Lost River (13 page)

"And after all that, they didn't give her a goddamn nickel."

Valentin's voice had gone brittle, and the attorney stopped to give him a probing glance. Then he said, "All right, all right, so we'll hand her a few dollars and tell her to keep her mouth shut. That's simple enough. My concern here is James. I want to make sure he and his friends aren't back over there getting in more trouble tomorrow." He paused for a reflective moment. "Especially over there. I heard some fellow got shot dead right out on Basin Street last night."

The detective was caught off guard by the change in direction and was briefly astonished by how quickly the news had traveled.

"That can't be good for business," the attorney commented.

"It doesn't help," Valentin said.

"And it's no place for these kinds of boys."

"What kind is that?"

"From good families." Ross clearly didn't like the detective's tone. "Important families. Our clients' families. That's what kind. Can you take care of it or not?"

"I can," Valentin said.

A chill passed through the room as he unfolded from the chair and made his exit.

Tom Anderson was attending to paperwork without much success, as his mind kept drifting to the death of Mr. Burton Bolls. He had stifled an urge to take a walk down Basin Street to have a look at the scene. It would only draw more attention to the crime. On the other hand, he might go unnoticed; the shadow cast by the King of Storyville didn't seem to reach so far these days.

He was staring at a sheet in the accounts book without seeing anything when Ned called him to the telephone. Leaning on the bar, he snapped it up, then closed his eyes in distress as one of his spies, a scribbler for the
Picayune,
whispered that another reporter had run down the recent havoc in the District for the afternoon paper, and that what came out wouldn't be pretty. Mr. Anderson all but threw the hand piece into the cradle. He would have a few hours of blessed peace before the afternoon papers hit the streets, and then it would become one hell of a bad day.

***

The downtown wags claimed that the Friday newspapers always came out early so that the lazy sots who wrote the drivel could get an early start on the weekend's drinking. So it was before three o'clock when the pages were pinned inside the frames on the side of the
Picayune
building and the newsboys sent up a chorus of yells as they spread like speedy mice through downtown, the Vieux Carré, and Storyville.

The article made page three under the title "
MAN SHOT DEAD IN DISTRICT.
"

Gentlemen looking for an evening of pleasure ought best consider a destination other than Storyville, according to sources in the "demimonde." In less than one week, two murders have occurred, and sources surmise that both are the work of one felon.

So far, neither Mr. Tom Anderson, nor the New Orleans Police, nor any other party has been able to ascertain the first clue as to the identity of this dastardly criminal or the reason for the crimes.

Sources state only that each body has been marked with a similar cut, a sure sign that all were committed by the same person.

Mr. Anderson and Capt. Picot at the police precinct at Parish Prison were unavailable for comment.

The last word in the story had barely left Captain Picot's lips when he was barking an order for his detectives. Weeks appeared, along with a slovenly junior officer named Trevel.

"This damned scribbler"—he snapped a glance at the newspaper—"Packer. Him. I want him arrested."

Weeks said, "On what charge, sir?"

"I don't care," Picot snarled. "Everybody's guilty of something in this damned town. If you can't think of anything, grab him and hold him for questioning."

The two policemen exchanged a look of dismay.

"Well?" Picot's voice climbed. "Get moving, goddamnit!"

Weeks and Trevel vanished.

Within a half hour, a copy of the newspaper with the article circled in black ink was placed at Mayor Behrman's elbow. Before he reached the last period, he was calling for the chief of police. Chief Reynolds arrived directly and closed the door behind him. After a few heated minutes, he was on his way again and the mayor was sending his secretary to find his special assistant Mr. Lutz.

The King of Storyville was staring at the article and muttering to himself when the call came. The man on the line identified himself as Mayor Behrman's secretary. Anderson did not miss the slight. In times past it would have been the mayor himself or at the very least a member of his senior staff.

The secretary passed along a clipped and efficient request that Mr. Anderson be available for a visit at his place of business at four o'clock that afternoon.

"A visit from who?" Anderson inquired, forcing an offhand tone.

"Mr. Roland Lutz, the mayor's executive attaché."

Anderson made a point of pausing and then clearing his throat before saying, "I'll be available to meet Mr. Lutz at five thirty." Anything less of a countermove would have been pathetic.

As if he had expected this gambit, the secretary responded prissily. "Very well, five thirty at Anderson's Café and Annex," he said, making it sound like someone else owned the place. The King of Storyville hung up the phone without another word.

Evelyne watched her husband stare forlornly into the bowl of broth before him as if he saw something grim reflected there. His bent head appeared as fragile as an eggshell, and she considered how easy it would be to crack it. She had spent more than a few idle minutes considering how best to dispatch him, though it was all in the spirit of an exercise. For the time being, she needed him; rather, she needed his money, but only until the time when her plan bore fruit. Then his shock at the realization of what she had done would be enough to kill him. She hoped so.

Malvina broke into her thoughts by laying a copy of the
Picayune
at her arm. She glanced up at the maid, wondering if the gleam in those dark eyes held some meaning. Malvina moved off before she could discover anything, and she opened the paper.

She took her time, in case the maid was lurking and watching, perusing the news on the front page, then murmuring over the Mayer Israel's display advertisement that took up most of the back page. Presently, she happened on the article about the murder in Storyville and shook her head over the bumbling of the police and Mr. Tom Anderson. It was a true wonder that the red-light district had not collapsed into chaos years ago. In any case, it was beginning to look like it was on its way there now.
So be it,
she mused.

She heard the phone ring. A few seconds later, Malvina appeared in the doorway.

"Mr. Jakes is calling for you," the maid said.

