Lost River (19 page)

Just as Tom Anderson had his Sunday dinner, the Basin Street madams had fallen into the habit of a regular luncheon on Monday afternoons, and always at one of the better French Quarter restaurants. Lulu White, by far the most infamous of the lot, had begun the tradition long before Anderson started his, and though the other ladies were loath to fuel her vanity, all agreed that it was a good idea, if nothing more than to present a unified front. Each madam had a measure of clout; when they acted as a group, they were formidable.

On this date Miss Lulu was joined by her archrival, Josie Arlington, Countess Willie Piazza, Miss Antonia Gonzales, and Gipsy Shafer, who had recently moved into the circle by virtue of the patronage of a certain figure in Louisiana politics.

Even though Germaine's was closed on Mondays, the dining room had been opened for the occasion, and a chef came in on his day off to treat them to a small feast. They took the same corner table that Tom Anderson and his guests had occupied the day before; though George the headwaiter had thoughtfully removed the chair that the late Laurence Deveaux had used.

They maintained an unspoken agreement to lay aside whatever feuds and grudges they might be nurturing for these hours, making for a pleasant interlude, a rest in their daily battles. The luncheon usually began with idle casual bits of news shared over beverages and salads, then moved to weightier subjects through dinner and dessert. On this Monday, however, they wasted no time with trifles. Even before the wine had been poured, Lulu White looked around the table and said, "We have a problem."

"Three men dead in the space of a week," Miss Antonia said. "Yes, I'd say so."

Josie Arlington gave a cool shrug. "But only one on Basin Street."

"One is enough," Miss Lulu retorted. "And I can spit out my back window and hit any door on Liberty and that house on St. Louis, too. It doesn't matter. Anything that scares away the customers hurts everyone."

Except for Miss Josie, who wouldn't give the madam the satisfaction, the women nodded and murmured sober agreement. Though over the years, some of the things Lulu White had said and done had been nothing short of crazy, there was also no denying that she had a remarkable head for business. Her skills were not to be taken lightly.

Antonia Gonzales tried to cut into the ice between madams White and Arlington. "I heard they found a body on Robertson Street, too."

"Robertson Street!" Miss Lulu rolled her eyes.

"In a crib owned by Mr. Honore Jacob." That brought a silence. Miss Antonia continued, "If it's true, that's four dead men found on his properties."

"Then
he's
the one with the problem," Josie Arlington said dryly.

Countess Willie Piazza had kept silent to this point. Now she said, "What about Mr. Valentin? He's been away for a long time. Do you think he can take care of it?"

"If Justine lets him," Antonia Gonzales cracked, and the women shared a laugh. They'd all had occasion to follow the drama between those two characters.

As the discussion went around the table, it was agreed that even with St. Cyr back on the scene, each house would add security. There were more than enough unemployed Mississippi toughs lounging in the District that they could each hire one who was not quite as dumb as a tree stump and could be trusted to see customers out the door and to their waiting vehicles without letting them be murdered.

That matter addressed, the madams took turns reporting on the business at their mansions. Each described a slow spring and summer, a serious decline from the previous year. They didn't need any more reasons for customers to stay away.

Though, as Countess Willie Piazza correctly stated, "Where else would they go?"

Even as they all chortled, they realized it was no joke.

"What about Mr. Tom?" Gipsy Shafer said.

"What about him?" Josie Arlington sounded just a little prickly. She had carried on an eccentric affair with Anderson, supposedly secret, though everyone in the District knew about it, including the King of Storyville's current wife, the former madam Gertrude Dix.

It was Lulu White who answered, looking Miss Josie squarely in the eye. "The question is, what's he doing about this? Why was Miss Antonia the one who brought Valentin back? Where was Anderson?" She plunged on heatedly before Josie could answer. "This is no time to kowtow to his damned pride. If he can't help, he needs to move out of the way."

It was fortunate timing that their entrées arrived, and with no small relief, they dropped the grim talk and went around the table, taking turns sharing the week's most delicious gossip.

It was late on Perrier Street when Malvina called Evelyne to the telephone. Though she kept her eyes averted, she noticed that the white woman did not speak a word after her initial greeting, only that she appeared pleased by what she'd heard from the caller.

"Mr. Jakes" called at least once a day. Whoever he was, he sounded young, and the maid assumed that Miss Evelyne had a lover. She would have been surprised if that hadn't been the case. Mr. Dallencort was twenty-some years his wife's senior and as frail as lace. His body was almost gone and his mind was not far behind. Why wouldn't a full-blooded woman of middle years want someone to pleasure her? Since her own husband had passed away, Malvina had her own gentleman friend who did just that.

Except that she never heard Miss Evelyne coo sweetly or giggle like a schoolgirl when this fellow called. Most often she was terse, whispering a few curt sentences and then clicking off. Without the slightest bit of hard evidence, Malvina understood that something strange was afoot.

This time whatever was discussed on the call put the lady of the house into a foul mood. After the call ended her mouth went tight and she paced around in silence. The maid knew better than to try and speak to her at times like this. Some minutes passed, and Malvina heard her let out a little snicker of surprise and blink as if something had just occurred to her.

With a bright smile, she said, "I'd like wine with dinner this evening, Malvina. The best bottle of burgundy in the rack."

When the word about Valentin St. Cyr made it downtown to police headquarters, the reaction was predictable: furtive whispers in hallway alcoves and behind closed doors, and none of it happy. The Creole detective was a thorn that everyone in those quarters thought had been plucked. One pillar of Tom Anderson's power and influence had been effectively removed, only to reappear, though it was true that this time St. Cyr was not in the King of Storyville's employ. Still, that he was on the scene, snooping and sniffing around, was quite enough.

