Madam (16 page)

F
rom the front, Countess Lulu White’s bordello looked fast asleep, but around back the kitchen was aglow and full of hustle-bustle as Addie, the head servant, her hair wrapped in a kerchief and an apron crossed over her plump figure, shuffled about.

A few hours earlier, Addie had heard rumblings outside and roused herself enough to peek from the window of her attic bedroom. In the back courtyard, where the carriages were parked, she saw a veiled Lulu step from a paddy wagon. Oh, what’s Miss Lulu up to now? she’d wondered. It wasn’t every day that the Countess got a ride in a paddy wagon. She watched as Lulu handed the policeman a roll of cash and gave his cheek a little pat.

Not more than a couple minutes later did Addie hear the tinkling of the bell summoning her. She made a beeline down the servants’ stairs to the kitchen, slapping her face all the way in an effort to appear awake for her employer.

She was instructed that guests were expected. At this hour? But her place wasn’t to question. She roused her teenaged daughter, Boo, who stumbled about like a drunken sailor as she changed from her nightclothes. Addie got the kitchen warm and humming, with coffee brewing and three snifters buffed and arranged on a silver tray. In the wine cellar, she pulled out the step stool and selected from the top shelf the Countess’s favorite: aged
framboise eau-de-vie
. She knew the top-shelf liquor was only to be used for visits from esteemed guests or for very good or very bad occasions. She thought it safe to bet that tonight—ah, this morning, already—met at least two of these prerequisites, though she hadn’t yet a sense of which two. With a knife, she slit the bottle’s sealing wax, and a strong aroma tinged with raspberry tickled her nose. She made sure to pour equally among the three glasses, and then turned to Boo to deliver the tray.

Poor Boo, she’d fallen asleep at the kitchen table, her bent arm barely able to support the weight of her drooping head.

“Wake up now,” Addie said gently. “Ain’t no time for makin’ sleep.”

The girl barely stirred. “Boo!” Addie said with a stomp of her foot, and her daughter jumped, then looked around, confused.

“Go bring this brandy over by the Countess.”

“Ain’t it too early for drink?” Boo asked groggily.

“Oh no, not too early a’tall. Not when somethin’ big’s goin’ on. Big an’ bad, I think. The Countess, she come in the back door, trying to be quiet as a mouse, and now she’s up there with Mistah Anderson and the mayor. I saw them come through the back door too.”

Boo’s eyes widened; she was awake now.

Addie carefully handed off the tray. “Remember, be quiet as you can,” she instructed. “Don’t go lookin’ any of them in the eye, and then make haste.” Before releasing her daughter, she straightened the girl’s collar and smoothed back her hair. “Awright, go on.”

Boo delicately carried the tray up the narrow servants’ staircase, down a long carpeted hall, and arrived to the drawing room. The door was closed, but it neglected to stifle the sound of voices that seemed loud and angry.

“This is exactly what they’ve been waiting for,” a man said, “and you just up and hand it to them on a silver tray.”

Boo looked to her own silver tray. Definitely not the right moment to enter. She stepped back, propping herself against the wall. She counted to a hundred, then carefully balanced the tray as she opened the door and, as light on her feet as she could be, slipped in.

The drawing room was smoky and dark, the thick velvet drapes tightly drawn. There was a chill, despite the crackling hearth, and the fire cast strange, flickering shadows across the walls that were lined with shelves of books.

Lulu—still in her ivory dress—reclined on a chaise longue. She took a deep inhale from a gold, foot-long cigarette holder.

Tom Anderson, a cigar in hand, paced the room. Gonna wear a groove in that beautiful rug the Countess brought from the Orient, Boo thought.

“Here I was, shaking like a dog shittin’ razors,” Anderson said. “So I order the raid, and turns out, that heart attack, he was no one. A nobody. After all that! So I’m in the clear and sleeping soundly every night, and now . . . this? Dear Countess, did you have to throw his ass over? Couldn’t you just have . . . bitten his ass?”

If Lulu was straining to remain calm, no one would have ever noticed, for her voice came out as controlled as if she were talking about the weather. “Tom, I don’t bite people’s derrieres. I may be many things, but I am not a savage.”

