Lost River (22 page)

Each frowned. "What about me?"

"I need you traveling between those corners," the detective said. "The last thing we want is one of these characters falling asleep or deciding he's had enough and going home." It was a sly appeal to Each's sense of authority, and a way of placing him in danger.

"Can you help me?" Valentin said.

Each sniffed gravely and impaled a slice of sausage as if he was spearing the perpetrator dead in his tracks. "This fellow's as much as finished," he said.

Valentin walked in a little after five o'clock, having made his rounds and left messages for the men he would need for the night's work.

Justine greeted him curtly and asked if he was hungry. He told her he had taken a late lunch in the city, which irked her. She had been looking forward to not cooking his dinner and had to settle for serving cool looks and a colder shoulder. He got the message and kept his head down and eyes averted like a dog caught killing chickens.

It didn't make her feel any better. Beneath her anger at his foolishness was the return of an old fear from their years on Magazine Street when he ventured out after some evildoer. Wondering if this was the night that his fabled skills would fail him, or if he would just get unlucky and end up dead, leaving her alone and grieving. Along with the dread had come the secret, shameful notion that it would also bring a certain relief because she would never have to go through it again.

It was all the worse this time because he was nervous, too. He'd been out of the game for so long that he had to be wondering if he had gone soft working for the hoity-toity lawyers on St. Charles.

In any case, he wasn't the type to sit around fretting over it. She heard him moving about in the bedroom and pictured him opening the dresser drawer to retrieve his weapons: the Iver Johnson pistol in its oily cloth, the leather-wrapped whalebone sap that he tucked in the back pocket of his trousers, and the stiletto in the sheath strapped to his ankle. She had watched him perform the ritual a hundred times. He was always so meticulous about donning the tools of his trade that it reminded her of a priest at Mass.

She heard the drawer close and he was standing in the doorway, wearing the expression that told her his thoughts had turned to what was waiting twelve blocks away. Though he was ready to go, he waited to see what she would do.

What she did was treat him to a long look. "I guess I shouldn't stay up for you," she murmured.

"It's likely to take all night."

"And how long until it's over?"

"Not long. This one's a fool. Hell, Each almost caught him in the act." He paused, then said, "I intend to finish it tonight."

"You promise?"

Before he could come up with an answer, she had stepped into the bedroom and closed the door.

Valentin remembered reading how some wild animals could maneuver by smells that had been on the ground for weeks. And so it was for him with Storyville. Walking the streets, he happened upon landmarks, one after the next. He saw a familiar cellar door here and a hitching post there. He passed a storefront that hid a fencing operation and a laundry that stayed busy long into the night as an opium den. He could still locate loose bricks where contraband might be hidden.

As the sun was going down, he made a complete circuit of the front blocks of the District, ambling along Basin Street all the way to St. Louis Cemetery No. 2, then coming around on Franklin to Canal. He covered Liberty, Marais, and Villere in this manner, with jaunts up and down the crossing streets of Iberville, Bienville, and Conti. It took up the better part of two hours, and when he was finished, he had a sense of reclaiming his turf. He had drawn Storyville about him like a well-worn suit of clothes.

At that moment Honore Jacob was making his rounds, letting himself be seen perched high up in the backseat of his Buick like some lord. Louis was driving and looking none too thrilled about it. He would have preferred a racier roadster over the heavy, slow phaeton, but it was better than a carriage.

At the father's direction, they passed all of their properties except for the line of cribs on Robertson, then made a final pass down Basin Street.

Louis's eyes flicked at the facades of the mansions, back in business without a worry in the world. When they reached the corner of St. Louis and the white walls of No. 2, he swung the big polished wood wheel, and they crossed the tracks to return to the French Quarter.

The car came to a stop on Royal, and Honore climbed down with some difficulty, instructing his son to take the Buick to the garage on the corner of Chartres Street.

Louis nodded, drove off, and once his father was out of sight, took a turn and made his way to the river and then along Decatur Street. At the intersection of Spain Street, he pulled to the curb and hopped down to the banquette. With the falling night as cover, he made his way two blocks up and stood across from the building with the number 627 on the doorframe. There was a light in the front window, and after a few minutes, he saw a silhouette pass by.

Justine wanted nothing less than to spend the evening thinking about Valentin prowling Storyville and was glad that Tuesday was the night she posed at the university.

She took another bath to wash away the day's sweat and put on a clean camisole and drawers under a day dress. She tied her hair into a long Indian braid and picked a boater from a peg on the wall next to the front door. Standing before the mirror, she was pleased by the image she presented, a young woman of color in common clothes. No one passing on the street would imagine where she was bound.

The day was fading as she stepped onto the banquette to begin a slow five-block stroll to the streetcar stop on Esplanade.

She sensed his presence before she saw him and so was not surprised when he materialized out of the shadows across the street. Without a word, she continued along the banquette in the direction of Elysian Fields, her only giveaway a quick sweep to make sure the street was empty of any nosy witnesses. And so it was, as Louis Jacob stepped into the street and closed at a gentle angle to intercept her.

By the time she reached the corner of Marigny, she decided she'd had enough of his gambit and turned around, surprising him. He stopped and raised his hands, and in the next moment his gaze raked her again from hips to shoulders and to face, which he found set in a frown of displeasure.

She wasn't about to break the silence and stood glaring until he said, "Excuse me," a weak entrée.

"What are you doing here?" she said.

"I'd like to offer you a ride."

