by David Fulmer
"What about Mr. Valentin?"
Anderson's grin fell; so there would be no idle chatter this evening. "He's in hiding. I don't know where, and I don't want to. The police have a warrant on him. He killed the wrong man."
"So they say. I don't buy it." Miss Antonia shook her head grimly. "None of this has been an accident, Tom. Someone's out to topple us. And this is part of it."
Though irked by the snippy tone, the King of Storyville understood that this was no time to indulge petty emotions or for forced jollity, for that matter. He knew as well as she what kind of trouble they were facing. It had been in the back of his mind that the killings of the past weeks might be more than just the work of a madman. Now the madam was giving voice to his suspicions.
He needed St. Cyr to muddle through it, but the Creole detective was out of service. It was all too wearying. At the same time, there could be neither a plea for sympathy nor false bluster before the six gimlet eyes.
"I don't exactly know what to do," he admitted.
"And you lost your right hand," Miss Lulu said.
He drew back a little, pursing his lips. "Valentin made a choice when he walked away, and he made another one when he came back. He got himself in this fix, and now he's no good to any of us. If he doesn't get out of the city, he'll be lucky to stay alive."
Lulu White kept her gaze fastened on her host. "You can't help him? Is that what you're saying?" The challenge in her voice and gaze were sharp, and Miss Antonia and Countess Piazza both dropped their eyes.
Tom Anderson returned the stare, though now his expression was merely thoughtful. He never got over what a remarkable woman she was. Though at times he swore she was crazy enough for the bughouse, she also displayed genius when it came to making money and was an expert player at games of power. Her failings were modest, and it had regularly occurred to him that if she'd been born a man, she might well be sitting in his place and probably doing a better job. Surely, she would have never let things get so far out of hand, with murder on the streets and his best man out of commission. Now she was laying down a gauntlet, pushing him to fix what had been broken on his watch.
"What do you want me to do?" he inquired in a subdued voice.
"You can't let the police get their hands on him," Lulu White said. "They'll lock him away in Parish Prison or kill him."
Anderson smiled dimly. "He can take care of himself, you know."
"They have Justine, too."
The three women and Anderson turned in Each's direction. They had forgotten he was there.
"Since when?" the King of Storyville inquired.
"Since this morning," he said. "She's been at the precinct at Parish Prison." He fidgeted for a second. "And they're looking to bring me in."
Anderson frowned blankly at him, then turned back to the table.
Lulu White said, "You understand that we can't make a fight without Valentin."
Anderson gave a petulant shrug of his shoulders. Lulu White sat forward intently and clasped her hands before her. The other two women at the table all but disappeared.
"Listen to me, Tom," she said. "You can't let this go or pretend it's just going to pass by, or we'll be finished."
Anderson's eyes flicked icily. Who spoke to him this way, like he was some schoolboy who had forgotten his lessons?
Shrewdly, the madam switched her tone to one brimming with sincerity. "You made Storyville," she said. "No one else could have done it." She launched a sweeping gesture to include the other madams at the table and then the entire District beyond the walls. "We could never have had our success without you." She dropped her arm. "But I swear, someone's out to get you. To get all of us."
Though flattered, the King of Storyville knew exactly what she was doing. Without fawning, she had left his pride intact. He stopped to consider with the brooding visage of a monarch. Momentarily, he shifted in the chair, his back straightening.
"You can tell the others. No one's going to destroy what we have here." His voice was firmer now.
Miss Lulu said, "We can't leave Valentin out there. We need him."
Anderson nodded slowly, pushed away from the table, then rose to his feet and called to the waiter who was standing near the archway. "Bring the ladies another bottle of champagne." He regarded the madams one by one. "Thank you for the courtesy of this visit. Please enjoy your stay."
The waiter pulled back the curtain so he could make a regal exit. He crooked a finger, and Each found himself following the King of Storyville through a door and along the narrow back corridor that served as his passageway when he wanted to slip out of the building unseen.
They stopped near the door that opened into the alley. Anderson eyed the younger man and said, "What is it?"
"Someone else is trying to find him. And wants my help."
Anderson hiked an eyebrow. "Who?"
"I don't know." He went into a pocket and drew out the envelope of rich, creamy white. "I was on my way here when this fellow pulled up in an automobile and handed me this. To give to Mr. Valentin."
"What fellow?"
"Ain't never seen him before. Colored boy in a fine big Winton."
The King of Storyville fixed his gaze on the envelope, dying for a peek inside. He all but licked his lips. "Do you know where he is?" he said.
"I got a few guesses," Each said carefully. "The driver says he'll carry me to go to find him." He shifted nervously. "I don't know what to do about it."
"Go," Anderson said briskly. "Miss Lulu's right. If the coppers get to him first, he's finished."
Each swallowed, as if the import of being in the middle of this was just dawning on him.
"But you keep your eyes open," Anderson counseled him. "Use your wits. If anything feels wrong about it, get the hell away."
Each nodded and swallowed. As he turned to leave, the older man buttonholed him. "You tell him I'm on his side in this. Understand?"
