Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (10 page)

The copper said, "All right, sir." He lifted a hand, walked away a few steps, then stopped and came back. "Can I ask you a question, Mr. St. Cyr?" he said.

"What's that?" Valentin was frowning absently at the stain of dried blood that marked the place on the cobblestones where the victim had fallen.

"I was wondering ... is it true what I heard about you? That you was on the force and they put you off because you threatened to kill your sergeant?"

It was a bold question; and yet McKinney didn't seem to mean any harm. He was just curious.

Valentin said, "I didn't say I was going to kill him."

"But you drew your weapon on him."

"That's right." Valentin looked at him. The young fellow was probably no more than a year or two on the force. About his own age at the time that the incident had occurred. He almost smiled at the memory of the crazy episode, now ten or twelve years in the past.

"The sergeant was drunk," he explained. "He was beating on a whore in an alley because she wouldn't give him French. He punched her in the face, and when she went down, he started kicking her. He was in a rage and I thought he meant to beat her to death. He wouldn't stop, so I pulled my revolver and put it in his ear. He did stop then."

"What happened to the girl?" McKinney asked in a hushed voice.

"She died from her injuries."

"What about the sergeant?"

"He was put at a desk for a few months. Then he was back on duty."

"And you were thrown off the force?"

"No, but I wasn't welcome after that, so I left," Valentin said quietly. He glanced over at McKinney, who continued to watch him with wide eyes. "Something else?"

"You was on those Black Rose murders. And when those jass players was being killed year before last."

"What about them?"

"Some officers talk about you down at the precinct. That's all."

Valentin could imagine what they said and had no interest in hearing any details.

"I'm finished here," he said, and started away. "You can tell Lieutenant Picot that I found nothing of value." He felt the patrolman's gaze follow him as he moved along the banquette.

He turned down Fourth Street, doubled back after a dozen paces, slipped to the corner of the building, and peeked around. As he expected, McKinney had remained at the scene and was studying the same section of cobblestones that he himself had examined just a few minutes ago. He was an ambitious sort and not a bad young fellow. He probably still believed that most policemen were on the job to serve the public good. He'd learn soon enough.

Valentin leaned against the corner bricks of a closed saloon and went digging for the cigarillo Picot had given him and a lucifer. He struck a flame against a brick and smoked as he waited for the patrolman to go away.

He gazed along the street. To his right, heading south, the street was cobbled for only two more blocks before it turned to gravel and dirt. Both sides of the street were patched with untidy shotgun doubles and a few run-down storefronts. The banquettes were no more than wooden slats, and there were no streetlights at all. It would be a frightful place at night. He turned in the other direction and saw a photograph that he carried in his head come alive.

Rampart Street.
Even the name affected him. He now picked out the familiar facades: Longshoreman's Hall, Pelliot's Cabaret, Jack's Corner Saloon, the Crescent Club. These addresses were interspersed with a selection of narrow stores that served as gambling parlors during the daylight hours. Sam Abel's barbershop held down a corner. The narrow walkways between buildings provided cover for all manner of sin once the sun went down. Standing there, the cigarillo burning away between his fingers, Valentin read the street, past and future.

From the time he was old enough to understand, it had held a wicked allure, humming all rowdy and raucous six nights a week. Buddy Bolden's heyday, 1905 and 1906, had been the shining moment for the avenue, and yet Valentin could see how it was dying with the echoes his friend had left behind. From their ragged shingles, it appeared that Pelliot's and the Crescent were out of business. Another few years and all the clubs probably would be closed. Jass was no longer derelict music that needed a home. They were dancing to its bouncing strains all around the District and beyond. He'd heard jass sounds in St. Louis and Kansas City; and hadn't Jelly Roll Morton and Professor Tony Jackson both gone up north to preach the jass gospel? It was spreading like an infection.

Likewise, the good players had packed up their horns for the greener and safer pastures on the other side of Canal Street. Only the most incorrigible among them, those who were too wild for the proper gentlemen and their high-toned sporting girls, had remained behind. They were a dying breed, heading for hell any way they could get there. Even gutbucket players like Charley Johnson who stood on the corners moaning and growling their dark cants had taken their acts to the better parts of town.

Once Rampart Street was gone, there'd be nothing to replace it. And if a few more men like John Benedict ended up dead there, its demise would come sooner rather than later.

Valentin saw McKinney finally strolling away. He waited until the copper went out of sight at the corner of Second Street to step out.

He spent the better part of an hour moving up one side of the street and down the other, knocking on doors. Most were homes of working people who were out for the day, and he got no response. Bleary-eyed whores appeared at two of the addresses. One slammed the door in his face when she realized he was not there to do business. The other listened and then shook her head. She couldn't remember if she had been there or not on Sunday night. She sure didn't recall any shots fired in the middle of the night. She had the face of a dead-end drunk, the type who would sleep through an earthquake. She roused herself enough to offer him any pleasure he preferred for a Liberty half. He declined politely.

Just past the last house was a building that contained a half-dozen cribs in a row. The first one was vacant. The next door down also slammed in his face, accompanied by a hearty curse. The third also brought no response. When he banged on the next one in line, he heard a shuffle of movement inside.

"Who's out there?" a woman's voice croaked. "A friend," Valentin said. It was an all-purpose greeting in these parts.

The door opened a crack on a woman's homely face, medium brown with a yellowish tinge. The eyes were an odd color, too: muddy green. Her nappy hair was pulled back in stiff blades. She was short and thin and wearing a worn shift of dirty gray cotton.