“My dear Countess,” Anderson replied, “you say that as if there’s something wrong with a woman possessing a little savage.”

The mayor reddened as he noticed young Boo. “Whoo, a bit hot in here,” he said, abashedly fanning himself. He was stuffed into a leather ball-and-claw armchair, his stubby legs barely touching the floor.

But Boo was used to bawdy talk. Undaunted, she set down the tray then swiftly backed out of the room, quietly turning the doorknob until she heard it click into place.

Lulu reached for a glass, swirled it under her nose. She smiled at Addie’s fine, and calculated, choice—
premiere qualité
.

Anderson continued, “Surely, a woman of your intelligence is aware of the consequences of manslaughter—that is, when it’s a man of such esteem.”

Lulu, never one for being clumsy, nearly spilled her drink.
Manslaughter?
She quickly busied herself with her cigarette as her mind raced. Dramatically, she took a long inhale—Beares had expired? How could that be? She exhaled slowly, slowly—she’d seen him, talked to him. Bruised, maybe. A broken limb at worst. Wouldn’t all that flesh have cushioned the fall? Or perhaps the bastard had been too drunk to realize he was injured? Certainly her intent had never been manslaughter; she would have opted for a balcony higher than the second floor if that had been her desired outcome.

She quickly halted her thoughts. Anderson and the mayor mustn’t know she’d blundered this horrendously. “
Mon pigeon,
” she said with steely calm. “You were saying?”

“I was saying,” Anderson continued, “that all actions do have consequences, and the most notable consequences in this case will be the
unintended
ones.”

Lulu funneled all her strength into showing no sign of weakness—no sweat, no quiver, no flinch. Although she knew that if anyone could see through her it was Tom Anderson. She eyed him from over her snifter as she slowly sipped, anything to distract her, and him. She’d known Tom for nearly fifteen years now, and they’d always had a harmonious and respectful working relationship. Never had he berated her like this before, and in front of the mayor no less. After all, they were on the same side, their interests aligned, so what was the point of this preaching? Sure, she’d heard the infamous stories of Anderson’s wrath when crossed—everyone in the Underworld had—and most of the stories were advertised by Anderson himself. But she hadn’t crossed him. She had done nothing to him but be a loyal business partner.

“Just so I’m clear, Tom,” she piped up, “how many consequences shall I be anticipating? Intended or otherwise.”

The mayor relished this contest of words between two of the slickest tongues in New Orleans.

It was Anderson’s turn. He paused to suck on his cigar, releasing the smoke into the air in one . . . two . . . three perfect rings. He replied, “There is but one consequence that’s especially noteworthy.”

At this, Lulu pushed her hand to the sky. “
Zut alors!
” The unflappable Countess was beginning to ruffle.

To Anderson, this was a minor triumph, and the joy danced in his eyes. “Oh yes,” he continued, “the unintended consequence will have serious effects on the
demimonde
.”

The mayor’s head bobbed to Lulu, it was her turn to fire. But she’d be damned if she was going to play this game any further. She would not speak another word. Anderson seemed not to notice and amused himself by blowing more smoke rings. The ticking clock echoed.

Finally, Flower could take it no longer. “What, Tom, for Chrissake, what the flyin’ fig are these consequences?”

A grin percolated on Anderson’s face. “You see, after tomorrow, the Underworld isn’t gonna be the Underworld anymore.” Lulu’s eyes narrowed on him. “Alderman Sidney Story is going to take full advantage of the death of his adversary. With the judge gone, Story’s going to push through the ordinance for a legal district of vice. And he’s gonna do it quick. Real quick! Get it passed before a new judge is appointed.”

Flower gasped. “Tom, you’re right!”

“The alderman’s mission in life is to relegate all lewd and abandoned women to the back o’ town. Well, Countess, Mayor, I do believe we’re sitting in the back o’ town.”

Flower slapped his plump thigh. “Jambalaya and a side of pecan pie, I never thought this would happen!”