Evelyne flipped a hand. "Not now," she said.

It was four o'clock when Detective Weeks reported to Captain Picot that they had roused the
Picayune
reporter named Packer.

"He's outside," Weeks said, and jerked his head.

Picot shifted so he could see the bench near the door where suspects were held. A pudgy, greasy-looking character sat staring morosely at the floor.

"He looks unhappy."

"We pulled him out of a saloon."

"Big surprise," Picot said. "All right, bring him in. And leave him with me."

Weeks fairly shoved the reporter through the door. Packer—round of head, round of middle, round of bottom, bald, red-faced, and sweating—looked scared. This was a good thing; it meant the captain didn't have to waste time browbeating him.

He still started with a cold-eyed glare. "You're on my bad side," he began, his voice down low. "That's a place you don't want to be." He picked up the article from his top tray. "'Unavailable for comment'?"

"Well, you weren't," Packer said sulkily.

"Then you didn't try hard enough," the captain snapped back. He paused for a glowering moment. "I could stick you with the niggers in the hole downstairs and let you stew there while we make sure you haven't committed any malfeasance." He stopped again, this time to let the reporter think about it. "But I won't. On the condition that you do me a favor."

"What favor?" Packer said, his miserable gaze still fixed on the floor.

"You'll know that when I tell you. In the meantime, you can consider me a source of information at the department." He waited until the reporter met his eyes, then said, "Your
only
source for the time being. You understand?"

Picot could tell that Packer didn't like it. Too bad for him.

"Detective Weeks?" he called out. Weeks appeared in the doorway. "Please escort Mr. Packer out of the building."

Anderson knew the visit from the mayor's man was going to be delicate business and made the climb to his office carrying a cup of brandied coffee. Turning on the ceiling fan, he opened the windows wide for the air and spent a moment gazing down the line. Basin Street looked so peaceful; and yet it wasn't the first time evil had festered beneath its facade. He was recounting some of those instances when floorboards creaked out in the corridor.

The gentleman who appeared in the doorway brought a small pain to his temples and a larger thump in his chest. Though Roland Lutz had worked for Martin Behrman since the mayor had first gained his office, the man's precise duties had never been explained to the King of Storyville's satisfaction. St. Cyr had investigated and reported back that just like Tom Anderson, the mayor kept a handful of trusted aides close by. While on the payroll, they had no titles and their offices were in a rarely visited wing of City Hall.

Behrman and Lutz were both sons of German immigrant parents, and after three terms at the mayor's side, Lutz was the most senior of the mayor's aides. At least Anderson could take some comfort that Behrman hadn't sent the dogcatcher.

As always, Lutz held himself with the hunched posture of a furtive buzzard. Dressed in black even on the hottest August day, he never seemed to sweat and his demeanor remained as icy as a cadaver's. Though he reminded Anderson of a funeral director, he was in fact more executioner than mortician, sent to do the dirtiest work: threats, petty blackmail, and banishments from the inner circle at City Hall. Some men who answered his knock were said to have fallen to their knees and prayed for mercy, even though Lutz would never deign to do brute violence. A severe and fussy gentleman, he delivered sentences that were more like pinpricks laden with poison.

Of course, he had no power over a man like Anderson, and so his towering presence had no such effect. And yet his eyes were cold glass when he said, "Mr. Anderson," in his craggy voice.

Anderson said, "Mr. Lutz," in return. They had known each other for over ten years and had never advanced beyond this stiff formality.

The King of Storyville made a gesture of invitation, and Lutz settled in the chair on the other side of the desk. He offered coffee; his visitor refused politely. Anderson quaffed half the contents of his own cup, then sat down.

"Thank you for seeing me this evening," Lutz said.

"Always a pleasure," Anderson said without an ounce of conviction.

They spent a few moments trading insincerities until the King of Storyville grew impatient and said, "What can I do for you, sir?"

Lutz folded his hands into one another and said, "What's your opinion of the current state of business in the District?"

Anderson was momentarily thrown. He had expected to be grilled about the two killings. The mayor's man was on a whole other subject.

"We've had better years," he said carefully. "We've had worse."

"Most people would say better," Lutz said.

Anderson's blue gaze flicked and his cheeks reddened slightly, a reaction he would have never shown in the past. He bit down on his temper. "Is that correct? Who are 'most people'?"

Lutz backed up. "The mayor's concerned, sir. Revenues are down. Tax receipts have been in decline. The suppliers say that the District isn't doing the business it's done in the past. The mayor hears these complaints daily."

The King of Storyville didn't know whether to laugh or bark. They both knew the real subject at hand was the decline in graft money. From the lowest beat copper up to the chief, there was less payoff money this year than last. Feeling the pinch, the brass was squeezing him, so he sent this scarecrow of a man to squeeze Tom Anderson.

"And now we have these men being killed," Lutz said, his eyes unblinking. "It's a terrible situation. The mayor is concerned. We're wondering if it's time to make some changes."

Anderson had been expecting his second shot. The mayor had chosen to attack while he was weakened by the two dead bodies turning up in his territory in the space of the week. That Behrman hadn't called or made a personal visit was a way of twisting the knife.

Roland Lutz watched these thoughts brew in the King of Storyville's eyes, and, for the first time since he had crept into the room, seemed to understand that he might have crossed a line. He opened his mouth to amend his comments; Anderson got there first.

"Who is
we
?" he said in a voice that was clipped with annoyance. "And why haven't I heard this before now?" He jerked a rude thumb at the window at the street beyond. "Nobody's starving out there. The District has been a goddamn money farm for fifteen years."