Jimmy Fox - Nick Herald 02 - Lineages and Lies (11 page)

“What about the reception on this side?” Nick asked.

“Well, Ben Franklin called them rattlesnakes. But those powerful men on both sides of the ocean who profited from the cheap labor and good commissions tended to be more sanguine about the whole business. Convicts and indentured servants were less expensive to buy than black slaves, and they were treated almost as horribly: they survived meager rations, wore indifferent clothes, lived like domestic animals, were hunted down when they escaped. The difference was, of course, they would eventually be freed. Some were given land, and became good citizens. But xenophobia and nativism set in. Some of the colonial governments, especially Virginia, foreshadowed their
later rebellion by defying Parliament and prohibiting some ship captains from unloading their cargo. But Parliament eventually won, and Virginia had no choice. Jamaica and other West Indian colonies, though, were able to stop the flow.”

Another piece of e-mail arrived in Nelson’s computer.

“Thanks for the information, Nelson. I’ll check out those English ports. You’re too busy to be chasing my pipe dreams.”

“It
is
rather far fetched. Tantamount to saying the
Mayflower
story is a lie.” He gave a slight laugh and shook his head, seeming more preoccupied than before. “Some people will do almost anything to get into one of these lineage societies, I suppose. Sad.”

“Let’s be charitable and say my client’s got things fouled up. The
Allégorie
and the
True Faith
probably had nothing to do with each other, outside of my client’s delusions.” At the door to Nelson’s office, Nick turned and said, “Keep those kids in there building the future.”

“The future?” said Nelson Plumlaw, his mind apparently on something else. “Oh, yes, most definitely. The future.”

CHAPTER 8

T
wo bicycles whirred by Nick. He watched them speeding away around the next curve, the riders’ butts and legs pumping, encased in latex of shimmering hummingbird hues.

He was back at the St. Charles Avenue entrance of the park. How many times he’d run around the track he didn’t know. It was dusk now, and at Audubon Zoo almost a mile away toward the wide river, peacocks screeched with instinctive alarm at the approaching darkness, even though the “albino” alligators were safely confined.

Thanks to Nelson Plumlaw and his encyclopedic knowledge of shipping and settlement practices, Nick was certain Bluemantle’s seemingly offhand mention of Bristol had been deliberate and significant.

Nick suddenly noticed, across St. Charles Avenue, Preston Nowell making his way down the steps of Gibbon Hall, the central and largest building of the august granite-faced trio marking the southern boundary of Freret University campus. Yes, even at this distance, in this light, Nick was sure it was Preston Nowell.

Nick had learned some years before from Nelson that the buildings—one of which housed Architecture—were examples of the
turn-of-the-century style known as Richardsonian Romanesque. But Gibbon Hall had been given a more descriptive nickname: “the Fortress.”

There was someone else beside Nowell, talking his ear off, it seemed to Nick—a student, a girl. A pretty young woman. Nick remembered: young minds, in the flush of discovery, innocent of the defeats, the cynicism, the backstabbing that awaited them. Not all of the streetlights were on; Nowell and the woman soon sank below the level of obscuring old azaleas.

Nick stopped jogging and walked across the grass to the gates of the park, where he took up an unobtrusive watch.

He knew the Fortress well. The Arts & Sciences dean occupied a spacious set of rooms on the main floor; the rest of the hulking edifice was devoted to history and English classrooms, and A & S senior professors’ offices. Nick recalled with fondness the dank, low-ceilinged basement classrooms where he’d taught various courses. Obviously the indefatigable Nowell had cobbled together a course definition that incorporated genealogy, and had sold his idea to a dean or department head, probably as part of Freret’s public education division, Opportunity College. Not a bad premise, really, genealogy as unifying concept in the study of history, literature, and language.

Nick saw Nowell and the woman clear the azaleas and walk along the sidewalk out of the deeper shadows of the brawny oak trees.

It was Jillian.