Each said, "Yes, sir, I understand," and pushed through the door and into the alley.
EIGHTEEN
Another storm, the second in four days, had moved in from the Gulf and brought an evening of cool, drizzling rain. Windows glistened warmly, though with a forlorn light, as they peered down on near-empty banquettes.
With no word of St. Cyr's whereabouts, Captain Picot went back to paperwork as a way to take his mind off the quadroon sitting just outside his door. He could feel her presence, as if no wall of plaster and lath stood between them. Every now and then, he glanced up to see the matron escorting her to the ladies' toilet down the hall. She never looked his way, and he was sure that she thought of him as nothing but a dull and faceless weight bearing down on her.
He busied himself with some crime numbers the chief wanted. Boring work, but better than fretting the night away. He was penciling figures with a slow hand when Detective Weeks startled him by rushing in all out of breath.
"Someone spotted the son of a bitch!"
The captain almost leaped out of his chair and waved a hand. "Close the door! Spotted him where?"
Weeks pushed the door closed behind him. His eyes smiled as his lip curled. "Brown Bottom."
After a startled second, Picot cackled with glee and then clapped his hands. "I knew he couldn't leave. Brown Bottom? What the hell?"
The detective explained that over the last hours a whisper had gone from the mouth of a drunken old half-blind harridan to the gutter and then along the muddy street, eventually winding its way to a pair of officers on patrol a few blocks away on Frenchmen Street. The word was out that the coppers wanted St. Cyr, and that someone who looked like the Creole detective was holed up in—
"Looked like?"
"Who else could it be?"
The captain scratched at his chin eagerly. "Did you send a car?"
"They're on the way. Two of them. I sent those coppers on the beat, too."
"Good. That's good. You get down there and supervise."
Weeks, flush with success, took the opportunity to shift his e
yes and lower his voice. "How do you want us to handle it?"
The captain understood. If St. Cyr was cornered in a place like Brown Bottom, "shot while trying to escape" could be one outcome. It had been a quick solution to problems in the past.
Picot considered, then with a twinge of regret shook his head. It was too dicey.
"If it is him, he goes back in a cell," he said. "I'll have them shackle him to the wall if I have to."
"And what if it ain't him?"
"Then keep it quiet. Understand?"
Weeks said, "I understand, yes, sir," and made a quick exit.
Justine was gazing morosely at the floor when she heard a small flurry of activity. Detective Weeks hurried into the hall. A moment later she felt a stare prickling on the back of her neck and looked up to see Captain Picot standing in the doorway of his office, gazing in her direction. He had his arms crossed in an insolent posture, and his thick lips were twisted in a faint smirk of a man who knew something.
She felt a stutter of fear in her gut. The cop had as much as told her that they had Valentin in their clutches.
He turned away and jerked a thumb. "We're done with her," he said in a tone that stopped just shy of a sneer. "Let her go."
The way he tossed off the order started her worrying again.
As determined as he was to buck up, Each found himself unnerved when he saw the Winton touring car idling one block back from the Café at the Franklin Street curb, its burgundy paint glistening and shimmering with beads of rain.
It had appeared on the street as the evening fell, coming out of the mist like some ghost ship, with the top up and side flaps down. The Negro in a tan duster pushed the flap open and called out his name.
Mr. St. Cyr had told him to always trust his gut, but this was deadly serious business and he was worried about making a mistake. He told the driver to wait down the street and ducked into Anderson's Café. He was leaning at the bar, fidgeting over a glass of whiskey, when the door opened and the three madams swept in. Within a moment he found himself caught up in the entourage and then standing by when Miss Lulu and the King of Storyville went eyeball to eyeball. He decided that he didn't mind waiting out their chess match to talk to Mr. Anderson. The King of Storyville had some steel in his voice when he told him what to do.
Now he came out the side entrance onto the banquette and looked up Iberville to where the Winton was waiting. With no time to hesitate, he strode to the automobile, put a foot on the running board, and climbed into the backseat. The driver kept his eyes straight ahead, waiting, and Each told him which way to go. The Negro gave a quick nod and made a U-turn, pointing them south.
Each had been such a regular part of Valentin's landscape for the better part of eight years that he had sometimes gone invisible. And yet he kept his eyes and ears open and learned plenty. Like the Creole detective's most secret hiding spots.
It took a half hour's scurrying along the river for him to locate the rooming house. He roused the blind woman and dropped a dime into her palm. She grunted directions, and he came tapping on the last door on the right.
"It's Each," he whispered.
Something moved inside. Valentin cracked the door.
"I got a car," the kid said. "Let's get the hell out of here."
The Winton emerged from the dirt alley and onto Alabo Street just as a police wagon was approaching down North Peters. The cop behind the wheel and the one in the passenger seat turned their heads in unison at the sight of the fine touring car, so out of place in that part of the city. It was too late for them to do anything. They had just bumped into the first of the alley's muddy potholes as the Winton raced off in the opposite direction.
The Negro driver hadn't looked around when Each and Valentin hopped into the backseat, and he now kept his eyes fixed on the street ahead. Once they turned onto St. Bernard, the tire and engine noise picked up, and the two men in back could talk without being overheard. Each explained how the driver had shown up on Marais Street on an errand from an unnamed employer.
