by David Fulmer
Her bloodshot eyes widened. "One of 'em pull off his belt. I thought he was gonna give my bare ass a whuppin'. But that wa'n't what they wanted. No, sir." Pointing a shaky finger along the banquette, she said, "They went and strapped me to the fuckin' lamppost down there." She let out a whoop and another couple pedestrians stopped. "That fat fuck of a copper, what's-his-name, the one walks the beat 'round here, he was 'cross the street. He saw what they was doin' and just stood there laughin', like it was the funniest goddamn thing he ever saw." She stopped, sniffed mightily. "And you know what they did next?"
Valentin did know or at least could guess.
Essie said, "The one boy went into his pocket, pulls out a firecracker. You know what a 'sixteen' is? It's one of them big fuckers, six, seven inches long, and about this big around." She made a circle of a dirty thumb and index finger. "They all thought it was so damn funny, 'cause it's right 'bout the same size as they yancies. That's what they said. They wish it was!" She cackled again, then sobered. "The one little bastard done stuck that thing right up in my pussy, way up in there. Then another one struck a lucifer and lit the goddamn fuse! I couldn't get loose, and I was screaming and crying, but they just kept laughin'. And none these bitches out here'd help, not one bit."
Valentin said, "What did—"
"That fuckin' fuse was burnin' down!" she screeched. "I could sho'nuf feel it on my leg and I seen it smoking. Now I was cryin' like a baby, 'cause I thought they was gonna blow up my cunt. And I was prayin' to Jesus that it went ahead blowed me up all the way!"
Valentin opened his mouth, then closed it. She wasn't going to stop.
"I hear them go, 'fi', fo', t'ree, two, one,' and I jes close my eyes. And then they all start to cheer." She let out a raw shriek. "It was a goddamn blank! Nothin' but the tube and the fuse!" Now she coughed up a gob of phlegm, which she spit into the gutter. "I was still cryin', 'counta I was so scared, and then I was laughin' 'cause I still had my stuff left."
Valentin said, "Then what?"
Essie stopped and eyed him. "What?"
"What did they do then?"
"Oh. Then they untied my hands and took me back to my room. The people on the street be cheerin' like I won a prize. The one boy told me to blow 'em all, and I was glad to do it, just so they would get gone. I done one at a time, whilst the others watched. When I got done, they say 'You a good sport, Essie,' and left out without givin' me a goddamn nickel!"
Valentin waited an extra moment to make sure she was finished. He hated hearing such stories. He said, "You know the boys?"
Essie's gaze shifted. "No, but if I seed 'em again, I bet I would."
"What about names?"
"The one was called 'James.' Didn't hear no others." She was silent for a few seconds, then peered at him blearily. "'My in some kinda trouble, Mr. Valentin?"
"No, you're not," the detective said. "Thank you for the information." He went into his pocket and handed her a Liberty half. "And they won't bother you anymore."
Essie grinned, showing the gaps of missing teeth once more. It was a gruesome sight, and Valentin thought about young boys from good families making cruel sport of this poor slattern.
He thanked her and started back the way he had come. It had been a safe visit. He found out what he needed, and as far as he knew, no one aside from Essie had recognized him.
When he reached the next corner, he stopped to gaze across the avenue at the whitewashed wall of St. Louis Cemetery No. 2, known as "the City of the Dead" and the final resting place of those uptown citizens who could afford it. How many characters he could name resided inside those walls? Too many to count, a parade of the deceased, reaching all the way back to his childhood, beginning with the barely remembered faces of his brother and sister, taken by the yellow fever epidemic they called "Bronze John"; his father, murdered by a mob and followed by a string of villains and their victims. It was some grim procession he had left behind.
Now he felt a flush of guilt. He could say the same about whoever was still alive in Storyville. He had abandoned all of them, from the madams in their Basin Street mansions down to the poor wretches like Essie Gill.
