Chasing the Devil's Tail

by David Fulmer

  The coppers were making ready to leave and the one named Whaley looked over and made a motion for Valentin to hop on the step-up at the back of the wagon. His partner glared, then pointedly ignored Valentin, who tossed the butt of the cigarette away, stepped over the banquette and climbed aboard. It was almost three o'clock when they pulled up at the corner of Common and Tulane, two blocks from his rooms. He and Whaley shook hands; the partner stared off over the river. Valentin had walked off only a few steps when Whaley jumped down from the seat as if he had forgotten something.

  They stood in the soft cone of light from the street lamp. "You want to watch out with that Bolden," the patrolman said in a low voice. "The word is out down to the precinct. Fellows saying he's gonna take a fall for them murders."

  "Why?"

  "Why not?" Whaley said. "Hell, somebody killed them women. People been talking, saying maybe it's him. I guess maybe's enough."

  Valentin took a moment to glance casually back toward the wagon. Whaley's partner had turned his attention from the waters of the Mississippi to watch as the two men talked. "You could get yourself in a fix telling me this," Valentin whispered.

  The cop snickered shortly. "Well, I wouldn't mind having you owe me a favor," he said. "I may be looking for a situation soon."

  "So, that's it," Valentin said.

  The patrolman shrugged. "You know how it is. Ain't nowhere to go if you ain't..."

  Valentin understood; this simple fellow would never please the brass and never be mean or crooked enough to benefit from his badge. He'd walk a beat or ride a wagon until he retired. "You know if they actually got something on him?" he asked.

  "It don't matter, does it?" Whaley said with a shrug. He looked away down the dark street. "But I believe I'd get shed of him if I was you. You get in the way, they'll just go ahead take both ya'll." The policeman stood by silently for a moment, as if waiting for his words to sink in. Then he waved a hand and strolled back to the wagon, leaving the Creole detective alone on the dark corner.

  THIRTEEN

  He could drink and he was a storyteller.

  He couldn't go anywhere without making

  a big splash. He could play, too. He took

  up the ragtime, but he couldn't follow

  through on it, he wasn't able.

  —SIDNEY BECHET

  Buddy heard glass exploding and his startled eyes flew open. He lurched to his feet and a spike of white pain stabbed him behind his eyes. The chair toppled backward and hit the floor. He grabbed the edge of the table, blinking slowly, trying to steady his trembling arms and shaking legs. There were at least a dozen bottles on the table, some standing upright, others on their sides, all empty or near so. Dead soldiers. There was a dusting of ashes on everything and burn marks in the paint where some careless fools had left their butts. The room reeked of stale whiskey, stale cigarettes, stale sweat.

  He knelt down to right the chair and saw the shards of the bottle that his outflung arm had knocked off the table. He stopped to gaze, half-dazed, at the sharp, glinting glass and at the brown trickle of whiskey that meandered across the tiles to the corner. He heard a tolling of bells and straightened slowly. He looked at the clock on the wall. It was not quite the stroke of noon. The tolling of bells. It was Sunday.

  He picked up and put down four bottles before he found one with an inch of whiskey. He downed it in one swallow. The soft buzzing in his forehead let up a bit and he stood there, not wanting to move, trying to piece together the day and night before. The first image made him smile: a parade, a swirl of colors, people calling his name, his horn shouting louder and louder while he danced on the cobblestones. Then there were flashing moments from the low stage of a saloon, lights blazing red over his head like falling stars. Then he was back home with a crowd gathered round the table and Tino's face was in the doorway, a face that said he had done something. And after that, nothing.

  He glanced down at his clothes. His shirt was stained with spilled drink and there were spots that looked like blood on his trousers. He thought maybe he should change, wash up and get himself into something fine, but the notion slipped away as quickly as it had arrived.

