by David Fulmer
She took her time, in case the maid was lurking and watching, perusing the news on the front page, then murmuring over the Mayer Israel's display advertisement that took up most of the back page. Presently, she happened on the article about the murder in Storyville and shook her head over the bumbling of the police and Mr. Tom Anderson. It was a true wonder that the red-light district had not collapsed into chaos years ago. In any case, it was beginning to look like it was on its way there now. So be it, she mused.
She heard the phone ring. A few seconds later, Malvina appeared in the doorway.
"Mr. Jakes is calling for you," the maid said.
Evelyne flipped a hand. "Not now," she said.
It was four o'clock when Detective Weeks reported to Captain Picot that they had roused the Picayune reporter named Packer.
"He's outside," Weeks said, and jerked his head.
Picot shifted so he could see the bench near the door where suspects were held. A pudgy, greasy-looking character sat staring morosely at the floor.
"He looks unhappy."
"We pulled him out of a saloon."
"Big surprise," Picot said. "All right, bring him in. And leave him with me."
Weeks fairly shoved the reporter through the door. Packer—round of head, round of middle, round of bottom, bald, red-faced, and sweating—looked scared. This was a good thing; it meant the captain didn't have to waste time browbeating him.
He still started with a cold-eyed glare. "You're on my bad side," he began, his voice down low. "That's a place you don't want to be." He picked up the article from his top tray. "'Unavailable for comment'?"
"Well, you weren't," Packer said sulkily.
"Then you didn't try hard enough," the captain snapped back. He paused for a glowering moment. "I could stick you with the niggers in the hole downstairs and let you stew there while we make sure you haven't committed any malfeasance." He stopped again, this time to let the reporter think about it. "But I won't. On the condition that you do me a favor."
"What favor?" Packer said, his miserable gaze still fixed on the floor.
"You'll know that when I tell you. In the meantime, you can consider me a source of information at the department." He waited until the reporter met his eyes, then said, "Your only source for the time being. You understand?"
Picot could tell that Packer didn't like it. Too bad for him.
"Detective Weeks?" he called out. Weeks appeared in the doorway. "Please escort Mr. Packer out of the building."
Anderson knew the visit from the mayor's man was going to be delicate business and made the climb to his office carrying a cup of brandied coffee. Turning on the ceiling fan, he opened the windows wide for the air and spent a moment gazing down the line. Basin Street looked so peaceful; and yet it wasn't the first time evil had festered beneath its facade. He was recounting some of those instances when floorboards creaked out in the corridor.
The gentleman who appeared in the doorway brought a small pain to his temples and a larger thump in his chest. Though Roland Lutz had worked for Martin Behrman since the mayor had first gained his office, the man's precise duties had never been explained to the King of Storyville's satisfaction. St. Cyr had investigated and reported back that just like Tom Anderson, the mayor kept a handful of trusted aides close by. While on the payroll, they had no titles and their offices were in a rarely visited wing of City Hall.
Behrman and Lutz were both sons of German immigrant parents, and after three terms at the mayor's side, Lutz was the most senior of the mayor's aides. At least Anderson could take some comfort that Behrman hadn't sent the dogcatcher.
As always, Lutz held himself with the hunched posture of a furtive buzzard. Dressed in black even on the hottest August day, he never seemed to sweat and his demeanor remained as icy as a cadaver's. Though he reminded Anderson of a funeral director, he was in fact more executioner than mortician, sent to do the dirtiest work: threats, petty blackmail, and banishments from the inner circle at City Hall. Some men who answered his knock were said to have fallen to their knees and prayed for mercy, even though Lutz would never deign to do brute violence. A severe and fussy gentleman, he delivered sentences that were more like pinpricks laden with poison.
Of course, he had no power over a man like Anderson, and so his towering presence had no such effect. And yet his eyes were cold glass when he said, "Mr. Anderson," in his craggy voice.