Thinking these thoughts, he ambled south, took in the sights, finding the streets in a general state of disrepair. Tom Anderson had always made a point of keeping the District tidy, as if to belie the debauchery upon which it thrived. The banquettes were cleaned, the garbage collected, and the gutters washed, if Anderson had to pay the crews himself. Now it all seemed soiled and worn around the edges, as if someone wasn't making the effort.
A half block on, he passed a woman in a common dress, cheap wig, and a hat pulled down low. Old habit had him steal a glance. The keen planes of the woman's face and the hawk-sharp light in her eyes made a startling contrast to her tawdry shirtwaist and mess of fake hair. She returned his glance, and though it was only a flicker, he was startled by a cold hard light, as if a photograph had jumped into focus.
Then she had hurried past, and he looked over his shoulder, puzzled by what he had seen. Something was wrong about her, but he couldn't settle on what that might be. In the next moment, he considered how long he had been gone from those streets and how much he'd forgotten.
Evelyne moved off at a good clip. She sensed the man she passed casting his eyes on her and stifled her own urge to turn around. She couldn't imagine what he was doing there, in that place, at that time. And though they'd never met, she had heard enough to be able to identify him on sight. The good news was that he didn't recognize her, but it wouldn't have mattered much if he did. They'd meet up soon enough.
The door to Mangetta's Saloon on Marais Street stood open to allow cool air inside. Valentin had barely stepped over the threshold when he heard a voice call out in a whoop of surprise.
"Managg'! Non lo credo! Look who's here!"
Frank Mangetta hurried from behind the bar, his teeth flashing with a pleasure that lit up his round peasant face as he raised his arms in a Sicilian welcome that embraced the very air around him. The three customers at the bar, the first of the day, were used to these operatic displays and smiled before returning to their lonely drinks.
The saloonkeeper crossed the floor to throw one thick and affectionate arm around Valentin's shoulders and steer him to the booth in the back corner.
Valentin sighed and settled back into the old leather. Mangetta's was a Storyville landmark, a building divided in half with a grocery on one side and the saloon on the other, the two large rooms connected by an archway. The store opened early and closed at sundown to serve the red-light district and the Italian community beyond it. At noon the saloon began serving drinks and light meals and in the evening transformed into a music hall with the best jass players New Orleans had to offer.
It was in fact Frank Mangetta who had first brought musicians across Canal from Rampart Street, throwing Negroes, Italians, Creoles, Frenchmen, and Americans together on one low stage. While there was a long-standing tradition of colored "professors" playing piano in bordello parlors, this was something else entirely.
The saloonkeeper, a violinist of little talent himself, hadn't asked permission, and before anyone thought to stop it, the wall had been breached. The music was just too fine and the crowds that filled the house nightly too eager to spend their dollars. Within another year a half-dozen saloons were offering bands that mixed races on a regular basis, and no one blinked an eye, all thanks to the rotund, mustachioed fellow who now wore an eye-twinkling grin of delight as he made his way back to the booth, a bottle and two glasses in hand.
He slid onto the cracked leather seat, poured the wine, and handed a glass to Valentin. "Salud."
Valentin murmured a response and slouched deeper. Frank Mangetta was family, a cousin of his father's from the old country, and compare to Valentin in New Orleans. Frank had known him all his life, had witnessed the tragedies that had befallen the family, had kept a close watch as Valentino grew to manhood and switched careers from petty criminal to policeman and then to pr
ivate detective. One of the rooms over the grocery had been his home for a while. In the Sicilian tradition, Frank stood as substitute father, and Valentin had always been grateful for it.
Though not at this moment, because the substitute father was treating him to a glittering stare and a lip that curled in reproof.
"Come sta?" he muttered tightly, belying the courtesy of the words.
"Sta bene," Valentin said. He'd lost most of his Italian; at least he remembered that much.
Before the saloonkeeper could continue the scolding, a cook came out of the kitchen, carrying a plate of black olives, prosciutto, and provolone, along with a half loaf of bread. He put the food on the table and went away. Though the detective had eaten only a couple hours before, he fell to nibbling hungrily.
"So, you still hiding?" Frank said.
Valentin smiled slightly and shook his head.
