Chasing the Devil's Tail

by David Fulmer

  He started walking again. He crossed over four streets to Freret, and found himself passing by the tidy brick facades of St. Frances de Sales School for White and St. Frances de Sales School for Colored, the latter the place where he had first met Buddy Bolden. He walked a bit farther on and, for the first time in fifteen years, rounded a corner and found himself standing on the banquette before the house where he had grown up, the home that his mother had deserted when she wandered off over the lonely dirt roads and barren fields and tenant farm shacks that painted the landscape all the way west to the setting sun.

  The empty windows of the clapboard house stared back at him like blind eyes. The eggshell boards had chipped and gone gray and the low wooden steps to the front door had broken off in stunted pieces. It looked like it hadn't been occupied in years. He wondered why this house was one of the few for blocks around that stood deserted. Why had the families that had moved in gone away, leaving empty rooms behind? Because the air was haunted? Because his mother had left some hoodoo that the tenants could not erase? Because a ghost lingered there?

  He stepped on the perron. The brass doorknob, now rusted to a dirty brown, rattled loosely in his fingers. The slightest push would open the door on whatever was left inside.

  He caught himself. He knew that on the other side of that door were rooms that had once held life, but were now empty but for ancient dust. There would be no echoes and no shadows, nothing left of the home he once knew. The house was as blank and silent as a bier. He dropped his hand and walked away.

  Miss Cassie and the two girls stood in the doorway, looking in at her like she was some critter locked in a cage, until she couldn't stand it anymore, and she ran out the back door, across the gallery and into the alleyway.

  The thoughts churned dully as she half-ran, half-stumbled on.

  They gonna bang me. Gonna put a rope around my neck just like they did that boy from Yazoo City. That one that had him a white girl. Hung him from a black tree in the dead of winter. His neck all stretched out like that. The ground was frozen.

  No more: Sally! C'mere, girl! No more: get this and get that. No more: bring that nigger maid in here. I want to see you girls frolic a little.

  Who, Sally? She's ugly as sin.

  G'wan, bring her on in here.

  No more takin' from what's left in the bottles after the night's over. No more finding me a little piece of hop, or a bit of cocaine that slipped under some gal's bed. No more puttin' my mouth on one of the girls when it's a slow night or when they just want some and there ain't no one else around.

  That man. That evil, evil man. lie said it would be over and everything'd be the same again. He lied. He knew all along what was gonna happen to me. He knew all along.

  Valentin walked three blocks down and turned the corner onto First Street. No. 2719 was a few doors down on the other side of the street and now he slowed his steps to regard the house. A light glowed dimly from a back room. A few neighborhood folks strolled by. It all seemed quite peaceful, the evening street moving like a gentle current. And why not? The madman had gone away.

  Valentin knew he had stumbled onto the truth and found the guilty party. Buddy Bolden was innocent of everything except losing his mind. But Valentin felt no relief, just a nagging emptiness, a vacant sorrow for all the ghosts, living and dead.

  John Rice heard the timid tap on the door and said, "Come in," without looking up from his work. He heard the soft creak of hinges and footsteps. He sensed the visitor stepping inside. His brow furrowed with annoyance as he tried to finish the sentence.

  As he placed the period, he caught a blur and looked up to see a flash of motion, a swishing arc as the blade came around with two bony, crusty black hands clasped on the handle. He was slammed in the back and a hot, ripping spike of pain went all the way through his chest. He bolted half out of the chair and a gush of blood and vomit spewed from his mouth and across his tidy desk. He tried to lurch away but one of those awful claws dug into his shoulder and pushed him down and, through the fountain of blood, he became most enraged that this nigger actually put hands on him.

  His chest and back were searing as he tried to push himself out of his chair again, but the fire suddenly went out, leaving a numb haze of pain, and he felt terribly weak, too weak to move. Blood was soaking down the back of his shirt, and he wondered dully if it was the same knife she used on the whore.

