Madam (15 page)

“Ferdinand, everythin’s got two parts. You think your talent be solely the grace of God? Naw, my son, there’s gotta be a spark o’ the Devil to make it smolder like that. I saw to it.”

Her words didn’t console him. Instead, prickly shivers climbed up his spine. “What does that mean?” he asked. “You and the Devil had a little talk about me?”

“It means to trust in Eulalie Echo, who always does what’s best for you.”

Eulalie raised her cup. “Say a prayer,” she instructed.

Ferdinand’s stomach churned at the notion of praying to a Voodoo god; and yet, it was his feet that had brought him here. His mother had believed wholeheartedly in Eulalie’s powers; his Papa had detested the crazy-eyed bat. Ferdinand hated that he languished in the middle—detesting yet craving her magic. It was almost as if she had a spell over him, drawing him back each time he swore not to return.

She stared at him with her focused amber eye as her steaming cup hovered in the air, waiting for his to rise so they could join in prayer. Slowly, he lifted his cup.

“
He-ron mande. He-ron mande,
” she chanted. “
Do se dan, do-go.
Stand proud, Ferdinand. Mistah Crow will come and go.
Canga ki, canga li.
Now drink.”

She gulped down her cup, while Ferdinand stared at the muddy broth, hoping his own personal darkness would one day pack up and go as well.

“Drink, child!” Eulalie commanded, as if the spell wouldn’t seal until he’d ingested the concoction.

Wincing, he forced himself to knock it back. It tasted like twigs and castor oil and burned on the way down.

C
HAPTER NINE

T
he last of the party guests had finally trickled out from the judge’s mansion—that is, all but for Alderman Sidney Story. The judge had successfully maneuvered Story to the door, but had yet to figure out how to get him through it without a shove.

“Voting for containment is the only realistic answer, Judge—”

“If there’s a God in heaven, enough, Alderman. Please, just let a man enjoy the soothing effects of his liquor at this late hour.”

Story’s eyes were steely. “Surely my plan to control vice in this city is slightly more important than Your Honor’s degree of crapulence.”

At this, Beares seemed to inflate, his eyes, his cheeks growing wide with fury. He’d been bumbling around like an obsequious idiot, trying to save face with the alderman, but now he’d had it. “You, sir, have long overstayed your welcome! And you know what else you’ve done? I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you what you’ve done. You’ve strengthened my resolve, thank you very much. You know what that means?”

Story cowered, not even venturing to blink at the spit cascading over his face.

“It means,” Beares continued, pushing an index finger into Story’s chest, “that you will
not
have my vote on Monday! Now, once and for all, good night!” He slammed the door in Story’s face.

Story blinked back his disbelief as he eyeballed the big brass door knocker. Just then, he heard from inside a high-pitched wail: “My lovely! Oh where are you?” Story felt his stomach lurch. With trembling hands, he pulled a worn Bible from his breast pocket. He quickly thumbed through the pages, reaching the passage he desired. He read aloud: “‘I know your works, your toil and your patient endurance, and how you cannot bear evil men. I know you are enduring patiently and bearing up for my name’s sake, and you have not grown weary.’” He bowed his head. His voice quivered with fierceness. “Lord, my Lord, I have not grown weary!”

It was, indeed, that the door had barely clicked shut before the judge was bolting up the stairs just as fast as his stubby, drunken body could take him, undoing the buttons of his vest along the way.

“Count-tess,” he called, singsongy. “Where are you, my sumptuous peach?”

As he rounded the balustrade, he caught sight of Lulu striking a sparkly pose at the end of the hall.

“
Mon cher,
” she cooed. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten I was banished up here all alone.”

“Oh, my peach, out of sight but hardly forgotten.” He caught a whiff of her jasmine perfume and grinned devilishly. “It’s time!”

“What time is that, Your Honor?” she responded drolly, trying to muster the energy to play along.

“Judgment time!” he shouted and broke chase, running down the hall toward her, the chandeliers on the ceiling below shaking and clinking under his weight.

Lulu dashed into the master suite, ducking behind a Japanese folding screen. The judge, licking his lips, watched her silhouette as she peeled off her gloves then began undoing her dress, swirling her hips to punctuate the pop of each button. Beares hung on every gesture of Lulu’s well-rehearsed performance. And he giggled like a schoolgirl when she finally dropped her dress.

“Now I take off all my clothes,” he announced, “because I’ve been baaaaad!” He struggled his way out of his jacket and stomped off his pants. Once naked, he lifted a white barrister’s wig from a drawer and fit it onto his balding head. He was now ready for her.

On cue, Lulu stepped from behind the screen. Only, she wasn’t naked, but instead wore all her jewels and a long black judicial robe. “Order! Order!” she shouted. The judge quivered at the sight of her.

From a shiny wood box, she ceremoniously removed a gavel, then tapped it against the palm of her hand, as if deliberating.

“Ooh, what’s my sentence, Judge?” Beares asked, his grin growing wider.

Lulu stepped close to him, and he could smell the opium on her breath. Only, she wouldn’t let him touch her. Instead, she reached out with the gavel, pinning it against his chest. She backed him through the French doors and onto the balcony. “Let the punishment fit the crime,” she said. She leaned Beares over the banister and with a swift motion of the gavel, spanked his bare ass.