Justine was confounded, wondering if somehow he knew of her destination. She watched him for another few seconds, then looked around deliberately. "Ride in what?"

"It's down around the corner," he said, and pointed. When she didn't move, he said, "Do you really want to spend an hour in streetcars on a night like this?"

His appeal to common sense caused her to laugh lightly. Before she could refuse him, he started backing away. "I'll go fetch it," he said. "If you want to wait for me, it will be my pleasure to carry you wherever it is you need to go. If not..."

He smiled his pretty smile and was around the building on the corner before she could stop him.

In fact, she didn't want to. Along with a girlish wish to be pampered, she considered the three rickety, rattling cars that would be required to get her to the end of St. Charles Avenue. And she was curious about the game this dandy was playing. He could no doubt bed younger, prettier girls if he put his charm to work. Or he could afford the company of an octoroon from one of the Basin Street mansions. And yet he had come buzzing around her...

She was caught in the glare of headlights as the automobile pulled up. The Buick sported a huge windshield trimmed in gold plate, like all the metal moldings and fixtures. The steering wheel was made of polished hardwood, and Louis's gloved hands lay on it easily. In one jump he was at her side and helping her up into the high seat.

"Where to this evening?" he said.

"St. Charles," she said. "To Tulane."

"Avenue?"

"University."

He didn't inquire why she wanted to ride all the way to the west side of the city and the venerated college with its green lawns, live oaks, and stone buildings. He simply nodded and put the transmission in gear.

Tall windshield or no, it was breezy at that speed, and she took a moment arranging her shawl to cover her throat and then patting her hat to make sure it wouldn't blow off.

She had never been one to care about wealth, having seen enough to know that it meant little except that a man had a certain knack for collecting money. Too often a gentleman was so intent on his riches that he cared nothing for anything else. Still, she was not immune when money was coupled with charm. This fellow Louis, at least six years her junior, was turning it on, all languid and flirtatious as he tried to snare her in a sweet trap. It was a ridiculous ploy that she could see, and yet she was riding across town with him like some debutante.

Lost in these thoughts, it took her a minute to notice that he had turned north instead of south along the river.

He caught her questioning look and said, "We've got time to spare," and before she could stop him, he had turned onto Basin Street.

They motored along the boulevard, passing the first of the mansions, the firehouse, French Emma Johnson's, Fewclothes Cabaret, and then the top of the line: Mahogany Hall, Countess Piazza's, and Antonia Gonzales's. (Did he slow down or was that her imagination?) She kept her gaze averted.

The Buick settled to a stop for the crossing traffic at the corner of Iberville, and she saw Louis gazing intently at the facade of Anderson's Cafe. The intersection cleared, he pushed the accelerator handle, and the car lurched forward. A minute later they turned into the steady flow on Canal Street, and then right again onto St. Charles. Neither one of them spoke until they crossed over Poydras, and Louis smiled and said, "Nice evening for a ride," all idle and innocent.

The trees had begun to shed their leaves, and as they drove along the boulevard, the big tires kicked up little tempests of red and gold that swirled beneath the streetlights. It was an entrancing sight, and Justine was dazzled.

It lasted only another block. Crossing Nashville Avenue, the line of trees and tempests of leaves gave way, and the old stone facades of first Loyola and then Tulane came into view. Justine directed Louis around the corner at Audubon Place. College boys strolling on the banquettes stopped to stare at the fine automobile, some no doubt noting that the driver was about their age.

She asked him to turn on Broadway and then stop at the corner of Plum Street.

"This is fine," she said, and lifted her skirts to climb down.

He hopped onto the running board and arrived on her side in time to lend a hand. With her elbow resting in his palm, he looked about the street and said, "Here?"

"I'm not going far," she said. "Thank you for the ride."

Louis studied her face for a few seconds, as if trying to read something there. She was giving nothing away, and he released her arm, tipped his hat, and ambled around to the driver's side.

Justine arranged her shawl and started down the narrow avenue. She didn't turn or even steal a glance back when she heard the sound of gears engaging and the Buick rolling away over the cobbles.

Having him deposit her on that corner was no ruse. Given the nature of her visit, she was required to arrive by a back street. Though not a secret, the class she visited was also not advertised in the catalog of courses. Only senior classmen were allowed to enroll, by invitation by the professor and with the permission of their parents.

As usual, one of the students was waiting on the winding walk to escort her inside. He held the basement door open and then accompanied her along the corridor to the professor's cramped office and workroom, which in turn was attached to the studio.

Professor Deville—a small, round, bearded man of seventy-one—had been a caller when she first arrived at Miss Antonia's. She had been surprised when he told her that he taught drawing classes at the university, and flattered when she saw how his artist's eye admired her figure. All the more so when he proposed that she pose for his master class.

During her first two visits, she sat on the stool in a camisole-like affair of thin, clinging silk called a "chippie." For her third session, she settled herself and then removed her wrap to reveal that she was naked underneath. To their credit, the young men gaped only briefly, then resumed their sober expressions. Though of course the professor was standing by, watching for juvenile mischief.

A young woman posing nude was a scandalous secret that the university officials chose to ignore. It had been going on for over three years, and no one had made them stop.

Professor Deville offered Justine the customary cup of tea, and they chatted for a few moments. The old man detected something distracting her this evening but was too much the gentleman to pry. When she finished her tea, he opened the door to the dressing room that was really just a large closet. She emerged a few minutes later, wrapped in a clean sheet and her feet bare, and the two of them passed through the door and into the studio.