Chasing the Devil's Tail (23 page)

"No ma'am," Justine said quietly and gripped his arm a little tighter. Valentin noticed her pensive frown and understood. Telling stories on characters long dead was one thing; talking on hoodoo women who were quite alive and well was another entirely.

"How 'bout you, Mr. Valentin?" Eulalie inquired.

"I'd like to hear anything you care to share, ma'am."

Miss Echo stopped and turned around, one eyebrow arching. "Well, then," she said and looked away from the lake and in the direction of the city. "Ain't much real voodoo left. Not like the old days. When I was a young girl..." She paused. "Those women, they made magic. Used them black cat bones, John the Conqueror root and mojo hands, all that. Old Marie, she could make an old man wind like a young buck and make a young fellow bark like a dog. I mean to say they made
magic.
" She shook her head. "Now whatchu got? You got old Zozo LaBrique puttin' dust on doorsteps and that cross-eyed bitch sayin' she can seal girls up so they can't work." She shook her head again at the sorry state of affairs.

"Mama Latour, she ruined it," she went on grimly. "Used to be, people believe in the voodoo for what it was, 'stead of for what it could do. They had respect. Then it got turned into something else. A show. A bunch of sportin' girls gettin' naked for old white men whilst some colored boys beat on drums. I don't know what it is, but it ain't
voudun.
" She sighed. "But we still fight the old fight, now and then." She looked at him. "And I believe that's what you got in the District right now. Some true voodoo. A real evil, evil spirit. That's what's causin' these awful things to happen."

Valentin, fortunately, did not roll his eyes, because Miss Echo was gazing directly at him "You been seeing the power of the dark side. That would be your killer. And the reason how come nobody can't catch him is somebody's givin' him protection."

"Who?" Valentin asked, keeping his voice deliberately patient.

Miss Echo looked away. "I couldn't say."

It meant she wouldn't say. But Valentin didn't need a name; he could guess who it was she was talking about. "All right, then, protection from who?" he said. "The police?"

"The police!" The woman laughed, but her eyes looked suddenly dark and distant. "No, not from the police. From you."

At his side, Justine crossed herself.

On the way back, they came across a stray dog and Justine ran on ahead, chasing it at the edge of the waves. The talk of voodoo was put aside for a moment as they watched her romp happily with the animal.

Miss Echo didn't say another word until they were in sight of her house. But when she did speak, she stopped him in his tracks. "That young Mr. Bolden," she said. "He was out here quite a lot, you know."

"Where?" Valentin said, caught unaware. "Out where?"

"He was around for some of the voodoo balls," she said. "Up to maybe a year or so ago. Him and one of them bands of his, they used to play at the park at Milneburg. And after, he went by."

"Who said anything about Bolden?" he asked.

Miss Echo gave him a sly smile. "People talk." People meaning her godson, who never stopped talking. She would know every gossipy snippet from the street.

"What was he doing there?" Valentin asked.

"He came for the music," the voodoo woman said. "All those African drums and the horns and flutes. He went to them things and the St. John's Eve parties and heard the music. I mean that crazy voodoo music. He got hold of it right quick." She looked out over the water. "I suspect it got hold of him, too. That's why he plays the way he does now." She continued on down the path.

"What got hold of him?"

"The
voodoo,
Valentin." Now it was she who sounded impatient. "That's what this is all about, ain't it?"

"I paid a visit to Emma Johnson," he said abruptly. Miss Echo stopped to stare at him. "She acted like she knows somethin' about Buddy, too," Valentin told her. "Maybe had some dealings with him. So she said. Or made a hint."

The voodoo woman shook her head. "She is a bad, bad person, that one. Bad as they get." She continued walking. "If she got hooks into him..." She sighed heavily.

Valentin pondered in silence for a few paces, then said, "What can you tell me about black roses?"

Miss Echo nodded. "Ah, yes. I heard about that, too."

"The killer leaves one after every murder," he explained. "Does that mean anything to you?"

"No," she said, "but it could mean somethin' to someone else. I'm tellin' you it ain't the same anymore. It's every person just makin' it up on their own. It just ain't the same."

