Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (26 page)

She had decided it was time to make a foray into the devil's backyard, with Betsy as her guide. The Creole detective was prowling ever closer to her family affairs and she told herself it would be smart to step onto his territory for once. Of course, there was more to it. She had developed an insatiable curiosity about his sordid world. And, quite simply, she wanted to get out of the house and the neighborhood and be someplace
else.

Once she explained it, Betsy was ecstatic, falling to the task with such zeal that Anne Marie had to tell her to settle down.

The maid began by sending Anne Marie back upstairs for a day dress that was slightly fancy, the kind a higher-class Basin Street sporting girl would wear before dark. She herself would pose as the trollop's maid. The whole fiction was fantastic and silly and exciting.

The next problem was transportation. Neither of them could drive Mr. Benedict's big Oldsmobile, and it would be too obvious in any case. They decided to slip out the back and move through the alleys until they got to Esplanade Avenue, where they could catch a streetcar. Anne Marie trusted Betsy on this; she had seen her slip off this way a dozen times.

Before they left, she went upstairs, knocked lightly on the door, and went into her mother's bedroom. She found her propped on her pillows, a book open in her lap. It was the same volume that had been on the nightstand for months.

Anne Marie sat down on the edge of the bed. "We're going out," she said. "Betsy and I."

"Out where?"

"We need some things. We'll go to Mayerof's and some other stores. Is there anything I can get you?"

"No, I have all I need right here." She turned her head to the curtained window. "I used to love to take the air," she said. For a moment Anne Marie thought she was going to ask to go along. Then she felt ashamed. The poor woman never left the house. Since her husband's death, she had become all but paralyzed by the blend of grief and morphine.

"You have a lovely time," Mrs. Benedict said. "I'll be fine right here."

Anne Marie kissed her pallid brow and slipped out the door.

Betsy was waiting at the bottom of the stairs like a filly ready to race. They went through the rooms to the kitchen. Anne Marie's hat was on the table, and she put it on while Betsy opened the back door and stepped out onto the gallery. There was no one working in the gardens of the properties on either side. Anne Marie dropped the veil to cover her face and followed the maid along the path to the back gate. They were giggling like schoolgirls. As they made their way along the alleyways that were deep in shadow from the overhanging branches, Anne Marie's breath came shorter.

They would be switching cars twice, from the St. Bernard Line to Broad, then to the Canal Belt. These were busy routes and it would be all the easier to get lost in the crowds. The hardest part would be the last part, getting off the streetcar on the corner of Basin Street and crossing over into Storyville's infamous twenty blocks. When she put a foot on the step of the car at the corner of Mirabeau Avenue, Anne Marie felt as if she was about to shed her skin, even though it was only a simple ride into the city.

Valentin was never in the mood to wander down the more disreputable streets of the District, whatever the reason. The farther north from Basin Street, the meaner the neighborhoods grew, right back to Robertson Street, which was mostly taken up with row upon row of narrow cribs, just large enough for an iron bed with a lousy mattress and a washstand. With their Dutch doors, they always reminded Valentin of horse stables. The cheap, drunken, and brazen whores who wandered those streets would perform an act with anyone or anything for a half-dollar or less.

What was commonly called the Jew Colony, located along the farthest block of Bienville Street, was a considerable step up from this state of affairs, but it still gave Valentin morbid pause. The small houses were generally tidy, the women mostly clean and rarely abused of drink and narcotics.

He knew the landlady of the cleanest house on the street, and it was to her establishment that he went first. Belle Golden—at least that was the name she used—was the type of madam who was more akin to a mother hen to her chicks.

She met him in the foyer, and he asked after Sophie Solomon. She in turn questioned her girls until one of them remembered that she was at Ruth Grossler's, or at least had been the previous week. The girl knew because there had been police trouble that involved Sophie. Something about a customer getting robbed.

He thanked the girl and the madam and went out on the banquette. He thought about going back downtown and telling Solomon that his daughter was alive and that's all he knew. He only owed the man so much.

They were a common-enough sight, the young American miss and her Negro girl, and could have been on their way to shopping at the department stores on Canal Street and Broad Avenue. Betsy kept casting significant glances Anne Marie's way as the car rolled south; then it came to a stop and they stepped down. The car rolled off again and suddenly Basin Street was on display. It had started to rain, a light New Orleans drizzle, and they stood there under their umbrellas for a few minutes, until Betsy touched Anne Marie's elbow and they crossed over.

They passed a couple drinking establishments, the Terminal Saloon and Fewclothes Cabaret, between Canal and Iberville streets. Storyville began in earnest there, with the famous Anderson's Café and Annex like an anchor on the corner, followed by a row of grand mansions. Anne Marie felt a sense of unreality as she watched proper gentlemen mount the steps to the galleries to be greeted by young women, who escorted them inside, there to engage in all manner of debauchery. It made her want to laugh out loud. She saw other gentlemen being sent on their way by other young ladies, the men carrying a look of satisfaction from a job well done. Windows were open all along the street, and the music of pianos and Victrolas came wafting from the parlors. She saw the shapes moving by the windows, heard the gay laughter. She let her gaze roam to the second floors and thought about what might be going on in those rooms at that very moment.

They crossed Bienville Street, and halfway down the block, Betsy pointed to a large mansion and whispered in Anne Marie's ear, explaining that on one side was a French house and the ground floor of the next door was the Circus, both run by Emma Johnson, a black-hearted witch of such debauched tastes that she disgusted even the most jaded bawds on the street.

Anne Marie knew what "French" meant, though she wasn't completely clear on all the mechanics. Or what was involved in this "Circus." Betsy was only too happy to explain.

