Madam (8 page)

It was the mammies of the plantation, their kind hearts swelling for this lonely, neglected child, who treated him as one of their own. They cooked for him: grits, barbecue brisket, and hoecakes with honey. They brought him along to their spirituals, where Tom ardently clapped and sang and took such an interest that he taught himself how to play gospel on the church organ. They sent him outdoors with their own children, where, in the fields, they’d play for hours. Tom’s favorite game was Chickamy Chickamy Fox, where a “fox” tried to outrun the gatekeeper and capture the “chickens.” Tom—then as now—made an excellent fox.

It was in those fields that Tom and the plantation kids smoked their first cigar—hand-rolled from a local buckeye dealer—which Tom had slid from his father’s desk drawer early that morning. Coughing, they passed around the cigar until they finally got the hang of how to smoke properly.

But all the while, Tom silently ached. He yearned for what he would never have: his mother’s affection and his father’s acceptance.

He knew he was invisible to his parents and vowed not to be that way to anyone else. No, he decided, to all others he would be essential, charming even, the center of the room, the talk of the schoolgirls, the first team pick of the schoolboys. He would be no one’s enemy and everyone’s friend—or at least they all would think so. Only he would know the truth: he would need no one. He would be disappointed by no one ever again.

He went about inventing a person who, in a world far from Atlanta, would gain immeasurable acceptance and affection—acceptance of the highest powers that be, and affection from the most beautiful women in the land. He made himself believe he would one day have an empire of his own.

And he would succeed. The irony—perhaps so profound that Anderson himself couldn’t grasp it—was that his empire was made up of the sort he knew all too well: the castoffs, the unwanteds, the nobodies. Within this world, Anderson would earn much power. He would enjoy his reputation in the city of New Orleans as a savvy businessman and a charming Southern gentleman—but he would take pride in his Venus Alley reputation as a notorious playboy and a feared leader.

It was at sixteen years old that Tom disappeared from Atlanta. His parents awoke to find their only child gone, no note, no indication as to his destination, no good-bye. For all those years since, Tom held fast to the belief that they never missed him.

Four distinct staccato raps on the door jarred Anderson from his musings. He lazily rolled his head. “Come on in, Mayor.”

The door swung open and portly, red-faced Mayor Walter Chew Flower waddled in, carrying a bottle of Raleigh Rye.

“Have I become that much of a jackass that you gotta bring your own whiskey?” Anderson said.

Mayor Flower laughed, his cheeks turning even more splotchy. “It was a gift from the Public Order Committee,” he announced. “In full disclosure, they also sent over a box of Dominican cigars, which I opted to keep for myself.”

Anderson shook his head with amusement. “They’re trying to get to you in all the right places.”

“Figured I’d enjoy the irony of sharing their bottle with the infamous Tom Anderson.”

“Nothing wrong with taking a gift with one hand . . . and pouring it with the other.”

“I like that, Tom. You do have a way with words.”

Anderson opened a hutch to reveal rows of glasses for every occasion—stemware, shot glasses, absinthe glasses, highballs, snifters. He reached for two tumblers.

“I never thought I’d say this about a Puritan,” Anderson began, “but the new head of the Public Order Committee has some interesting ideas about vice in our city. And I mean interesting as in, I wholeheartedly agree with the man. Imagine that!”

“Ah yes, Alderman Sidney Story,” the mayor mused as he stuffed himself into a chair. “He might as well nail a soapbox to the soles of his shoes. Every corner I pass he’s in the middle of a Bible-wavin’ tirade.”

Anderson sniffed the whiskey, gave it a pleasant nod of approval. “Oh, I’m sure Alderman Story wouldn’t so much as shake my hand. But his notion of setting up a legal district to contain, as he calls them, the ‘lewd and abandoned women,’ well, that’s a notion I get behind one hundred percent. I’d get up on a soapbox of my own and stand right next to him to show my support.”

“Ha!” the mayor said, batting the air with his arm. “You’d sooner become a monk than get the entire City Council to support a legal district of prostitution. The alderman is as good as talking nonsense. Oh, but I do love picturing you planting a soapbox right next to his. He’d be mortified!” Flower broke into little-girl giggles.

Anderson reclined back into his chair, savoring a gulp of whiskey as he watched the already-strained buttons on the mayor’s vest struggle against his fit of laughter. He didn’t mind Flower, and he’d certainly benefited from how close they’d become, but he couldn’t help but often wonder: How did this roly-poly get elected into office? If bullshit were music, he should have his own brass band. It occurred to Anderson that he, himself, should run for office. But not local government—Lord no, the Cabildo was so full of hypocrites. Those local politicians, they were nothing more than reeds in the wind, over here one minute, over there the next—and pocketing kickbacks all around. Bigger sights were in view for Tom Anderson: the Louisiana State Legislature, perhaps. And there was always Washington, DC, still so pearly white—he could go in there and actually have a chance at tarnishing things up.

“It doesn’t quite make sense, Mayor, why the City Council’s so opposed to Alderman Story’s proposition,” Anderson said as Flower caught his breath. “After all, creating a legal prostitution district would limit whores to certain boundaries. Folks could stop arguing that whores were corrupting family neighborhoods and that they lived in fear of a whorehouse popping up next door. As we both know, whores’ll do many things, but they don’t do the real estate market any favors.”