They walked on. "How do you know?" he asked.

Miss Echo said, "Hmmm?"

"About Buddy. The music. About him bein' out there messing with the voodoo."

They turned up the walk to her gallery. "Oh, I was there, too," she said.

Before they left, she loaded Justine down with two sacks; one filled with herbs and roots that smelled to high heaven, the other packed with beans, okra, carrots, onions, cucumbers and chicory from her back garden. Valentin sensed that she wanted to offer him something, a
gris-gris
to ward off the evils he faced, but she just took his hand in both of hers and wished him good luck. She stood on her gallery, waving, as they walked away.

***

The train rolled out of the station and back toward the city. Justine picked happily through her prizes and announced as they approached Union Station that she planned to make use of the contents of the sacks and cook dinner that night. He could tell she was glad to have something common to think about, after their afternoon with a voodoo woman.

As they stepped onto the platform he caught sight of the man in the derby loitering among the crowd of passengers. He turned away from Justine with a sudden movement and walked through the milling crowd. The fellow saw the Creole detective coming, looked first concerned, then startled. He took a few steps backward. Valentin was ten feet away when he made a sharp jag and beat a retreat, pushing people out of his way. He strode down the platform and through the station doors. He didn't look back and Valentin let him go.

When they got to his rooms, Justine spread her bounty on the tiny kitchen table and then hurried out to the balcony. She peered toward Decatur Street in the direction of the Vieux Carre until she spotted a wagon in the distance. She stepped back inside to get her purse.

Much of what passed for shopping outside the French Market was done by way of rope and bucket. The produce man pulled his wagon to the banquette and the lady of the house would call out her list from a balcony, then lower her bucket at the end of the rope. The entire transaction was carried out this way; then the peddler would move on to the next balcony, the next mistress of the house.

But Valentin had no bucket, no rope; he ate at Cafés and from street carts for the most part. By way of kitchenware, he had in his possession one pot and one frying pan and some random utensils, all items left behind by a previous tenant. Except for three stale biscuits, a few spoonfuls of flour and
sugar, a tin of milk, a bit of butter and a large can of coffee, there was not a speck of food about.

Justine surveyed his empty cupboards with a look of exasperation and went downstairs to wait for the peddler's cart. Valentin stepped into the toilet, took off his shirt and splashed water on his face. A few minutes later, he walked out in his undershirt to see Justine heading for the kitchen with her arms full.

She stripped down to a ribbed vest of soft cotton, carefully draping her dress over a chair. She then rooted about until she discovered the sack with a bare dusting of flour remaining and lit his spindly gasoline stove to set about making a roux with water and a fat onion from Eulalie Echo's garden.

Valentin moved a straight-backed chair so that he could watch her. Making do with his one dull kitchen knife, in quick little movements she chopped and stirred and moved the pot and pan about and for the first time, the smells of cooking food wafted through the detective's rooms in a rich cloud of Creole perfume.

After ten minutes of busy motion, she stopped and looked over the stove. She turned and saw Valentin watching her with his gray eyes. He stood up. She stepped out of the kitchen, brushing her hands. There was a sheen of sweat on her forehead and a light patch of flour on one of her tan cheeks. She glanced over her shoulder one more time to check the progress of her work, then reached around to undo the hooks of her vest.

Later, after they had eaten, Valentin carried the two kitchen chairs out on the balcony and they sat watching a freighter steam up the river to dock, the lights ghostly in the purple night. He felt strangely peaceful; it was as if he and Justine
were separated from the streets of New Orleans and the rest of the world, hidden away in a dark and private corner. But he knew that in a few moments, he would have to get up, get dressed, walk the eight blocks to Basin Street and spend the better part of the night in Anderson's raucous big room. He let out a quiet sigh. He realized he would be quite happy to stay right there in those drab little rooms, far from the bedlam of Storyville; and that wasn't like him at all.

"Dinner was all right, then?" Justine asked, interrupting his thoughts.

He smiled. "I have to tell you again? It was good."

She was silent, but he could almost hear her thinking. "I could do it again tomorrow," she said at last.

