Madam: A Novel of New Orleans

by Cari Lynn

  Ferd began to flinch, feeling Grandmère’s eyes on his back. “I’d be honored, ma’am”—he dropped his voice—“but we’ll have to speak about it another time.”

  Lulu gave a knowing nod. She dipped into her pocketbook, then discreetly tucked a calling card into Ferd’s jacket pocket. With a wink, she sashayed down the aisle, her teal bustled gown making a swishing sound with each pronounced punch of her hips.

  “I’d sooner be buried in a croker sack than be caught dead in that.” Ferd turned to see Grandmère beside him.

  “That ain’t a nice thing to say in church,” Ferd quipped.

  Grandmère gave him a gentle wallop. “Isn’t!” she corrected. “What small talk was she making with you?”

  Ferd began walking a couple paces ahead so Grandmère couldn’t see his face. “Just complimented the playing.”

  Grandmère’s lips pursed. “She’s not a member here, that I’m sure of.”

  “Maybe she’s a visitor in town. She just liked the playing is all.”

  Grandmère pressed her chin down, creating a couple of rolls at her neck. “Don’t go thinking the sun comes up just to hear you crow.”

  “Don’t worry on that, Grandmère,” Ferd said, “Not a worry a’tall.”

  “Bienvenue, Mistah Koehl, Mistah Lafon, Mistah Haydell, Mistah Sinclair,” Lulu cooed as she glided through her parlor. She struck a stunning pose in an elaborate pink satin gown, feathered tiara, and her monocle. What used to be just a Saturday eve had already become the night to see and be seen at none other than Mahogany Hall.

  “Madam, we’ve come all the way from Birmingham to make your acquaintance.”

  Lulu pivoted to face two well-dressed men, their hair perfectly oiled and parted. “I’m Pierce LaRue, and this is my brother, Acey.” They bowed as if she were a queen.

  “A pleasure,” Lulu said. “How are you both enjoying the true heart of Dixie?”

  “We’d have argued that point before tonight,” Pierce said.

  With a wink, Lulu sashayed onward, but was startled by a loud smacking sound. She turned around to see that Acey LaRue had just spanked Poodle.

  “That hurt,” Poodle groused, rubbing her bottom.

  “You Yellowhammers behave yourselves, now,” Lulu called. With a slight shudder, she continued moving through her adoring crowd.

  Flabacher waddled about the room like a mother hen, checking his notebook, his watch, then peeking into the punch bowl and motioning to a servant to fill it. He noticed a little rush at the front door and felt his stomach churn when he saw it was Tom Anderson who’d just arrived. He’d decided Anderson was ridiculously cocksure and, admittedly, intimidating.

  “I have a gift for you, Countess,” Anderson boomed. Flabacher watched as Lulu’s body seemed to react to Anderson’s presence. Although she was always sensual, she turned lithe, catlike, practically wrapping herself around him. He wondered if Anderson paid for sexual favors with the Countess, or if she simply gave him freebies when no one was looking.

  “A gift?” she said, her voice trailing over a few octaves.

  Anderson presented a copy of the Mascot. “Page eight.”

  Lulu flipped to the page and her face lit up. She took her monocle and clinked it on her Champagne glass, summoning all eyes to her. “Excuse the interruption, but if you would please indulge me, it will give me abundant pleasure to share with you what’s been proclaimed: ‘Miss Lulu White’s dazzling dishonor.’” She let out a throaty laugh. “By all means, if one must have dishonor, for God’s sake, it should be dazzling!”

  The crowd clapped and whooped. “Oh, but wait, there’s so much more!” She cleared her throat for affect. “‘Sinning for silk, by Kermit McCracken. Young girls sacrifice humble virtue for disgusting depravity. A horrible state of affairs is permitted to go on uninterrupted by authorities’!”

  Flabacher could feel his temperature rise from his toes up to his ears. That damn reporter had set a trap—and, as a newcomer, he’d walked right into it. But how could he have known the Mascot had such an agenda? Yellow journalism! he wanted to shout across the room. McCracken’s a muckraker!

  Lulu continued reading, “‘The demimonde, or females of questionable character, are not infrequently encountered by half- or totally intoxicated men—” At this, the men in the room began to cheer. “A taste of what the entire back o’ town will become once Storyville is officially under way the first of the new year.’”

