Lost River (7 page)

The saloonkeeper crossed the floor to throw one thick and affectionate arm around Valentin's shoulders and steer him to the booth in the back corner.

Valentin sighed and settled back into the old leather. Mangetta's was a Storyville landmark, a building divided in half with a grocery on one side and the saloon on the other, the two large rooms connected by an archway. The store opened early and closed at sundown to serve the red-light district and the Italian community beyond it. At noon the saloon began serving drinks and light meals and in the evening transformed into a music hall with the best jass players New Orleans had to offer.

It was in fact Frank Mangetta who had first brought musicians across Canal from Rampart Street, throwing Negroes, Italians, Creoles, Frenchmen, and Americans together on one low stage. While there was a long-standing tradition of colored "professors" playing piano in bordello parlors, this was something else entirely.

The saloonkeeper, a violinist of little talent himself, hadn't asked permission, and before anyone thought to stop it, the wall had been breached. The music was just too fine and the crowds that filled the house nightly too eager to spend their dollars. Within another year a half-dozen saloons were offering bands that mixed races on a regular basis, and no one blinked an eye, all thanks to the rotund, mustachioed fellow who now wore an eye-twinkling grin of delight as he made his way back to the booth, a bottle and two glasses in hand.

He slid onto the cracked leather seat, poured the wine, and handed a glass to Valentin. "
Salud.
"

Valentin murmured a response and slouched deeper. Frank Mangetta was family, a cousin of his father's from the old country, and
compare
to Valentin in New Orleans. Frank had known him all his life, had witnessed the tragedies that had befallen the family, had kept a close watch as
Valentino
grew to manhood and switched careers from petty criminal to policeman and then to private detective. One of the rooms over the grocery had been his home for a while. In the Sicilian tradition, Frank stood as substitute father, and Valentin had always been grateful for it.

Though not at this moment, because the substitute father was treating him to a glittering stare and a lip that curled in reproof.

"
Come sta?
" he muttered tightly, belying the courtesy of the words.

"
Sta bene,
" Valentin said. He'd lost most of his Italian; at least he remembered that much.

Before the saloonkeeper could continue the scolding, a cook came out of the kitchen, carrying a plate of black olives, prosciutto, and provolone, along with a half loaf of bread. He put the food on the table and went away. Though the detective had eaten only a couple hours before, he fell to nibbling hungrily.

"So, you still hiding?" Frank said.

Valentin smiled slightly and shook his head.

"What then?"

"Busy, that's all."

"Oh,
busy.
I see.
Capisco.
I'm busy, too. But not too busy to come over to see you on Spain Street, what, five, six times a year? But, you, you're too
occupato
to visit one time in three years?"

Valentin felt his cheeks reddening. "I just—"

"Then why you come by today?"

Valentin said, "I ... I had something to work on over here." He fumbled. "
Sto ... sto lavorando.
"

"Oh? You working? Well, that's all right, then."

Valentin made an empty gesture. It was true; he had no excuse, and he didn't want to try and explain.

A moment passed and Frank relented. "What kind of something?"

The detective took a sip of his wine and told Frank about the Claiborne Avenue escapades of James Beck and his friends. Frank listened, faintly amused, and then got annoyed again. He sat back and folded his arms.

"That's what you come over here for?"

Valentin, embarrassed, said, "
Zi'
Franco, I'm—"

"Don't give me
'Zi'
Franco,'" he said. "Why you working for those people?"

It was a plaint that Valentin used to hear every time he had wandered too far from where he belonged, at least as the saloonkeeper saw it. As before, he couldn't think of an answer that made sense. The little pander of using the Italian for "uncle" hadn't helped.

At the same time, the detective didn't take
Zi'
Franco's insulted frown too seriously. "Is this what you want to talk about?" he said.

Frank shook his head slightly and gave a sad half smile, Storyville's own Pagliacci. "Drink your wine," he said.

He asked after Justine, and Valentin inquired about some of the characters from around the District, and what new musicians were worth a listen. He heard a few good stories about women who did not risk having their private parts stuffed with firecrackers. All in all, he heard nothing remarkable.

The saloonkeeper said, "Then there's that thing down on Liberty Street..."

"You mean that fellow they found?" Valentin didn't mention Mary Jane Parker's summons, but Frank was eyeing him as if he knew all about it.

"There's something not right with that."

"I don't see it," Valentin said.

"You ain't around to see anything," Frank retorted. He picked up an olive, chewed for a pensive moment. "You visit Mr. Anderson lately?"

"No, why?"

"He don't look so good. People say he ain't doing so good."

"Is he sick?"

"He's something, I don't know what. Just not the same."

Valentin lifted his glass and put it back down again. He didn't drink much these days, and the wine was going right to his head. "Maybe I'd better head home," he said.

Frank smiled laconically. "You just got here," he said, and poured more wine into Valentin's glass.

The cook who came in early to ready the kitchen for the evening rush at Anderson's Café fixed a late lunch for Mr. Tom, which Ned then brought to his table. He was eating when Billy Struve wandered in from the street, stopping at the bar to have the janitor fetch him a short glass of whiskey. It was not his first of the day; Anderson could tell by the wide arc of his steps as he crossed the marble-tiled floor.

After Valentin St. Cyr turned his back on the District, Struve had stepped in as the King of Storyville's right-hand man. Though there was no comparison between the sharp-eyed Creole detective and this happy-go-lucky gadabout, Struve was loyal and dependable in his own small way, and that was something.

