Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  “You’re right. I am still running, and perhaps I should continue,” Wage said.

  There was a long, uncomfortable pause. “Well,” his father said, “spend time with Warren before you leave. The boy looks up to you. He’s even followin’ in your footsteps—wants to be a war hero—like every other young boy, before they realize that a war hero is either a fabrication, or more likely just a soldier who didn’t piss himself before he died.” His father stared again at the storm through the windows. “I even gave him the same option I gave you: an education at the Sorbonne. But he refused, the idiot, just like you.”

  “Warren will make a fine officer, father. I am sure of it. And I have no doubt that Will serve the people of this nation. He has the makings of a fine politician.”

  “Of course he does; that’s why I am financing his campaign,” his father said. “There are two types of people in this world, Wage. Those who serve others and those who serve themselves.”

  “Acolytes and adventurers, I remember, father. Everyone is one or the other.”

  “Oh, don’t everyone just wanna run off and be the adventurer, now, hmm? Just like Wage Pascal! Little do they know how fruitless and short it is. Just ask Wage Pascal,” his father said, drawing out the syllables of his name.

  Well, if you will excuse me, there is something I must do,” Wage replied, turning for the door.

  “Wage!” yelled his father, “As damn hard as it is . . . I do love you, son.”

  “I opened up some of your finest brandy. I’ll have Miss Marie bring up the rest,” Wage said before leaving his father to watch the storm.

  Wage made his way to the study down the hall where he found William deliberating over some papers with spectacles. “Will,” Wage said.

  “Wage,” he replied. “Let me guess. Leaving already? Did they open a new whorehouse in Shreveport?”

  “Why? You heard something?” Wage said, making William Jr. laugh. “I am leaving, Will. I have some business in New Orleans,” he continued, glad the tension left the room. “But I promise, I will come back in just a few days.”

  “I’ve heard this before,” William said.

  “I know, but this time I mean it. I’m gonna come home, Will. And I am determined to help you with your campaign. It’s about time I served a noble cause, and let’s be honest . . . you gonna need all the help you can get,” Wage said.

  William stood up from his chair and hugged his brother. “Thank you, Wage.”

  “Thank me after we’ve won the election, brother,” Wage replied.

  “Good luck, Wage, and whatever it is you are doing in New Orleans, be safe.”

  “I will.” Wage patted his brother on the back. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Wage made his way back to the atrium, where he put on his trench coat and slouch hat.

  “You leavin’ again, huh?” Warren said from the entry way to the kitchen.

  Wage walked over and put his arm around his little brother. “Warren, I mean to come back in a few days to help Will and to give you a proper send off, of course. I even know just the place for a soon-to-be-sailor.”

  “You promise?” Warren asked.

  “I promise, little brother.”

  Wage and Warren embraced one last time, and Wage walked out into the pouring rain. But before heading dockside, he stopped by his mother’s crypt again. This time he knelt by it and traced the inscription: Clementine Claire Cuomo Pascal and Wyatt Nathaniel Pascal. Together in life and death. In heaven, may they have their wings.

  “I miss you,” Wage said. And then he did something he hadn’t done in 15 years. He cried.

  Detective Simon Porter

  June 5, 1914

  The House of Black Curtains

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  It was five o’clock in the afternoon when the detective hopped from the streetcar onto the packed dirt at the center of Canal Street. Dodging horse-drawn buggies and motorcars, he made his way to the broadstone sidewalk. Canal Street itself seemed as wide as the nearby Mississippi River, roughly 120 feet across with currents of motley folk. Detective Simon Porter dropped his suitcase and recorded them like one of Edison’s motion cameras: parading ladies with impeccably dressed children in tow, copper Choctaw Indians, bronze Mexicans with slicked black hair, scurrying Chinese merchants and deliverymen, dark-eyed Spanish creoles, light-eyed Africans, French businessmen speaking a refined English to New Yorkers and Bostonians, British sailors in wrinkled uniforms taunting French sailors who whose uniforms were finely pressed, unattended children everywhere in ill-fitting corduroys loitering in alleys or shining shoes, muscular longshoremen who smelled like coal and catfish, and the occasional soft-spoken prostitutes who enticed everyone with a smile and overwhelming floral perfume.

