by David Fulmer
Tom Anderson was not a man who indulged petty slights and did not take this one to heart. St. Cyr had too much history fending off crooks of every stripe, thieving and murdering sons of bitches, crazy whores, and crazier madams, all on the King of Storyville's behalf. Who could blame him for moving on to other work? At the same time, he was the one person who could be trusted with the arcane inner workings of the District.
The lord of that piece of real estate blinked out of this reverie, aroused by the sound of footsteps on the staircase. He sat forward and flipped open his ledger to October 15. There was nothing entered for that hour, and he frowned, wondering what had slipped his mind. The footfalls drew closer: two people, one heavy, the other lighter.
At the sight of Honore Jacob, Anderson felt a small pain in his temples. Jacob was the landlord of several houses in the District, including Antonia Gonzales's and, more significantly, that Liberty Street house where the body of the Defoor fellow had been found. No doubt it was the reason for the visit.
That was bad enough; add to it Jacob's habit of complaining constantly, and mostly about money, about the coppers, about the madams who rented his properties. He never left home without carrying along a grievance of one sort or another. So the next few minutes promised to be unpleasant. With a quiet sigh, Anderson stood up, placing his palms flat on either side of the blotter.
Jacob was not alone this night. A young man entered on his heels. He was of medium height and lank, with ash-blond hair with the slightest wet curl to it. His cool green eyes and perfect nose were set on a feminine oval of a face. In contrast to his father's loose, rumpled suit, he was done out in a well-tailored coat and trousers of eggshell cassimere. All in all, he cut a striking figure and, from the smug way he cast his eye about, seemed to know it. He studied the King of Storyville with a blank sort of curiosity that lacked regard for so eminent a personage.
"Mr. Tom," Honore Jacob said. "I'm sorry to interrupt your evening." He gestured. "This is my son, Louis."
Anderson nodded to the younger Jacob, and Louis responded with the barest movement of his own head, a gesture just short of insolent. Anderson felt a jab of ire. But what did he expect, that the young fellow would bend a knee? He decided to overlook it and waved the two visitors to the chairs on the other side of the desk.
Jacob asked for an appointment every other week or so, though Anderson was at a loss to understand why. The man rarely made specific demands, preferring instead to roll out a litany of complaints that seemed never to vary: the police were too greedy; the city inspectors too harsh; the madams always trying to cheat him; there were rats everywhere; and there was never, never enough cash.
The Jacobs had once been among the better of the city's old-line French families, until Honore's brother, also named Louis, squandered a fortune that included whole blocks of the red-light district by bungling every business deal he laid his hands to and then dropping dead from a bad heart before the damage could be repaired. A few modest properties were all that was left.
Anderson had a tray with two glasses and a bottle of brandy waiting at all times, and he now added a third glass from the cabinet behind his desk. As he poured, he glanced up to see the younger man gazing idly around the room as if checking for anything that might amuse him. Honore Jacob, meanwhile, stared fixedly into space, likely cataloging his complaints for the hundredth time.
The attentions of both returned when Anderson handed over the brandies. The two older men raised their glasses and sipped. Louis hesitated, frowning into the golden liquor as if there was something wrong with it. The King of Storyville now counted a second strike, and the visitors hadn't been in the door five minutes.
He sat down again. "So, how can I help you this evening?" He addressed the father, keeping his voice neutral.
As if he'd been waiting for this signal, Honore Jacob hunched forward.
"You hear what happened at my property on Liberty Street?" he said.
"I did," Anderson said. "Very unfortunate. Is there any more news about it?"
"Not that I heard." Jacob shook his head dolefully. "The police don't have a thing. But I don't think they're trying. Don't think they give a goddamn."
The King of Storyville shrugged calmly and took another sip of his brandy. If he was lucky, Jacob would realize that there was nothing he or anyone could do and move on.
"It might not be Basin Street," Louis said. "But it's still Storyville."
