Lost River (38 page)

She caught the rustle of movement and glanced over her shoulder to see the pistol hanging loose in his hand, but pointed her way all the same.

It didn't surprise her. He was a strange man, handsome as a picture, and yet she had sensed that he was little more than an actor playing roles, one after another. Now she wondered if his next one would include trying to take by force what he couldn't get with charm. It had happened to her, as it had to most women of meager means. Men had their way; but she had fought off better ones than he. She wished she'd picked up one of the knives.

She kept her eyes averted, lest he see what she was thinking. "What do you want?"

"I just need to stay. That's all."

"For how long?"

"Not long. A little while."

"You couldn't just ask? You had to draw a pistol?"

"You would have said no."

She nodded gravely. "That's true."

He didn't seem to know what to do next. Justine watched him as he thought for a moment, then stood up, leaned to the window, and peered along Spain Street.

"Are you expecting someone?" She hoped to keep him talking.

"
Someone?
" He produced the sly smile of a child with a secret. "Yes, I am."

"Who?"

He shrugged blithely. "You'll see soon enough."

Justine watched his face as he spoke the words and had to make an effort to control a tingle of fear.

"Please sit down," he said, keeping the pistol fixed directly on her heart.

One of the officers rapped on Captain Picot's door to tell him the chief of police was on the line. The captain snatched up the receiver.

"Yes, Chief?"

"I understand you have a damned army out hunting St. Cyr."

"Yes, sir, I do," Picot said crisply. "I'm sure he's still in the city, and he'll show up in Storyville, sooner or later. He's too smart to go back to Spain—"

"And then what?" Reynolds cut in.

"Then what?" Picot didn't understand. "Then we arrest him and throw him in jail for the—"

"I don't want him arrested and thrown in jail, Captain."

For a few crazy seconds, Picot wondered if the chief had just given him an order to do away with the Creole detective. In the next moment, he was stunned to discover that what Reynolds wanted was exactly the opposite.

"Pull your men off," the chief of police said in a clipped tone. "I want him out on the street."

Picot swallowed, tasted a bitter pill. "But there's a murder warrant out on him."

"Consider it lifted," Reynolds snapped back. "That goes for that kid who runs with him. What's his name?"

"Each," Picot said faintly.

"Him, too. Leave him be. So maybe we can get all this business settled tonight." Then, in an almost regretful tone, the chief said, "Jesus, how did it come to this?"

Picot had some ideas, but the chief would have no interest in his opinions, so he kept his mouth shut. He was too busy trying to think of a way to shore up a tumbling house of cards.

The pronounced silence caused Reynolds to say, "Do we understand each other, Captain?"

"Yes, sir." Picot's voice was hollow.

"Then see to it." The line went dead.

Captain Picot stared out the window for a grueling half minute before calling Detective Weeks into his office to inform him that the arrest warrant on Valentin St. Cyr had been vacated and that the Creole detective and his young friend Each were no longer identified as fugitives from justice. He waved his astonished subordinate out of the room, asking that he close the door behind him.

Thomas had only a vague sense of the machinery that had been grinding on around him, but it was dawning on him that it was bad news. Like his mama had always said, it was
white folks' business and none of ours.

He could see in her eyes that she knew this time Miz Evelyne was up to no good, and it wasn't just some fancy man she brought indoors when she thought everyone except her poor, sick old husband was out. This was something else, something that caused Malvina to whisper a fierce reminder that he was by no means to get in the middle of anything that came out of that crazy woman's head.

But that's exactly what happened when his employer sent him first to Storyville to find a young rounder who went by the moniker Each and carry him to wherever he wanted to go. Which happened to be Brown Bottom, just about the worst damn corner of the city of New Orleans. He parked the Winton in front of a run-down shithole of a shack, one hand on the gearshift lever and the other on the accelerator handle, ready to fly away from that filthy warren at a second's notice. Doing the lady's bidding was one thing; getting murdered in some foul alley was another entirely.

Before anything happened, though, Each emerged with a stalking companion who kept his head down and his mouth closed. Thomas knew without asking that he was doing exactly what his mama told him not to do, and was now tangled up in some kind of awful, bloody business that was none of
his.

Still, like too many young men he was attracted to trouble, and did what Miss Evelyne said. After the Creole and his partner reappeared from the Banks' Arcade building, he followed them on foot to Canal Street. That was as far as he went with it. His gut told him that things were about to get way out of hand, that maybe people were going to die this night, and that if he took another step, he'd be in too deep to get himself unstuck. He'd either be part of a crime of some sort or the victim of one.

So instead of obeying the rest of what the white woman ordered, he watched as Each crossed Canal into the Quarter and the other one lingered briefly before heading off along Decatur Street, then he turned around and started walking west away from downtown at a fast clip. He did not look back.

After the Creole detective and his partner left, and she'd sent the other one on his little errand, Evelyne spent some moments with bitterness twisting her stomach and tasting bile in her throat.

For a brief moment, she thought she truly had St. Cyr convinced, that he saw the sense of her arguments and agree that it would be best for everyone to go along. There would be no more bodies on the Storyville streets. The District's downward spiral would halt, and a new scarlet world would rise, as grand as the streets of light on the Continent or the willow quarters in Japan.

Then she caught a look in his eye and knew she'd been mistaken about him. He was good, as clever a man as she'd ever met, but she struck his Achilles' heel when she mentioned
Justine,
and just like that, she lost him. No matter what came out of his mouth from that moment on, she knew he'd be false. He had no intention of helping her push Tom Anderson aside—kill him, if need be—and assume control of those twenty square blocks.