  The detective dusted off his black pants, adjusted the all-seeing Pinkerton eye on his lapel, and bent over for his bag. Blast! It has torn open again! The detective walked a brisk pace east on Canal Street feeling a warm, sticky stream down his back. I will need a new shirt. He followed the unending light posts connected by a slightly buzzing electrical wire and a silent telegraph one. A few blocks later, he reached his destination. Wedged between two brick buildings near Chartres Street was The House of Black Curtains. It was an off-white, three-story French colonial establishment with wrought-iron balconies and, true to its name, windows strewn with jet-black velvet curtains. The only sign hung above the swinging doors of the entrance. It read simply, in script: Saloon & Entertainment. The all-to-eager gentleman at the railway station described it perfectly after the detective showed him the recovered matchbook. The gentleman even went on to describe the best types of entertainment.

  Before going in, the detective called out to a young boy standing with his foot against the wall of the full-service saloon. His suspenders held up wool pants that were too big for him, and a flat brown cap covered hair that looked like trampled hay.

  “Young man, may I have the privilege of knowing your name?” the detective asked.

  “Leroy Jardin.”

  “Le Roi du Jardin? King of the Garden,” the detective said.

  “Sure.”

  “Well, Monsieur Jardin, my name is Porter. How would you like to earn a little money?” Detective Porter asked.

  “Sure. I would like that just fine.”

  “Excellent.” Detective Porter dropped his bag once more and pulled out his sketchbook from his inner jacket pocket. He flipped through his notes and a few drawings until he came to a blank page. He jotted down a few numbers, ripped out the page and handed it to the boy. “I require a white button-down shirt with a British-spread collar. Take these measurements to the local clothier and return here with my shirt. Leave it with the bartender if I am not here. Do you understand?”

  “Sure.”

  “Master Leroy, I have chosen you for this task because you have an honest demeanor about you. Can I trust that you are not morally scrupulous?”

  “Morally what?”

  “Can I trust you to discern right from wrong, Master Leroy?”

  “What’s discernin’?”

  “How about this.” The detective replaced his sketchbook and pulled out his pocket book. “Now, here is the money for the shirt. You are entitled to any change there might be, but to ensure your morals are firmly intact, I will pay you exactly what the shirt is worth plus another quarter when you return. And after your return successfully with my new shirt, I will promise you further profitable opportunities.”

  “Hell yeah, mister. You got a deal.”

  “A most wise choice.”

  “Well, if you excuse me, I will get to discernin’ you a shirt,” Leroy said, tipping his hat.

  “Yes, Master Leroy, very good, commence with your . . . discernment,” the detective replied.

  He winced in pain again as he reached down for his bag. He entered through the swinging doors. The bar was no doubt an overflow for the currents of motley folk. On the first floor, The House of Black Curtains was a wood-paneled saloon
covered in a thin film of Canal Street dust. It made an unpleasant sound when patrons shuffled across it. A noise that was most likely drowned out by the piano that stood along the wall closest to the entrance. Next to the piano was a tall, wooden, peephole kinetoscope. The detective looked around to see if there was a fee for its use but could not find an employee. Curious, he leaned over into the viewer and turned the metal crank on the side; 35 millimeter film flashed by, creating a black-and-white motion capture. It began with an ethereally white woman in a robe standing near a chaise lounge. She seductively removed her robe, revealing a completely bare and curvaceous figure. She then lay on the lounge chair, with one arm up in a rather inviting position, and smiled. Cruelly, black curtains then closed the scene off. After a few flashes of white, words appeared in playbill font: Welcome to The House of Black Curtains! Purveyors of Spirits and Sensuality! All Inquiries May be Made with your Server or Bartender. Thank you! Another lash. Damn.

