by David Fulmer
Valentin couldn't tell how much of what she said was a bluff, except for the part about Justine and the dandy in the red Buick. That part he believed. It still didn't mean he could allow Evelyne Dallencort the upper hand. Placing his glass on the table, he pushed his eyes at hers, a maneuver that was forward for a man of color. She looked startled; then her expression went blank, almost dreamy. It was a trick he had used before, a bit of hypnotism that rarely failed.
It worked on Evelyne Dallencort, who now held her brandy glass aloft in one hand while the other made an absent glide to the hollow beneath her throat, as if she was on the verge of a swoon.
"You really think you can do this?" he said in a low voice, holding her gaze. "You think you can just move in and push a man like Tom Anderson out?" He didn't give her time to answer. "He spent years building that place. He's not called the King of Storyville for nothing."
"Yes, yes," she said. "But now it's time for him to step down. It's been—"
"He's not going to do anything of the kind, ma'am!" His voice got louder, and Evelyne blinked in surprise. "They'll carry him out of there in his coffin."
A second went by and she broke the gaze. "Is that so?" She drew back and tossed off the rest of her brandy, the lines of her face hardening. "Is that what it will take?"
Valentin understood. Though she had quailed for a moment, she wasn't about to be seduced into a surrender. She had already gone too far when she directed the deaths of those men in the District. She had to know there was a chance she'd spend the rest of her life locked up somewhere if she backed away now.
It was strange. They had both fallen victim to the temptations of Storyville. The District had always been a seductress, drawing old lovers back and new ones in.
He didn't have the luxury to meditate on such notions. And Evelyne was getting impatient. "You know you really don't have a choice," she said. "Because it's going to come out the same way, no matter what you do. You understand that, don't you?"
She was watching him and waiting for an answer. He slouched back, feeling a sudden wave of weariness assail him. He was tired, so goddamned, god-awful tired of people who couldn't leave things be, the sort who had to have more and more to fill up the holes in their ragged souls.
Let them have it, he was thinking. Let them battle over it. Let them raise hell right up out of the ground for it. He had paid his fare a long time ago. But it wasn't so simple, as long as Justine remained in the clutches of the dandy in the red Buick 10.
"All right, then," he said, straightening. "What do you want me to do?"
From behind him, he heard Each let out a little gasp. Evelyne looked surprised, too, as if she hadn't expected him to give in so quickly. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, and she said, "Do we understand each other? That one way or another, Tom Anderson will be out of the way tonight?"
He stared at her, then nodded.
"Because my partner is holding your young lady," Evelyne reminded him. "If I don't get what I want, he knows what to do. I'm giving you until midnight."
Valentin considered for a brief few seconds, then with a deliberate motion went into his jacket pocket, drew out the old Colt, and leveled it at her forehead. He hadn't used it in years, and though it felt odd and heavy in his hand, he held it steady.
"I'll do what you say," he told her. "But if she's harmed in any way, I'll kill you and your partner both. What's his name?" She stared. "What's his name, ma'am?"
"Louis," she said, her voice muted. "Jacob."
"You and..." He stopped. Jacob. Another piece of the puzzle fell into place.
Evelyne smirked with pleasure at his reaction. He removed her smile by pushing the barrel of the gun an inch closer to her brain. "Is that clear to you?"
She caught a breath, and now it was Valentin who was placated to see fear in her eyes. Apparently, she hadn't considered the possibility that he just might shoot her on the spot and solve the problem that way. He wouldn't, though; he couldn't. One killing had been enough. At the same time, he made sure she couldn't mistake the deadly look in his eyes.
"It's clear, yes," she said.
Valentin dropped his gaze and pocketed his revolver. Evelyne started breathing again and returned to business.
"Get to Mr. Anderson," she said. "Tell him what has to be done. Make sure he understands this is best for everyone. For him. For you. And for Justine."
The detective bristled again at the sound of the name coming off her lips.
"And if he doesn't cooperate..."
"He won't."
"Well, then I suppose he will have to be carried out in his coffin, won't he?" Now she sounded snappish, an impatient woman who was used to getting her way. "But let's hold a hope that won't be necessary. And it won't be, if you handle it correctly." Her demeanor switched to brusquely animated. "You have until midnight to get a message to me that it's been arranged. You understand what will happen if you change your mind."
Valentin didn't bother to answer. Evelyne flipped up the lid on the wooden box and plucked out a card that bore the inscription 8955.
"That's the telephone number here," she said. "I expect a call from you." She smiled again. "And I have your telephone number on Spain Street, thank you."
Wordlessly, Valentin tucked the card in his pocket.
"My driver is waiting," she said.
The Creole detective shook his head. "Every copper in New Orleans will be looking for a burgundy Winton. We can find our own way."
Evelyne's eyes slid off him for a second. He moved away, feeling her gaze follow him to the foyer, where he collected Each with a quick jerk of his head. The kid glared furiously, as if the detective had been transformed into some kind of monster. But he followed him out and closed the door behind them.
Evelyne waited until she heard their footsteps on the stairwell before calling to the man who had been hiding in the bedroom. She murmured his instructions and sent him on his way.