Standing at the window and looking down on Magazine Street, she allowed her nerves to calm. She was not so foolish to have not prepared for such a betrayal. St. Cyr had been given his one chance and missed it. Too bad for him; she had others to carry out her plans. That they were not so clever meant they didn't have the wits to commit treachery.

Of course, St. Cyr would rush to Spain Street to save his woman instead of going to Tom Anderson to petition him on her behalf. He might send his young friend, but the police would be looking for that fellow, too, so there was a good chance he'd never manage to warn Anderson of what was coming. It wouldn't matter if he did. The King of Storyville's fate was sealed, as was that of Mr. St. Cyr, his quadroon Justine, and even Louis Jacob.

The Creole detective was the only one she'd miss.

But she had offered an olive branch, and he had spit on it. Now it would take more killings to settle the problem. This would be for the best, and she was sure everyone would understand that soon enough.

Justine and Louis sat in silence for long minutes as the clock on the wall ticked on toward twelve. She kept her eyes fastened on the carpet beneath her feet. She had no idea how close to an edge he might be and didn't want to take a chance on pushing him over it.

She spent some of the silent seconds cursing the Creole detective for what seemed the hundredth time. It was during one of these exercises that she decided to speak up.

"What about Valentin?" she asked.

"What about him?" Louis smiled indulgently, irking her.

"Do you know something or not?"

His eyes were lazy. "I know that Mr. St. Cyr has made an arrangement with my associate."

"Oh? Who would that be?"

"You'll find out soon enough."

"What kind of ... arrangement?"

Louis was as pleased as a child with a secret to divulge. "He's been offered a chance to go back to work in Storyville, but not under Mr. Tom Anderson. He's finished over there. The red-light district will be under new management from now on." He sat forward intently, now like a drummer selling soap. "Anderson will be replaced, and it will be like it was before. When it was doing well." He cocked an eyebrow. "You remember. When you were working there."

She didn't understand and treated him to a dubious gaze.

"You can believe it," he said.

"You're telling me that Valentin is going to help your..."

"Associate."

"Help this person replace Tom Anderson?"

"That's correct."

"He wouldn't."

"Oh, he will. He has to. If he wants to keep you alive. You're his marker."

Justine drew back, frowned. "What's that mean?"

Louis was deliberate. "It means that he's trading Mr. Tom Anderson for you."

After a moment Justine smiled slightly. "Is that what he said? I mean, you heard him say those words?"

Louis recoiled slightly. "He said them. That's all you need to know." He tilted his head toward the telephone on its stand. "I'll be getting a call here before midnight, telling me whether or not it's all settled."

"And what if it's not?"

"If it's not..." Louis leaned back and turned his face away from her. "That would be too bad for you."

Each came around Union Station and stood alongside the terminal, peering across the tracks and Basin Street at the facade of Anderson's Café. Though it was a quiet night, he saw beat cops on the banquette, three on the two opposite corners, plus another fellow who stood in front of Hilma Burt's in a suit that fit so badly that he could only be one of Picot's detectives.

As he watched and waited for a chance to steal across the street, a third patrolman approached at a fast clip from the direction of Iberville Street.

With such a crowd of blue about, there was no way he could make a dash for the Café door or even manage to slip around the Bienville side to the rear entrance. He was considering how to best circle the District to get inside when he was startled by a loud whistle. Abruptly, the three uniformed cops directly across from him turned and hurried to join the detective and the officer who had just arrived from Miss Burt's.

For a panicked second, Each thought someone had alerted them and that they were about to turn as one to surround and grab him. He was taking a first step backward and out of sight when they did move, though not in his direction. Instead, the four marched directly up Basin Street past the Café and to Canal, where they rounded the corner, heading north.

Each poked his head out to see other shapes moving as the cops who had been posted down the line began strolling off. He waited another minute and then ambled unmolested across the street and through the front doors of the Café.

It was quiet, with no more than a handful of sports lolling about. One sharp sat alone at a table, playing solitaire, and he could hear the gentle slap of the cards.

He asked for Mr. Anderson and was told that the proprietor was in his upstairs office, but was expecting company directly. Each said he would wait, wandered away from the bar, and crossed the floor as if looking for someone he might recognize. There was a quiet game of faro going on at one of the tables, and he headed over to watch the action. By this time the bartenders had forgotten him, and he turned abruptly to make a dash to the kitchen doors before anyone noticed.

With no one dining, the kitchen was even more deserted. Each saw at a glance that the back doors were open and the cooks were standing on the dock, smoking and talking as they gazed up at the night sky. He cut through to the downstairs corridor and then up the stairwell to the second floor.

As soon as he reached the landing, he heard an angry snarl. Mr. Anderson was arguing with someone, and when Each didn't hear a second voice, he realized the King of Storyville was on the telephone. He didn't want to just stand there, so he made some noise along the hall before stepping to the doorway and reaching out to rap his knuckles on the jamb.

Anderson turned, glaring, then saw who it was and waved him inside. He turned back to cut off the party on the other end of the line.

"You tell His Honor the mayor that the game has changed," he snapped into the mouthpiece. "We're going to put things back the way they were, and that means St. Cyr, too. You tell him that if he wants to discuss it any further, I'll be right here. I'm not going anywhere."

He banged the handset into the cradle. He shot a look at his visitor. "Where's Valentin?"