  The detective adjusted his clothing and made his way to the bar. A man popped up from behind the counter as though he had been cleaning something down below. “Good afternoon! What’ll it be?” he said.

  “I am in need of some companionship,” Detective Porter replied.

  “That we have. That we have. Anything specific you are looking for?” The bartender leaned in with a wink.

  “I am afraid I have injured myself to a minor degree and require a companion who may be able to help with the mending process,” the detective said.

  “Plenty of doctors in New Orleans, sir; perhaps you should try them instead.”

  “Yes, but I would much prefer one of your more nurturing girls,” Detective Porter said.

  “Well, to each his own. Gotta be honest . . . I have heard stranger requests. Listen, we got Edwina. Mulatto gal. Some find her bewitching, but she does tend to the girls who occasionally encounter a more . . . belligerent patron.”

  “Excellent. May I schedule some time with her?” the detective asked.

  “Sure.” The bartender turned around and toggled a small knob on the wall. A bell rang distantly upstairs. Moments later, a few girls came running onto the second floor mezzanine. One of them was stark naked and covered in white powder.

  “I just need Edwina!” the bartender shouted.

  Two of the girls ran off, including the naked one, and Edwina stood somewhat shyly at the top of the stairs. The detective thanked the bartender and informed him that a young man would be making a delivery for him later.

  At the top of the stairs, the detective took off his hat and pushed stray hairs behind his ears. “Good evening, ma’am,” he said.

  The dark-skinned girl looked youthful and slender, but her majestic mocha eyes conveyed an experience beyond her years. She wore a simple, slim black dress with an extremely low, rounded neck-line. Not as buxom as the other girls, but still a remarkably sketchable subject. She wore black stockings with holes in the feet.

  “Good evening, sir.” She performed a slight courtesy. “How may I be of service?”

  “May we adjourn to your quarters?” the detective asked.

  “You don’t care for a drink first?”

  “No,” he replied.

  “Well, then . . .” She led him down to the end of the second floor hallway by the hand. Nervously, he held her hand back, but only enough to not break away. They entered her room together. It was neatly made, with an unmatching bed, dresser, and vanity. Her black curtains were tied back and her window cracked, allowing the hot, humid air to intermingle with the citrus and cinnamon perfume she wore.

  Once in the room, the detective closed the door and hurried to put his bag down on the dresser. He dug through the bag and pulled out a small box before sitting down at Edwina’s vanity mirror. He shed his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt.

  “I like a man who gets right down to business,” Edwina said. Being a purveyor of sensuality, she walked behind him to help remove his shirt. She screamed. “What in the Lord’s name happened to you?”

  The detective’s bare back was a series of long, red, raised scars. Most were old and healed, others slightly more fresh and tender, but one was split open and bleeding. He opened the small box, revealing a tiny needle and some thread.

  “Edwina, listen to me carefully. I need you to stitch this wound immediately. Can you do that?” Detective Porter asked.

  “I . . . I can, yes . . . but wouldn’t you rather see a doctor?”

  “I do not care for doctors much. I fear their oaths of confidentiality are taken with crossed fingers,” he said. “Now, it is my understanding that you mend other girls here. Would you be so kind as to work your curative powers on me, please?”

  His wound continued to leak blood. Edwina sighed heavily and opened a drawer in the vanity. She pulled out a bottle of rye whiskey. “Here,” she said, “Drink this. It’s gonna hurt.”

  “I’m afraid I abstain from alcohol,” he replied.

  “Ugh!” She uncorked the bottle with her teeth and poured it directly into the gaping wound. It was the detective who screamed this time.

  Edwina picked up the needle already tied with fine black thread. She knelt on the floor and began to sew the wound back together. She worked quickly, meticulously, and hardly broke a sweat.

  In between the detective’s grunts, Edwina tried to spark conversation. “Who did this to you?” she asked.

  “It makes no difference,” the detective replied.