Anderson said, "Mr. Lutz," in return. They had known each other for over ten years and had never advanced beyond this stiff formality.
The King of Storyville made a gesture of invitation, and Lutz settled in the chair on the other side of the desk. He offered coffee; his visitor refused politely. Anderson quaffed half the contents of his own cup, then sat down.
"Thank you for seeing me this evening," Lutz said.
"Always a pleasure," Anderson said without an ounce of conviction.
They spent a few moments trading insincerities until the King of Storyville grew impatient and said, "What can I do for you, sir?"
Lutz folded his hands into one another and said, "What's your opinion of the current state of business in the District?"
Anderson was momentarily thrown. He had expected to be grilled about the two killings. The mayor's man was on a whole other subject.
"We've had better years," he said carefully. "We've had worse."
"Most people would say better," Lutz said.
Anderson's blue gaze flicked and his cheeks reddened slightly, a reaction he would have never shown in the past. He bit down on his temper. "Is that correct? Who are 'most people'?"
Lutz backed up. "The mayor's concerned, sir. Revenues are down. Tax receipts have been in decline. The suppliers say that the District isn't doing the business it's done in the past. The mayor hears these complaints daily."
The King of Storyville didn't know whether to laugh or bark. They both knew the real subject at hand was the decline in graft money. From the lowest beat copper up to the chief, there was less payoff money this year than last. Feeling the pinch, the brass was squeezing him, so he sent this scarecrow of a man to squeeze Tom Anderson.
"And now we have these men being killed," Lutz said, his eyes unblinking. "It's a terrible situation. The mayor is concerned. We're wondering if it's time to make some changes."
Anderson had been expecting his second shot. The mayor had chosen to attack while he was weakened by the two dead bodies turning up in his territory in the space of the week. That Behrman hadn't called or made a personal visit was a way of twisting the knife.
Roland Lutz watched these thoughts brew in the King of Storyville's eyes, and, for the first time since he had crept into the room, seemed to understand that he might have crossed a line. He opened his mouth to amend his comments; Anderson got there first.
"Who is we?" he said in a voice that was clipped with annoyance. "And why haven't I heard this before now?" He jerked a rude thumb at the window at the street beyond. "Nobody's starving out there. The District has been a goddamn money farm for fifteen years."
Lutz swallowed and said, "The mayor didn't mean—"
"I know exactly what the hell he means." Anderson's voice got louder as his face turned a deeper shade of red. "Certain parties are worried they're not going to get any richer off the women. Maybe there won't be as much for the hogs at the trough. Well, maybe it's time for everyone to shut their damned mouths and appreciate what they've got!"
The mayor's man shifted in his chair, gazing narrow eyed from under his sharp brow at the King of Storyville, who was now huffing with the exertion of the tirade. For his part, Anderson knew he had blundered by losing his temper and wished he could go into his desk drawer for the cheap Japanese fan to cool his flushed brow. He couldn't, though; not in front of a hawk like Lutz. He could all but imagine the man pecking at his flesh.
He slouched back in his heavy chair, tilting his head slightly, to catch at least a bit of a breeze from the ceiling fan that whispered overhead. After a few seco
nds, his calm returned.
"Those murders...," he said. "They're terrible, it's true."
"Now it's two," Lutz rejoined. "What if tomorrow it's three?"
"It won't be," Anderson said sharply. "I'll take care of the matter."
His visitor's cold lips pursed. "How, exactly?"
The mayor's man's tone was accusing, as if his host was spouting an empty boast. Before the King of Storyville knew the words had left his mouth, he'd said, "I'm bringing St. Cyr back."
One of Lutz's eyebrows made a slow arc. "Oh? I thought he quit this place years ago."
"He did," Anderson said, doing his best to sound cryptic. He leaned forward and changed tack before Lutz could interrogate him further.