  The girl had backed away and the last embers of the rage that had lit up her eyes had burned out, leaving them flat and calm like an animal's, without mercy.

  Valentin came up on Orleans Street and gazed at the steeple of St. Ignatius, posed against the inky night sky. He was thinking with grim pleasure about what he was going to say to Rice when he heard the side door bang open and saw a thin, dark figure bolt off into the shadows of night.

  He groaned out a curse as he ran for the door. She'd done it. She'd beaten him again.

  He rushed into the office and found the parish clerk half-sprawled over the desk, one hand gripping the back edge of the solid oak top, the other clutching at his chest as if he was trying to contain his very life from seeping away. Blood had flooded the desktop and splashed down the sides to settle on the seat and in a pool on the rich carpet. The knife had been slammed in below the shoulder blade with such force that only an inch of steel shank remained between John Rice's flesh and the hilt and the point protruded an inch out from his chest in front. Sally had learned some lessons about murder.

  Rice's face had gone gray and his breath came in long, weak, burbling gasps.

  "Can you talk?" Valentin said.

  Rice shook his head and his gaze shifted to the oak telephone box on the desk. Valentin crossed his arms. The parish clerk's whole body shuddered. "Help ... please..." It came out in strangled gasps. Valentin brought his face closer to the white man's, and caught the dry, husk smell. "You sent her after my woman!" He leaned closer. "Five women dead. Could have been six."

  Rice looked back at him, his eyes suddenly brimming with hate. Then the eyes rolled up and a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. Before another minute was out, his expression had frozen into a death mask.

  Valentin did pick up the telephone then, and told the operator that he wanted to speak to Lieutenant J. Picot at Parish Prison precinct.

  Picot rolled through the door like a charging boar and came to an abrupt stop, his eyes going wide. The two blue-coated patrolmen fanned out on either side of him and all three coppers gaped at the bloody tableau. One of the bluecoats crossed himself and murmured under his breath. "What the hell..." Picot said hoarsely. "What the hell ... You did this?"

  "No," Valentin said, "your friend here met up with the Black Rose Killer again."

  Picot drew his eyes off the bloody corpse and stared at Valentin. "What was that again?" he said.

  "You and Mr. Rice," Valentin said. "I believe you're acquainted."

  The copper made to come around the desk, then caught himself and stopped short. "We better step outside," he said in an almost polite voice. He muttered instructions for one of his patrolmen to call downtown, and turned for the door.

  On the stone steps, he produced two cigarettes from a packet. He offered one to Valentin, accompanied by a light. A rumble of thunder echoed over the west side of the city. "So?" the copper said.

  "It wasn't Bolden," Valentin said.

  "Who, then?"

  Valentin turned his face away and blew a plume of smoke. "I believe you've got some things to tell me first."

  After a few seconds, Picot got it. "Come on, now," he growled. "I can't be divulging police business. Don't be askin' me to do that." Valentin smoked, looking over the cobbled street. "It's confidential," Picot hissed. The policeman waited until half their cigarettes were gone. "Rice called me in," he said in a tight voice. "Said I better watch the both of you. Said Bolden was guilty and that you was protecting him. Said it wouldn't do to have him gettin' away with it just because of Tom Anderson's man."

  "But
you never had a thing on him, did you?" Valentin said.

  Picot didn't reply directly; answer enough. He cleared his throat again. "All right, then. Let's hear what you got to say."

  Valentin explained as simply as possible. When he first mentioned Sally, Picot frowned and said, "Who? What maid?" and Valentin remembered what the girl had said—invisible, indeed. He took the copper through each of the murders and ended with the assault on Justine and Beansoup. All but the first committed by a dirt poor, unschooled, homely country girl who was scared out of her wits. But she had outsmarted everyone; or, rather, they had outsmarted themselves.

  "All them killings to protect a priest?" Picot said.

