated upstairs.

  Upon his exit from the parlor, Ferdinand had been led by the pretty young maid through the kitchen, where a dozen other servants bustled about. Word spread fast among the black domestics of the household, and they looked away as Ferd walked through, thinking maybe if they didn’t notice him they could pretend his ousting hadn’t really happened. The maid opened the back door leading to the stables and the alley, and the joyous sounds from the party silenced as the door closed behind him.

  Ferdinand set off in the thick night air. As he walked, he twisted his crimson handkerchief, rolling his fingers across it as if it were a string of rosary beads. But instead of going home, he crossed over the neutral ground and headed to Rampart Street.

  Opening the back door of the cigar shop, he carefully stepped over a line of brick dust at the threshold, meant to keep bad spirits from entering. He found Eulalie Echo with her hand dunked in a jar, grasping at the swimming turtle. She didn’t look up at the sound of someone entering, but instead, nabbed the turtle and pulled the flailing creature from the water.

  “Ferdinand,” she greeted him, still not looking his way.

  He watched as she positioned the turtle on its shell and, with a slender knife and a steady hand, sliced open its soft belly. She delicately removed the turtle’s heart and held it up.

  “Cowein?” she offered.

  Ferdinand grimaced. But Eulalie just shrugged, the boy didn’t know what he was missing. She rolled the heart in a yellow powder and tossed it into a kettle warming on a little coal stove.

  “You sensing anythin’ fixed about me tonight?” Ferdinand pointedly asked.

  Eulalie did a quick once-over, then, with a judgmental crinkle of her forehead, she returned to her concoction, crushing dried leaves and sprinkling them in.

  “Godmother,” he impatiently coaxed, “be serious here. They were all having a real good time. My ragtime was tight.”

  Eulalie stirred the kettle. “And now,” she said, “Eulalie’s secret ingredient.” She took a bottle of brandy from a warped shelf and generously poured some into the kettle. Then she took a hefty swig herself. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she offered the bottle to Ferdinand, and this, finally, registered a note of approval. He swallowed some down then looked at her intensely.

  “Called me a Negro.” His jaw tightened at the words.

  “Step back,” Eulalie ordered as if she hadn’t heard a thing he’d said.

  He took a step back as Eulalie tossed a match into the kettle, igniting a leaping flame that nearly singed his eyebrows. Ferdinand jumped back. “Sweet baby Jesus! You with all this hoodoo!”

  Eulalie swiped her hands through the flames. “It’s the Jim Crow jubilee,” she hissed.

  “I know what happens on a streetcar. But I was there tonight as a professor of the piano.”

  “You were there as someone used to passin’,” Eulalie confuted. She covered the kettle to stifle the fire. “You ain’t never felt what it’s like to be unfree in the land o’ the free.”

  Ferd rubbed his temples from all this roundabout talk. Eulalie was Haitian, so of course he couldn’t expect her to fully appreciate the higher standing of a Creole. He sank onto a chair, and Eulalie glanced at him, lines darting from her thin lips as she pursed them.

  “Don’t go lookin’ like the feathers have been plucked from the peacock’s tail. It ain’t all over.”

  “I’ve been having such dark spells lately,” Ferd sighed, resting his head in his hands.

  “You’re just comin’ into your talent is all,” Eulalie said as she dunked a ladle into the boiling kettle.

  “Then why does it feel like something’s not right, like I have too much darkness in my mind?”

  Eulalie ladled out two copper cups and handed one to Ferd. He hesitantly took it.

  “Ferdinand, everythin’s got two parts. You think your talent be solely the grace of God? Naw, my son, there’s gotta be a spark o’ the Devil to make it smolder like that. I saw to it.”

  Her words didn’t console him. Instead, prickly shivers climbed up his spine. “What does that mean?” he asked. “You and the Devil had a little talk about me?”

  “It means to trust in Eulalie Echo, who always does what’s best for you.”

  Eulalie raised her cup. “Say a prayer,” she instructed.

  Ferdinand’s stomach churned at the notion of praying to a Voodoo god; and yet, it was his feet that had brought him here. His mother had believed wholeheartedly in Eulalie’s powers; his Papa had detested the crazy-eyed bat. Ferdinand hated that he languished in the middle—detesting yet craving her magic. It was almost as if she had a spell over him, drawing him back each time he swore not to return.

  She stared at him with her focused amber eye as her steaming cup hovered in the air, waiting for his to rise so they could join in prayer. Slowly, he lifted his cup.

  “He-ron mande. He-ron mande,” she chanted. “Do se dan, do-go. Stand proud, Ferdinand. Mistah Crow will come and go. Canga ki, canga li. Now drink.”

