The Axeman of Storyville (2 page)

"Cat, we aren't open right now. And can't you see I'm busy here?"

"Busy staring off into the distance, looks like," Cat said, grinning. Miles started to reprimand the kid for being mouthy, but stopped himself. Little Cat was right, after all.

He sighed, said, "What ladies? What do they want?"

"I don't rightly know, sir. But they's ... um ... not ladies from high society, I can tell ya that much. They come over from the District." Cat wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Miles frowned. "Prostitutes? Is that what you're saying? Go tell them we don't need their services here. It's not that sort of club."

"I don't think that's why they here, Mr. Miles, sir."

Miles said, "Oh, for Christ's ... okay, bring them in."

Little Cat nodded and ambled off back to the foyer, and Miles stood up and stretched.
What the hell
, he thought. It was a good excuse to get away from the mind-numbing paperwork, anyway.

The two ladies Cat ushered in weren't dressed like prostitutes, but no one would mistake them for upper crust New Orleans society. They wore drab dresses and no makeup. The older one, a thick-waisted white woman with gleaming auburn hair, said, "Mr. Miles, my name is Miss Tilly. Thank you for seeing me."

Miles nodded, motioned to the booth. "Would you sit, Miss Tilly? May I offer you coffee?"

"No thank you, sir. And we won't stay long enough to sit. But Celissa and I have come to request your assistance."

The younger woman, Celissa, was a lovely Creole girl with dark, sullen eyes and a full mouth. She stood next to Miss Tilly with the sort of arrogance and poise one wouldn't normally associate with a whore.

Puzzled, Miles asked politely, "How can I can be of assistance, Miss Tilly?"

"You've been a topic of interest about town since you arrived, Mr. Miles, and word is that you were once a policeman. Is that true?"

"No, Miss Tilly, not exactly. I was a U.S. Marshal. It's not quite the same thing."

"But you ... well, you found bad men, yes? You tracked down murderers and rapists and all manner of degenerate sorts?"

"That is true. But that was a long time ago."

Miss Tilly clutched her large hands in front of her and looked at him solemnly. "Well, sir ... the skills you acquired in your policeman days—I mean to say, your U.S. Marshal days, beg pardon—are the skills that bring me to you today."

"As I say, ma'am, that was a long time ago. I don't do that sort of work anymore."

The Creole girl, Celissa, smirked. "I told you he wouldn't care, Miss Tilly. Just like everyone else in this awful goddamn city. No one gives a shit about a bunch'a dead whores."

Miles raised an eyebrow at the girl, mildly shocked at the language. It had been many years since he'd had the dubious pleasure of standing before fallen doves, and he'd forgotten how coarse they could be. "It's not that I don't care, young lady. It's just that I don't have an official capacity to assist you. I'm a club owner now. Plain and simple."

"The owner of a jazz club. I hate jazz. I despise it. It brings out the worst in humanity," Celissa said.

"Ignore the girl, please, sir," Miss Tilly said. "Will you ... will you hear me out, at least? The police don't care about what befalls us in the District. No one is willing to help, Mr. Miles."

Miles frowned, glancing at the stack of bills and invoices on the table behind him.

He said, "Very well. I'm listening."

Miss Tilly looked relieved, while Celissa huffed and turned her attention to the empty bandstand.

"Last night," the madam said, "one of my girls was murdered, sir. She was attacked with an axe. The killer chopped her up. It was ... it was a vicious, monstrous thing to see." She choked up, her wide face going pale.

Miles said, "I'm very sorry. Please, Miss Tilly, won't you change your mind about sitting?"

He motioned to the booth, and the madam nodded very shortly and allowed him to lead her to the seat. She settled in, composing herself, and the girl stood at her shoulder and continued to look around the club with disdain.

When Miss Tilly had regained herself, she continued, "Her name was Eva-Lynn. A sweet, kind-hearted young thing that had only been in my employ for four short weeks. She—"

"—was a bitch," Celissa said. "She thought she was better than the rest of us 'cuz she was all young and fresh-looking."

Miss Tilly glared up at the girl and snapped, "Close your mouth right this instant, Celissa. I won't have you speaking ill of the dead."

