Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (5 page)

Small as it was, she took the opening. "Well, that's a good thing, isn't it? Tom Anderson doesn't need any more trouble. He's a busy man these days. What with having to service Josie Arlington, Hilma Burt, and who knows who else. He's no young rooster. You'd think he'd know better. It's simply unfair..." And off she went, running down her list of grievances. It was an old song.

Valentin nodded mechanically, barely sipping his tea, his mind elsewhere. After about five minutes, she slowed the tempo of her rant, closing with a dramatic huff. Her face fell, and cracks of age came creeping out. Valentin felt a twinge of sympathy for her. Though she had sports to squire her about in exchange for money and gifts, her life had to be lonely. There were just too many younger, prettier girls about for any rounder to stay long. So a fellow would entertain her for a little while, take whatever he could grab, and move on.

She was no longer the free-spending grand dame when it came to fancy men, and her charity diminished with each new leech. A black-hearted swindler named George Killshaw had put an end to those days.

"Enough about all that." She cut into his thoughts as she finished her morning diatribe and turned down another path, treating him with a frank gaze. "How are things with you, Valentin?"

"Things are fine," he told her, wondering why she was suddenly so serious.

She was waiting for more. When he didn't speak up, she said, "And how is Justine?"

"She's doing well. She still gets her headaches."

"Yes, of course," Lulu White said, nodding with concern. She sipped her tea, then dipped her head cagily. "Now, what's this I hear about someone out after jass players?"

Valentin grimaced; so that was it. He should have known. Of all the madams, Miss Lulu had the sharpest ear for gossip.

"Morton's got this idea in his head, that's all," he said. "I didn't know he was spreading it all over town."

"Oh, he's not!" the madam said in an even more conspiratorial whisper. "He was by last night, this morning, actually, visiting one of my girls. We were talking and..." She smiled with childish pride that she was the one Morton had confided in. "So there's nothing to it?"

Valentin said, "He has a good imagination."

"I see." There was disappointment in her voice. "Well, then, it's business as usual, isn't it?" She put her teacup aside and, muttering about the demands of her busy day, got up to see him to the door. "Give Justine my regards," she said as she let him out.

***

He finished the rest of his errands and got back to Magazine Street in the middle of the afternoon. Justine had put out a cold plate of andouille, cheese, vegetables, and French bread. After he ate, he thanked her with a quiet courtesy that made her feel like a servant and went off to the bedroom. She heard the springs squeak, then silence.

She stepped into the kitchen, opened the cupboard, and found the packet of Straight Cuts that Valentin kept there. She carried one to the balcony, where the rough smell of the tobacco would dissipate. Snapping a lucifer on a brick, she leaned in the doorway to blow out a long spiral of smoke.

When she touched an absent finger to the scar along her hairline, she felt the slight depression where the flesh had never quite healed back. It was a souvenir. A sudden memory of the moment when she had received it brought a spike of fear that was followed by a flush of anger. The feeling seeped away, leaving her all bewildered, as if she had lost something. She watched the street, trying to make her thoughts wind their way back the way they had come. When she felt the ember of the cigarette burning close to her fingers, she gave up. She tossed the butt over the railing. It left a tail of tiny embers before it landed in the gutter.

She looked over at the Banks' Arcade, four stories, brown stoned, and stately. With its gardens and ornate fountain, its fine dining establishment and elegant suites upstairs where gentlemen entertained their paramours, it was a place reserved for the well-to-do French and Americans of New Orleans. As she watched, a woman stepped through the tall wrought-iron gate of the side garden and onto the banquette. Justine stared; there was something familiar about the woman—her face half veiled beneath a Floradora, her fine silk dress and brocade shawl, the way she held herself, her head high and shoulders squared. Justine knew that the woman, a pretty quadroon, had spent the night with a gentleman of means in one of the upper-floor suites and was waiting for the cabriolet that was now rounding the corner of Gravier Street to carry her away.

The carriage pulled up and the Negro driver bent down to offer her his hand. As she pulled herself up, she must have sensed Justine's stare, because she raised her head. Their eyes met over fifty feet of air. Then the quadroon woman smiled slightly and settled back into the fine red leather seat. The driver cracked his little whip and the carriage clattered off to turn the corner of Common Street.

Standing above the morning traffic, her hands resting on the wrought-iron railing, Justine slipped into a reverie. She saw herself in a dress with a bodice that showed off her narrow waist and the curve of her bust. Her hair was up and she had on just enough mascara to bring her slanted eyes out over au-lait cheekbones. She smiled at the reflection and the woman in the glass smiled back, as if she was—

She jumped a little, startled by a singsong call from down the street. The greengrocer's wagon was rolling around the corner, the wheels creaking and groaning under a full load of produce. She stood still for a long moment, letting go of her crazy thoughts, letting them swirl away like bits of colored paper caught in an updraft. Her mind cleared and she was back on Magazine Street on a Friday afternoon in September. She went to find her bucket and rope.

Friday nights were always busy at the Café and Valentin left just after dinner. Before he went out the door, he kissed her gently on the forehead. Then he escaped, leaving her to see her own way through the long evening.

The sun was going down. Terrence Lacombe sat on the gray greasy mattress in the room in the hotel on Peters Street, breaking down his clarinet. Pawning it meant he wouldn't be able to work if a job came along. It didn't matter; he was getting sick. Already he had chills and a feeling of something crawling on his skin, the cold burning itch that would soon be driving him half mad if he didn't do something about it. He wanted to chase the pictures that kept coming into his head, too: a big black man sprawled all bloody on the bed, a butchered carcass. Just the image brought another shudder. He snapped the case closed and stood up.