They didn't exchange a word during their descent of the stairs and the passage through the stone garden. Only when they hit the banquette did Each whirl around, his eyes alight. He opened his mouth as if winding up for a pitch when Valentin cut him off.
"Don't say a goddamn word." The detective was glowering. "I mean it."
Each wasn't about to keep quiet. "I'll talk if I want to!" he hissed back. "What the hell are you doing?"
Valentin cast a taunting eye his way. "You're the rounder, you tell me."
"You told that crazy bitch you'd help her push Mr. Tom out of the way," the kid said. "Or shoot him dead if he won't go." He was all but jumping out of his shoes. "After what she done? You're going to play for the other side?" He shook his head bitterly. "You can't just let it be? You gonna help her tear it down. And what about Miss Jus—"
In a blur of motion, the detective grabbed him by the collar and shoved him into a darkened doorway. He brought his face close and dropped his voice.
"You shut your mouth and listen to me, damnit. Her boy is tailing us right now, about a block back. Did you hear what she said? She's got Justine, and she'll send orders to have her killed if I don't go along." He released the kid's collar and stood back.
"So..."
"I'm not doing anything of the kind." The detective smiled coolly. "Don't worry," he said. "I'm not going to shoot Mr. Tom. Or anyone else, if I can help it."
The kid licked his dry lips. "I don't get it."
"The woman is serious, Each. She thinks she can take over Storyville. She's already arranged six murders. She's not going to give up on it now."
"She can't do that."
"Can't do what?"
"Take over Storyville. Run it."
Valentin said, "Why not?"
"Because ... because she's a woman."
The detective snickered. "You should read a little history. She got this far. She's knocked the District to its knees. Now she wants to push it over the edge. And she wants me to help her." He paused and wagged an index finger. "But this is as far as it goes. S
he'll never take Anderson's place. But not because she's a woman. She just doesn't have his talents. And I wouldn't help her, even if she did."
Each nodded, mollified. "What are you going to do about Justine?"
Valentin said, "Mrs. Dallencort won't dare harm her. As long as she thinks I'm doing her bidding, I mean. But if she finds out I crossed her—"
"Or midnight comes around."
"That's right," Valentin said. "Or midnight comes around. So we need to move."
They started walking again. Each hunched his shoulders and rolled his head, first one way, then the other.
"Don't 'round like that," the detective said. "You look guilty."
"I am guilty," the kid blurted. He looked so miserable that Valentin wished he could just send him away somewhere. That wasn't possible; he needed the help. At the same time, he couldn't risk having the kid fall apart on him.
He stopped walking. "Are you all right?" he said.
Each took a moment, then nodded and straightened his spine. "Yes, sir, I'm good."
"You keep your eyes open. Watch your step. Understand?"
"Ain't no coppers going to grab me."
"It's not the coppers I'm worried about," Valentin told him. "She might decide to send someone to kill the both of us."
Each said, "Oh."
They cut through the alleys east and north to Canal Street. In their common clothes, they didn't get any second glances as they approached the intersection at the entrance of Burgundy. Automobile and hack traffic made the streets noisy as the headlamps cut designs in the darkness.
The detective drew Each back from the banquette. "Listen to me," he said. "Picot won't miss a thing tonight. He'll have someone on every damn corner. And cops all over Storyville looking for us. I guarantee they've probably already sweated Mangetta and some of the madams. So just keep low."
Each nodded, all tense. "What do you want me to do?"
"Go to the Café and find Mr. Tom. Tell him about Mrs. Dallencort. That's all."
"What if he ain't there?"
"Then don't hang around waiting. Get out of there." The detective gave him a sharp look. "Whatever you do, don't go down the line. Go to Mangetta's. He'll take care of you. Just make sure you're not spotted."
Each came up with an impatient shrug.
Valentin's expression was severe. "This is no joke. It's the only place that's safe, so don't get caught in between. When you get there, tell Frank what's going on. Tell him I said to find Whaley and get to Spain Street. They'll know what to do."
"Okay."
"Don't trust anyone except those two with that part," Valentin said. "No one. Understand?"
Each stared for a startled second, realizing that no one meant Tom Anderson, too. So the detective was having doubts, maybe thinking that the King of Storyville had been playing a secret hand, as he had done so many times before.
"Anything else?" Each said.
Valentin mulled for a few seconds. The kid could see by the tension on his face that he was plenty worried.
The detective said, "If it happens that you do get picked up-"
"I won't."
"Just in case. Don't be a hero."
"What's that mean?" Each stared at him. "Give you up?"
"Me getting arrested won't be the end of the world. As long as I get to Justine before it happens."
The kid crossed his arms in a rude gesture, incensed. "What the hell makes you think I'd give you up?"
"You've never been in jail, have you?"
"I wouldn't, goddamnit!"
"All right, calm down." The detective smiled wanly. "Sometimes I forget you're not a boy anymore."
Each nodded. "What about Spain Street?" he said. "I mean, if that fellow's got Miss Justine ... what are you going to do?"
"I'm not sure. The coppers will probably be sitting on the house. I still need to get over there."