Celissa made a dismissive gesture with her hand, walked away to the other side of the club.

Miss Tilly let her go, and turned back to Miles. "Celissa can be a bitter creature sometimes. But Eva-Lynn was a sweetheart. I loved her dearly."

Miles couldn't help himself. "You loved her enough to turn her out for any john with cash."

Miss Tilly went frosty. "I provide a safe haven for my girls. I give them a place to sleep and three square meals a day. And most importantly, I give them a sense of home. Without me, the girls would be on the street or working for some cruel pimp who didn't care about their welfare at all."

Miles nodded, reluctantly. To some degree, Miss Tilly was right. Still, if she cared that deeply about the girls, she would've opened a home for wayward youth instead of a brothel.

But he said, "Please accept my apology, ma'am. Continue."

Miss Tilly sniffed, "The crux of the matter, Mr. Miles, is that Eva-Lynn wasn't the first. Two months ago, another girl was murdered in the District. Not in my house, but close enough. And six months before that, the first. All Creole girls, all young and all quite lovely."

"All with an axe?"

Miss Tilly nodded. "A horrifying way to die. The sight of it is ... well, it's something I hope you never have to see."

Miles had seen firsthand the damage an axe could do to a human body; it wasn't something one ever forgot. He said, "And the police refuse to help you?"

"They did nothing when the first two girls in the District were killed. They will do nothing now about Eva-Lynn. I've come here to plead with you, Mr. Miles. Please, sir."

Miles sat back in the booth and studied the woman's face. He pulled a pipe from inside his coat, packed it, and struck a match to it. He sucked smoke for a long moment while Miss Tilly watched him with tears brimming in her eyes.

Finally, he said, "I don't see how I can help you, ma'am. You need a detective. Man-hunting and crime-solving are two different things."

"But we have no one else to turn to."

"Try a private detective. There's a Pinkerton agency here in New Orleans. I'm not the man who can help you."

"But—"

Miles stood up. "That's all I have to say on the matter, Miss Tilly. I'm sorry for your trouble, but there's nothing I can do for you. Good day."

Miss Tilly started to say something else, but Miles had begun walking away from her. At the door to the back rooms, he turned and said, "Little Cat will see you out."

He closed the door behind him, trying hard to ignore the little voice telling him he was a heel and a heartless cad.

I'm not a lawman anymore
, he told the little voice.
I'm a club owner and a respectable Negro citizen and an old man, goddamnit.

And that almost shut down the little voice. Almost.

They had gotten in the habit of taking their evening walk at dusk, when the sun was low in the west and some of the heat from the long day had dissipated. Miles with his expensive derby hat and cane and Violet in her pale summer dress would stroll arm in arm down the length of Royal Street, along Canal and Decatur and all the way back up St. Louis.

A humid wind from the river swept over the rusted iron lattice and ornate stonework of each building in the Quarter, carrying with it the earthy scent of steamed crawfish, oysters, and beer. Music played from every second-story window.

It was a stroll that Miles looked forward to every day, a brief respite before heading back to the club and opening for business at ten sharp. The music would blare then, the bodies would press in upon each other, and the liquor would flow.

Like every other club owner in town, Miles had to pay a fee to the police in order to keep the booze pouring, but it was well worth it. When they'd first opened, Violet had said to him, "Well, well, look at you now. Decades upholding the law, and now you're just a regular ol' low-down criminal, aren't you? Selling illegal booze just like some kind of gangster bootlegger," and Miles had said, "Far as I can recollect, I never did enforce any stupid laws. And prohibition? 'Bout as stupid as a law can get, my love."

She agreed. Hell, it seemed the entire city of New Orleans agreed. The Volstead Act may as well have not existed.

They were on Decatur, with the dark rolling waves of the Mississippi to the right and the wood and stone storefronts, gambling houses, and inns on the left. The streetlights had just popped on, bathing the cobblestoned corners in pale gold light. Violet hadn't spoken in several minutes, which Miles found odd—normally, the woman did love to talk, God bless her, and he'd learned that any extended silence usually boded ill for him.

Just as he was about to break the silence with a weak joke, she said, "Baby ... I was thinking."

"Uh-huh."

"About those ... women ... who visited today."

"Oh Lord. What about them?"