Anderson looked up from his plate and used his fork to point his red-faced, bleary-eyed visitor to the opposite chair. Struve sat, helped himself to a slopping sip of his drink, and let out a relieved sigh.

"So?" the older man inquired.

Struve ran down the list of Storyville gossip and scandals, failing as usual to notice his host's impatience. He had always been a useful spy, gathering up bits of dirt from the streets, what this madam was saying about that madam and what they were both saying about the King of Storyville; what city official had taken a shine to what sporting girl; or which pious church elder preferred the company of men. Anderson had once delighted in hearing these sordid details, as much for their entertainment value as for the usefulness. Now it mostly just irritated him. After almost twenty years, what did he care about such nonsense?

He longed for the likes of St. Cyr, who always appeared on time, stone sober, and with the information he needed, nothing less and nothing more, and every bit of it valuable.

But St. Cyr had gone on the payroll of a set of rich downtown lawyers, doing their dirty work, and no one had come along to replace him. Certainly not Struve, who, having quaffed his whiskey, was now waving to Ned for a refill. The janitor looked at Anderson, who gave a slight shake of his head. One more drink and the man would be worthless.

"What about Liberty Street?" he asked. "Any more news?"

Struve blinked his wet eyes. "Liberty ... oh, that ... No, nothing more. Coppers don't know how the body got there. Or who killed him, none of that. Pretty damn funny, if you ask—"

"Is the family making any noise?"

"Not that I know of." Struve laughed loosely. "Honore Jacob showed up mad as hell."

Anderson pursed his lips in frustration. Jacob was a parade of rude noise on two feet. "Is anyone else talking?"

Struve was watching over his shoulder as Ned retreated to the other end of the bar.

"Billy!"

The head came back around. "What's that?"

"I asked if anyone else has anything on that dead man."

"If they do, I ain't heard it."

"Well, keep your ears open."

"You know I will," Struve said. He picked up his glass and stared at it morosely.

The King of Storyville sighed at the state of things lately. "Ned," he called out. "Mr. Struve will have another whiskey over here."

Detective McKinney stood in the doorway. At twenty-four, he was on the tall side, his face Irish ruddy and sporting a mustache that was a splendid orange-red and matched his bristling hair.

By contrast, Captain J. Picot was short and lumpish, his flesh a shade shy of swarthy and his hooded eyes the color of old copper. Sensing a visitor, he looked up, then gestured for the young officer to speak his piece.

McKinney said, "I went over to that house on Liberty Street, the one where Mr. Defoor was found."

"And?"

"And I didn't get anything more than they reported the other night. Sometime between the time the occupants went off to bed and when the maid got up, someone carried the body into the house and left it in the middle of the parlor floor."

The captain gazed at his subordinate for a second, then let out a sudden bark of a laugh as his face went all rubbery.

"That's about the funniest goddamn thing I ever heard!" he chortled. "Whoever did it must have a bad case with that madam. Or maybe got a bad case off one of her
girls
!" Noticing that McKinney didn't get the humor, he stopped laughing and resumed his scowl.

"All right, what else?" he said.

"I went to the morgue to have a look at the body."

Picot drummed thick fingers on his desk blotter. "What for?"

McKinney shifted his feet. "I wanted ... I was completing the investigation." He wagged a clumsy hand at his chest. "The bullet struck him over the heart," he went on. "He would have died instantly."

Picot nodded and yawned.

"And he had a cut on him."

The captain closed his mouth and blinked like a turtle. "A what?"

McKinney drew a slash in the air. "A cut." He used the same finger to cross his face at a rising angle. "Right here."

"Cut with what?"

"A blade of some kind. A sharp knife or—"

"I don't get it."

"I don't, either, sir. But it was fresh. So I believe the murderer did it."

Picot gave him a blank look. "So? Don't make that poor fuck any less dead, does it?"

"No, sir, but I—"

"They release the body?"

"I asked them to hold it for twenty-four hours."

"What the hell for?" The captain's eyes sharpened in annoyance. "Family's going to want him back. I don't need them calling to complain."

"I was just making sure there was nothing else," McKinney said.

"There ain't, or we would have heard by now," Captain Picot said. "You get back down there and tell them to let him go."

The younger officer hesitated for the briefest instant, then said, "Yes, sir, thank you." He exited the office, stepped into the hallway, and made his way back to the morgue, where he signed the form releasing the body of Mr. Allan Defoor to his grieving family.

Once she was certain that the man she'd encountered wasn't tailing her, Evelyne stopped to catch her breath. She settled herself and continued walking the District from Basin Street to Villere, traveling up one street and down the next and taking it all in from behind her disguise. She viewed women hawking themselves from windows, from doorways, even right out on the banquettes, and the men eyeing the goods as if making market for cuts of meat; smells that gyrated from heavy perfume to animal droppings, and in between a mélange of animal, vegetable, and mechanical scents; finally, the sounds that began with women already tired of trying to entice buyers for their services and ended with the sweet and sad notes of a professor's piano through an open window.

She spent nearly two hours on her exploration and arrived back at the corner of Iberville and Basin streets, directly beneath the facade of Anderson's Café and Annex. The Hudson was waiting, but before stepping aboard, she turned to survey the Café and then the mansions down the line one more time, fixing it all in her mind like a photograph.

The attendant of the colored ward lowered his voice to mutter in the woman's ear. She listened, her eyes widening in surprise. The Negro assured her that he had heard it correctly.

She found the patient standing by a window, his favorite, the one that looked out over the rice fields. After a few moments' silence to allow him to adjust to her presence, she murmured, "Buddy?"