  “Tastes damn good to me,” a man called from the crowd.

  “Well spoken,” Lulu replied. She was met with resounding concordance as she dramatically tossed the Mascot into the fireplace. “Laissez les bons temps rouler!”

  The rowdy applause could be heard all the way outside, behind the mansion, in the carriageway, where Ferdinand was anxiously pacing, awaiting his cue.

  Another act also waited, a magician dressed in a purple turban and flowing pants, along with his sidekick, a skittish white-headed Capuchin monkey. The magician addressed the monkey, speaking in a thick indistinguishable accent. “Alma, this is big night for us.” The monkey pinched the magician’s nose. “Please to stop pacing,” he said to Ferdinand. “Making Alma nervous.”

  “Sorry, Alma,” Ferd said. He shifted his stance to lean awkwardly against the side of the bordello with his arm outstretched. The magician gave him an odd look. “Don’t wanna wrinkle my suit,” Ferd explained. “So what is it that y’all perform?”

  “I am Pharos the Mysterious. Alma is my assistant for spectacular magic show.”

  The back door opened and out popped Flabacher’s head. “Magician, you’re up.”

  Pharos gathered Alma and hurried inside, leaving Ferdinand alone with his nerves. At once, Ferd resumed pacing.

  The magician was led into the parlor, where a collective squeal of glee erupted at the sight of Alma. “Awww!” the girls cooed. “I declare, aren’t you precious!” Alma ate it up, waving and bowing.

  Pharos presented a deck of cards and removed the Queen of Diamonds, displaying it for all to see. With some quick twists of his hands the card disappeared. All eyes followed Alma as she took off, bounding across the room. She stopped at an unsuspecting, ruddy-looking man, Sullivan, then startled him and the crowd by scurrying up his leg and pulling the Queen of Diamonds card from his shirtsleeve. The room oohed and aahed.

  “Don’t think I’m sozzled yet,” Sullivan said with a thick Irish accent, “but did a monkey just pull a card from me shirt?”

  Lulu sauntered by and handed Sullivan a fresh drink. “What else you got up your sleeve?” she asked, and Sullivan’s cheeks quickly splotched. Then she said under her breath, “Come find me later, Sully. I’ll escort you out.”

  Meanwhile, Alma dodged dancing feet to climb up the plump leg of Mayor Flower, who was waltzing with one of Lulu’s girls. Tickled, Flower bubbled over with laughter as Alma perched herself on the mayor’s head.

  “Lookee!” Flower called out. “Lookee everybody, I’m a monkey stool!”

  In barely the blink of an eye, Alma scurried back down and across the room, climbing to her perch on the magician’s shoulder and discreetly sliding two wallets she’d pinched under the magician’s purple turban.

  By this time, Flabacher had summoned Ferdinand and led him through the kitchen, where Addie and other black servants were hustling about. Little Louie piped up, “Hey, mistah, you got a monkey too?”

  Ferd chuckled. “No, cap, I’m the one gonna be playing the piano.”

  Louie puffed up his cheeks in excitement. “Oh, mistah, I wanna make music someday too.”

  Addie chimed in, “All that hot air you got, little man, you should try blowing on a horn!”

  Louie called after Ferd. “Maybe I can sneak out just for a little and watch you play, mistah?”

  But Addie was quick to shoo at him. “You will do no such thing, Little Louie Armstrong! You’re stayin’ right here where I can keep my eye on you, and where your eyes ain’t seein’ nothin’ naughty.”

 
Ferd winked at the boy as he followed Flabacher from the comfort of the cozy kitchen over the threshold into what seemed another world. As Ferd took sight of the parlor, his own eyes popped. He thought the judge’s party had been rollicking—this was debauchery like he had never seen. Scantily clad girls, free-flowing alcohol, men pinching, grabbing, caressing whatever was in their line of sight. It made Buddy Bolden’s Butt Hall seem like a grade-school dance.

  Flabacher noticed the gobsmacked piano player. “Get used to it, friend, they’re a wild bunch.” He ushered Ferdinand to the far corner, where the pearly white piano awaited. That piano was the only thing that could have possibly distracted Ferd from the scene around him.

  “Hot damn,” he marveled.

  “Well, go on, play it,” Flabacher said.

