Gods of New Orleans (13 page)

He’d done his crying, and he fought back the sob that tried its damnedest to squeeze through his eyelids. Aiden sniffed it aside and thought about his ma cleaning up their room above the dress shop. Then he thought about what the buggy driver just told him.

“Only after a long hard day’s work you gonna get free.”

Aiden’s eyes snapped open, dry as a summer sky. He had to earn the Conroy family name, like his pa did back in Chicago City. It was long past time for him to work a real job, with real pay. The next time he set foot on the streets of New Orleans, he’d do it as a working man.

Chapter 13

The little stage in Hardy’s tavern had been set up with two stools, one for Eddie and another for Emma. A microphone rig stood in front of her stool with a long, snaking cable connecting the mic to a speaker box by her feet. Emma felt cramped up at the front of the stage, but she couldn’t scoot back any. The stage had just enough space for a small trap set behind Emma and Eddie.

A young dark-skinned man sat behind the drums, tightening them up, tapping them one by one, tuning them with a little metal key he’d fit over each nut around the drum heads. Emma watched him while worry ate away at her insides. She tugged down the hem of her skirt as best she could. Hardy had come in and handed her and Eddie a new set of clothes each. Emma couldn’t help but smile and thank him. Then she put the skirt on. It only just covered her knees, and she had to half sit, half stand against the stool to make sure she didn’t flash the crowd more than they’d paid for.

The room had more people in it now. Many more. Trios sat at each table, and the barkeep kept up a steady rhythm of pouring while two dark-skinned girls carried drinks around on trays. A few men and their dates stood at the back of the room, framing the door and window. They had drinks in their hands, too.

Emma’s throat felt dry and she glanced at the bar, hoping to catch the man’s eye and let on she needed something to wet her whistle before she started in crooning.

No such luck, though. The man had his hands full keeping the paying customers’ lips from drying out. At last one of the cocktail girls swished by the front of the stage and Emma called to her.

“Can you get me a bourbon, sister? Neat.”

The girl looked at her like Emma’d just asked for her first born.

“You must be crazy,” she said. “Didn’t think Mistah Hardy hired on crazy white girls, but I see I was wrong. Let me just stop what I’m doing for the man and see to your needs now.”

The girl’s eyes rolled around like she’d see the back of her own head before Emma would ever get a drink out of her. With a sniff, the cocktail girl turned away and headed for the bar where she picked up another round for the trio at the table closest to the stage.

Two white men and a dark-skinned man sat there, each of them eyeing Emma. The Negro showed less interest than the other two, but only just. The weight of the trio’s collective gaze held Emma fixed where she leaned against the stool. Given the choice, she’d never have worn anything like she had on now. But Hardy was clear as could be when he held out the costume.

“You dress right to sing on my stage, or you don’t dress a’tall.”

So Emma had put on the skirt that hung a good four inches too short, and the blouse that hugged her too tight no matter how she stood or leaned or stooped.

“We gonna get a song out of you tonight, Little Dove,” said the Negro at the table in front of her.

Emma tightened her lips and held her chest steady as she could while she met his eyes and held his gaze. She dared him to look away knowing that if he did it would only be to let his eyes travel up and down her legs again. But he stayed put and even cracked a thin smile, the same kind Eddie had on when she first met him.

On cue, Eddie touched her hip. “Best be warming up those pipes, hey? How about we do ‘Sugar Baby’ first, then on to some of them Gershwin numbers you like?”

Emma glanced at the Negro at the table and saw he still had that same grin on his mug.

“Let’s start soft and hot, Eddie,” she said. “How about ‘The Man I Love’?”

Eddie gave a short chuckle and said, “Okay, Lovebird. Okay.” He put his lips to the loaner horn the barkeep gave him and blew soft and quiet. Emma saw how hard it was for him to play with his ribs still banged up and his lower lip swollen from the beating he’d taken. But the tones came easy and sweet just the same.

The drummer picked up a slow tempo with his brushes and the crowd went hush just like that. The room seemed to wait on every note from Eddie’s horn, each beat, each brush and tap of the drums. Emma let the music fill her like air after being underwater, but still her chest felt tight and her lips wouldn’t part.

The barkeep cleared his throat and Emma caught his eye bent her way. She drew in a breath and the first few lyrics came out like a spring breeze. Soon enough she was crooning alongside Eddie’s playing with the drummer keeping time behind them and staying out of the way.