She looked Valentin up and down, her open mouth showing the gaps of missing teeth. Her expression was dull, like she might be slow in the head.

"My name is St. Cyr," he said. "I want to ask you a few questions."

The woman blinked. He had used his best official voice, and she had come to attention, assuming he was a policeman. "You wan' come inside?" she asked, and stepped back a little.

Valentin got a whiff of the odor of the room behind her and shook his head. "What's your name?"

"Caroline," she said, pausing to size him up some more. "West."

"Were you here last Sunday?"

Caroline West's brow furrowed. She coughed once, a dry, rattling sound, and shuffled her dirty feet. "Believe I was, yes, sir. I'm here most every night."

"Did you by chance hear a gunshot out on the street?"

Her mouth closed and opened, and she drew in a breath as if she was about to speak. Before she did, though, it seemed something crossed her mind. "Don't think so, no, sir," she said.

He turned and pointed. "Happened right out there," he said. "A man shot down. You would have heard."

"I didn't, though," she replied too quickly.

"How about any of your customers that night? It would have been late."

"I don't remember, no," she whispered. "I'm sick. Doctor say—"

"If you were here, you would have heard," he repeated.

"I got to take my medicine," she said, and began to close the door.

He put a flat hand out and settled the sole of his walking shoe on the threshold. "I'll come back until you tell me what you saw and heard," he told her. "You won't be able to do business for the trouble." He was slipping back into his old voice and posture, the detective who would not brook any resistance.

Caroline West's face got all fretful and she fidgeted. "I'm sick, I tell you. I didn't see nothin'. Didn't hear nothin'."

"You heard the shot."

She held out for a good five seconds, then nodded. "It was the middle of the night," she said in a low voice. "Musta been four o'clock."

"Did you have company?"

"Yes, sir..."

"Who was it?"

"Ain't never seen him before. I ain't been over here but two weeks. I was on Robertson Street and they run—"

"What about the man?"

She coughed. "Skinny little red-haired nigger. Red in the face, too. Like one of them Cherokee niggers." She saw that Valentin was waiting for more. "I just finished wit' him, and he was buttonin' his britches and that's when we heard it." She dipped her head an inch or so. "He ducked down like somebody was shootin' at him. Then we didn't hear nothin' else, and he went to the window and opened the curtain."

"And?"

"And he said, 'Damn, lookit there,' or somethin' like that. I didn't know what he was talkin' about. Then he said, 'They's someone layin' in the street.'"

Valentin began to picture what happened next. "Did he go out?"

The whore's eyes shifted. "I tole him stay in and leave it be. But he hooked up his britches and ran on out there."

"Did you see what he did?"

"I didn't. I didn't want to."

Valentin believed her. "Did he come back?" She hesitated, then nodded. "With valuables?"

Now Caroline said, "I don't want to get in no trouble."

"You won't. Just tell me what happened."

"I heard some mens yellin' somethin' out there. I peeked out then, and this nigger was gone away. A little while after that the police come by. Then I heard somebody knockin' on the back door. It was him. He'd been hidin' down where they had the stables, but then the coppers were about and he had to leave out of there."

"So you let him in. Did he have any loot?"

"He had a bunch of Liberty dollars in a little purse." She looked at St. Cyr and looked away. "He gimme three of 'em. Tole me not to say nothin' about it." She twisted her fingers together. "I thought I mighta saw some kind of a ring. But I can't be sure 'bout that."

"And you're sure you don't know this fellow?"

"No, sir. Ain't never seen him befo'. He didn't say his name."

"You wouldn't be protecting him?"

"I wouldn't do that. He wa'n't nothin' to me but a twenty-five-cent trick."

Valentin stepped back. "If you happen to see him around, or if he comes back to visit, you could let me know. Send a kid by Anderson's Café or Mangetta's on Marais Street. Or there's a patrolman named McKinney. This is his beat. You can tell him."

It took her a moment to assemble her thoughts. She frowned. "You ain't a copper?" she said.

"No, I'm private security. I work for Mr. Anderson." Her eyes widened, the reaction he expected. He went into his pocket and placed a Liberty half in her palm. "I appreciate your cooperation."

She stared at the coin for a moment, then came up with a ghastly grin. "You want to come inside? I'll treat you all right. I'm a good goddamn—"

"Just send a message if you have anything for me. All right?"

She nodded rapidly. "Yes, sir, I see him, I'll let you know. You know I will."

McKinney stood in the doorway, his blue helmet tucked under his arm. Picot waved him inside, and he walked over to join the lieutenant at the window that looked down on Royal Street.

"You met up with St. Cyr?" Picot said.

"Yes, sir."

"So?"

McKinney shifted his weight. "He asked me about what I saw that night and I told him. He walked around the scene for a little while. He didn't find nothing, though. Not that I could tell. We were only there maybe ten, fifteen minutes."

Picot's eyes narrowed. "Then what?"

"Then he left."

"How long did you remain on the scene?"

McKinney swallowed as the lieutenant's drift began to sink in. "I didn't know I was supposed to stay after—"

"How long, Officer?"

"Couple minutes. Maybe five. I came in and did my report. Then I went back on patrol."

Picot said, "St. Cyr is not a policeman. He was, but he's not anymore."

"Yes, sir, I know. But you sent—"

"I know. I sent you out there. You did your duty and now you're done with it. The people of New Orleans don't pay us to assist private parties. Especially that one. You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Picot jerked his head, and the patrolman walked out of the office and into the hallway. If he had looked back, he would have seen the lieutenant stepping into his office doorway and crooking a finger to gather his officers around him.