by David Fulmer
"Yes, Chief?"
"I understand you have a damned army out hunting St. Cyr."
"Yes, sir, I do," Picot said crisply. "I'm sure he's still in the city, and he'll show up in Storyville, sooner or later. He's too smart to go back to Spain—"
"And then what?" Reynolds cut in.
"Then what?" Picot didn't understand. "Then we arrest him and throw him in jail for the—"
"I don't want him arrested and thrown in jail, Captain."
For a few crazy seconds, Picot wondered if the chief had just given him an order to do away with the Creole detective. In the next moment, he was stunned to discover that what Reynolds wanted was exactly the opposite.
"Pull your men off," the chief of police said in a clipped tone. "I want him out on the street."
Picot swallowed, tasted a bitter pill. "But there's a murder warrant out on him."
"Consider it lifted," Reynolds snapped back. "That goes for that kid who runs with him. What's his name?"
"Each," Picot said faintly.
"Him, too. Leave him be. So maybe we can get all this business settled tonight." Then, in an almost regretful tone, the chief said, "Jesus, how did it come to this?"
Picot had some ideas, but the chief would have no interest in his opinions, so he kept his mouth shut. He was too busy trying to think of a way to shore up a tumbling house of cards.
The pronounced silence caused Reynolds to say, "Do we understand each other, Captain?"
"Yes, sir." Picot's voice was hollow.
"Then see to it." The line went dead.
Captain Picot stared out the window for a grueling half minute before calling Detective Weeks into his office to inform him that the arrest warrant on Valentin St. Cyr had been vacated and that the Creole detective and his young friend Each were no longer identified as fugitives from justice. He waved his astonished subordinate out of the room, asking that he close the door behind him.
Thomas had only a vague sense of the machinery that had been grinding on around him, but it was dawning on him that it was bad news. Like his mama had always said, it was white folks' business and none of ours.
He could see in her eyes that she knew this time Miz Evelyne was up to no good, and it wasn't just some fancy man she brought indoors when she thought everyone except her poor, sick old husband was out. This was something else, something that caused Malvina to whisper a fierce reminder that he was by no means to get in the middle of anything that came out of that crazy woman's head.
But that's exactly what happened when his employer sent him first to Storyville to find a young rounder who went by the moniker Each and carry him to wherever he wanted to go. Which happened to be Brown Bottom, just about the worst damn corner of the city of New Orleans. He parked the Winton in front of a run-down shithole of a shack, one hand on the gearshift lever and the other on the accelerator handle, ready to fly away from that filthy warren at a second's notice. Doing the lady's bidding was one thing; getting murdered in some foul alley was another entirely.
Before anything happened, though, Each emerged with a stalking companion who kept his head down and his mouth closed. Thomas knew without asking that he was doing exactly what his mama told him not to do, and was now tangled up in some kind of awful, bloody business that was none of his.
Still, like too many young men he was attracted to trouble, and did what Miss Evelyne said. After the Creole and his partner reappeared from the Banks' Arcade building, he followed them on foot to Canal Street. That was as far as he went with it. His gut told him that things were about to get way out of hand, that maybe people were going to die this night, and that if he took another step, he'd be in too deep to get himself unstuck. He'd either be part of a crime of some sort or the victim of one.
So instead of obeying the rest of what the white woman ordered, he watched as Each crossed Canal into the Quarter and the other one lingered briefly before heading off along Decatur Street, then he turned around and started walking west away from downtown at a fast clip. He did not look back.
After the Creole detective and his partner left, and she'd sent the other one on his little errand, Evelyne spent some moments with bitterness twisting her stomach and tasting bile in her throat.
For a brief moment, she thought she truly had St. Cyr convinced, that he saw the sense of her arguments and agree that it would be best for everyone to go along. There would be no more bodies on the Storyville streets. The District's downward spiral would halt, and a new scarlet world would rise, as grand as the streets of light on the Continent or the willow quarters in Japan.
Then she caught a look in his eye and knew she'd been mistaken about him. He was good, as clever a man as she'd ever met, but she struck his Achilles' heel when she mentioned Justine, and just like that, she lost him. No matter what came out of his mouth from that moment on, she knew he'd be false. He had no intention of helping her push Tom Anderson aside—kill him, if need be—and assume control of those twenty square blocks.
Standing at the window and looking down on Magazine Street, she allowed her nerves to calm. She was not so foolish to have not prepared for such a betrayal. St. Cyr had been given his one chance and missed it. Too bad for him; she had others to carry out her plans. That they were not so clever meant they didn't have the wits to commit treachery.
Of course, St. Cyr would rush to Spain Street to save his woman instead of going to Tom Anderson to petition him on her behalf. He might send his young friend, but the police would be looking for that fellow, too, so there was a good chance he'd never manage to warn Anderson of what was coming. It wouldn't matter if he did. The King of Storyville's fate was sealed, as was that of Mr. St. Cyr, his quadroon Justine, and even Louis Jacob.
The Creole detective was the only one she'd miss.
But she had offered an olive branch, and he had spit on it. Now it would take more killings to settle the problem. This would be for the best, and she was sure everyone would understand that soon enough.