  Tentatively, Ferdinand slid onto the bench, allowing the glory of the piano to envelop him. He then took sheets of music from his jacket.

  Flabacher’s brow creased. “I thought you were a professional player. What’s with all the music?”

  “My own compositions, sir.”

  He gave a wary look as Ferd arranged the sheets, then grew even more restless as Ferd stretched his fingers. “Any day now, kid.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ferd said, and began to play. The crowd, seemingly one by one, paused to ponder the unfamiliar music. Lulu took note, studying the crowd’s reactions. For the moment, Ferd became unconcerned with anything else in the room. He closed his eyes and let his fingers glide along the keys, the perfectly tuned piano reverberating through his every bone. But as he finished the first piece, he opened his eyes to discover the faces in the room staring at him. He took his hands from the piano, and there was a silent pause.

  It was Tom Anderson who began to clap; he knew how to appreciate fine music. The rest of the crowd, however, wasn’t quite sure what to make of this new sound, yet they joined with polite applause. That was, with the exception of the LaRue brothers. They exchanged steely looks with each other, their thin lips tightening into even thinner lines.

  “Can you play ‘A Picture of Her Face’?” someone called out.

  “And how ’bout ‘Maple Leaf Rag’?” another partygoer piped up.

  Chagrined, Ferdinand set aside his handwritten music and began to play the requests.

  A bit before eleven o’clock, Lulu noticed red-faced Sullivan give her the nod. She disappeared through the kitchen and out the back door, where she met him around the side of the house.

  Propping her leg on the porch rail, she removed several bills from her kid-leather boots. “Three dollars per week, plus twenty-five cents per girl,” she said, placing the money in his hand.

  Sullivan considered the cash. “It’s all legal now, aye? You don’t really need me.”

  “The way I see it, you’ve been good to me over the years, Sully. Besides, there’s still the Sunday law, and the liquor law, and whatever other law I might occasionally overlook.” She touched his cheek. “And it’s always good to have the law on my side.”

  At that, Sullivan tucked away the money. “Till next week, then.” He took his police badge from his pocket and affixed it to his shirt.

  As Lulu reentered the party, Flabacher pulled her aside. He whispered to her, and a peeved frown crossed her face. She whispered back, then, with a deep breath, she headed across the room toward the piano.

  Ferdinand saw her coming in his direction and grew uneasy. He did not want a repeat of his exit from the judge’s house. He picked up the tempo.

  “You’re the toast of the night, Professor,” Lulu said, leaning herself against the piano. “I knew you would be. And I just adore your original work. You’re amazingly talented, but you don’t need me to tell you that. We must have you perform at Frenchman’s.”

  “Frenchman’s?” Ferdinand exclaimed. “You really think they’d let me play?”

  “Mon pigeon, it should be their pleasure, those folks know good sound when they hear it. Meantime, though, there are, how shall I put it, some imbeciles here who couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

  Ferd bit his lip, recognizing where this was headed. “Don’t they respect I’m Creole?” he asked.

  “Like I said, they’re tone-deaf and imbeciles. I’m not exactly pearly white, if you know what I mean.”

  Ferdinand bowed his head and stopped playing.

  “Oh, you’re staying,” Lulu said firmly. “But we’re going to have to do a little compromise. . . .”

  Flabacher and a servant shimmied over, carrying a silk threefold screen. They placed it between Ferdinand and the rest of the room.

  “Now, this is just for tonight, mon cher,” Lulu said. “It’s inauguration season, and I can’t have my patrons ornery.” She winked at Ferdinand. “Just hornery.”

  As they all disappeared to the other side of the curtain, Ferdinand sighed and resumed playing, his view of the party completely blocked. Then, as if to add insult, he heard a woman shout: “When there’s a popping, lift it above your stockings!” A cork popped, followed by raucous cheering from the men: “Higher! Higher!”

  Ferdinand fidgeted—he was definitely missing something good! He tried to play while craning his neck around the screen, but to no avail.

  A woman called out: “When it’s clinking glasses you hear . . .” And a chorus of ladies’ voices responded: “Show your rear!”

  The crowd erupted in laughter at what must have surely been the girls baring their behinds to the room.

  Another woman’s voice rang out, “When the bubbly hits—”

  That’s it! Ferd thought. He was determined now. He continued on the piano with one hand while burrowing a finger through a seam in the screen’s silk lining.