  The bells tolled on. Nora and Bernedette would be making their way home from the service at St. John the Fourth. He thought about trying to clean up the mess on the table, then forgot about it and shuffled gingerly across the room, holding onto the table, sink, the corner of the sideboard, until he found his way to the door and out onto the gallery. The fresh air made him dizzy again and he grabbed the railing for a few seconds. Then he went down the rickety steps and across the backyard dirt and into the alleyway. It was better there, a dark, cool, silent place where he could hide.

  Valentin found Florence Mantley's silent this Sunday morning, closed for good. A wreath was mounted on the door and bouquets of flowers—some filled with black roses, of course—were strewn about the gallery. He knocked on the heavy door until an old colored maid appeared. She didn't want to allow him in, but he mentioned Mr. Tom Anderson and she changed her mind. She ushered him inside and left him alone in the front parlor. She retreated to the kitchen, though every few minutes she peeked at him through the doorway.

  He found a short glass vase filled with Richmond Straight Cuts on the mantle, took one and sat down on the overstuffed couch. The room, the house, and the street outside were quiet. He dug a lucifer from his vest pocket, flicked it against his thumb and sat back, blowing a gray plume into the air.

  So Bolden had been all but pronounced guilty of the murders. Mostly, he suspected, because he was King Bolden. Maybe there was more. Sitting there in that silent room, he decided to put Bolden to the test and see how he fared.

  Buddy would have to have a motive first and a means second. The motive could be the fact that he was at least half-crazy. True enough. Hadn't Valentin himself witnessed how he could go from calm and even-tempered to a spike of rage in a sudden second? Or the way he attacked his cornet, as if he could never play loud enough, fast enough, hard enough? As if there was something under his skin or down deep in his lungs or fixed somewhere in the tangle of his brain, crying to get out?

  Put yourself in King Bolden's shoes, he reflected, and it all could make a horrible kind of sense.

  You're a nobody, a commonplace fellow living an ordinary life. And then one morning you wake to find you're not that no-account person anymore, but a one-man miracle, a comet lighting up the back-of-town skies. People are telling you you're the best there is, the best ever. You can't buy your own whiskey no matter where you go, pretty girls tussle for as much as a word from your famous lips, and everyone you meet calls you "King." Best of all, they fill up the saloons and music halls, dance and shout to the tune of your horn, your music, you.

  The colored boys especially, their eyes gazing up at you so proud they look like they're about to burst. Even white folks stand aside when you step by. You did it. What no other Negro ever did, at least not in this town. You did it. You're the one. King Bolden.

  What a wild ride it would be, but it didn't last. It couldn't last. Buddy was too much of a madman and people were too fickle; and he had been so wrapped up in it that he never saw it coming. It all started to fall apart on him and he couldn't seem to fix it. It would be a cruel blade.

  Valentin recalled Frank Mangetta's picture of Bolden, the one who broke all the rules, set a new pace, but ended up stuck in a trap of his own making, unable to move forward, unwilling to step aside for someone with a better lip and quicker fingers, someone less fond of Raleigh Rye and hop and the sweet flesh of the back-of-town whores. And what if some of those same women started thinking that maybe Mr. Bolden's day was done and he wasn't quite so special anymore...?

  The cigarette had burned down. He got up, tossed the butt in the fireplace, and took a fresh one and another lucifer from the mantle. As he lit the cigarette, he noticed that his hands shook a bit. He started to pace the floor, letting himself think it: What if it's true? What if Buddy did those killings?<
br />
  There was no telling how it might have started. Maybe he didn't mean to murder Annie Robie at all. A fit of rage and it was over. The victim's friend Gran Tillman would know, maybe try to turn a profit for her silence, so she would have to go, too. Who knows what Martha Devereaux did or said, but the demon rose up and took a knife to her. Jennie Hix crossed his path in Chinatown and lost her life. He was going after Ella Duchamp when he ran up on Florence Mantley.

  If it was so, he wondered if Buddy had any notion what havoc he had wreaked; and he wondered, even more grimly, what it would take to stop him.

  He blinked. What was he thinking? Buddy Bolden could not have murdered five women. It could not be true.

