Madam (17 page)

C
HAPTER ELEVEN

Young newsboys in New Orleans

“E
xtra, extra! Hot off the press!”

At the fountain of the Saint Louis Cathedral, its regal steeples glowing in the sun, a newsboy waved the
Mascot
as scores of riled-up townspeople threw him pennies and nickels even, not caring about the change. Hungrily, they grabbed the paper, which boasted a half-page headline:

WAS PILLAR OF SOCIETY SLAIN BY SHAMEFUL LOVER-WHORE?

Next door, within the Spanish arches of the Cabildo—where, ninety-four years earlier, the Louisiana Purchase had been signed—a meeting was about to be called to order. Alderman Story could have requested no better location in the city for the monumental announcement he was about to make. Pacing with anticipation, he watched as men crowded in until the Cabildo was packed shoulder to shoulder.

When the church bells sounded the nine o’clock hour, Story proudly stepped to the podium. He surveyed the boisterous crowd, waiting for them to quiet, and noted among them: numerous businessmen who’d contributed to his fundraising efforts, each of the six men serving under him on the Public Order Committee, a red-faced Mayor Flower, and his priest, Father Montague.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please,” Story said, trying to call the room to order. But his mousy voice hardly rose above the din.

A shout came from the crowd. “These whores are polluting our fine neighborhoods!”

“Yes, and I appreciate y’all gathering—” Story began, but he was quickly overtaken by another shout.

“They’re corrupting our children’s pure minds!” Calls of agreement filled the room. Story feebly stomped his foot and rapped his palm against the podium, but the crowd ignored him. Finally, one of the men of the Public Order Committee came to his aid, stepping up onto a chair and booming, “Let the room come to order!”

A prominent vein on Story’s high forehead pulsed with frustration as the room at last quieted. “Gentlemen,” Story began again, “I appreciate you attending this emergency meeting on such short notice, and I promise we’ll all get to church on time.” He paused, making certain he reveled in the moment. “We’ve been talking and talking about this, and in light of last night’s events, we’re now going to do something about it. But first, please join me in commending the fine investigation of Mister McCracken, who exposed this abhorrence.” Story dramatically held up the
Mascot
and motioned to the front row, where Kermit McCracken, bowler hat in hand, nodded to the erupting applause.

“Thank you, Alderman,” McCracken said. He turned to face the room. “Gentlemen, my story is my truth. A source who had attended the good judge’s party suggested to me that a certain woman of ill repute arrived to the judge’s house around the hour of ten last night. Curious as I was, I made it my business to be stationed at this woman’s residence and place of business in the wee hours of the subsequent morning. What I saw was astounding.” McCracken felt the weight of the men’s anticipation. “One Miss Lulu White was escorted to her den of sin by none other than our New Orleans police department. She stepped from a paddy wagon as if it were her personal carriage and handed an officer a roll of cash, even touched his cheek with affection.”

Hisses and groans arose from the crowd. Story and McCracken exchanged a meaningful glance as McCracken retreated back into the crowd.

“When our city’s protectors side with derelicts and diseased whores,” Story declared, “this, my friends, is corruption in its most evil and despicable form.” He cast a wary look at the mayor. “Don’t you agree, Mayor Flower?”

All heads turned to focus on the mayor. Noticeably sweaty and uncomfortable, Flower gave a forced nod.

“First it’s the judge. Which one of us God-fearing men is next?” an onlooker shouted.

Story quickly continued, fearful he’d lose control of the room again. “Now, I can institute fines,” he said as powerfully as he could muster, “but those whores will just pay them. And I can institute jail time, but those whores will bribe their way through. I can stand here and proclaim prostitution more illegal than it already is, but I can’t make it unpopular. And that, gentlemen, is the blasphemous reality!”

Father Montague stepped forward, a picture of calm reason, and the room respectfully quieted. “We must set boundaries to keep our neighborhoods safe from vice,” he instructed.

“Thank you, Father,” Story said, but the priest held up an index finger—he wasn’t finished. “And,” he continued, his voice more forceful, “these boundaries will protect our property from devaluing.”

Story pursed his thin lips. Even his priest had an agenda. “Thank you, Father,” he dutifully repeated.

“Alderman,” a man bellowed from the crowd. “Send them whores to the back o’ town!” Yips of agreement followed.

Another called out, “Put ’em in the back o’ town, not next door to us, and not on high ground!”

From this, a chant arose, embracing the room: “Back o’ town! Back o’ town!”

Story gritted his teeth. The back o’ town was his plan, his mission—and his thunder would
not
be stolen. He commandeered a chair and stepped up onto it, only, his fear of heights prevented him from letting go of the chair back, and he crouched awkwardly, one arm waving in the air, while the other securely gripped the rungs. “Hear me out! Hear my plan!” he attempted to shout above the melee. He looked as if he were afraid of a mouse scurrying about on the ground, and the sight was pitiful enough that the crowd piped down—let the sorry little man have his moment.

Ever so gingerly, he climbed down from the chair and resumed his stance at the podium. As the crowd stirred, Story collected his notes, finding where he left off. “I propose laying boundaries for a district of vice. I believe the answer is to section off the back o’ town.” He spoke with deliberate clarity, as if he were oblivious to the scene that had just occurred. But he’d labored over his speech, and this was one for the history books—he would
not
be overlooked because an impatient crowd had parroted his words and his ideas! “We shall designate thirty inconsequential blocks where we can sequester inconsequential denizens. Within this district and under law, whores can engage in the Devil’s business, so long as they pay proper license fees and remain contained within the borders for work
and
as their permanent residence.”

