Lost River

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN HARCOURT
BOSTON
•
NEW YORK
2009

Copyright © 2009 by David Fulmer

All rights reserved

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book
write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company,
6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

www.hmhbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Fulmer, David.
Lost river/David Fulmer.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. St. Cyr, Valentin (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Police—
Louisiana—New Orleans—Fiction. 3. New Orleans (La.)—Fiction.
4. Prostitutes—Fiction. 5. Creoles—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3606.U56L67 2009 813'.6—dc22 2008012619
ISBN 978-0-15-101187-2

Text set in Sabon
Designed by Cathy Riggs

Printed in the United States of America

DOC
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

In memory of Randall D. Stephens
1934–2002.
My teacher.

Fragment found during renovations in 1939 at the Louisiana State Hospital for the Insane.

No one called him Buddy. No one called him Kid. No one called him King. They called him
Charles,
if they spoke to him at all. That was his given name: Charles Jr. When the attendants in their frocks and the doctors in their white coats spoke his name, that's what they used.

Though more often than not, he didn't hear, his mind resting in a blank and serene place. Except for those rare moments when lightning would flash, the thunder rumbled, and a blue luminance glowed along the horizon of his memory. Then the pictures would come to life: a curve of brass glimmering off hot lights, the wild and hungry faces, then bodies of midnight black, fair brown, and light coffee writhing in electric animation, as others stretched all languid on divans draped with shawls embroidered with flowers and vines and exotic birds. He could hear the crazy dervish dance of the horns, the treble slap of the guitar, the hollow thump of a bass fiddle, percussion knocking and jangling along, and behind it all, the shouts of all the drunken dancers.

Go, Kid, go!

How they loved him! Loved the way he prowled the stage, loved the delirious flash of his eyes under the red lights, loved the fast train he drove through the bell of his horn, loved the way he filled the night with sound and motion so loud and busy that they'd never forget.

They did, though. Yes, they did. Forget. The noise would fade into silence as the light shifted to a pale midday gray, and he'd find himself alone again.

Passing so unnoticed, all but invisible, he overheard voices that carried secrets, read the stories in curious charades, saw mischief in the way eyes shifted and lips curled. The patients and their guests and the hospital people didn't know they were putting on a play for an audience of one. Much of what he saw and heard was wallpaper and stale air, anyway, foolish words falling down as thin and dry as so many leaves on an autumn breeze.

Then, later one evening, a name emerged from the noise. His ears perked as the name was repeated, followed by something about being
gone and not coming back no more.
Feeling the gaze of dense black eyes, they stopped talking and turned his way.

Don't worry about him,
the patient said.
Man don't hear nothing. Don't see nothing. Don't remember a damn thing.

He did, though. He did. Remember. So he held fast to the name after they'd moved away, and momentarily he spoke it out:
Valentin.

In the autumn of 1913, the view from the trains pulling into New Orleans' Union Station was the panorama of Basin Street, the mainline of the red-light district that went by the sobriquet of "Storyville."

It was a beehive all through the week, more so on weekends, as cars disgorged eager customers by the hundreds, and carriages and touring cars turned the corner to deposit the higher rollers onto the same banquettes.

The kitchens in the grand mansions and the better saloons simmered with heat and motion while bottles and glasses clinked as merrily as bells. Smoke filled the air of every room, mingling with the aromas of whiskey and cheap perfumes. Walls echoed with music, chatter, and laughter. Behind it all were sly looks and thin smiles as the chickens were plucked, one after the next.

Storyville was an economy of sin, and a good two-thirds of the devil's wages arrived between Friday afternoon and Sunday morning. With the paid services of two thousand prostitutes, the sales of liquor and food, and the take at the gambling tables, "the District" generated a small fortune every weekend.

Friday nights were raucous with the release of energies that had been pent up through the workweek. Saturday morning brought more business, mostly country lads off the early trains. Late afternoon took a small pause, a collective breath. Men with families rode the streetcars home to dinner with their wives and children. The rounders who had lolled away the daylight hours with a favored sporting girl now took their time dressing for the evening's drinking and gambling, done up in the finest—suits and vests with gold chains—that those same women had paid for. A straight razor or small pistol and a card of hop or envelope of cocaine disappeared into this pocket or that. Meanwhile, the day cooks and maids and invisible others who worked backstage at this tawdry carnival got to lay their burdens down for a few blessed hours.

The sporting girls at the better houses usually joined the madam for an early dinner, after which they would bathe and douse their bodies with powder, perfume, and paint, readying themselves for the first visitors. Because most of the customers chose to appear at twilight, the women liked the autumn and the spring months the best. It was still warm enough to keep it busy, and they could get an earlier start.