"Don't you take that tone with me, Gideon Miles."

"What tone, Light of My Heart?"

She rolled her eyes, unable to keep from smiling. "Oh, never mind that. I was thinking, though ... well, I wish you'd help them."

He stopped walking, dropped her arm and looked at her. "You're joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

"But I thought you didn't want me doing that sort of work anymore. You hated it when I was a marshal."

"Yes, but ... I feel horrible for them. The police don't care about the ... fallen women in this town, just like Miss Tilly said."

Violet had apparently been eavesdropping on the entire conversation, because Miles hadn't told her every detail of it. He said, "There's nothing I can do to help them, Vi. I'm not a lawman anymore, and I don't have the resources."

"You have plenty of resources. You always have. That brain of yours, that conscience, that sense of duty."

"Maybe, but it's not my duty anymore. I gave all that up."

Violet shook her head. "You never gave up duty or any of it, Gideon. You never will. And I wouldn't want you to. I wish you'd help them, in whatever way you can."

People came and went, up and down the street, maneuvering around them. Miles frowned at her for a moment before shaking his head. "Can't do it, Vi. I have other responsibilities."

"Our first responsibility is to other people, Gideon. You know that. Especially the folks who can't help themselves. That's what you always stood for. That's why I fell in love with you. You could help them, if you wanted."

"But I—"

"And don't tell me you're too busy running the club. Why, just today you were complaining about being bored with paperwork and all the usual tediousness. I saw it in your eyes. You miss the excitement of your old life."

"Believe me, baby, I had my fill and then some of excitement."

"Don't you lie to me. I can tell."

He sighed. "The answer's no."

"Gideon, you—"

"No, Vi. That's the end of it."

Gideon Miles rarely spoke sternly to his wife, but when he did, she knew he meant it. Even then, Violet was too strong willed to roll over, but she'd at least back off for the moment.

He gave her his arm and she reluctantly took it. They continued along Decatur.

They made it only a few steps before three men blocked the sidewalk in front of them.

The men were well-dressed in expensive suits, and all three were big in the shoulders and chest. They loomed over the old couple, spread out along the sidewalk in a row, and the one in the middle smiled a nasty smile. He said, "Enjoying your nightly stroll, pops?"

Miles said nothing, sizing them up, waiting to see which way this was going to go. He gripped his cane tightly in his right hand, and with his left, he gently nudged Violet behind him.

"Asking you a question, old man," the one in the middle said in a thick Italian accent. "You having a good time with your, what you call it, nightly constitutional?"

Since he'd been in New Orleans, Miles had come to know this particular sort of hard case, possibly members of the Black Hand, preying mostly on their fellow Italian countrymen. He couldn't imagine what they wanted with him and Violet.

Miles said, "Yes. As a matter of fact, we are. Is there something I can help you with?"

The three of them crowded in, trying to intimidate him, get him to step back. Miles stood up straighter, didn't budge. He was conscious of his age right then, and of his wife behind him. This would be a fine line to walk. He knew he couldn't display any weakness to these men, but he also knew he was at a serious disadvantage.

The one in the middle did all the talking for the group. He said, "Yeah, Mr. Miles. You can help us. You can help us a lot."

He snickered, but the other two remained impassive, staring at Miles with dead, empty eyes. Miles didn't take the time to wonder how the thugs knew his name. And then the talker glanced at Violet.

"Well, well," he said. "This must be Mrs. Miles, yeah? Not a bad-lookin' old bag of bones there. Bet she was really something back in the day, huh? Bet she was a real ride, once upon a time."

Anger flared in Miles's eyes. He clenched his jaw. "You'd best watch your tongue before it gets ripped out of your mouth."

The talker cocked his head at Miles. "You know something, old man?" he said. "I truly believe that you'd try it. I truly do. But I wouldn't, if I was you. I'd hate to have to break your filthy Negro neck."

People steered clear around them, averting their eyes, hurrying past.

Miles said, "I'll ask you one more time, and I'll ask it slowly so that you understand. What ... do ... you ... want?"

Violet gripped his hand tightly, staying half-behind him. Miles felt her moving very slightly, and knew she was reaching in her bag for the knife he'd given her years ago.