  “My granddaddy had scars like this on his back. Got them working for the devil on his plantation. My momma said she used to help patch him up like I used to patch up my dolly when she lost her stuffin’.”

  “Is that your experience, then? Patching up dolls?”

  “That’s where it started,” she replied.

  “What happened to your grandfather?” he asked.

  “General Sherman came marching through and burned the whole damn thing down.”

  “How ironic. The devil loses his plantation to fire.” The detective winced again.

  “That’s what momma always said. After that, my family came to New Orleans.”

  “If you do not mind me asking, how old are you?”

  “Nineteen. Youngest of ten,” she replied, as she reached over to grab the detective’s discarded shirt. She poured some alcohol on it and dabbed away some blood that was interfering with her work. “So you gonna tell me how you got these, or do I have make it more painful?” She ended her sentence with a well-timed piercing.

  “I do it to myself,” he said. “It is penance. It is . . . purification.”

  Edwina’s eyes went big. “Well, I’d say you are pretty damned purified! This is madness, is what it is!” she cried.

  “I do not expect you to understand,” he said.

  “Who in the hell ever taught you this was how a man should go about his business?”

  “My mother.”

  Edwina looked closer at his back. She saw the tiniest of scars among the large ones. “Did she do this to you when you were a boy? What are these little ones here?” she asked.

  “My mother said it was God’s will. She said the pain was necessary to purge ourselves of our sinful thoughts and deeds.”

  “You still believe that now?”

  “No. I don’t,” he replied.

  “Then why do you—”

  “Miss Edwina, do you know a Captain Wage Pascal?” Detective Porter interrupted.

  “Who?”

  “A handsome man, possessing great charm. A military man. He has dark hair and a thick Cajun accent.”

  “You’ve just described half the men in Louisiana,” Edwina replied.

  “He would be here intermittently. He spends a large sum of money. Probably hires a number of different prostitutes in a week, or an evening.”

  “Startin’ to narrow it down …”

  “He travels with a larger, bearded fellow, fond of boxing.”

  “Oh yeah! I remember him, now. He comes around now and then. Always meeting with Mr. Jade,
I think?”

  “Mr. Jade? Tell me about him,” the detective said.

  “I don’t even know your name, and here I am sewin’ you up! How’s about you tell me a little somethin’ about yourself first?

  “My apologies. In my haste, I have forgotten formal introductions. I am Detective Simon Porter . . . Ouch!” She had poked him hard with the needle.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t care much for coppers in this parish.”

  “I do not work for the parish, this municipality, or the state of Louisiana. I am sanctioned by Pinkerton.”

  “You some kind of spymaster, then?” she asked, finishing another knot.

  “Not quite. I have come from North Carolina to track down a dangerous criminal.”

  “So, you a manhunter?”

  “Sure,” the detective said, borrowing the phrase from the kid, Leroy. “This man, Mr. Jade—if he is an associate of Captain Pascal, I need to find him.

  “Haven’t seen him in a while,” she said. “He delivers herbs when the girls get their sores. He also sells some of our patrons that Chinese tobacco. Madame Deborah don’t let her girls use it, though, on account of it diminishes our enthusiasm —and enthusiasm makes ‘em come back.” Although the detective couldn’t see Edwina, he was quite certain she winked. “You stick around long enough, though, I’m sure you’ll see him.”

  “Yes, I suppose I will. I am afraid my stay will need to be discrete, however. I will gladly pay for your company for the week, possibly more. Would you be amenable to this?” Detective Porter asked.

  “I suppose so . . . There! Finished!” Edwina leaned over and cut the remaining thread off with her teeth before grabbing the bottle of alcohol with bloodstained hands and swigging it.

  The detective stood up and inspected Edwina’s handiwork in the mirror. It was better than most doctors. “There are some bandages in my bag; would you be so kind?” he asked. Edwina rinsed her hands in her wash bowl, which quickly turned red. She rifled through the bag to find the bandages and tossed them to the detective.