"He gave me this to give to you," he whispered, and handed over the envelope. Valentin tore open the flap and drew out a single sheet of heavy notepaper with a message drawn in a florid hand.
Dear Mr. St. Cyr,
I wish to speak to you on a matter of immediate importance. I hope you'll honor the invitation. If, however, you choose otherwise, the driver has instructions to take you wherever you desire to go.
My sincere best wishes, E. Dallencort
"'E. Dallencort'?" Valentin studied the polite words, feeling the tug of strings being pulled from behind a veil. The author of the note knew somehow of his predicament and was offering him a hand out of his trouble. He understood that it could easily be part of an elaborate trap.
He leaned forward to lay a hand on the driver's shoulder. "Pull over, please."
The Negro swung the wheel without a second's hesitation, cutting onto Laharpe Street and steering to the curb. It was a good sign. One moment of hedging on the driver's part and the two passengers would have evaporated into the night.
The detective said, "Wait here, if you don't mind," and stepped down to the banquette, jerking his head for Each to follow. They ducked into the entranceway of a linen store that was closed for the night.
Each watched the detective's eyes nervously. "What's wrong?"
"Just go through what happened once more," Valentin said. Each explained it again, taking his time. The driver had pulled up as he was crossing Marais Street. The Negro said his employer wanted to get a message to the Creole detective St. Cyr, and he was to help him flee the police, if need be.
Each had been clever enough not to gulp at the bait and instead told the driver to wait while he made his way to the Café to speak to Tom Anderson. So he was a witness to the tense encounter between Miss Lulu White and the King of Storyville, which he now related to Valentin as well. He said that Anderson had counseled him to take the chance and the help to find the detective.
"That's all," he finished. "The fellow was waiting down the street when I came back outside."
Valentin glanced away from Each's face, feeling a flush of shame at entertaining a notion that it might be a setup. But Each was as loyal as a mutt, and had neither the cold heart nor the dark cunning to commit such treachery. That didn't mean he wasn't being used.
Valentin read the note again, searching for something that might be tucked between the fancy lines. Who knew what lurked in the florid language? There was no time to ponder it. Each was already stealing tense glances at the street. It was time to move.
The Creole detective said, "Let's go see, then." He stuffed the envelope into his pocket, and they trotted through the drizzle to the waiting automobile.
Justine had decided to walk to Spain Street. Though it would take her a good half hour, she needed the time to think through the chaos that Valentin had brought down on her head.
They had been building a decent life until he had gone and wrecked it with his foolishness. Now he was on his own again, running from the coppers, a common criminal. How had the young cop with the kind eyes put it? He's a fugitive, ma'am. Which meant that if they caught him on the wrong corner, he might well end up dead. And for what? To pay a debt he thought he owed. Like the one he thought he was repaying when he went up the river to see crazy King Bolden. She could not for the life of her see the sense in any of it. Taken together, his actions added up to a hard slap that put her in her place.
She let her emotions have their way for a few minutes before forcing her thoughts on to practical matters. The rent on their rooms wouldn't pay itself. The money she earned posing naked once a week for eight college boys would not go far. So far, her only other skill had been providing company to men who were either wealthy or simply flush with winnings for a day or week or month. Valentin St. Cyr came along and changed her path. It would be a bitter pill if his troubles ended up driving her back to that life.
The thought gave her pause and brought Louis Jacob to m
ind. After so many years and so many men, she knew something of the male of the species. Louis's suave gambit was just another page from the catalog. For all his charm, he was just a little boy trying to play a man's game. Valentin would eat his dandy self alive.
She was still musing on Mr. Jacob and his pretenses as she turned the corner onto Spain Street and saw the Buick 10 parked at the curb, the paint shining ruby red in the glow of the streetlamp. She wondered for a moment if she had conjured him. Her next thought was that he didn't belong there at all.
Picot knew as soon as he looked out his office door and saw Detective Weeks shuffle in from the hallway that either St. Cyr hadn't been in Brown Bottom or that he'd been there and they had missed him again. He stared harder, his mouth setting.
Weeks had the drooping face of a dog expecting a beating as he edged up to the doorway. "Captain...," he began.
"What happened?" Picot's voice was so brittle it almost cracked.
"He must have got tipped off," Weeks said.
"Do you really think so?" Picot mocked him. "I asked you what happened."
Weeks related the story of the burgundy Winton appearing out of the rain, and on Alabo Street, of all places.
Picot frowned, puzzled. "And St. Cyr was in it?"
"They couldn't see. The flaps were down. It was raining pretty good. He could have gotten out some other way, I suppose."
"No, that was it," the captain grunted. "It's just too damned perfect. He had someone helping him out. Probably Tom Anderson or one of the madams. Hell, all of them. And that fucking Beansoup."
"Each," Weeks said. "He goes by Each now."
"I don't care if he goes by Teddy goddamn Roosevelt," Picot snarled. "I guarantee he was in the middle of it. I thought I gave an order to pick him up."
