Madam (32 page)

Lulu thought for a moment. “Tom, if this booklet is so very exclusive, we should charge a fee to each madam. After all, if only the very best homes are advertised, it’s a privilege that we’re allowing them in our booklet, no?”

“Of course,” Anderson agreed. “Privileges never come without a premium. But until we can properly determine which houses are the very best, we should give each the benefit of the doubt and sell them all an advertisement.”

“Indeed!” Lulu snickered. “But it must remain a tasteful little booklet. It would seem déclassé to be
too
obvious with our motivation.”

“We should have a motto of some sort,” Anderson proposed. “All good, profitable organizations do.”

Lulu lit up. “We should borrow our motto from true royalty. ‘The Order of the Garter’!”

Anderson didn’t often admit if he was stumped—and it wasn’t often that he was—but he gave Lulu a shrug. “Educate me.”

Lulu placed her cigarette in a silver ashtray. “The story goes that King Edward III was dancing at a ball with the Fair Maid of Kent, the most beautiful woman in England, when, God forbid, her garter slid south and made a shocking appearance at her ankle. The court was all a-snicker, but Edward did the unthinkable: he plucked up the garter and placed it around his own leg. Quite chivalrous. Then again, perhaps he liked it. You know those English fops, always prancing about with all their playmates.”

“We call them homosexuals in the Midwest,” Flabacher offered.

“Yes, well, Edward then declared his famous words:
Honi soit qui mal y pense
, ‘Evil be to him who evil thinks.’ The court was shamed into silence, and the motto became known as—”

Anderson finished her sentence. “The Order of the Garter.”

Over a steak-and-eggs breakfast at his saloon, Anderson presented the booklet copy to Mayor Flower, who read it aloud.

“The names of the residents will be found in this directory, alphabetically arranged, under the headlines ‘White’ and ‘Colored.’” Flower looked to Tom. “Colored? You sure you want to be covering all territory here? Maybe a separate booklet for the colored houses since they’re in a separate area?”

“Nonsense,” Anderson said. “A man should have free will to choose any house he wants, and we’re just listing all the options. Besides, some folks want to be very open-minded.”

“We have laws against too much open-mindedness.”

Anderson looked at him pointedly. “There are some extremely wealthy men of color, you know.”

With a skeptical grimace, Flower continued: “The names in capitals are the landladies.” He chuckled, “
Landladies
, I like that, Tom.”

When he finished reading, he set the booklet on the checkered-cloth-covered table, then searched through his jacket pocket. “There’s just one final thing,” he said, uncapping his Waterman’s fountain pen. He wrote on the cover in capital letters: THIS BOOK MUST NOT BE MAILED.

Anderson nodded broadly. “That’s why you are the mayor, sir.”

Flower puffed up his chest. “Always abiding by the rules and regulations.”

Anderson nodded. “As someone once said, an honest politician is one who stays bought.” They both chortled.

Flower shoveled down half his plate in two bites. “You think merchants will be open to advertising in the booklet?”

“Yes. Well, eventually. They just need to realize Storyville is the next boomtown. With our own type of gold.”

“How many advertisements y’all sold so far?”

“One,” Tom replied. “To Anderson’s Saloon. Word is the owner’s a very generous fellow.”

In the midst of a freshly cleared field, E. J. Bellocq adjusted his tripod and 8 x 10 camera. His choice of subject matter: a tree stump. The little man looked to the setting sun, waiting for the perfect moment to click the shutter.

“Mighty hot today,” a voice boomed. Leaves crushed under the heft of one Mr. Flabacher, perspiring in the late-day sun.

Bellocq quickly ducked beneath the camera’s black cape in hope of avoiding interruption or, for that matter, any conversation.

Undeterred, Flabacher made his approach. “Hello there, friend. The name’s Sheldon Flabacher,” he announced to the cape. “I inquired at the New Orleans Camera Club and was told I might find you here.”

Silence.

Flabacher followed the line of the camera to the tree stump, then gave a perplexed twist of his mouth. “Doing some ‘field work,’ I see.” He chuckled at his own pun. “Well . . . I hear you are one mighty fine photographer.”

Under the cape, Bellocq remained as still as he could, like a reptile trying to blend into the surroundings.

“Yearbooks,” Flabacher rattled on, “and I understand you even did some stock photographs at the shipyard. That must have been . . . fascinating.” He cleared his throat, at a bit of a loss. “Look, fact is you’re one of five folks in town with a camera, and I need some photographs. It’s for a special promotion, and you seem open to . . .” He glanced to the tree stump. “. . . photographic exploration. So what do you say?”