“Oh, Judge, mercy!” Beares yawped.

“You, the accused and condemned, must do penance as ordered by the Countess, your sensuous lover.”

“Yes, my sensuous peach!” he wailed. “My savage!”

She spanked him again. “Your sensuous lover has been devoted to your every wish and whim for many a year now.”

Spank.

“Oh yes,” he cried, “you’ve been a mighty fine fuck.”

At this, Lulu stopped. Her face hardened. “Have I pleased you,
Master
?” she asked icily, straying from their well-worn script. “That’s what my mama would have been forced to ask.”

“Mercy, Judge!” Beares cried, oblivious to the change in Lulu.

Her eyes narrowed. “Mercy, Master,” she said. She felt her fingers tighten around the gavel. “Only, my mama wasn’t wearing diamonds.” She spanked him again, this time, quite hard.

Beares craned to look at her. “Now, that hurt, whore.”

Good, thought Lulu, glaring back. But Beares simply gave her a wink then turned back into position, shaking his pale, dimpled ass to indicate he was ready to receive his next spanking.

Lulu glowered at his hideous backside—not that his gluttonous front side was any more appealing. For years they’d played this stupid game, and every time he was as thrilled as a child on Christmas morning. She smirked. What an idiot. He’d laid his blubbery body next to hers how many times now? Hundreds? But, she wondered, did he even know a single thing about her? Did he know she was fluent in four languages? Did he know she owned a library of books, all of which she’d read? Did he know she was an avid art collector who’d traveled the world in search of the finest paintings? Did he know that despite her roots she’d made all this of herself? Of course not. It had been years, and he knew her not at all. He’d never asked about her. He’d only asked for spankings, and that she, the so-called
help
, seclude herself upstairs so that none of the society folks at his party would see his dirty little secret—when, Lord knew, half the men at the party were themselves patrons of Lulu’s bordello.

“Ohh, Juh-uhdge,” Beares impatiently sang out. “What’s my next se-e-en-tence?”

A look of repulsion fell like a veil over Lulu. She steadied him with her foot, grasping the gavel now with both hands. She wound back her arms, then let go a mighty swat that lurched the judge straight through the railing of the balcony.

He snorted a part laugh, part gasp. And then, a heavy thud.

For a second, all was silent, as if the night were holding its breath. Then came a puny voice from below. “A little harsh.”

Lulu peered over the balcony at the prostrate judge.

“Help me up,” he called.

She smoothed her hair and adjusted her jewels. “I thought you knew,” she replied. “Good help is hard to find.”

The crickets’ chirring wound down as a faint orange glow crept over the white bricks of the Saint Charles Avenue mansion. For a long moment it was quiet and peaceful, just as it was on any given dawn. And then, shattering the tranquility, came a pop followed by a spectacular white flare.

A photographer reapplied a line of flash powder and positioned his 4 x 5 camera over the body of Judge Beares, lying ass-up in the grass, still wearing the barrister wig, his head cocked around and a smile lingering on his pale lips.

Just as the photographer was about to shoot again, a hand snatched the cable release from his grasp. Startled, he spun around to find Police Inspector O’Connor.

“I’ll be damned if this tragedy turns into a three-ring circus. Now get the photographic camera out of here!”

The photographer sullenly backed away, just as a team of uniformed officers moved in to form a blockade around the body. No sooner did a swarm of newspapermen descend, suddenly buzzing about like bees from an overturned hive.

“For feck’s sake,” O’Connor muttered to himself, “is there ever such a thing as hush-hush in this town?” He was relieved to see the ambulance, drawn by a brown mare, pull up. Out piled four crew with a stretcher and a white sheet. In but a few minutes, Beares, barrister wig and all, disappeared into the back of the ambulance wagon and was carted away.

“Inspector, can you declare what has taken place here?” a reporter called out. Then another: “Was it murder?” And another: “Suicide?”

O’Connor grimaced, knowing he wasn’t getting out of here without a statement. Fine, then, he’d say something so they’d shut their yaps. He cleared his throat and the crowd immediately quieted, looking to him with pencils poised. “I can verify that the body was indeed that of Judge J. Alfred Beares. An upstandin’ citizen, yes he was. Our Judge Beares, for all his righteous work on behalf of the city of New Orleans, will be missed.” At this, he turned on his heel, but the reporters jumped at him.

“Inspector O’Connor!” One reporter’s voice cut above the clamor. It was McCracken of the
Mascot
, in his ever-present bowler hat. “Is it true the Judge held a party last night that was attended by disreputable denizens?”

The crowd hushed. Again, O’Connor cleared his throat. “’Twas a fancy-dress party was all. High society.”

“How about one particular
lady of the evening
?” McCracken pushed. “Refers to herself, ironical as it may seem, as ‘The Countess’?”

“Nothing at all of that sort has been verified at this time, presently,” the inspector said, adding his most convincing nod.

Another reporter piped up. “Inspector, any evidence of foul play?”

“This is last and final, and what I know for sure,” O’Connor declared. The crowd collectively leaned in. “Criminality isn’t a factor in this case.” He stretched out his arm to point overhead. All eyes followed the direction of his hand, landing on the splintered rails of the second-floor balcony. “See?” he said, shaking his head at the unfortunate circumstances. “It was just a rotten railin’.”

C
HAPTER TEN