  The woman finished her rhyme, calling out, “Show your tits!” just as Ferdinand craned to squint through a tiny hole he’d created—wide enough for a sneaky eyeball to glimpse a dozen of Lulu’s girls happily pop out of their bustiers. He’d never seen a live naked woman before, let alone a dozen!

  “The Lord taketh away,” he said to himself, “and the Lord giveth.” Losing his train of thought, he stumbled over some wrong keys. He quickly bolted upright, his sightline gone, but that was all right, he’d seen something he’d never forget. Regaining his capacities, he played with new vigor, his face frozen in a happy, glazed-over expression. For the rest of the night, he completely forgot the affront of the screen.

  As the alcohol took effect, the partygoers began pairing off, the girls taking the men by the hand and leading them upstairs, disappearing behind closed doors.

  Lulu and Tom Anderson retreated to the quiet of the drawing room, where they shared some brandy and Lulu warmed her stockinged feet at the fireplace.

  “Why don’t you take a girl for the night, Tom?” she suggested. “Gypsy’s perfected the fine French art of fellatio, or so I’ve been hearing.”

  “As tempting as that sounds, I should keep a . . . professional distance.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since Storyville.”

  Lulu raised an eyebrow. “Since Storyville, or since you may be running for state legislator?”

  Anderson turned to marvel at her. “You’re good, Countess,” he said with a wag of his index finger. “Very, very good.”

  Although she knew Anderson had a penchant for politics, she never thought he’d actually thrust himself into the ring. But apparently, it was true, and she felt a twinge of envy—she would never say so, but she didn’t want him going off to Baton Rouge. She liked him right here. She rose, moving across the room to stare out the window, lest any indication on her face give her away.

  “I’ve been seeing the vacant house down the street all lit up as of late,” she said. “You haven’t told me your plans for it.”

  Anderson took a long, contemplative swallow of his brandy. “It all just came about. I happened upon a sweet little thing who’ll do whatever I say and won’t mind servicing the Negroes.”

  “I see,” Lulu said, trying to keep a measured tone. “It’s an awfull
y large and grand house for servicing Negroes.”

  Anderson weighed his words, careful not to sound overly enthusiastic. “It won’t be only Negroes. She’ll run a proper full-service house.”

  “Do I know her? Surely I must have heard of her?”

  “She calls herself Josie Arlington.”

  “Hmm . . . Don’t believe I’ve ever come across a Josie Arlington.” She repeated the name over in her head, knowing that immediately after Anderson left she would summon everyone in her circle, from Sullivan to her politico clients to the little Alley scamp Anderson paid off every now and then, to find out just who this Josie Arlington was. But for now, she kept a steady demeanor. “Where’s Miss Arlington from?” she asked nonchalantly.

  Anderson knew Lulu wouldn’t take kindly to his planting a neophyte in a bordello as beautiful as Lulu’s own. He thought it through. She had to find out eventually, and he’d rather it came from him. But admitting to Lulu that her biggest competitor in Storyville was going to be a lowly girl he’d plucked from the Alley, that was taking it too far. Besides, Lulu needn’t know details that no longer mattered.

  “Where’s she from?” Anderson repeated, then chortled. He leaned his head to rest against the wingback chair. “Where’s anybody from? Where’re you from, Countess?”

  She turned to face him, catching his eyes. A sly smile played on her painted lips. “Same as you,” she replied. “Everywhere and nowhere.”

  Ferdinand stared with disbelief at the thick roll of cash that had made its way into his palm via Mr. Flabacher. He tucked the money inside his jacket and, still wearing his happy-glazed expression, stepped outside. The cool air felt refreshing on his flushed cheeks. By the light of the flickering gas lamp, he strolled across the porch, inhaling the fragrance of hyacinths, the perfume only adding to his delirium. He thought of the Greek tragedy of Hyacinth, which he’d read about in literature class, and how the beautiful, young boy became the victim of a jealous wind god. His thoughts then darted to the Countess’s offer to have him play at Frenchman’s, and he grew giddy all over again. Just then, he tripped over something on the porch and staggered to catch his balance. He looked down, wondering what in the heck was sprawled out like that. Only it wasn’t what, it was who.