Chasing the Devil's Tail (38 page)

"John Rice."

Anderson nodded. "He asked my assistance in a delicate matter. He wanted to get Father Dupre out of the city. He said the Father's afflictions had become a problem for the diocese. An embarrassment, if anyone got wind of it."

"Did he mention Annie?"

"He mentioned no one. He asked that I not pry further, that I trust his word on the matter." Anderson grimaced. "Trust his word." He smoothed his mustache. "And then, of course, I heard about this girl in the house back-of-town. So, I thought perhaps..."

Valentin said, "Heard from who?" Though he thought he knew.

"From Antonia Gonzales," Anderson said. "You sent her to me?"

"In a manner of speaking. You were already in her mansion. With your young lady."

Valentin sat back, shaking his head. "You arranged all this and then ended up chasing me away," he said. He knew why the King of Storyville had played the game, but he wanted to hear it from the white man's lips.

Anderson's eyes wandered off for a moment. "I have a longstanding friendship with the police department. It's an important friendship for everyone. It simply wouldn't do to have my man crossing into their territory and causing them all
manner of trouble. I had no choice but to let you stumble, then send you away."

"I was the goat."

"More like the wolf," Anderson said with a half-smile. "I knew that—"

"—that I would come back and try to solve the case."

Anderson nodded. "I was counting on your friendship with King Bolden ... and your pride. I knew you wouldn't let go of it." He sipped his brandy, watching the Creole's stony expression. "I want you to know I'm sorry about Bolden. But he would have ended up in Jackson, or someplace worse, sooner or later."

"I would have picked later."

The King of Storyville pondered for a moment. "You know that if it wasn't for him going there, you might never have caught the guilty party."

"I would have caught her," he said.

"I suppose so," Tom Anderson said, "but I couldn't wait."

The Creole detective made a rude gesture with one hand and Tom Anderson regarded him narrowly. "It wouldn't have made so much difference in the end, Valentin."

"I might have saved Buddy."

The King of Storyville lifted his glass, put it back down. "You did save him. You saved him from being railroaded for the murders. He would have hanged for that."

"He's locked up in an insane asylum."

"It's better than him being dead."

"Is it?"

"Maybe in a little while he'll be cured and he can get out of that place."

"You didn't see what I saw," Valentin said. "He'll never get out of that place."

Anderson was silent for a few moments. "Well, I'm sorry," he repeated.

Valentin turned a frigid stare on him. Anderson would brook such a look from few men, certainly no colored. This time he let it pass and waited until St. Cyr's harsh eyes softened with an odd sadness and shifted away. "Storyville," he said in a bemused voice. He sighed out loud, shrugged his heavy shoulders, and moved on. "I want you to come back to work for me," he said.

Valentin's brow furrowed. "I'd like to think about it, if I may," he said.

The King of Storyville nodded benignly.

Justine Mancarre recovered from the injuries she suffered in the attack, though she continued to experience occasional bouts of dizziness and blurred vision in one eye. She remained in his rooms on Magazine Street.

Lulu White's fancy man George Killshaw was never seen or heard from again. Miss White's one hundred and fifty thousand dollars cash went with him. She eventually decided against dispatching Valentin to California to locate him.

Guy Molony, Manuel Bonillas, and Lee Christmas were successful in engineering the overthrow of the government of Honduras.

One month later, the Creole detective returned to the employ of Mr. Tom Anderson.

On a day painted with the coppery light of early autumn, Valentin stepped off the train at the Jackson station. One more time, he rode a hack along the road overhung with weeping French moss, arriving at the grounds of the hospital in the stillness of a late morning.

He was standing in the corridor as Buddy approached at his creeping pace, his fingers touching every bit of molding, every protuberance, every whorl in every appointment, just as before. Their eyes met for an instant, but Valentin saw no spark, no light at all, just silent pools that reflected nothing. He watched Buddy go on his shuffling way, feeling an urge to speak to him, to call his name, to tell him he was sorry. But instead he just stared at the lost soul who was once his—

"You a friend of his?" a voice said.

Valentin turned to see a Creole attendant, medium-brown, in white shirt and trousers, standing in the archway. "Is he getting any better?"

"No, but I think he's fine the way he is," the attendant said. "He don't cause us no trouble."

"Is that all he does?"

"Yeah, well, pretty much so, yessir." The attendant paused for a moment, then came up with a curious smile. "'Cept you know there was this one thing happened," he said. "This been a few weeks back, it was a Sunday afternoon. We had this here orchestra from town playin' in the ward. While they was playin' their tunes, Mr. Bolden didn't pay no mind, he was just walkin' up and down like he do, there in the back of the room. Then those fellows stop playin', you know, and put their instruments down." The Creole lowered his voice secretively. "Well, I see Mr. Bolden walk up there to where their chairs is at, and he goes and picks up this horn." He laughed quietly. "I ain't never seen him do nothin' like that before, y'understand, so I'm watchin' him, wondering what is he up to ... and he took that horn and carried it over to the window."

Valentin stared at the attendant, thinking:
I know this. I know this story from somewhere.

The man said, "Well, he put it to his mouth and I say, my Lord, is he gonna
play
that thing?"

Valentin, now rapt, said, "Did he?"

"Well ... I don't know if he played, but he made some kinda noise out of it," the Creole said. "And everybody looked around, you know, like who is makin' that ruckus?"

"Then what happened?"

"Well, one of the other 'tendants walked over there and took the horn away. Mr. Bolden didn't fuss, didn't do nothin'. He just looked out that window for a long time, and then he went away." The Creole shook his head. "I can't for the life of me figure out what he thought he was doin'."

They turned to watch Buddy creep away down the long, shadowy corridor. "He was calling his children," Valentin said. "He was calling his children home."

Though he went to see Nora now and again, that day in October was the last visit Valentin paid to Jackson State Hospital for the Insane. He believed that King Bolden would never leave those grounds, would never come back from the still, silent, empty place he had made for himself.

He was correct. Twenty-four years later, Charles Buddy Bolden died quietly, in his sleep. He was buried in an unmarked grave near the hospital grounds.

I drew on a variety of sources for this narrative. Three in particular are recommended. The first is
Storyville, New Orleans
by Al Rose (The University of Alabama Press, Tuscaloosa, AL) for its panorama of the District throughout its colorful history. The second is
In Search of Buddy Bolden, First Man of Jazz
by Donald M. Marquis (Louisiana State University Press, Baton Rouge). It is the only definitive study of this enigmatic genius. Finally, Richard Gambino's
Vendetta
(Doubleday, New York) documents the drama of the lynching of Italian prisoners in New Orleans' Parish Prison in 1891.

Additionally, I wish to thank Dr. Bill Meneray for the use of relevant materials from Special Collections department at the Tulane University Library, as well as those unnamed others who supplied additional threads to this tale.

—D
AVID
F
ULMER