"What then?"
"Busy, that's all."
"Oh, busy. I see. Capisco. I'm busy, too. But not too busy to come over to see you on Spain Street, what, five, six times a year? But, you, you're too occupato to visit one time in three years?"
Valentin felt his cheeks reddening. "I just—"
"Then why you come by today?"
Valentin said, "I ... I had something to work on over here." He fumbled. "Sto ... sto lavorando."
"Oh? You working? Well, that's all right, then."
Valentin made an empty gesture. It was true; he had no excuse, and he didn't want to try and explain.
A moment passed and Frank relented. "What kind of something?"
The detective took a sip of his wine and told Frank about the Claiborne Avenue escapades of James Beck and his friends. Frank listened, faintly amused, and then got annoyed again. He sat back and folded his arms.
"That's what you come over here for?"
Valentin, embarrassed, said, "Zi' Franco, I'm—"
"Don't give me 'Zi' Franco,'" he said. "Why you working for those people?"
It was a plaint that Valentin used to hear every time he had wandered too far from where he belonged, at least as the saloonkeeper saw it. As before, he couldn't think of an answer that made sense. The little pander of using the Italian for "uncle" hadn't helped.
At the same time, the detective didn't take Zi' Franco's insulted frown too seriously. "Is this what you want to talk about?" he said.
Frank shook his head slightly and gave a sad half smile, Storyville's own Pagliacci. "Drink your wine," he said.
He asked after Justine, and Valentin inquired about some of the characters from around the District, and what new musicians were worth a listen. He heard a few good stories about women who did not risk having their private parts stuffed with firecrackers. All in all, he heard nothing remarkable.
The saloonkeeper said, "Then there's that thing down on Liberty Street..."
"You mean that fellow they found?" Valentin didn't mention Mary Jane Parker's summons, but Frank was eyeing him as if he knew all about it.
"There's something not right with that."
"I don't see it," Valentin said.
"You ain't around to see anything," Frank retorted. He picked up an olive, chewed for a pensive moment. "You visit Mr. Anderson lately?"
"No, why?"
"He don't look so good. People say he ain't doing so good."
"Is he sick?"
"He's something, I don't know what. Just not the same."
Valentin lifted his glass and put it back down again. He didn't drink much these days, and the wine was going right to his head. "Maybe I'd better head home," he said.
Frank smiled laconically. "You just got here," he said, and poured more wine into Valentin's glass.
The cook who came in early to ready the kitchen for the evening rush at Anderson's Café fixed a late lunch for Mr. Tom, which Ned then brought to his table. He was eating when Billy Struve wandered in from the street, stopping at the bar to have the janitor fetch him a short glass of whiskey. It was not his first of the day; Anderson could tell by the wide arc of his steps as he crossed the marble-tiled floor.
After Valentin St. Cyr turned his back on the District, Struve had stepped in as the King of Storyville's right-hand man. Though there was no comparison between the sharp-eyed Creole detective and this happy-go-lucky gadabout, Struve was loyal and dependable in his own small way, and that was something.
Anderson looked up from his plate and used his fork to point his red-faced, bleary-eyed visitor to the opposite chair. Struve sat, helped himself to a slopping sip of his drink, and let out a relieved sigh.
"So?" the older man inquired.
Struve ran down the list of Storyville gossip and scandals, failing as usual to notice his host's impatience. He had always been a useful spy, gathering up bits of dirt from the streets, what this madam was saying about that madam and what they were both saying about the King of Storyville; what city official had taken a shine to what sporting girl; or which pious church elder preferred the company of men. Anderson had once delighted in hearing these sordid details, as much for their entertainment value as for the usefulness. Now it mostly just irritated him. After almost twenty years, what did he care about such nonsense?
He longed for the likes of St. Cyr, who always appeared on time, stone sober, and with the information he needed, nothing less and nothing more, and every bit of it valuable.
But St. Cyr had gone on the payroll of a set of rich downtown lawyers, doing their dirty work, and no one had come along to replace him. Certainly not Struve, who, having quaffed his whiskey, was now waving to Ned for a refill. The janitor looked at Anderson, who gave a slight shake of his head. One more drink and the man would be worthless.