"All these fellows pay to get in. I'm talking about rich men, judges, doctors, all like that. And they got this big room cleared out by knocking down walls. Big as a barn. And they turn out all the lights except on this here stage and they put on a show."

"What kind of a show?"

"They got men up there doing it to women," Betsy whispered. "You know, fucking. And they'll have a woman sucking on this other fellow's yancy, must be a foot long. They got dyke acts, with two women on each other. They got a guy named Joe the Whipper, who gets all dressed up like a magician, and then they tie these girls down and he beats on them. And they like it. Sometimes they come. Or at least play like they do." Her eyebrows hiked. "And then there's the pony."

Anne Marie, already aghast, said, "What pony?"

"They got this here pony and this one whore comes out and gets him all excited, and then she slides on under him and..."

"Oh, good
god!
" Anne Marie moaned, feeling a little like she might get sick. Then Betsy said, "Course, the kids, the trick babies, in the daytime they get to ride the pony out in the backyard," and she shrieked out a laugh.

They kept walking until they reached Conti Street and were looking across at St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. Anne Marie wanted to go in and wander the city of the dead, but Betsy said it wasn't safe without a guard, even during the day. She instead suggested they tour the rest of the District and promised a saloon that had a back room for unescorted ladies. Who knew who or what they might see along the way?

Valentin stated his business, careful to mention Tom Anderson's name, and dropped a Liberty half in the madam's hand. He mounted the steps, went down the hall, and let himself into the third door on the right.

Sophie was lying facedown on the bed, fast asleep. She was wearing a camisole, hiked up so that her round bottom was on display. Valentin tugged the sheet to cover her as he went to open the French doors. After a minute or so, fresh air and noise from the street roused her. She groaned a little, then looked over her shoulder with one dark eye open.

He said, "Hello, Sophie."

"Who let you—?" She recognized him and the eye closed. "God. What do you want?" She pushed her face back into the pillow. "What day is it?"

"It's Wednesday," he said. "Afternoon."

There was a chair in the corner, and he dragged it over to the side of the bed. When Sophie's eye opened the second time, it was baleful. "What do you
want?
" She sounded like a whining child.

Valentin looked her over for a moment. When she had first come into Storyville, she was a fair-looking sporting girl, with her head of dark curls, her full mouth and black eyes, her dark olive skin. She had a buxom figure, pinched at the waist and full in the hips and bust. She quickly gained a reputation. When sober, she was wickedly entertaining. When she was drunk or whiffing cocaine, she went right out of control. She liked to show off and might have ended up as part of French Emma Johnson's Circus, except that only good Christians were allowed to debase themselves for the entertainment of the crowds that gathered at that address.

Once she set up shop in the Jew Colony, she began to spiral downward. She hadn't yet hit bottom, though not for lack of trying. She was well known to the local coppers. She had been thrown out of a half-dozen houses. Valentin himself had bailed her out of the women's prison. After which she went right back to her outrageous behavior.

Sophie was a sturdy girl and so far had taken what the streets dished out, following in the footsteps of the tough harlots of old, vicious bawds like the legendary America Williams and One-Legged Mary Duffy, also known as Bridget Fury. No matter how fierce their reputations, though, they finally met their matches, dying grim, bloody deaths. As Sophie likely would one day.

"I'm not coming with you." Her voice was muffled.

"Didn't ask you to," Valentin said.

She turned around and pushed herself up on one elbow, unmindful that her left breast had fallen completely free of the sheer fabric of her camisole. "Then what are you doing here?" she crabbed. "I'm not going back. So why do you come around here?"

"For your father. He worries. He cares about you." His voice hardened. "He wants to save your life."

She shook her head in annoyance. She happened to look down and notice she was uncovered. She took her time hooking a finger along the top seam of the camisole and pulling it up over the mound of her breast.

"There, that's better," she said. She gave him a coy look. "Or did you like it the other way?" She cackled dryly.

"You know, I would really like to break something over your head and drag you out of here." He held her gaze. "I won't, though. Because you'd just come back, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah, I would," she said. "Of course, I would. So fuck you, Mr. Valentin."

"Your father wants you to go to synagogue."

She laughed darkly. "He needs to forget about me."

"You won't let him. You hurt him. You make scenes and get arrested. You're killing him."

"Did you come up here for a fuck?" she demanded abruptly. "Because if you didn't, we've got nothing to talk about. And I'd like you to leave."

Valentin said, "I will. But there's something else I need to tell you."

Sophie's mouth pinched in annoyance. "Tell me what?"

"You need to keep an eye out for a tall man named Nelson. He might come around. He means you harm."

"Why?" she said dully.

"To get at your father. For helping me."

"Nelson, huh?" She laughed shortly. "Well, I'll keep an eye out."

"This is no joke, Sophie."

She gave him a look of resentment. "Did you hear me say you need to leave?"

Valentin stood up and hoisted the chair, placing it back in the corner. He could feel her eyes fixing on him. "People talk about you," she said, her tone accusing.

He gave her a sidelong glance. "What people?"

"Men who come to visit me. People in the saloons. I hear them say your name."

"And what do they say?" he asked, curious despite himself.

"They say you're a
malekha.
You know what that is?"

He looked over at her now. Her face was cleaved into light and shadow and the eye on the dark side gleamed. "It's what Jews call an angel of death," she said. "Everywhere you go, people end up dead. You've got a mark on you. You always did." She looked away from him.

"I'll be around again in a week or so," he said.

"Don't!"

"You stay out of trouble," he said. "Or I'll make sure the next time you get sent to the women's prison, you don't get out." It was an empty threat, but it was all he had.