Nowell listened to her politely, a strained look of forbearance on his face. A few more yards and they reached Nowell’s Range Rover. A streetcar roared by, bound for downtown, and they were lost to Nick’s view.

When he could see them again, Nowell had his door open, one leg in the rover, trying to extricate himself from the conversation. Finally he nodded his head, and Jillian excitedly brought her hands together to her face, doing a little leap of happiness. Nowell had to grab her arm to keep her from straying into the steady stream of cars and SUVs.

Another streetcar, this one heading toward Carrollton, stopped to load riders. It blocked Nick’s view again. When it rolled slowly away, Nick saw Nowell craning his long neck to check on traffic, and then pull out onto St. Charles. On the door of the rover was the Society emblem.

Jillian must have boarded the streetcar, Nick realized. Yes, there she was, making her way to the back of the car, grabbing bench handles, straps, and poles for balance. She finally reached the rear driver’s area, used when the streetcar reverses course at the end of the line. She stood there, as if driving the rocking green relic forward by gazing behind, navigating in a mirror.

Nick had never noticed that streetcars at night look like illuminated coffins on wheels.

“Hey, man. You got the time?” a young drifter with stiff long hair and a wild debris-filled beard asked. In the blue gloaming, he sat against an ancient oak and cradled a battered guitar with four strings.

“Yeah,” Nick said, “1731.”

Across the street, Nelson Plumlaw sat in front of his computer. What he’d read floored him.

Thirty minutes earlier he’d finished serving on the advisory jury for a fifth-year student’s project that looked nice, but which, if built, would have collapsed within months. They had let her off gently, he and the other architecture professors; a few kind remarks would tell her what she needed to fix for the next review. The professors knew that one of their primary duties was to prevent suicides of likely providers of future alumni.

Nick’s visit that morning had started Nelson thinking. Disturbing thoughts. And after Nick had left his office, he decided to put a question to his friend in London, the manager of the bookbindery, a woman who was thoroughly familiar with English historical texts and records.

Nelson hadn’t expected so rapid a response. Twenty-eight pages had arrived while he was judging the student’s project. What was it, early morning now in London? The poor woman must have worked all night. And this material, much of it recently released by the British Foreign Office … well, it was curious, to say the least.

On his phone he punched in a number from memory.

“Hello—hello. This is Nelson. Nel-son. You must have driven into some interference. Yes, I can hear you perfectly, now. I’m fine, just fine. It’s been quite a while, yes it has. No, no,” he said, reassuringly, “that’s not why I’m calling. No horrid news of that sort, thank God! I’ve never been healthier. Listen, I know this is somewhat unexpected, but I’d like to go for a conversational sail. It’s important. Sunday good for you?” He listened for a few moments. “Dinner? Splendid idea! I’ll meet you there, with a bottle of Beefeater… . Certainly I remember where the marina is… . I’ve missed you, too.”

CHAPTER 9

S
outh of City Park there is an oak-entangled neighborhood that became in the twenties substantially what it is today. The streets are named after Homeric figures; the houses are large but restrained in design and materials, consistent with the ethos of Arts-and-Crafts architecture. In New Orleans they’re called Bungalow Style. Some of these houses are private residences, others are rental properties, and one, the largest of them all, contains the library and international headquarters of the Society of the Descendants of the Passengers of the
Allégorie.

Nick knew of the place, but had never had a reason to visit. After the affair at the Grande Marchioness, he understood why he hadn’t landed any jobs from hopeful candidates for admission to this hereditary society. Nowell had that business wrapped up, and no scraps were likely to fall to the floor for hungry independent genealogists like Nick.

This Thursday morning, he was just curious. He wanted to see what the impresario of New Orleans genealogy had produced.