  "That wasn't it," Valentin said. "The church owns Cassie Maples' house. And probably a few more. Rice had bought them up with church money. He was collecting rent and putting some of it in his pocket. But you knew that, Lieutenant." The copper opened his mouth to protest, then closed it, and dropped his eyes. "So, you have a murder back-of-town and somebody starts looking too hard..."

  As they talked, two police wagons filled with coppers came rattling up the street, followed by a hack carrying the parish coroner. A captain of detectives arrived and, mounting the steps, waved a sharp hand at Picot.

  "Where is she now?" the policeman whispered as he turned to follow his superior inside.

  "I don't know."

  Picot looked startled, then angry, then he sighed and went inside, leaving Valentin alone on the night street. Some minutes passed and it started to rain.

  She walked back uptown, staying to the side streets. She had washed the blood off in a rain barrel along the alleyway off Gravier Street.

  She heard the sound of thunder, first far off and then closer. As she crossed Poydras, heavy drops splattered wetly on the cobblestones. The rain dappled the street and the wind came up, and New Orleans settled under the gentle hush of an evening shower.

  She passed a dozen pedestrians before she reached Canal Street, and the few that bothered glanced at her then looked away absently, as if she was some stray dog, or not there at all. Black thoughts tumbled through her head. She was nothing before and she was less than nothing now. She had done bad things, terrible things, and people were going to hate her, and then she was going to die, her neck breaking as she choked at the end of a rope. Her mama would be so ashamed. She would cry out loud and say, Why? Why, my baby? Didn't I raise you right?

  They would bury her back beyond some cornfield outside Yazoo and no one would put flowers on her grave because it would be haunted ground. And for a long, long time, little boys would talk about it, dare each other to go see.

  She tried to feel sad, to mourn her own poor lost soul, but the tears wouldn't come out. She just felt sleepy. The rain fell harder, soaking the nap of her hair, soaking through her clothes, making her shiver. She wanted to go home. She wanted her mama.

  She saw the streetcar coming down the line, all lit up inside, full of white folks on their way to enjoy themselves in the French Quarter. It was rolling along at a steady speed, the steel wheels grinding and the wires overhead crackling and spitting blue fire.

  In the whole time she had been in New Orleans she had got to ride the streetcar maybe a couple dozen times. She wasn't worth the fare, so she walked. She thought about that as she took one careful step into a street that was slick with rain.

  She began to run. The rain was coming into her face, pelting her eyes and cheeks with little darts. She ran harder, her dress sticking to her thighs and in between, and her old shoes felt wet and heavy like the river mud back home. As she came close to the tracks, she raised her eyes and saw the face of the conductor looking down at her, his mouth falling open and eyes going wide as she made the long, clumsy leap and disappeared under the car's heavy wheels.

  SEVENTEEN

  Six white horses in a line

  Six white horses in a line

  Six white horses in a line

  Gonna take me to my buryin' ground

  —"ONE KIND FAVOR"

  The King of Storyville was sitting at his usual table with a bottle of brandy, a half-full glass, and a second, empty glass before him. A gray afternoon peeked in through the shutters. He gazed moodily into the shimmering amber liquid until a shape appeared there. He looked up. The Creole detective was standing on the other side of the table, watching him, his mouth forming a tight line. He hadn't heard him come in.

  "Is it over?" Anderson said. Valentin nodded. "Please, sit down." Valentin sat. The white man poured brandy into the second glass and placed it before him. The two of them drank in silence. Then Anderson said, "You know it had to happen this way."

  "I don't know that," Valentin said flatly.

  "Believe me, it did."

  Valentin looked across the table. "You knew something right from the start."

  The King of Storyville gave an absent shrug. "I guessed that Father Dupre was somehow connected to that girl at Cassie Maples.'"

  Valentin emptied his brandy in one swallow and reached for the bottle without asking. "I received a visitor very late Saturday night," Anderson went on. "Sunday morning, in fact. He woke me up."

  "John Rice."