"Listen to me," he said. "Storyville has been good for everyone for a long while." He tapped his broad chest with a forefinger. "Why? Because of me. Because I've spent my career taking care of the police and the city officials and the businesspeople and everyone else. I keep the women clean and their customers safe. It's been some time since we've had any serious trouble. Now we have a problem, but it's getting fixed. As to the revenue..." He shrugged. "It's a slow year, that's all. And if there are changes needed, I'll make them."
Lutz waited to see if there was anything else, then nodded his head deeper into his hunched shoulders and said, with no conviction whatsoever, "The mayor will be glad to hear that."
The King of Storyville drew himself up. "Tell him that if he has any more concerns, I have a telephone right here." He nodded toward the ornate box and fixed hard eyes on his guest.
Lutz rose from the chair, a weird display of angles. "Thank you for your time, sir. We'll all hope for a speedy resolution of the crimes. And for the District to get back on sound footing."
He turned away, and his footsteps receded along the short corridor and then down the staircase. With a grunt of relief, Anderson reached for the brandy bottle with one hand and the telephone with the other. Once the operator came on the line, he surprised himself by repeating St. Cyr's telephone number from memory. Then he cut the connection before anyone could pick up.
EIGHT
Sunday morning brought a mist of rain that huddled the city in a thin gray blanket. The moisture muffled the air, so the tollings for early Mass had a hollow, faraway sound, like echoes of the bells on the barges and freighters far down the river. Shapes moved through the mist, singly and in pairs, up this street and down that, congregating at churches marked by crosses that seemed to float like buoys in the dull fog.
Many of the doves went to Mass; indeed, not a few clung to Jesus, Mary, and all the saints as drowning souls might clutch at broken branches. Others took comfort from the sonorous, incense-laden rites. The break of dawn was quite a bit to ask of these women, though, and most saved their prayers for the evening services. The rounders and sporting men were generally beyond any hope of salvation, and sprawled snoring and unsaved in rooms from Iberville to St. Ann. Storyville was as quiet as it got all week.
It was curious, then, to see the silhouette of a woman in a Sunday cloak and broad hat passing over to Basin Street's scarlet banquette and then turning north on Iberville. A sporting girl watching out her window might dream of one of the special angels reserved for whores making the rounds to watch over her ruined daughters.
The woman stopped when she reached Marais Street and hesitated as if lost. She looked up and down the street until she picked out the facade of Mangetta's Saloon and Grocery, still veiled in wisps of the dawn's haze.
Mangetta's. She remembered that name. It had been one of his places. Stepping onto the cobblestones, she crossed over at a gentle angle.
Frank Mangetta delighted in the noisy jass that shook the walls and rattled the windows of his saloon through the long, rowdy nights. He was as enthralled as a poor paisan at the opera by the musical swells of chatter that animated his grocery when it was filled with customers. And he adored the clattering symphony of Marais Street in the middle of a busy Saturday afternoon.
Just as well, he loved the silence around the first light of the morning, when everything stopped to allow a few hours of peace. Even if he had been up all night in the saloon, he would make his way to early Mass and then come back to spend a few hours tidying up on both sides of the archway.
It was the one time he knew he'd have the place to himself. It was his habit to make a light breakfast and brew strong coffee, to which he'd add a drop or two of grappa or anisetta. He might pore over the books, then spread a copy of the Picayune or the Sun on the bar and read through the city's sundry dramas. Or, cup in hand, he would stand at his front windows and reflect on his life. Which included Valentin St. Cyr's most recent visit.
The Sicilian's musings were traversed by the figure of a woman emerging from the mist and drifting along as if carried by a slow current. She moved down the opposite banquette from Iberville with hesitant steps, then stopped and gazed over at the facade of the saloon. After peering up and down the empty avenue, she crossed over.
Frank could tell at a glance that she was no trollop stumbling home from a night of sin. This one was dressed for church, an odd presence stepping up to his front window to put a hand up and gaze inside. She gave a start when she saw the man standing there, a coffee cup in hand, regarding her in turn with blank curiosity.