Both Anderson and Jacob turned their heads. The cool and prickly note in the son's voice had bordered on the surly. Anderson returned a gaze that was even cooler and waited, expecting the junior Jacob to flinch under his famous gimlet stare. He was surprised that Louis did no such thing, instead turning lazy eyes in the direction of the open window, broadcasting an elegant boredom. The King of Storyville decided that was strike three for this dandy.
The father, sensing a sudden change in the air in the room, spoke up hurriedly. "Sorry, Tom, I should have explained. I'm showing Louis some of the ropes. I mean, in terms of my business affairs..." He tried a short laugh. "We're none of us getting younger, and, uh..." He laughed tensely again. It seemed he'd lost his place.
Anderson drew his stare off Louis and placed it on the father, cutting the son out entirely. "I understand the police are continuing the investigation at Miss Parker's," he said brusquely. "Let's just wait and see what happens. It won't go to make trouble where there isn't any." He produced a tight smile from beneath his mustache. "Comprenez?"
Jacob smiled in return, though uneasily. "Je comprends, oui," He finished his brandy and placed the glass carefully on the edge of the desk, still fretting over his son's disrespect. Anderson was ready to dismiss both of them and stood up. Honore Jacob rose in kind.
Louis, however, remained slouched in his chair, his almost-girlish face distracted by some thought. "Perhaps Mr. St. Cyr could be of service," he murmured.
Anderson took pains to not look startled as he gazed at the younger man. "Pardon me?"
"That Creole detective." Louis's lips curled into a mocking smirk. "The one who used to work for you."
The King of Storyville continued to bite down on his bafflement. "I'm sorry? Do you know him?"
"I've heard about him," Louis offered. "I heard he's a very talented fellow when it comes to crimes in this part of the city. Perhaps he can help."
Anderson wanted to say, Help with what?, but kept quiet.
The elder Jacob frowned, trying to catch up. "But St. Cyr ... he's not around anymore, is he?"
Anderson shook his head. "No, he's not. He still lives in the city. But he has no business in Storyville."
A moment of terse silence ensued. Then Louis uncoiled and rose to his feet, his expression distant, as if he'd already lost interest in the subject at hand. Tom Anderson studied him for another few seconds before returning his attention to the father.
"You don't need to worry, Honore," he said, and waved a hand toward the window and the street-lit panorama beyond. "Look out there. It's calm. We have these incidents now and then. But things go back to where they belong." As soon as the words were out, he wondered if his guests could hear the hollow note in his voice.
He brought his gaze back to the landlord, who nodded, then performed a bow that was thinly sincere. Louis crossed to the door without as much as a look back, and his father cast an apologetic glance over his shoulder. Anderson was not mollified. Three wives and several other women had given him enough children to have lost count. So he knew misbehavior when he saw it and now produced a cold frown that said, Next time, leave your brat at home.
The Jacobs made their exit along the short hallway and down the stairs. The King of Storyville refilled his brandy glass and crossed to the window to gaze on Basin Street and the eddies of men traveling to or from this or that sporting house or saloon. Momentarily, he saw Jacob, elder and junior, appear on the banquette. The father's hands wagged about as he lectured his son about his disrespect for the King of Storyville.
W
ho now paused to consider how odd it was that the younger man had thrown out St. Cyr's name like that. He wondered if the fates were trying to tell him something. Not that it mattered; he had never turned to anything or anyone but his own instincts to make his way. Save for the Creole detective, that is.
He pushed all these thoughts aside. Night had fallen, and once again Storyville was coming to life.
SIX
William Brown paced the floor of his room a hundred times over, left and right, up and down, at severe but exact angles. He wanted to leave but couldn't, not until he received his orders. So he walked until he swore he could look down and see where his soles had worn a ditch in the hard wood.