  Anderson nodded. "He asked my assistance in a delicate matter. He wanted to get Father Dupre out of the city. He said the Father's afflictions had become a problem for the diocese. An embarrassment, if anyone got wind of it."

  "Did he mention Annie?"

  "He mentioned no one. He asked that I not pry further, that I trust his word on the matter." Anderson grimaced. "Trust his word." He smoothed his mustache. "And then, of course, I heard about this girl in the house back-of-town. So, I thought perhaps..."

  Valentin said, "Heard from who?" Though he thought he knew.

  "From Antonia Gonzales," Anderson said. "You sent her to me?"

  "In a manner of speaking. You were already in her mansion. With your young lady."

  Valentin sat back, shaking his head. "You arranged all this and then ended up chasing me away," he said. He knew why the King of Storyville had played the game, but he wanted to hear it from the white man's lips.

  Anderson's eyes wandered off for a moment. "I have a longstanding friendship with the police department. It's an important friendship for everyone. It simply wouldn't do to have my man crossing into their territory and causing them all manner of trouble. I had no choice but to let you stumble, then send you away."

  "I was the goat."

  "More like the wolf," Anderson said with a half-smile. "I knew that—"

  "—that I would come back and try to solve the case."

  Anderson nodded. "I was counting on your friendship with King Bolden ... and your pride. I knew you wouldn't let go of it." He sipped his brandy, watching the Creole's stony expression. "I want you to know I'm sorry about Bolden. But he would have ended up in Jackson, or someplace worse, sooner or later."

  "I would have picked later."

  The King of Storyville pondered for a moment. "You know that if it wasn't for him going there, you might never have caught the guilty party."

  "I would have caught her," he said.

  "I suppose so," Tom Anderson said, "but I couldn't wait."

  The Creole detective made a rude gesture with one hand and Tom Anderson regarded him narrowly. "It wouldn't have made so much difference in the end, Valentin."

  "I might have saved Buddy."

  The King of Storyville lifted his glass, put it back down. "You did save him. You saved him from being railroaded for the murders. He would have hanged for that."

  "He's locked up in an insane asylum."

  "It's better than him being dead."

  "Is it?"

  "Maybe in a little while he'll be cured and he can get out of that place."

  "You didn't see what I saw," Valentin said. "He'll never get out of that place."

  Anderson was silent for a few moments. "Well, I'm sorry," he repeated.

  Valentin turned a frigid stare on him. Anderson would brook such a look f
rom few men, certainly no colored. This time he let it pass and waited until St. Cyr's harsh eyes softened with an odd sadness and shifted away. "Storyville," he said in a bemused voice. He sighed out loud, shrugged his heavy shoulders, and moved on. "I want you to come back to work for me," he said.

  Valentin's brow furrowed. "I'd like to think about it, if I may," he said.

  The King of Storyville nodded benignly.

  Justine Mancarre recovered from the injuries she suffered in the attack, though she continued to experience occasional bouts of dizziness and blurred vision in one eye. She remained in his rooms on Magazine Street.

  Lulu White's fancy man George Killshaw was never seen or heard from again. Miss White's one hundred and fifty thousand dollars cash went with him. She eventually decided against dispatching Valentin to California to locate him.

  Guy Molony, Manuel Bonillas, and Lee Christmas were successful in engineering the overthrow of the government of Honduras.

  One month later, the Creole detective returned to the employ of Mr. Tom Anderson.

  On a day painted with the coppery light of early autumn, Valentin stepped off the train at the Jackson station. One more time, he rode a hack along the road overhung with weeping French moss, arriving at the grounds of the hospital in the stillness of a late morning.

  He was standing in the corridor as Buddy approached at his creeping pace, his fingers touching every bit of molding, every protuberance, every whorl in every appointment, just as before. Their eyes met for an instant, but Valentin saw no spark, no light at all, just silent pools that reflected nothing. He watched Buddy go on his shuffling way, feeling an urge to speak to him, to call his name, to tell him he was sorry. But instead he just stared at the lost soul who was once his—