Justine and Louis sat in silence for long minutes as the clock on the wall ticked on toward twelve. She kept her eyes fastened on the carpet beneath her feet. She had no idea how close to an edge he might be and didn't want to take a chance on pushing him over it.
She spent some of the silent seconds cursing the Creole detective for what seemed the hundredth time. It was during one of these exercises that she decided to speak up.
"What about Valentin?" she asked.
"What about him?" Louis smiled indulgently, irking her.
"Do you know something or not?"
His eyes were lazy. "I know that Mr. St. Cyr has made an arrangement with my associate."
"Oh? Who would that be?"
"You'll find out soon enough."
"What kind of ... arrangement?"
Louis was as pleased as a child with a secret to divulge. "He's been offered a chance to go back to work in Storyville, but not under Mr. Tom Anderson. He's finished over there. The red-light district will be under new management from now on." He sat forward intently, now like a drummer selling soap. "Anderson will be replaced, and it will be like it was before. When it was doing well." He cocked an eyebrow. "You remember. When you were working there."
She didn't understand and treated him to a dubious gaze.
"You can believe it," he said.
"You're telling me that Valentin is going to help your..."
"Associate."
"Help this person replace Tom Anderson?"
"That's correct."
"He wouldn't."
"Oh, he will. He has to. If he wants to keep you alive. You're his marker."
Justine drew back, frowned. "What's that mean?"
Louis was deliberate. "It means that he's trading Mr. Tom Anderson for you."
After a moment Justine smiled slightly. "Is that what he said? I mean, you heard him say those words?"
Louis recoiled slightly. "He said them. That's all you need to know." He tilted his head toward the telephone on its stand. "I
'll be getting a call here before midnight, telling me whether or not it's all settled."
"And what if it's not?"
"If it's not..." Louis leaned back and turned his face away from her. "That would be too bad for you."
Each came around Union Station and stood alongside the terminal, peering across the tracks and Basin Street at the facade of Anderson's Café. Though it was a quiet night, he saw beat cops on the banquette, three on the two opposite corners, plus another fellow who stood in front of Hilma Burt's in a suit that fit so badly that he could only be one of Picot's detectives.
As he watched and waited for a chance to steal across the street, a third patrolman approached at a fast clip from the direction of Iberville Street.
With such a crowd of blue about, there was no way he could make a dash for the Café door or even manage to slip around the Bienville side to the rear entrance. He was considering how to best circle the District to get inside when he was startled by a loud whistle. Abruptly, the three uniformed cops directly across from him turned and hurried to join the detective and the officer who had just arrived from Miss Burt's.
For a panicked second, Each thought someone had alerted them and that they were about to turn as one to surround and grab him. He was taking a first step backward and out of sight when they did move, though not in his direction. Instead, the four marched directly up Basin Street past the Café and to Canal, where they rounded the corner, heading north.
Each poked his head out to see other shapes moving as the cops who had been posted down the line began strolling off. He waited another minute and then ambled unmolested across the street and through the front doors of the Café.
It was quiet, with no more than a handful of sports lolling about. One sharp sat alone at a table, playing solitaire, and he could hear the gentle slap of the cards.
He asked for Mr. Anderson and was told that the proprietor was in his upstairs office, but was expecting company directly. Each said he would wait, wandered away from the bar, and crossed the floor as if looking for someone he might recognize. There was a quiet game of faro going on at one of the tables, and he headed over to watch the action. By this time the bartenders had forgotten him, and he turned abruptly to make a dash to the kitchen doors before anyone noticed.
With no one dining, the kitchen was even more deserted. Each saw at a glance that the back doors were open and the cooks were standing on the dock, smoking and talking as they gazed up at the night sky. He cut through to the downstairs corridor and then up the stairwell to the second floor.
As soon as he reached the landing, he heard an angry snarl. Mr. Anderson was arguing with someone, and when Each didn't hear a second voice, he realized the King of Storyville was on the telephone. He didn't want to just stand there, so he made some noise along the hall before stepping to the doorway and reaching out to rap his knuckles on the jamb.
Anderson turned, glaring, then saw who it was and waved him inside. He turned back to cut off the party on the other end of the line.
"You tell His Honor the mayor that the game has changed," he snapped into the mouthpiece. "We're going to put things back the way they were, and that means St. Cyr, too. You tell him that if he wants to discuss it any further, I'll be right here. I'm not going anywhere."
He banged the handset into the cradle. He shot a look at his visitor. "Where's Valentin?"
Each hesitated, and Anderson's eyes narrowed. His mustache curved in a smile. "He tell you to keep it under your hat?" He waved a hand. "That's all right, son. As long as he's still alive."
"He is, yes, sir. But there's bound to be someone after him." He swallowed. "He said to say that they're probably coming for you, too."
Anderson, grinning more broadly, said, "Is that right?"
In the next moment, they heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs.
It was slow going. The straightest route would have taken Valentin too close to the river and Brown Bottom and any coppers trolling for him down there. The police also knew he'd have to traverse the Quarter on his way to Storyville and through Jackson Square on his way to Spain Street. They'd be watching every street and corner.