"So maybe you better watch your step, too."
"I will."
The detective smiled and patted the kid's shoulder. It was such an uncharacteristic gesture that Each stopped his nervous fidgeting. Drawing himself up, he gave a serious wink, then stepped onto Canal Street, crossed over, and disappeared into the Quarter.
Standing on the dark corner, Valentin stopped to think about what a fool he'd been to let himself and Justine and Each get drawn into this. Instead of staying put and minding his own business, he came back to Storyville. Once he did, though, it was only because of King Bolden that he had any idea of what had transpired.
That didn't help Justine, who was now trapped in their rooms and at the mercy of a man with a gun in his hand. The thought sent him hurrying over to the other side, heading east toward Spain Street.
NINETEEN
It had been a long and troubling day, and yet Tom Anderson couldn't bring himself to go home and rest. Not with the tension that had cleared the streets outside and left the Café almost empty. Only a dozen or so men remained, most of them gamblers playing each other, since no suckers had appeared with bankrolls to be plucked. That also meant no audience to entertain, so the band members were hanging at the end of the bar, sipping Raleigh Rye and talking quietly among themselves, mostly about where they might find new work.
The lone bright moment during the evening came when the three madams set the place abuzz. The word had preceded the ladies' promenade down the line, and the noisy wake of curious followers had filled the place for the first time in weeks. There were whispers aplenty flying around about the meeting of the heads of state, some carrying the opinion that it could be their last.
After the madams departed, Anderson circled the floor, accepting greetings, slapping backs, listening with half an ear to the banter, meanwhile keeping one eye on the tables. The band had taken the stage and the Café glowed with electric light and echoed with jass music. For that short while, it was as if the clock had been turned back to a time when Storyville was alive, before St. Cyr went away, before business began sliding down, before some maniac started murdering people.
The excitement didn't last, because when the madams made their exit, most of the customers did, too. No one was inclined to linger, not with bodies dropping on every corner—or so the overheated gossip had it. Soon, the King of Storyville mused gloomily, the decent whores would start wandering away to greener pastures, the mansions would end up in the hands of slatterns, and the general decay would turn his empire to dust.
They had all looked to St. Cyr to put a stop to it, but instead the Creole detective had ended up a fugitive with a price on his head, courtesy of that son of a bitch Picot. Another body could turn up on his doorstep that very night, and there would be nothing he could do about that, either.
In any case, with the circus gone, the big room had emptied out gradually, until by ten o'clock, it was eerily quiet. None of the few remaining customers could read Anderson's thoughts as he made his rounds. Though it made him feel low to see the place like that, his facade didn't flag a bit. As he headed for the door, he almost missed Ned calling him to the telephone.
He stopped and sighed tiredly. "Now who?"
"It's the chief of police, Mr. Tom."
Justine invited Louis to sit on the couch, and she arranged herself on the morris chair. He shifted about as if he couldn't find a comfortable spot, then stopped to ask abruptly if she had anything to drink. It was an oddly tense request, a departure from his usual suave poise. Which made her nervous and want him there even less.
Reluctantly, she said, "We have some whiskey."
"Whiskey?" He gave a quick nod. "Yes. That will be fine."
She stepped into the kitchen and took the bottle down from the cupboard. Her eyes caught the glint off the blade of one of her good paring knives. She considered, then decided to leave it. When she returned to the front room with the short glass of rye in hand, she found he had opened the door to the balcony and now stood looking out over Spain Street.
She stepped up to hand him the glass. "Stay and finish that. Then I'd like yo
u to go."
His eyebrows flinched, and he looked disappointed and a little angry. After a hefty sip, he smiled coldly. "Why?" he said. "Are you afraid he'll come home and find me here?"
Turning away, she said, "It's getting late. Drink your whiskey and leave."
She caught the rustle of movement and glanced over her shoulder to see the pistol hanging loose in his hand, but pointed her way all the same.
It didn't surprise her. He was a strange man, handsome as a picture, and yet she had sensed that he was little more than an actor playing roles, one after another. Now she wondered if his next one would include trying to take by force what he couldn't get with charm. It had happened to her, as it had to most women of meager means. Men had their way; but she had fought off better ones than he. She wished she'd picked up one of the knives.
She kept her eyes averted, lest he see what she was thinking. "What do you want?"
"I just need to stay. That's all."
"For how long?"
"Not long. A little while."
"You couldn't just ask? You had to draw a pistol?"
"You would have said no."
She nodded gravely. "That's true."
He didn't seem to know what to do next. Justine watched him as he thought for a moment, then stood up, leaned to the window, and peered along Spain Street.
"Are you expecting someone?" She hoped to keep him talking.
"Someone?" He produced the sly smile of a child with a secret. "Yes, I am."
"Who?"
He shrugged blithely. "You'll see soon enough."
Justine watched his face as he spoke the words and had to make an effort to control a tingle of fear.
"Please sit down," he said, keeping the pistol fixed directly on her heart.
One of the officers rapped on Captain Picot's door to tell him the chief of police was on the line. The captain snatched up the receiver.