He found himself at the washstand, staring into a mirror so cracked and tinted that he could barely make out his features, but beholding a pale, smallish man with an oval head shaved clean. His eyes were too large, his nose too long, and his lips jutted like a Mississippi carp's. He knew if he kept staring into the dirty glass, all these features would grow larger and then larger still, until he was one of the grotesque ogres in the carnival parade.
Some moments passed before he realized that he was holding his straight razor in his right hand. He opened it long enough to gaze upon the glinting edge of the blade, so delicate and hideous that it made his gut twist.
The razor clattered to the floor at the sound of a cream-white envelope being pushed under the door. William hadn't heard anyone approach, and he didn't move a muscle until he was sure no one was lurking outside. He edged to the door and bent down to pick up the envelope. Sliding a yellowed fingernail along the fold, he opened it to find a single sheet of paper and a gold coin, which he rubbed as he read through the half-dozen words written in a tight hand: a name, an address, a time.
He laid envelope and paper aside. Kneeling to the floor, he lifted a short board and retrieved from between the joists a Liberty .22 seven-shot that was small enough to fit within the span of his hand. Once he had replaced the board, he stood up and dropped the pistol into a coat pocket. He donned his derby hat and stepped to the door.
Downstairs, he exited the back door of the hotel into the alley and began his journey beneath the earth to Basin Street.
It was the dead of morning, that empty pocket between the dark of night and the light of day, and Storyville had fallen into an uncommon quiet as a wispy fog draped the streets in shreds like worn cotton.
Little stirred. Here and there, the invisible wings of a waterbird snapped with the fit-fit-fit sound of a flag flicking in a breeze before fading back toward the river. In the yard below Union Station, a train whistle played a mournful note as steel wheels, rising from metallic sleep, groaned into motion. Somewhere down a side street, a nag snorted, a man's voice muttered, and a woman laughed—a tinkling of thin bells. Then it got quiet again.
After some moments, the front door of a mansion halfway down the block between Bienville and Iberville streets opened in a swath of yellowish light, casting the silhouettes of a slender young woman and an older man. The woman took the form of an angel, her dressing gown wafting as the night air stirred, while the gentleman stood as stout as a judge.
They lingered until an engine coughed to life at the corner. Their faces met in a chaste kiss and the gentleman drew away to descend the steps to the banquette. The breeze swirled once more and died, and the hem of the gown fell. The girl, who went by Clarice, raised a listless hand in farewell, and in the manner of an actor after the curtain comes down, stepped wearily over the threshold and closed the door behind her.
Mr. Burton Bolls stood on the banquette, humming a light bit of melody as he waited for the idling automobile to pull up and carry him home to the Irish Channel and his wife and children. He'd enjoyed a lovely night with Clarice, a well-earned diversion from the demands of his life.
He thought he was alone on the street with his agreeable thoughts until he heard someone speak and jerked around to see a man standing a few feet away, hunched in a suit coat that was too thin for the brisk air and a derby hat pulled down low in front. Bolls had not heard his approach and would have been alarmed had he not been standing directly in front of a mansion on the main thoroughfare of one of the most renowned red-light districts in the world. From up the street, gears rattled as the motorcar set to noisy motion.
"What's that, sir?" he inquired politely, expecting the fellow would now ask for a handout and preparing a rebuff.
The voice came from beneath the brim of the derby, as sharp and jagged as broken glass. "Evil gets as evil gives."
Bolls cocked his head, puzzled over the muttering. He was thinking how odd it was for someone to be wearing gloves at this time of year when he saw the barrel of the pistol pointing at him. The hammer clicked back.
The Paterson touring car was fifty paces along Basin Street when the sleepy-headed driver, peering over the folded windshield, saw the tiny blue flash. He watched, stunned, as Mr. Bolls reeled on top-heavy legs and toppled off the banquette and into the gutter, and another, smaller figure appeared, bending over the body. The driver gaped and coughed up a shout that was lost in the noise of the stuttering engine.
The sound and the light sent the figure spinning around and lunging away to fade into the narrow space between the houses behind him.