The women in the Basin Street bordellos could count on the fingers of one hand the number of gentlemen they would host. The prettiest of the octoroons and quadroons might entertain only one fellow all night long. Some especially well-heeled types kept a woman on retainer for weeks or months at a time. A lucky, lovely few got to leave for good and become the lifelong mistresses of men of wealth.

That only happened to doves at the best addresses. The deeper into the District, the faster and cheaper the action, until it reached rock bottom with the Robertson Street crib whores, those filthy, drunken, degenerate sluts who would do anything for a price.

All the while, the money dropped like steady rain until dawn on Sunday, when the last of the customers went away and the whole of the District heaved a long, weary sigh.

***

The madam had gone by many names. Presently, she was using Mary Jane Parker. She had been a fair prostitute until she lost an eye and some of her scalp in a fight with a jealous, razor-toting rival. Now a madam, she was burdened for life with a patch and a variety of colorful wigs to hide the wounds of that epic battle. Her rival fared worse, as dead as the fellow who lay at the precise center of her fancy parlor floor rug.

The day maid had come barging into her room a little past five. The girl had been on her way to open the front door for the couple who did the cleaning when she happened to glance into the parlor. She took a half-dozen steps forward, then did a quick backpedal. Leaving the Negro couple on the gallery, she scurried upstairs, rushed into the room without knocking, and shook the madam awake. Miss Parker's good eye flared and she was about to treat the stupid girl to a healthy slap when something about a man lying dead in the parlor broke through the babble. The madam rolled out of bed, drew on her dressing gown, and went down to see for herself.

She stood in the archway and gazed at the body of Mr. Allan Defoor for a fretful half minute. He was a small-boned and dapper fellow of middle age who sported a delicate mustache, pointed beard, and thin blondish hair cut short. He was dressed in his usual sober three-piece. In one outstretched hand, he gripped a silver cane at a jaunty angle, his dead fingers folded into the crook. The wound was apparent, a hole directly above his heart, about the size of a .22-caliber slug.

Though not a man of wealth or importance, Mr. Defoor had been a regular and a decent spender in his own quiet way. Miss Parker vaguely recalled some gossip about family money, most of it gone. The victim did not have a reputation for abusing drink or dope and had always been a gentleman with the girls.

Not that it mattered anymore. Staring up at the chandelier with blue, unblinking eyes, Mr. Allan Defoor appeared calm, as if ending up dead on the carpet came as no surprise. For her part, the madam
was
baffled; she had no recollection of seeing him on the premises that evening.

Her first thought was that something had gone wrong, that one of the girls had done the violence. It happened; all she had to do was look in a mirror to be reminded that sporting women in even the finest bordellos could be vicious. Though Mr. Defoor wasn't exactly the type they'd fight over.

Stepping closer to stand over the body, she noticed that the blood that had stained Defoor's coat, vest, and shirt was dry. Indeed, not a single drop had splotched her fine rug. In the next instant, she realized that the poor man hadn't met his end there at all; at least not in her parlor. He had been killed elsewhere and then dumped.

She called to the maid, who had remained in the foyer, too spooked by the corpse to draw any closer, and sent the girl upstairs to rouse the rest of the women. It took another ten minutes to rouse the six sleepy carcasses from their beds. One by one, they appeared on the stairwell, grousing curses until they saw the body. Three of them crossed themselves and the other three whispered prayers.

"You see Mr. Defoor?" Miss Parker demanded once they were all assembled. "That's right, he's dead." The madam made an impatient sound. "Come on, now. What happened?"

The women on the stairs looked at each other.

"He wasn't in at all," Mary, who was the oldest of the staff, volunteered. "He ain't been around in maybe a week." The others murmured assent.

"He—," Miss Parker began, and then stopped, her good eye glaring as she went from one face to the next. She detected nothing devious, and her thoughts turned to which vile bitch in which other house hated her enough to pull such a macabre stunt. After fuming for a few moments more, she sent the girls back to their rooms, ordering them to stay in unless they were called. No one needed urging.

Once they were gone, Miss Parker beckoned to the maid once more.

"Run down to Basin Street," she whispered. "Go to Antonia Gonzales's and see if they can tell you where to find a Creole fellow, name of St. Cyr." She said the name the American way using
saint,
rather than the French
sawn-sear.
"The one used to work for Tom Anderson. Him."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You find him and tell him I need him here. Right quick."

The maid gave a hurried nod and bolted, only too happy for an excuse to vacate the premises. After the door slammed, Miss Parker bent down and folded the carpet over poor Mr. Defoor's body, then went into her office to call the police.

It took another forty-five minutes for two patrolmen and a detective to arrive on the scene. The coppers milled about, accomplishing nothing save to drink every drop of coffee in the kitchen. The detective, whose name was Weeks, studied Defoor, examined the wound in his chest, and questioned the madam, all without much interest. This was no Basin Street mansion.