Bellocq clicked the shutter, and Flabacher took that as a resounding yes. “Grand! I’ve taken the liberty of transcribing the pertinent details.” He removed a card from his shirt pocket. “Sunday afternoon, 235 Basin Street. You’ll be photographing some lovely ladies. The compensation is modest but meaningful.” Awkwardly, he placed the card on top of Bellocq’s cape. Delighted to have you aboard, friend!” He stood there with a dumb grin, waiting for the cape to lift, but there was nothing except stillness, as if the little man had petrified under there. Flabacher’s smile quickly dropped, and with a shrug, he trudged off, dabbing his brow with a handkerchief.

As soon as the labored breathing and heavy-footed clomping faded, Bellocq emerged. He pocketed the card.

C
HAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

F
erdinand angled his way around the crowd of parishioners milling in the aisle, dodging the old ladies yammering about who’d passed on recently, and the younger ladies yammering about someone or other’s new beau, and the men yammering at all the ladies to sit down already, the Lord’s tired of hearing your
yat
.

As he finally approached the pulpit, Ferd could see Grandmère scolding him under her breath while her hands deftly played a medley of hymns. He slid in next to her on the piano bench and tried to relieve her, but she wasn’t giving up the keys easily.

“Asking too much to praise the Lord on time?” she said through a forced grin.

“Sorry, Grandmère.”

“Where were you this morning when I came to wake you? I couldn’t even tell if your bed was slept in. This about a girl?”

Ferd shook his head. If only she knew that he’d been practicing on Lala’s piano and hadn’t realized night had slipped into morning—she’d have far preferred it be about a girl.

Grandmère finally acquiesced the piano and took her rightful place in the choir. Ferd continued on flawlessly, and as the crowd began to sit they joined the choir in singing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”

Maybe it was his lack of sleep, or maybe just force of habit from composing for the past several hours, but at the end of the song Ferd surprised the congregation—and himself—by finishing with a jaunty, raggedy riff. As his fingers left the keys, he was met with silence, only a nervous cough or two filling the void. He didn’t dare glance to Grandmère, for she was sure to be agape.

And then, from the front pew, a woman called out, “Amen!”

Ferd looked over to see a garishly stunning woman, aglow with diamonds. What, he wondered, was Countess Lulu White doing here?

Throughout the rest of the service, Lulu recited her psalms with the piety of a nun. Whomever coined the phrase “sweating like a whore in church” was certainly not speaking of the Countess.

After the service concluded, Ferd attempted to make his way back down the aisle in the midst of all the reconvened
yat
, when Lulu put a sparkly hand on his shoulder.

“May I speak with you, Mistah LaMenthe?” she asked.

They stepped back into a pew. “Your playing precedes you,” she said. “I happen to have one of the most gorgeous pianos you’ll ever lay eyes on—and an upcoming party that could use some quality ragtime. I’ve been searching for the best, as they say, professor of the piano. Consider this to have been your audition.”

Ferd began to flinch, feeling Grandmère’s eyes on his back. “I’d be honored, ma’am”—he dropped his voice—“but we’ll have to speak about it another time.”

Lulu gave a knowing nod. She dipped into her pocketbook, then discreetly tucked a calling card into Ferd’s jacket pocket. With a wink, she sashayed down the aisle, her teal bustled gown making a swishing sound with each pronounced punch of her hips.

“I’d sooner be buried in a croker sack than be caught dead in that.” Ferd turned to see Grandmère beside him.

“That ain’t a nice thing to say in church,” Ferd quipped.

Grandmère gave him a gentle wallop. “Isn’t!” she corrected. “What small talk was she making with you?”

Ferd began walking a couple paces ahead so Grandmère couldn’t see his face. “Just complimented the playing.”

Grandmère’s lips pursed. “She’s not a member here, that I’m sure of.”

“Maybe she’s a visitor in town. She just liked the playing is all.”

Grandmère pressed her chin down, creating a couple of rolls at her neck. “Don’t go thinking the sun comes up just to hear you crow.”

“Don’t worry on that, Grandmère,” Ferd said, “Not a worry a’tall.”

“
Bienvenue
, Mistah Koehl, Mistah Lafon, Mistah Haydell, Mistah Sinclair,” Lulu cooed as she glided through her parlor. She struck a stunning pose in an elaborate pink satin gown, feathered tiara, and her monocle. What used to be just a Saturday eve had already become the night to see and be seen at none other than Mahogany Hall.

“Madam, we’ve come all the way from Birmingham to make your acquaintance.”

Lulu pivoted to face two well-dressed men, their hair perfectly oiled and parted. “I’m Pierce LaRue, and this is my brother, Acey.” They bowed as if she were a queen.

“A pleasure,” Lulu said. “How are you both enjoying the true heart of Dixie?”

“We’d have argued that point before tonight,” Pierce said.