  Of course, Valentin St. Cyr's "could not" would not make a bit of difference to the coppers. Buddy Bolden was a good-for-nothing, jassing Rampart Street nigger and so was capable of anything. He made a bad example. He had octoroons and maybe even white women sweet on him, and he got into houses that other Negroes couldn't even approach. Women were weak. He had charmed his way into their rooms and done his dastardly work. Add it all together and it was quite enough for the New Orleans Police Department. But it was not enough for Valentin, not nearly.

  He tossed the cigarette and crossed to the windows. He pulled the curtain aside to gaze at the street. There was no sign of Anderson, just a few random souls late for Mass at St. Ignatius hurrying along the street. A hack passed, a clattering of hooves and wheels that echoed down the line. From the kitchen, he heard the maid start singing "Jesus Is Going to Make Up My Dying Bed" in an old, soft voice.

  He thought some more. His gut told him there was something amiss in the equation, something very wrong about casting Bolden as a murderer. He resumed his slow pacing, brooding so intently on it that he did not hear the rattling cough of the automobile engine in the alley, nor the back door opening, nor the footsteps on the heavy Persian rug in the sitting room. He sensed a presence and looked up to see the King of Storyville standing in the arched doorway, wearing an off-white linen suit and holding a light tan derby in one hand.

  Anderson stepped into the room and placed his hat on a chair. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a dark cheroot, then patted his pockets until Valentin stirred, crossing to the end of the mantle for a lucifer. He struck a flame on the brick face of the fireplace and held it as the end of the cigar glowed an angry orange. Anderson nodded a thank you and blew a thin rail of smoke from beneath his thick mustache. His eyes roamed about the room. "She certainly ran an upright house," he said rumina-tively. "She was a credit to the District. It's a great loss."

  "Yes, sir, it is," Valentin agreed.

  "These terrible murders..." He took the cigar from between his lips, gazed at the spiral of smoke. "I heard King Bolden put on some kind of show out on the street yesterday," he said. "Some kind of show indeed."

  Valentin wondered if Anderson expected him to comment, decided not.

  "Chief O'Connor told me weeks ago that he was a suspect." The white man settled a cool gaze on Valentin. "But you don't believe he's involved, do you?"

  Again, Valentin knew it wasn't a question and kept silent. Anderson gazed out the window and puffed his cigar. "I promised my friends in Mayor Behrman's office and the State House that I would resolve this situation. I assured those distinguished gentlemen that here in the District, we could keep our house clean. I convinced them that there was no reason to think about bringing in outside agencies. Outside agencies that might stay beyond their welcome, if you see my point." He now leaned a shoulder against the mantle and crossed one foot with the other in a posture that was too casual. He studied his cigar.

  "You're a very smart fellow, Valentin. You should have understood my position. Or maybe you did and you just didn't care." He puffed reflectively and when he spoke again, his tone had a hard edge. "Five women murdered, King Bolden walks the street like he owns them, and you won't lift a finger to stop him."

  "He's a scapegoat," Valentin said.

  Anderson ignored the comment. "What happens when your murdering friend decides to wander outside the District, maybe over to the Vieux Carre or the Garden District? What then? What does that say about me? I'll tell you what it says. It says I can't police my own streets. It says I can't solve my own problems. I don't like that. I don't like that at all, goddamnit!" The voice had gone up to a thunderous pitch. He now straightened and drew a deep breath, calming himself.

  "You're a colored man," he said flatly. "A Negro by blood and by law, no matter how many star coaches you ride in or how many books you read or how many white men you put down. By law and custom, you're a nigger, a darkey, as sure as if you just came out of a cotton field with a rag around your head. Or a Dago, which isn't much better. If those people knew your little secret..." He took a short puff on his cigar. "I knew it, but I engaged you anyway. I had such a regard for your talents." He looked at Valentin, sighing heavily. "This is a terrible disappointment," he said. He brooded for a few seconds more, then drew himself up, squaring his shoulders. Here it comes. Valentin thought.