  She gulped down her cup, while Ferdinand stared at the muddy broth, hoping his own personal darkness would one day pack up and go as well.

  “Drink, child!” Eulalie commanded, as if the spell wouldn’t seal until he’d ingested the concoction.

  Wincing, he forced himself to knock it back. It tasted like twigs and castor oil and burned on the way down.

  CHAPTER
NINE

  The last of the party guests had finally trickled out from the judge’s mansion—that is, all but for Alderman Sidney Story. The judge had successfully maneuvered Story to the door, but had yet to figure out how to get him through it without a shove.

  “Voting for containment is the only realistic answer, Judge—”

  “If there’s a God in heaven, enough, Alderman. Please, just let a man enjoy the soothing effects of his liquor at this late hour.”

  Story’s eyes were steely. “Surely my plan to control vice in this city is slightly more important than Your Honor’s degree of crapulence.”

  At this, Beares seemed to inflate, his eyes, his cheeks growing wide with fury. He’d been bumbling around like an obsequious idiot, trying to save face with the alderman, but now he’d had it. “You, sir, have long overstayed your welcome! And you know what else you’ve done? I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you what you’ve done. You’ve strengthened my resolve, thank you very much. You know what that means?”

  Story cowered, not even venturing to blink at the spit cascading over his face.

  “It means,” Beares continued, pushing an index finger into Story’s chest, “that you will not have my vote on Monday! Now, once and for all, good night!” He slammed the door in Story’s face.

  Story blinked back his disbelief as he eyeballed the big brass door knocker. Just then, he heard from inside a high-pitched wail: “My lovely! Oh where are you?” Story felt his stomach lurch. With trembling hands, he pulled a worn Bible from his breast pocket. He quickly thumbed through the pages, reaching the passage he desired. He read aloud: “‘I know your works, your toil and your patient endurance, and how you cannot bear evil men. I know you are enduring patiently and bearing up for my name’s sake, and you have not grown weary.’” He bowed his head. His voice quivered with fierceness. “Lord, my Lord, I have not grown weary!”

  It was, indeed, that the door had barely clicked shut before the judge was bolting up the stairs just as fast as his stubby, drunken body could take him, undoing the buttons of his vest along the way.

  “Count-tess,” he called, singsongy. “Where are you, my sumptuous peach?”

  As he rounded the balustrade, he caught sight of Lulu striking a sparkly pose at the end of the hall.

  “Mon cher,” she cooed. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten I was banished up here all alone.”

  “Oh, my peach, out of sight but hardly forgotten.” He caught a whiff of her jasmine perfume and grinned devilishly. “It’s time!”

  “What time is that, Your Honor?” she responded drolly, trying to muster the energy to play along.

  “Judgment time!” he shouted and broke chase, running down the hall toward her, the chandeliers on the ceiling below shaking and clinking under his weight.

  Lulu dashed into the master suite, ducking behind a Japanese folding screen. The judge, licking his lips, watched her silhouette as she peeled off her gloves then began undoing her dress, swirling her hips to punctuate the pop of each button. Beares hung on every gesture of Lulu’s well-rehearsed performance. And he giggled like a schoolgirl when she finally dropped her dress.

  “Now I take off all my clothes,” he announced, “because I’ve been baaaaad!” He struggled his way out of his jacket and stomped off his pants. Once naked, he lifted a white barrister’s wig from a drawer and fit it onto his balding head. He was now ready for her.

  On cue, Lulu stepped from behind the screen. Only, she wasn’t naked, but instead wore all her jewels and a long black judicial robe. “Order! Order!” she shouted. The judge quivered at the sight of her.

  From a shiny wood box, she ceremoniously removed a gavel, then tapped it against the palm of her hand, as if deliberating.

  “Ooh, what’s my sentence, Judge?” Beares asked, his grin growing wider.

  Lulu stepped close to him, and he could smell the opium on her breath. Only, she wouldn’t let him touch her. Instead, she reached out with the gavel, pinning it against his chest. She backed him through the French doors and onto the balcony. “Let the punishment fit the crime,” she said. She leaned Beares over the banister and with a swift motion of the gavel, spanked his bare ass.

  “Oh, Judge, mercy!” Beares yawped.

  “You, the accused and condemned, must do penance as ordered by the Countess, your sensuous lover.”

  “Yes, my sensuous peach!” he wailed. “My savage!”

  She spanked him again. “Your sensuous lover has been devoted to your every wish and whim for many a year now.”

  Spank.

  “Oh yes,” he cried, “you’ve been a mighty fine fuck.”

  At this, Lulu stopped. Her face hardened. “Have I pleased you, Master?” she asked icily, straying from their well-worn script. “That’s what my mama would have been forced to ask.”