The receptionist turned from her computer and greeted him in Spanish-accented English. Guatemala had been her birthplace,
he guessed, possibly Honduras; he sensed that her lineage issued from a Mayan matrix. Florita was her name. She sat within an atoll of desks, filing cabinets, and office machines at one end of a narrow, high-ceilinged room girded with wainscoting. There was an air of prosperity and efficiency about the place. Nick could smell fresh paint, and he noticed that every inch of molding gleamed with a recent, thick coat; the carpet seemed to have been installed that very day. This was no fly-by-night outfit.

The fax machine came to obstreperous life behind Florita; tongues of paper slithered out into an already full tray.

“Ay-yi-yi! All right, I hear you,” she said, scolding the machine. “That thing, it’s going crazy all morning. One of those days, you know?” She shook her head and brought her hands melodramatically to her cheeks. Her dark eyes showed Nick that she was acting for his benefit; she was obviously enjoying the tumult and the company, yet she seemed to be somewhere more pleasant in her mind. Probably in bed with her boyfriend, Nick imagined. Poor guy. There was fire in those black eyes of Florita; life with her would be exciting, exhausting, and surely fatal if her man even thought of cheating on her.

Her jacketed black pantsuit with virginal white accents would have been considered the height of propriety on any other woman; on Florita’s lanky but full-breasted bullfighter’s body it fairly smoldered with sensuality. Nick peeked over the desk and saw her precariously high heels. Could she have been the mystery woman at the hotel? he wondered. Her hair seemed too long for the role, but she could have been wearing it differently that day.

“You are not a member of the Society or a regular library patron, or else I would remember you. You are maybe a family historian?”

“A real live Certified Genealogist,
en su servicio, señorita
. I was an acquaintance, something of a colleague, of the late Dr. Bluemantle.” Nick gave her a business card, one that contained mostly the truth; he had used bogus ones in his collection to gain access to many a publicly closed or restricted facility.

Nick watched her slip his card into a drawer. “Also, I’ve been invited here by Mr. Nowell,” he said. “Good enough reasons for you, lovely Florita?”

“It’s okay, yes,” she said, appraising Nick with raised eyebrow. “Dr. Bluemantle, what a sweetheart. I liked him very much. Such a gentleman, but, ah, such a Romeo! He send me red roses. See.” She shook her head and tisked. A dozen blood-red roses in a vase behind her were beginning to curl around the edges. It had been nearly a week since Bluemantle’s death.

“Mr. Nowell, he not here right now. You wait with me, yes, if you like, okay? I do not know when he would return. If you like to go into the library, it should be please five dollars.”

She resumed her normal activities, about a hundred things simultaneously, as if Nick weren’t there.

Had she not understood that he was an invited guest? Or was she demanding the entrance fee simply in a selfish effort to keep him here with her until Nowell’s return? He wanted to explore the place but wasn’t crazy about having Nowell policing him while he did.

Nick looked in his old, cracking wallet, and to his horror saw only four ones. There was change in his pants pocket; he
could feel it. Maybe a few quarters in his old leather briefcase, which had never looked so dilapidated, it seemed to him. But he decided not to embarrass himself by scrounging and counting it out and coming up short.

Florita was watching him again. Her hand made an impatient gesture that clearly said,
Hand it over, in the wallet, whatever it is.
So he did.

“I pay the rest for you, yes?” She reached into her purse and pulled out a dollar. She rose from her chair and motioned him forward.

“You are worth a dollar. Because I think you have the hot Latin soul, like me. This dark-brown hair, these thick, strong eyebrows of the philosopher, the kind brown eyes of the priest, the full lips of the passionate lover, the pale and thin face of the dying poet. Yes, I will pay your dollar.”

He felt an El Niño of equatorial lust as she, standing close enough to tango, pinned on his visitor’s badge.

Over Florita’s shoulder, he saw a fax in a memo tray on her desk. A moving-company invoice. He could just make out the address where his old friend’s worldly goods had been delivered. A Society envelope with the word “KEYS” written on it lay on top of the fax. With a bit of subtle maneuvering, Nick placed his briefcase over the tray and scraped up the envelope, praying the keys didn’t clink.