For a moment neither of them moved. Then Frank settled his cup on the nearest table and stepped to the front door, which he unlocked and held open.
The woman—fair brown, short, and of medium build, with a round, grave, and pretty face—gave him a tense smile, lifted her skirts, and stepped over the threshold. Frank closed the door behind her. She was acting as nervous as a sparrow, clearly the type who didn't spend much time in saloons.
"Can I help you?" he said.
"Excuse me, I'm..." She caught a breath. "I'm trying to locate Mr. Valentin St. Cyr."
"Valentin?"
"I heard he kept a room here."
Puzzled, Frank raised a finger toward the ceiling. "Upstairs. But not anymore. Not for a few years."
Her pretty face pinched with vexation. "Do you know where I can find him?"
"He comes around now and then," the saloonkeeper said guardedly.
"I need to reach him."
When Frank, in true Sicilian fashion, kept his mouth closed, she said, "It's very important," and then told him her name.
The telephone shrilled, dragging Valentin out of the darkness. The bed creaked as Justine got up. The ringing stopped and he was falling back when he heard her call his name.
"What is it now?"
"It's Frank," she said from the bedroom doorway. "He wants to talk to you right away."
Even dead tired, Valentin could hear the edge in her voice. It had been two days and she was still angry. It wouldn't do to ignore her, so with a soft groan, he rolled out of bed and straggled past her and into the front room. Snatching up the hand piece, he said, "What is it, Frank?"
"Tino?" the Sicilian said over the crackle of static. "Can you come to the saloon?"
"What time is it?"
"Just past seven thirty."
"What's so important? Is this about—"
"Somebody here needs to see you." Frank cut him off. His voice dropped down to a whisper. "It's Nora Bolden, Tino. Buddy's wife."
The saloonkeeper pulled two chairs to a table and got her settled. He brewed fresh coffee and made a light omelet, even though his guest protested that she had eaten at home. They sat and nibbled and sipped. Frank, who had never met the woman but remembered plenty, avoided any mention of her husband. She in turn was curious about the saloon and grocery, and he told her some stories that were fit for tender ears.
As they talked, Nora stole curious glances around the room. It was the first address where Buddy had played once he crossed over from the Rampart Street saloons. His horn had echoed off these walls not long before it had been silenced. She felt a wave of sadness come over her and turned her mind away from these thoughts.
They were
running out of things to talk about when a jitney pulled up to the banquette out front. The front door swung open and Nora rose to her feet.
"Mr. Valentin," she said, and smiled shyly.
She looked so much the same that Valentin's first glance brought with it a swirl of memories. It had only been six years, and yet she seemed a visitor from a murky past.
He stepped up to take her hand. "Nora. How are you?"
"I'm fine. Thank you." Her voice was as he remembered it, too, low and sweet. She sang in the choir at First African Baptist.
Nora took a turn studying him as he settled in the third chair. His face held lines that were gaunt, and yet he was still a handsome man in a strange way. She remembered having thoughts about him, especially during that awful time when Buddy was falling to pieces. He always seemed so solid and sturdy, and she had been mortified to find herself in little fits of jealousy whenever Buddy talked about the Creole's lovely quadroon.
At this moment, though, that same Creole looked worse for the wear, pale and unshaven, his gray eyes a bloodshot mess, and she sensed something unsteady about him. Watching his weary face, she began to feel bad about rousing him. She had counted on the cord that connected him to her husband, and he hadn't let her down. He did not, however, seem unhappy to see her.
"What brings you here?" he said.
"It's Buddy."
Valentin flinched and braced himself. "What's wrong?"
She said, "Oh, nothing's wrong. I mean, nothing new. He's the same. He'll always be the same." She stopped for a moment, her lip tightening. Then she said, "I know you haven't gone out to see him for a while."
Valentin felt his face getting warm.
"It's all right," Nora murmured. "There's nothing to see." The moment passed and she smiled again, bringing a bit of light to the shadows on her pretty face.