  "You are dismissed from my employ, Mr. St. Cyr," the King of Storyville said, his voice heavy as iron. "I can't abide your actions. Or lack of actions. You've had your head in the sand while those women were ravaged, one after another. You've betrayed my trust. Protecting that madman Bolden was more important to you than your duty to me and to the District." Anderson glared at him. "What, did you think it would end, that he would get his fill and stop?" he said. "Did you think he'd just go away and leave us all in peace?"

  "I'm telling you it's not him," Valentin said in a low voice.

  Again, Anderson didn't bother to respond. "I'm going to let you in on a bit of news," he said. "He is not long for these streets. Even if he gets away with these killings, he's finished. And it's been a long time coming. He's beyond control. He's a drunk and a hophead. He's got Negroes and Creoles and whites mixing together in those dance halls. He chases after white women himself. We have laws against that sort of thing. And there are plenty of people in this city who don't like him. People of influence. They don't like that music he plays and they don't like the way he carries on. He has no respect. He's bound for trouble."

  The King of Storyville's pink face had once again grown red as he wound through this speech. He paused to puff his cheroot. Valentin stared past his now-former employer. Let him—let all of them—think what they wanted about him, and about Bolden. They were wrong. And he would live without this white man's money.

  Anderson was watching him, as if reading his thoughts. "You can expect that your services will not be required by anyone in the District," he said, with what sounded like a touch of regret. He shook his head and his voice softened. "Listen to me, Valentin. I'll give you a last word of advice. Get out of the way. There are people in this city who would just as soon see you right alongside your friend Bolden, wherever he ends up."

  He tossed what remained of his cigar into the cold fireplace and, with a last, long look at the Creole detective, walked out of the room. Valentin heard his footsteps proceed to the kitchen. Anderson exchanged some muffled words with the maid, and then the back door opened and closed.

  Valentin stood there until he heard the distant sound of a motorcar stutter to a start and then chug-chug-chug down a side street, to the barking of the neighborhood dogs.

  The unemployed Valentin St. Cyr reached for a third cigarette.

  Justine had pulled the old curtains down and was washing the tall windows. In a thin cotton housedress that was tattered at the hem and the sleeves, a scarf tied over her head and rubbing at the glass with old pages from The Sun and ammonia from a bottle, she looked like she was playing the part of the maid in a stage play.

  She smiled when she caught sight of him rounding the corner from Common Street. She stopped what she was doing to watch him approach and her smile faded. Even at that distance, she could see how troubled he looked, all but dragging his feet along the banquette. His appointment with Mr. Anderson had not
gone so well. She had said prayers at Mass for him, but she could see from his bent back, the stiff set of his arms and his slow, stalking pace, that her prayers hadn't done much good.

  Pale light filled the room as he stood, arms crossed, relating most of Anderson's lecture, ending with the word that he was finished around the District. "He says I failed him."

  Justine leaned against the windowsill.

  "Oh, I failed all right, but not because I was protecting Buddy," he said. "I failed because I couldn't muddle through this mess and catch the true killer."

  She was quiet for a few seconds. Then she said, "Does this mean I have to go back?"

  He looked at her. "Back?"

  "To Miss Antonia's."

  He threw up his hands with a "No!" so sharp that it gave her a start. Then he muttered something she couldn't catch and stalked out of the room. She went back to cleaning in the kitchen. As she worked, she heard him in the other room and peeked out to see him stare at the floor, then throw himself down on the couch, then jump up and pace around some more. She was scrubbing at the sideboard when he stepped into the doorway.

  "I can find work," he announced. "I can get along without Anderson and those damn madams. I can get along fine."

  "I know that," she said. She watched his face. "What about King Bolden?"

  "I was told that if I'm not careful, I'll go down with him."

  She thought about that and said, "Then it's just as well it all turned out like this."

  His eyes flashed and he started to say something, and for a moment she thought: he was going to start throwing things again. But he just turned around and walked out. A moment later, she heard the front door slam and his footsteps echoing down the stairwell. She put her rag aside and went to the balcony. She watched him until he turned the corner at Canal Street, heading back toward the District.