It took the mayor a second before the pun sank in. “Oh,
favors
, Tom,” he said, dissolving again into giggles. “The City Council could certainly benefit from a
favor
or two, believe you me! So uptight, all of them. But trust me, they won’t ever legalize a prostitution district, even if it mandated whores to be chained to the lampposts.”

“Now that’s an interesting picture,” Anderson said, swirling his drink.

“Hell’s bells.” The mayor snorted. “The City Council’s been plotting the demise of Venus Alley for as long as I’ve been in office. One alderman’s voice, and a pretty darn mousy one if you ask me, ain’t gonna make a damn of difference. People ’round here don’t take kindly to change, you know that. Pour me some more drink, will ya?”

Setting down his own still nearly full glass, Anderson refilled the mayor’s drained one, marveling at how the sot could really suck it down.

Reaching for his refill, Flower wedged himself out of the chair to pace the room—for effect, of course. It was an important point Anderson had brought up, and, as the mayor, he wanted to do his best to expound. “See, Tom, the only thing Alderman Sidney Story’s accomplishing is to make the City Council riled up. And now they’re looking for a way to lash back at Story’s unorthodox ideas, show that new alderman he doesn’t call the shots, that he can’t just traipse in here—oh, and he does traipse! Have you seen him, Tom?” The mayor’s cheeks bulged with more giggles.

Tom gave a disinterested shrug.

“Well, it tickles me that such a, how should I put this, such an unmanly man is the one carrying on about legalizing prostitution. I bet Sidney Story has never even been with a woman. I bet this is all some twisted way of covering up something that ain’t quite right in his head, if you know what I mean. I bet this new alderman still lives with his mother. Anyway, as I was saying before I interrupted myself, the City Council wants to show him that he can’t just traipse in here threatening to change things, spouting off all sorts of unconventional, improbable ideas. Impossible ideas, really. How dare someone come and rock the good ship New Orleans!” He waved his arms in big circles, simulating a rocking boat. “This ain’t my view, Tom, but it sure is how the City Council feels about it.”

Anderson watched the mayor’s little show, thinking the tubby man looked more as if he were losing his balance than rocking a boat. “So, Mayor, do I need to be worried that Venus Alley will be the target of some retaliation from the City Council? Perhaps their way of sending a message to the neophyte alderman and his Public Order Committee that it’s still the Council who has at least a modicum of control over vice in this town?”

The mayor gave an offhanded shrug. “Not sure the City Council will bother much. It’s not like they can just up and run your gals outta here, Tom.”

“Those preacher-leechers can certainly try. Though they might as well let the whores take all the booze and tobacco with them, and they can pack up Mardi Gras, too, while they’re at it.”

“I don’t think you’ve any worry, my friend. Alderman Story may have convinced the Public Order Committee, and their talk is temporarily loud, but the City Council knows those government committees hardly ever
do
anything. When was the last time a committee accomplished something of note? As I said, no one likes change. You know how long it takes to get the smallest thing done around here.” He leaned over as if letting Anderson in on a secret, dribbling his drink down his shirtfront in the process. “Besides,” he said, dropping his voice, “too many of the City Council are secret visitors to the Alley.”

“Too many of them are secret
profiters
from the Alley,” Anderson added. “Doesn’t the City Council realize that a legalized district would make it a hell of a lot easier to get laid in this town?”

“You’re overthinking all this,” Flower said. “The Public Order Committee will soon tire of their own yammering, and everyone’ll opt to stick with things just the way they are. That’s what always happens, and it’s really much easier that way. Certainly makes
my
job easier.”

Anderson took a long sip of whiskey. His thoughts traveled to the nameless corpse that had been lying smack in the middle of Venus Alley earlier that night. No matter how lethargic the City Council, if word of this incident got out, they’d surely bolt up and take notice. A dead body would be perfect evidence for the Council to use to squash this new, loudmouth alderman and his crazy ideas about prostitution.

“I can stage a raid if you think it’ll quiet the unrest some,” Anderson said.

Flower twisted his face. “I don’t see the need to go to any trouble, Tom. No one who matters is paying much mind to Alderman Story. Truly, he’s nothing more than a flea. A flitting flea.” Flower fluttered his stubby arms as he moved to the hutch. “Just make sure there aren’t any major incidents involving a whore. You know, nothing that would upset the flow.” He topped off his glass. “No repeats, like last year . . . with the congressman.” He rolled his head back, sucking in air. “Now, something like that, well, that would really get the water boiling again.”

Calmly, with no expression other than deep thought, Anderson swirled his whiskey—could be a congressman getting hauled into the icehouse at this very moment. “I’ll just order a raid for good measure,” Anderson said definitively. “Never hurts to beat the Bible thumpers at their own game.”

Mayor Flower was, indeed, correct: Alderman Sidney Story lived with his mother. They resided on the cypress-lined street of Prytania in the Garden District, in a cozy raised cottage with two rocking chairs out front, hearty ferns hanging from the porch, and a flickering gas lamp at the door. It was quite likely that this thirty-seven-year-old gentleman was unmarried for the precise reason that he still lived with his mother; then again, there may have been other reasons—none of which he had given an ounce of thought to.

He did have thoughts about sex, though. All day long. But not in
that
way—not in any way that involved himself, or any lustful emotion, or body parts. He thought about sex in terms of revenue and property values, boundaries and crime reports. He also thought about sex in terms of God, and this made his pallid face crinkle as he damned to Hell those women of ill repute and the men who utilized them.