He was pulling on his overcoat when he heard footsteps out in the hallway. He froze, figuring it was the manager coming around for the week's rent, money he didn't have. He took a step toward the window, then remembered that the fire escape was fixed so it didn't reach the ground, forestalling exits just like the one he was considering.

The footsteps drew close, stopped for a breathless instant at his threshold, then turned and padded back down the hall. Terrence fidgeted, grinding his long, dirty nails into his palms. It didn't matter if it was a trick. He had to go through the door to get to the pawnshop to get the cash to get the remedy he needed this night. He pulled his coat tighter around his throat and made ready to bolt if he had to, past the clerk and down the stairs and out onto the street and away.

He opened the door a few inches, then a little wider. He stuck his head out to peer up and down the corridor. It was empty and early evening silent. He was just about to step out and make his escape when he noticed the paper sack at his feet. He took another sneaking glance along the hallway in both directions, then snapped it up, ducked back, and closed the door.

His thin fingers were beginning to tremble as he reached inside the sock and drew out a glassine envelope that held a good tablespoon of crystalline powder, off-white in color. Terrence stared at it in wonder. He couldn't imagine who would present such a lagniappe or why. Then he didn't care; another wave of nausea was rising in his gut.

In less than a minute, he had the powder cooking in his blackened tin and had pulled his belt off his waist and strapped it about his arm. He forced his hands to stop shaking and, with a practiced move that was almost graceful in its delicacy, used his brass-plated syringe to draw off the liquid. Eyeing a place he hadn't yet ravaged, he guided the needle into the vein. Then he slipped the plunger back, sucking blood. He waited a sweet, agonizing second, then pressed with his thumb.

It came on like a dizzying rush of warm air through his head and then through every cell in his body. The sick feeling was washed aside and he felt like he had settled into a steaming bath.

He heard the door hinges squeak. He was turning his head to see who it was when he felt a blow to his heart like someone had slammed him in the chest with a sledgehammer.

A second blow came, this one knocking him sideways off the bed. He did not feel his head collide with the bare floor, only that he was looking up now and that a face was looming over him, already turning black around the edges. The mouth moved, biting off words that were lost in the roar of blood in his ears. Another shuddering wave came over him, bursting from the middle of his chest to the tips of his fingers. The face disappeared into blackness and he was gone.

A moment passed and the door to the room creaked closed.

It was near 5
A.M.
and Anderson's Café was quiet. The band had long since stopped and the bartenders had all gone home. Mr. Tom had slipped off for his rendezvous with a girl from Gypsy Shafer's.

Valentin said good night to the old Negro watchman, then walked outside to stand on the banquette. None of the streetcars were running yet. He had money in his pocket for a hack but decided to walk the ten blocks south. As he crossed Dauphine Street, he heard rubber tires swishing up from behind. A surrey rolled to a stop and Jelly Roll Morton looked down from the rear seat. "You want a ride?"

"What are you doing here?" Valentin said.

"On my way home. Come on, we'll carry you."

"I'd just as soon walk."

"All right, then." Morton stepped down onto the banquette. He was a sight, all done up in his finest, as crisp as if he had just dressed for a night out on the town. He told the driver to go on and wait for him at the corner of Magazine. The carriage clattered away. After they had walked a few paces along the banquette, the piano man glanced at Valentin and said, "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"What about Noiret?"

Valentin gave him an annoyed look. "Is that why you stopped? Because if it is, you need to call him back before he gets too far on." Morton opened his mouth to protest, but Valentin cut him off. "I saw Lulu White this morning." He came up with a severe look. "You need to stop spreading rumors."

"They ain't rumors," the piano player sniffed. He looked around, as if someone might be lurking nearby, then dropped his voice to a deep whisper and said, "Why Noiret? Why him?"

Valentin wanted to say because most likely he was a good-for-nothing son of a bitch. He didn't, though, and Morton went ahead and answered his own question. "Because he was working on the wrong side of Canal Street." He took another furtive look around. "You know how those people are," he said urgently. "They ain't gonna allow it."

Valentin shook his head in exasperation. He was not about to get into another argument over this crazy business. Morton didn't understand. It wasn't just that Antoine Noiret was nothing to him. Or that the murder was already three days old and had happened far back on Philip Street, along a row of dingy houses that were broken up into tiny rooms available to transients by the day or week and to cheap whores by the hour. Without even seeing the place, Valentin knew Noiret wasn't the first dead body that had been carted out the front door.

Morton had his own ideas, of course, and if there was no stopping him once he got going, it didn't mean Valentin had to listen to it. "I don't want to talk about this anymore, Ferd," he said. He was one of the few people who was still allowed to use Morton's given name. "I just want to get home and go to sleep."

Morton looked like he was about to come snapping back with something. Then he thought better of it and put his hands behind his back as they walked on. "You ever think about Buddy?" he asked ruminatively as they crossed Camp Street.

Valentin said, "I do, yes."

"They'll not make another one like him," the piano man said with a little laugh.

Valentin never knew what to say when someone mentioned Bolden, so he kept quiet. They walked the last block in silence, each thinking his own thoughts.

They stopped on the corner where the hack was waiting. Morton reached for the brass bar, then stopped to look down Magazine Street in the direction of Valentin's rooms.

"How's Miss Justine?" he inquired.

"She's well. Why?"

"I'm just asking," Morton said, and smiled curiously. "Make sure you give her my regards."

He pulled himself up into the wide rear seat. The driver snapped the reins and the carriage rolled away.

Justine opened her eyes and stared at the cracks in the plaster wall. The pillow was damp where her face had pressed into it and she pushed it away. There was sunlight through the window that opened out over the alley; it had to be late, after ten. She had missed early Mass again.