Lulu silently fumed at Anderson for playing her as he had. Dear Lord, for a moment there he had her worried that maybe her standing with the police wasn’t as solid as she’d thought. Here she was expecting him to inform her that she was to be charged or carted off to jail, when all this time he was practically bursting with
good
news. She downed the rest of her drink as he blathered on.

“We’ve got the country’s most sensual city, and it’s time we make outsiders privy to all this decadence. Let them come with their bulging wallets and indulge.”

“Oh yes, I like the sound of that,” the mayor squealed.

“All types of folks will promenade to New Orleans, be them military folks, gambling folks, hell, even churchgoing folks.”

“Churchgoing folks?” Flower asked.

“My dear Mayor, folks will drop to their knees and pray at the altar of good times.”

“The altar of good times!” Flower giggled. “I’ll swan!”

“We’re gonna turn red lights into bright lights!” Anderson said, then turned to Lulu with a quizzical look. “Do you find any of this interesting, Countess? It’s rather life-changing for you, don’t you think?”

“It is a very interesting twist of fate, indeed,” she said. “Although, I must inform you, the back o’ town isn’t going to be the back o’ town for much longer.” She watched as a groove formed in the middle of Anderson’s brow. “Wouldn’t you know,” she chuckled. “Now it is I who has a secret.”

A wry grin played on Anderson’s lips. He gave her a bow to proceed.

“There’s no need in making you go around your elbow to get to your thumb,” she said with a barbed smile, “and I’m far above asking you gentlemen to play a child’s guessing game, so I’ll get right to the point.”

Flower craned forward, his belly bulging.

“I know for a fact,” Lulu continued, “the Southern Railway’s coming.”

“Not anytime soon,” the mayor bemoaned. “Oh, the red tape! And trust me, I’ve incentivized. For two years I’ve been bending over backward, even spoke with Mistah J.P. Morgan himself.”

Lulu flicked her cigarette ash. “Perhaps you’ve just been bending the wrong way.”

“Do tell, Countess,” Anderson said.

“Oh,” she replied offhandedly. “A lovely gentleman I know. He visits town occasionally. It’s his signature you need. And you’re getting it.”

At that, Flower slipped from his chair and plopped onto the floor. “It’s happening!” He salivated. “This railroad will be my legacy!”

Lulu added, “He also happened to inquire about a suitable location for the new depot.”

Anderson couldn’t help but laugh to himself, what a spitfire she was. “Shall I venture to guess you suggested smack fucking dab on Basin Street?”

Lulu lifted her chin with satisfaction. “Whores will be waving hello every time that train whistle blows.” She looked at Flower, red-faced and still on the floor. “Puts some hot pepper in your jambalaya, don’t it, Mayor?”

Lulu watched as the fire’s last embers flaked away. Alone now, she’d banished the servants and hadn’t moved from her perch on the chaise longue since Anderson and Flower had left some hours earlier. Her makeup was smudged and the silk of her dress had grown stretched and misshapen. The bottle of
eau-de-vie
had long since been drained. Dragging herself up, she trudged upstairs and locked the door with a large iron key. The morning sunlight streamed in through the tall cathedral windows. She squinted as she pulled the heavy damask draperies, plunging the bedroom into darkness but for a flickering sconce, its flame nestled within dribbled layers of wax. She didn’t deserve the warm sun right now, she thought.

She melted onto the velvet chair at her dressing table. Her movements were lethargic as she unclasped her diamond earrings, setting them aside. She wiped away what was left of her caked lip rouge and her white face powder. She pulled off her thick eyelashes and they fluttered to the ground like dead butterflies. She unpinned her fire-colored wig to reveal her own dark, matted hair underneath.

By the faint light, she stared into the mirror. The Countess had disappeared. What was left stared back, unrecognizable.
Who am I? Madam or murderer?
She had made sure that everyone who mattered had been paid off and that all the proper channels had been taken care of. Now she should pray for Beares’s soul. She, the illegitimate child of a slave. Her father, the rich, white master—himself educated in law—had killed many of her people. Maybe this was an odd sort of retribution. Or worse, she feared, she had inherited his cold blood.