For his part, Captain J. Picot threw a fit that sent his detectives and patrolmen ducking for cover. When he repeated the command that no one was to cooperate with St. Cyr, he made a point of singling out Detective McKinney with a stare of his dirty-penny eyes. Stalking back to his office, he slammed the door, rattling the windows.

The air was only slightly less tense on Spain Street. Valentin had arrived home to find Justine finally back from making market. The look she gave him when he walked in was blank, nesting somewhere between sad and angry. At least she was still there, ensconced in piles of green, red, and brown foodstuffs, and surrounded by garden smells of her country cooking. That was something of a good sign, unless it was to be his last meal.

The tension eased as they sat down to eat and then spent the evening hours idly, him reading and her sewing. They brushed past the subject of Storyville as if there was nothing to discuss. When it came time to go to sleep, he didn't have to be told to keep his hands to himself.

She knew what he had done, and he guessed that she now might be making a plan of her own. She might escape and she might stay put. Either way, she wasn't about to give him a clue. She had been a top-drawer sporting girl, which meant she was a good actress, certainly skilled enough to keep him guessing until she made her move.

William Brown greeted a sunny Tuesday morning with the relief of a man taking the final steps of a perilous journey. Once it was over, he would spend his dawns somewhere far away, hundreds of miles from there, maybe more, depending on how the trains ran east and west through the night. There was nothing but water to the south, and he wasn't about to go north. It would suit him just fine if he never saw that damned river again. Or another city, either, with the noise and filth and staring faces.

He imagined the dry flatlands to the west, and he considered the low hills of Mississippi and Alabama. Finally, he thought about the deep piney woods of north Georgia and decided that would be a fine place to disappear, now and forever. He would go up on a mountaintop and never come down again.

The same orange sun cast its rays over the town of Jackson and through the east-facing windows of the colored ward of the State Hospital. The warm patterns of light creeping up the wall as the earth turned roused one patient, then the next, and on down the ward until the noise and motion had them all up and stretching and shuffling.

Charles went to the window, as he did every morning, feeling his way along with a brush of his fingertips, first on his bed-sheets, then on the cold steel frame, then to the side table, finally on the windowsill. Gazing out, he scanned the horizon, again in vain, for the silver thread that led back to New Orleans. But the river was too far away.

If Valentin thought the worst was over, he was mistaken. He got up from what seemed a chilly bed, made the coffee, and began working on scrambled eggs diced with peppers, ham, and cheese. As soon as he heard Justine stirring, he threw the mixture into the cast-iron frying pan and began stirring with a wooden spoon. It was one of a few dishes he made with skill.

She appeared in the kitchen and took a seat at the table without a word, barely looking at him, though she did whisper a cool
thank-you
when he served her.

Over the next half hour, it dawned on him that she didn't want him there. She wore the same look on her face that she had the night before, a mask from behind which she sent out a slightly veiled message: She would prefer he cool his heels elsewhere. Making her breakfast hadn't mollified her; she saw it for the ploy that it was.

So he got dressed and out the door by nine o'clock, though he had no particular place to go. Most of uptown was still in bed. And except for Frank Mangetta, any friend he might have visited had left town. Ferd LeMenthe, or "Jelly Roll Morton," as he chose to be called, was off in Chicago playing his music and wooing the girls with his fancy-man charm. Bellocq the photographer had fallen ill and was in the care of his brother, a priest in Metairie. And, of course, Buddy Bolden was locked away in Jackson.

The thought of Bolden brought another flush of guilt. What to do about him? What if, for reasons Valentin couldn't fathom, his old friend was waiting for his visit? Common sense and past history told him that couldn't be, but still it niggled. Why now, after almost six years of silence?

Walking on, the detective decided that whatever the reason, it would have to wait. There were too many other troubles resting in his lap. He'd get to the hospital and Bolden soon enough. Or so he told himself.

He strolled to Chartres Street and stood on the corner watching the morning traffic, the streetcars and hacks and an ever-growing swarm of bouncing, rattling, smoking trucks and automobiles. In years before, when he had lived in the flat on Magazine, and during the months when he had stayed in the room over Mangetta's Saloon, he would start his days with a cup of coffee and the morning paper in a café or in one of the parks, a small ritual.

Now he'd feel uneasy doing even that; it would be an admission that he had surrendered what little was left of his former life. Though if Justine didn't let up on him, he reflected gloomily, he might as well move back to Mangetta's.

So he walked, one habit from the past that did not stir any guilt. Over the years he had easily paced off the entire city of New Orleans, from the river to the lake, from Metairie to Gretna, and more than once. When that wasn't enough, he took the ferry to the other side and walked some more. The only places he avoided were the First and Liberty neighborhood where he had grown up and the town of Algiers, where he had shot a man dead seven years before. That the cardsharp and gutbucket player McTier had deserved it didn't signify.

As the morning warmed, he continued west, in the general direction of Jackson Square, where there was bound to be something to divert him, even at that early hour.

Evelyne stepped into the small office off the foyer from where she ran the affairs of the home and closed the door behind her.

Malvina had placed the last two days' mail in a neat stack on the rolltop desk, and Evelyne sat down and began working through the pile. She knew without looking that most of the envelopes contained invitations to this event or that: a charity ball, an afternoon tea, a concert at the Opera House followed by a reception. There were nearly a dozen of them, and she dropped each one into the wastebasket. She would not be attending any events and wasn't going to bother with RSVPs, either. By the time the affairs rolled around, none of the upstanding ladies hosting them would want her anywhere near. She would be a pariah, shunned—this time by choice.

She imagined how their faces would pinch, aghast with disapproval. They would gasp, hands to their breasts, barely able to stutter out the volumes of gossip!
I always knew there was something about her. She never belonged...