"What about Liberty Street?" he asked. "Any more news?"
Struve blinked his wet eyes. "Liberty ... oh, that ... No, nothing more. Coppers don't know how the body got there. Or who killed him, none of that. Pretty damn funny, if you ask—"
"Is the family making any noise?"
"Not that I know of." Struve laughed loosely. "Honore Jacob showed up mad as hell."
Anderson pursed his lips in frustration. Jacob was a parade of rude noise on two feet. "Is anyone else talking?"
Struve was watching over his shoulder as Ned retreated to the other end of the bar.
"Billy!"
The head came back around. "What's that?"
"I asked if anyone else has anything on that dead man."
"If they do, I ain't heard it."
"Well, keep your ears open."
"You know I will," Struve said. He picked up his glass and stared at it morosely.
The King of Storyville sighed at the state of things lately. "Ned," he called out. "Mr. Struve will have another whiskey over here."
FIVE
Detective McKinney stood in the doorway. At twenty-four, he was on the tall side, his face Irish ruddy and sporting a mustache that was a splendid orange-red and matched his bristling hair.
By contrast, Captain J. Picot was short and lumpish, his flesh a shade shy of swarthy and his hooded eyes the color of old copper. Sensing a visitor, he looked up, then gestured for the young officer to speak his piece.
McKinney said, "I went over to that house on Liberty Street, the one where Mr. Defoor was found."
"And?"
"And I didn't get anything more than they reported the other night. Sometime between the time the occupants went off to bed and when the maid got up, someone carried the body into the house and left it in the middle of the parlor floor."
The captain gazed at his subordinate for a second, then let out a sudden bark of a laugh as his face went all rubbery.
"That's about the funniest goddamn thing I ever heard!" he chortled. "Whoever did it must have a bad case with that madam. Or maybe got a bad case off one of her girls!" Noticing that McKinney didn't get the humor, he stopped laughing and resumed his scowl.
"All right, what else?" he said.
"I went to the morgue to have a look at the body."
Picot drummed thick fingers on his desk blotter. "What for?"
McKinney shifted his feet. "I wanted ... I was completing the investigation." He wagged a clumsy hand at his chest. "The bullet struck him over the heart," he went on. "He would have died instantly."
Picot nodded and yawned.
"And he had a cut on him."
The captain closed his mouth and blinked like a turtle. "A what?"
McKinney drew a slash in the air. "A cut." He used the same finger to cross his face at a rising angle. "Right here."
"Cut with what?"
"A blade of some kind. A sharp knife or—"
"I don't get it."
"I don't, either, sir. But it was fresh. So I believe the murderer did it."
Picot gave him a blank look. "So? Don't make that poor fuck any less dead, does it?"
"No, sir, but I—"
"They release the body?"
"I asked them to hold it for twenty-four hours."
"What the hell for?" The captain's eyes sharpened in annoyance. "Family's going to want him back. I don't need them calling to complain."
"I was just making sure there was nothing else," McKinney said.
"There ain't, or we would have heard by now," Captain Picot said. "You get back down there and tell them to let him go."
The younger officer hesitated for the briefest instant, then said, "Yes, sir, thank you." He exited the office, stepped into the hallway, and made his way back to the morgue, where he signed the form releasing the body of Mr. Allan Defoor to his grieving family.
Once she was certain that the man she'd encountered wasn't tailing her, Evelyne stopped to catch her breath. She settled herself and continued walking the District from Basin Street to Villere, traveling up one street and down the next and taking it all in from behind her disguise. She viewed women hawking themselves from windows, from doorways, even right out on the banquettes, and the men eyeing the goods as if making market for cuts of meat; smells that gyrated from heavy perfume to animal droppings, and in between a mélange of animal, vegetable, and mechanical scents; finally, the sounds that began with women already tired of trying to entice buyers for their services and ended with the sweet and sad notes of a professor's piano through an open window.