He looked at her. "I expect you to stay here, Justine," he said. She almost relaxed in her chair, then sat up. "What is it?"

"I'm gonna need a bucket and some rope," she said.

On a bandstand ten blocks to the north, Buddy sat on a low chair, a slouch hat pulled down over his eyes. Minutes passed and Mumford and Cornish exchanged a long look of annoyance. But Buddy just kept staring at a point on the dance floor just beyond the stage. The crowd stirred, watching him, waiting, but he didn't see them at all, didn't feel the impatience of their movements, didn't hear their mutterings.

Another minute passed and then, with a sudden motion, he swung the cornet out of his lap and rapped it, bell down, on the boards, a quick one-two-three-four. The fellows in the band scrambled, caught up just in time as it came around. From under the hat, King Bolden smiled his wolf smile and brought the horn to his lips.

It sounded like a man growling in pain, and it was so loud, like always, that the front row of the audience took a reflexive
step back, but then the bodies surged forward again as if sucked in by a magnet. From beneath his cocked eyebrow, he saw them coming and so he slouched down deeper into his chair and blew harder.

Blew harder.

They began clapping then, shuffling their feet, shaking their hips and shoulders as he pelted them with hot brass that cut through flesh and went right down to the bone. Then someone shouted "King Bolden! King Bolden!" and he half-jumped to his feet, stepped to the edge of the low stage and leaned down, pushing wind like a locomotive pushing steam. The floor began to vibrate, a window rattled and a whiskey bottle danced off the rack over the bar and shattered in a shower of clear glass and amber liquid.

He felt the breath come from deep down, from his private parts and then up his backbone, through his lungs for an extra shove and then out his open throat and between his thick, muscled lips. It was savage kiss onto hot metal and he flicked his tongue and tasted blood. He gripped the horn so tight his knuckles hurt.

He knew there was a crowd out there, on the other side of the haze of bottle and pipe, but all he saw was a spiral of red flame that came roaring out of his horn, rose and fell in wild gyrations, and then made an electric arc that cut through the air. He knew this was it, the way it was supposed to be. All that mess with the whispers and the narrowed eyes and the backs turned was gone; and the whole room, the whole of New Orleans, the whole world was filled with his horn. He was home.

The upstairs room in the house on Bienville glowed crimson from a bedside lamp. The woman sat on the side of the sagging mattress, holding the man's yancey in her hand. She squeezed and pulled expertly, looking for the telltale drip of
viscous yellow. She looked up and winked at him, trying for coy. Then she reached for the vial and the cloth that stood beside the bottle of Raleigh Rye on the night table. She washed and dried him with a practiced hand.

She put bottle and cloth aside, wiped her hands together and lay back on the bed. She raised her knees and spread her legs, feeling a brief ache run through her weary flesh. In the red lamplight, the hard lines in her face softened, her rough, painted skin flowed away from her bones, the dark mound between her legs rose up like a warm, wet oasis. She made a little gesture with her fingertips and the man who had paid his dollar pushed his pants down so his suspenders dragged around his ankles. His knees found the edge of the bed and he fell into her. She felt him there, a nub of something moving. A half dozen gasps, a raw, throaty moan and it was over.

The man was gone, almost like he was never there at all. The woman pulled on her camisole, put the towel between her legs and held it there while she took a quick shot from the bottle. She got up and stepped to the window and, for a few minutes, her mind wandered away to something someone had said somewhere, a faint echo from some other time and place. Then the door opened and the next one walked in, looking quite pleased with himself, acting like something special. They all thought they were something special. She made her mouth smile.

The office was deep in shadow that was broken only by the light of a dim candle.

"So, Lieutenant," the white man behind the desk said. "Are you at liberty to discuss these unfortunate murders?"

"We don't know who killed them girls," Picot blurted, fidgeting with his hat. "Not for sure. There's plenty of talk, though."

"What kind of talk?"

The policeman hesitated for a moment, then said, "About some hoodoo, for one thing. And also about that horn player, crazy fellow named Bolden."

"That would be King Bolden?" the white man inquired.

Picot looked at him. "That's right."