“What’re the boundaries, Story?” someone shouted. Murmurs of restless agreement rippled among the crowd.

“I’m getting to it,” Story snapped. Behind him, rolled and mounted on the wall, was a map of the city, and he reached for the string to open it—only he was too short to nab it. Swatting away a tall man who stepped up, Story instead slid over the trusty chair and climbed upon it, but he still couldn’t bring himself to let go and reach up to grab the string. The room shuffled, quickly moving past feeling embarrassed for the Alderman and now growing downright irritated. Finally, the tall man grabbed the string, unfurling the map.

Story climbed down and repositioned his askew glasses. He then turned to the map and landed a delicate finger on the back of town. “Thirty blocks,” he began. He landed a pin through a piece of red yarn. “Bound by Canal Street . . .” He trailed the yarn across the desolate stretch of Canal that boasted nothing more than a streetcar line. “Basin Street . . .” He looped the yarn around a second pin where Lulu’s gorgeous bordello resided among aged Victorians in various states of disrepair. “Saint Louis Cemetery Number One . . .” He rounded the yarn around New Orleans’s oldest cemetery, where crumbling tombs housed such notables as the city’s first mayor, the French inventor of the game craps, and the most notorious Voodoo queen, Marie Laveau. “And finally,” Story concluded, “Claiborne Avenue, with great apology to the inconveniently located Saint James Methodist Church. And, of course, colored whores will be relegated to the back of the back o’ town.”

He turned to beam at the red-lined square on the map then pointedly stepped back to the podium to deliver his final words, his voice rising with the fervor of a preacher. “This ordinance will go into full effect in one month’s time. By the first of January 1898, no longer will decent folk be burdened with the eyesore or proximity of vice. If whores prosper in the District or rot there, it’s of no good man’s concern!”

Applause broke out. Story scanned the inspired faces, all the while resisting the temptation to take a bow. It was his finest moment indeed.

Just outside the Cabildo, his face pressed to the half-open window, waited Snitch. He’d seen and heard the entire event, and, hopping down from the windowsill, he made a mad dash through the tall iron gates and back to Venus Alley.

Every Sunday morning, Mary could be found in her crib, on her hands and knees.

Scrubbing.

There was barely any traffic on Sundays, given that it was difficult for most johns to reconcile coming to a whore on the day of the Lord, especially when he had to pass several churches en route to the Alley no matter what direction he was coming from. So Sunday morning was a good time for Mary to clean.

It was hardly a chore today to wash the floorboards and walls knowing that it all belonged in her name. Charlotte had come along, and she stood at the doorway, sweeping with a broom made of palmetto leaves. They were going to make this crib shine more than any other on the Alley.

Lo and behold, a john approached, but with one look at Charlotte’s swollen belly, he quickly made a sharp turn in the opposite direction.

“It’s kind of you to come help, Lottie,” Mary said, “but you’re just awful for business.”

Charlotte giggled, then stopped, concern flashing across her face.

“What is it?” Mary asked.

“This baby’s having too fine a time, pressin’ here and pressin’ there. Remind me not to laugh again till it’s born, otherwise I might really embarrass myself.”

Mary smiled to herself and plunged her rag into the bucket of water.

“What d’ya think we should name the baby?” Charlotte asked dreamily.

“I’ve been prayin’ the baby’s a girl,” Mary said. “Hope you don’t mind. Wouldn’t hurt you none to do some prayin’ too. But only pray to women saints. We don’t need to be asking men for nothing.” She rose to her feet, surveying the floorboards. “Don’t need to be getting on our knees for one single more man.”

Timidly, Charlotte asked, “You hear anything from him?” as if she shouldn’t speak Lobrano’s name. “Feels like a different world without him over us.”

“Sittin’ in jail, far as I know. But can’t get too used to him not being around. They can’t keep him forever.”

Charlotte shifted uncomfortably. “I just . . . oh, Mary, I’m scared of what he’s gonna do when he finds out. He’ll want vengeance like we ain’t never before seen, and Lord knows we’ve seen plenty of his wrath. Oh, Mary, I just—”

But Mary cut her off. “Of all things, Charlotte, that ain’t something you need to worry over.” She tried to keep a strong face but knew in her bones that Charlotte was right. She’d been running so high from the turn of events that she hadn’t allowed herself to really consider what Lobrano would do, could do. Besides, thoughts like that would have quickly squelched her ambition, would have had her turning right around at Anderson’s, tail between her legs. Yes, she suspected, it would be the wrath of Lobrano like they’d never before seen, but how could she carry on hour after hour, day after day, anticipating such hellfire and brimstone?

“How’d you get that brave to do this, Mary? I don’t know any girl as brave as you.”

Mary gave Charlotte an obligatory smile. Only time would tell if she’d been brave, or stupid.

Just then, they were startled by a loud clanging from the Alley. “Listen up, y’all!” someone shouted, and they looked down the street to see Snitch with a tin cup in one hand and a frying pan in the other, banging them together as he ran around in a circle.

“Has he gone mad?” Mary said, and she and Charlotte stepped onto the Alley to get a better look.

“Listen, all yous whores!” Snitch shouted, gasping for breath.

“Shut your goddamn yap, Snitch!” a whore called from a crib. But Snitch was undeterred and commandeered a crate to stand on. Whores lazily came to their doorways to see what was eating him.