  “Mercy, Judge!” Beares cried, oblivious to the change in Lulu.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Mercy, Master,” she said. She felt her fingers tighten around the gavel. “Only, my mama wasn’t wearing diamonds.” She spanked him again, this time, quite hard.

  Beares craned to look at her. “Now, that hurt, whore.”

  Good, thought Lulu, glaring back. But Beares simply gave her a wink then turned back into position, shaking his pale, dimpled ass to indicate he was ready to receive his next spanking.

  Lulu glowered at his hideous backside—not that his gluttonous front side was any more appealing. For years they’d played this stupid game, and every time he was as thrilled as a child on Christmas morning. She smirked. What an idiot. He’d laid his blubbery body next to hers how many times now? Hundreds? But, she wondered, did he even know a single thing about her? Did he know she was fluent in four languages? Did he know she owned a library of books, all of which she’d read? Did he know she was an avid art collector who’d traveled the world in search of the finest paintings? Did he know that despite her roots she’d made all this of herself? Of course not. It had been years, and he knew her not at all. He’d never asked about her. He’d only asked for spankings, and that she, the so-called help, seclude herself upstairs so that none of the society folks at his party would see his dirty little secret—when, Lord knew, half the men at the party were themselves patrons of Lulu’s bordello.

  “Ohh, Juh-uhdge,” Beares impatiently sang out. “What’s my next se-e-en-tence?”

  A look of repulsion fell like a veil over Lulu. She steadied him with her foot, grasping the gavel now with both hands. She wound back her arms, then let go a mighty swat that lurched the judge straight through the railing of the balcony.

  He snorted a part laugh, part gasp. And then, a heavy thud.

  For a second, all was silent, as if the night were holding its breath. Then came a puny voice from below. “A little harsh.”

  Lulu peered over the balcony at the prostrate judge.

  “Help me up,” he called.

  She smoothed her hair and adjusted her jewels. “I thought you knew,” she replied. “Good help is hard to find.”

  The crickets’ chirring wound down as a faint orange glow crept over the white bricks of the Saint Charles Avenue mansion. For a long moment it was quiet and peaceful, just as it was on any given dawn. And then, shattering the tranquility, came a pop followed by a spectacular white flare.

  A photographer reapplied a line of flash powder and positioned his 4 x 5 camera over the body of Judge Beares, lying ass-up in the grass, still wearing the barrister wig, his head cocked around and a smile lingering on his pale lips.

  Just as the photographer was about to shoot again, a hand snatched the cable release from his grasp. Startled, he spun around to find Police Inspector O’Connor.

  “I’ll be damned if this tragedy turns into a three-ring circus. Now get the photographic camera out of here!”

  The photographer sullenly backed away, just as a team of uniformed officers moved in to form a blockade around the body. No sooner did a swarm of newspapermen descend, suddenly buzzing about like bees from an overtur
ned hive.

  “For feck’s sake,” O’Connor muttered to himself, “is there ever such a thing as hush-hush in this town?” He was relieved to see the ambulance, drawn by a brown mare, pull up. Out piled four crew with a stretcher and a white sheet. In but a few minutes, Beares, barrister wig and all, disappeared into the back of the ambulance wagon and was carted away.

  “Inspector, can you declare what has taken place here?” a reporter called out. Then another: “Was it murder?” And another: “Suicide?”

  O’Connor grimaced, knowing he wasn’t getting out of here without a statement. Fine, then, he’d say something so they’d shut their yaps. He cleared his throat and the crowd immediately quieted, looking to him with pencils poised. “I can verify that the body was indeed that of Judge J. Alfred Beares. An upstandin’ citizen, yes he was. Our Judge Beares, for all his righteous work on behalf of the city of New Orleans, will be missed.” At this, he turned on his heel, but the reporters jumped at him.

  “Inspector O’Connor!” One reporter’s voice cut above the clamor. It was McCracken of the Mascot, in his ever-present bowler hat. “Is it true the Judge held a party last night that was attended by disreputable denizens?”

  The crowd hushed. Again, O’Connor cleared his throat. “’Twas a fancy-dress party was all. High society.”

  “How about one particular lady of the evening?” McCracken pushed. “Refers to herself, ironical as it may seem, as ‘The Countess’?”

  “Nothing at all of that sort has been verified at this time, presently,” the inspector said, adding his most convincing nod.

  Another reporter piped up. “Inspector, any evidence of foul play?”

  “This is last and final, and what I know for sure,” O’Connor declared. The crowd collectively leaned in. “Criminality isn’t a factor in this case.” He stretched out his arm to point overhead. All eyes followed the direction of his hand, landing on the splintered rails of the second-floor balcony. “See?” he said, shaking his head at the unfortunate circumstances. “It was just a rotten railin’.”