But as he moved across town, he found the downtown streets quiet and didn't see a single patrolman. The pronounced silence was eerie, and he imagined coppers lurking in the shadows, watching him pass by so they could draw a net closed behind him. He was so sure of it that at one point he turned around in a sudden move—exactly what he had scolded Each for.
The bells of St. Louis Cathedral chimed 11:45 just as he crossed Esplanade. With no time to waste, he cut a bolder path directly down the Chartres Street banquette. Once he passed Mandeville and reached the intersection at Spain, he slowed, then stopped.
He had enough of a sense of the street to feel someone lurking, even when he couldn't see anyone. He detected no one lying in wait this night. If any cops had been there, they were gone now.
He could now spy his balcony from the corner and see the room light glowing through the French doors. Was that a shadow passing against the window? He couldn't be sure.
He had gone another twenty paces along the banquette when he saw the Buick 10 parked at the other end of the block, looking out of place with the red paint in full shimmer under the bleak streetlight. The automobile appeared to be unoccupied, and he knew in that instant that the driver was inside with Justine, perhaps ready to shoot her dead on orders from Evelyne Dallencort.
The church bells all over the lower half of the city had finished chiming their faint three-quarters. Within minutes his telephone would ring.
Drawing closer, he figured that the downstairs door would be locked, but he could crack that. He could also climb the balcony supports and get in that way. After that he'd be operating without a plan, except to move Justine out of danger. He pushed away any thought of what would happen if he made a mistake.
It didn't matter, because when he was thirty paces from his front door, he heard a rush of sudden noise: a doorframe slapping back, the breaking of glass, a harsh shout. His heart came into his throat and he started to run.
The fellow who appeared from the hall was a stranger, a wiry, dirty-eyed character, dressed in an old dark suit with a fedora pulled down low. When he reached the doorway, he drew up short, surprised to find not one man in the office but two. In his moment of hesitation, Anderson realized what was happening and started to grin, wide and devilish.
"Can I help you?" he said, and reached down to pull open the desk drawer that held his Aubrey Hammerless. Though he hadn't handled the pistol in years, it seemed now to jump into his hand.
Each meanwhile felt his feet move on their own volition as his hand swung to his back pocket for the whalebone sap he had stuffed there.
"What the hell do you want?" he demanded.
In the next second, the stranger drew his own right hand out of his pocket. It was empty. The King of Storyville raised the revolver, and Each walked him down.
"I said what the hell do you want here?"
"I have a ... a message," the visitor said, blinking and stuttering. "It's for Mr. Anderson."
"Oh? What is it?" Anderson said. He was enjoying this.
The stranger's eyes shifted between the two as he gauged his chances. A dead second went by, and he muttered something that sounded like a curse, then took a quick back step to the doorway and bolted away. The nails on the soles of his boots clattered along the hall and down the stairs.
Each started to follow, but Anderson said, "No, let the bastard go." The kid stopped. "Don't worry, we won't see him again." He hefted the pistol for a second before dropping it back into the drawer.
"Well, god damn." He let out a little laugh. "That felt good." He winked at Each. "You did fine, too." The kid chuckled in giddy relief.
The telephone rang as the King of Storyville was reaching for his bottle to pour them both a drink. He pulled the receiver to his ear, and Each saw the older man's smile fade as he listened. Anderson dropped the hand piece in t
he cradle.
"What's wrong?" Each said.
"Something happened on Spain Street," the King of Storyville said.
Justine was on edge, but she only grew truly frightened when the bells tolled the three-quarters and Louis lurched to his feet and started to pace. He wouldn't look at her as he went to fussing with the pistol. After five minutes of this fretting, he picked up the telephone and made two calls, muttering so she couldn't hear, but keeping the weapon fixed on her all the while.
Momentarily, his cheeks paled and his eyes went hard. She knew that look; he was bracing himself for something, and she had a good idea what it was.
Without turning her head, she gauged the distance to the door. There was no way she could get to it, throw the lock, and make an escape in time. The bedroom would be just as impossible, since she'd have to open the window, climb out, and then face a twelve-foot drop. All this went through her mind in the space of a few seconds. Time was running out. She couldn't just stand there and be a victim.
Louis moved away from the telephone and crossed to the French door again. Facing her, he took a step back onto the balcony, leaning a slight bit so he could search the street in both directions. He shook his head, his pretty mouth tightening into a grim line. She saw his chest heave in tension over what he was about to do.
In the next second, she was on him, throwing her body against his in a wild rush. His head came around and his eyes went wide, as she grappled with him, wrapping her arms about his in an embrace stronger than love.
Her sudden weight carried him back against the railing and for a second he was off balance, and she felt a spike of dizzying terror that they were going to pitch over together. Then he righted himself, but as he did the pistol tumbled from his hand and over the railing.
He let out a harsh grunt, and his handsome face contorted into an ugly mask as he struggled to get loose. He wriggled his arms in frantic spasms, and one of his elbows shattered a pane of door glass. The shards tumbled to the banquette.