With another yelp, the driver pushed the accelerator handle, and the Paterson lurched forward until a jerk on the brake brought it to a sliding stop, the fat tires bouncing off the curb. He leaped onto the running board and down to the street to find Mr. Bolls lying flat on his back with his legs on the banquette, staring blindly up at the stars in the New Orleans night. The hole in his chest was bubbled over his shirt and vest. His limbs quivered and his eyes fluttered. He let out an agonized groan and went still.
The driver rushed across the banquette and ran up the gallery steps just as the front door flew open.
Miss Antonia Gonzales stretched out on the divan, her hop pipe in hand. The first crooning notes were wafting from the horn of her Edison Victrola when she heard what sounded like the pop of a firecracker. Then came a rude shout, followed shortly by a ruckus outside her sitting-room door: a chatter of voices, the scrabbling of feet, and one of the girls calling her name in a panicked voice. The madam let out an exasperated curse, laid the brass pipe aside, and went to see about the fuss.
Three of her girls were huddled in the foyer, talking all at once. Pushing through the gaggle, she stepped onto the gallery, where she found Clarice with the house driver, a skinny character with a sparse mustache and slicked-back hair who went by the moniker Each.
"What's wrong?" she demanded.
Clarice threw a wild hand toward the street. "It's Mr...." She couldn't seem to catch her breath. "He's..."
"He's what?" The madam peered over the banister and was shocked to see the body of Mr. Bolls slumped over the curb and into the street.
"Good lord!" she said. "What happened?"
"He got shot," Each said, his voice thin with strain. "I saw it."
The madam said, "Shot? Shot by who?"
"Didn't see," Each said in a rush. "I come up from the corner, and he was, uh, he was going down. The one what done it run off."
Miss Antonia turned on the girl, her black eyebrows hiking.
"I saw him out and he was ¡fine," Clarice said. "I just closed the door when I heard the shot and..." She started to shake a little.
Miss Antonia's mouth drew into a tight line. This was going to be trouble. Mr. Bolls was a good customer, an upright citizen who spent freely and was not peculiar in his tastes, the kind of guest any Storyville madam would welcome. Not to mention that he was a man of some importance, the owner of two successful retail stores. In the next moment, she thought about the fellow they'd found on Liberty Street. This was far worse; a gentleman like Mr. Burton Bolls wouldn't just go away with the morning light.
The madam heard voices and glanced toward the next corner to see that the usual worthless yardbirds had already started to gather, peering and pointing.
<
br /> She made a quick decision. "Go call the police," she told Clarice. The girl gave a sickly nod and hurried inside. Miss Antonia turned to Each. "And you drive over to Spain Street and fetch Mr. Valentin back. I'll call ahead and tell him you're on your way."
Each was startled. "He won't come."
"Just go," the madam said.
The telephone at the police precinct at Parish Prison chirped noisily, and the desk sergeant jerked awake and snatched up the earphone. The two patrolmen who had just brought in the drunken whore snickered between themselves. The girl, a scraggly blond whose thin face was scarred by smallpox, paid no attention, singing softly to herself in a wavering voice.
The sergeant grunted into the mouthpiece and then listened for a few seconds, rubbing his face with his free hand. He dropped the receiver in the cradle and addressed the coppers.
"Basin Street between Bienville and Iberville," he said. "We got a homicide."
The girl stopped her off-key singing. The officers hitched their belts.
"What about her?" one of the officers inquired, jerking a thumb.
"I'll take care of her like she was my own little girl." He shooed them. "Y'all get on over there. We can't have no dead body on Basin Street."
Valentin heard the bell flutter and came awake, confused, wondering who was rousing him at such an hour. He had managed for years without the annoyance of a telephone set, until Tom Anderson, exasperated at having to send a street rat every time he needed to pass a message, ordered him to buy one. So he gave in, had the device and the wiring installed, and heeded the warning not to toss it over the balcony into the street the first time it sounded. Now he wished he'd done just that.