It had been over a month since Emma and Eddie had shared a stage, the last time being in a Chicago City speak after she’d skipped out on another of her father’s parties. And like that last time, tonight Emma knew she’d done right teaming up with Eddie. Whatever they’d left behind them was where it belonged, and now so were they.

Emma let the memories of Chicago City fall away with each word she sang, like the lyrics were gusts of a welcome wind clearing the landscape after a storm. Around the room, couples danced slow and close, hands held hands and traced lovers’ trails around necks and down backs. Emma breathed in the warmth and love she saw around her and sent it back out in the song while Eddie blew and blew on his horn, backing her up and carrying her at the same time.

The trio at the table in front of the stage had gone quiet, but now the Negro kept his eyes on Emma the whole time. He didn’t seem to get that she and Eddie were a couple, so as she let the last few lyrics drop from her lips like honey, Emma reached out and touched Eddie’s knee with her hand, light and sweet.

He blew the last note and the drummer tied it up with a bow, brushing a quiet finish across his snare.

The room lit up with applause and cheers, even the three men at the front table had glad looks on their mugs now. The Negro seemed to get the skinny. Emma saw him send a wink at Eddie, almost like he meant to congratulate him. Then Emma caught the smirk that held the man’s eyes up and she knew he had more than congratulations in mind.

Ignoring the leers and wolfish grins from the front table, Emma hummed the opening line to another Gershwin tune. They played it and a few more numbers before taking their first break. The barkeep sent the cocktail girl over with a platter full of bourbon. Eddie passed, but said he’d take some water. Emma wanted to down his glass, too, but let the drummer have it instead. She sipped hers while she waited for the barkeep to signal their second set.

The time came before too long and Emma had to set down her bourbon only half finished. She’d forgotten to keep up her innocent act, and caught the looks the men at the front table sent her way.

Yeah, the gal can drink, fellas. What of it?

She only hoped they wouldn’t hassle her after the show. She’d made it clear as day she and Eddie were a matched set, but it was just as clear that he’d be no good in a fight if it came to that. The guys at the table weren’t all the way to wolf town, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t get that way after a few more drinks.

Eddie blew a few notes to warm up. The drummer had gone off to hit the washroom and just as he came back the front door opened up. In walked a crew of three men, all tight together and looking like they could own the place if they didn’t already.

Emma’s heart skipped when she saw the man in the middle. All of him. The heavy form of Mr. Bacchus entered the room flanked by his two goons, the same ones who were with him on Hardy’s mooring deck. Now Bacchus stood in the doorway spread out like a blanket to block whatever lamplight still filtered into the tavern.

Night had fallen right as Emma and Eddie had started their first set, and the darkness seemed to settle that much more with Bacchus and his heavies in the room.

“Mr. Bacchus,” the barkeep said. “Wel-welcome, Sir. I wasn’t‌—‌”

“No, you wasn’t. And you won’t,” Bacchus said, lifting a palm and flicking his fingers in the barkeep’s direction as if shooing a fly. The barkeep shrank behind the bar and went back to wiping glasses while a slick of sweat trickled down his brow.

The two torpedoes moved into the room ahead of their boss and made straight for the table at the front of the stage. The three men there didn’t waste any time getting clear and soon enough Bacchus and his boys had front row seats for the show.

“I believe I heard that horn as we came in,” Bacchus said, motioning at Eddie. “Was you just warming up for us, or did we interrupt a number? I do apologize if the latter. But please, play on, Mister Eddie Collins from Chicago City. I would be delighted to hear you blowing . . . on
my
horn.”

Emma didn’t miss Bacchus’ jab, and she could see Eddie hadn’t missed it either. They traded a look of worry before turning back to smile at the gangster. Bacchus swiveled his massive head in Emma’s direction and gave her a grin that said he owned her as much as he owned the horn Eddie played or the hat he’d just taken off and set on the table in front of him.

“If you’d be so kind, Miss Emma, may I ask that you sing us a number? By request?”

Emma tried to nod once but her neck and shoulders shook enough that she was sure she looked like a marionette in the hands of a drunk.

“What‌—‌what would you like to hear, Mr. Bacchus?”

“How about a slow tune, something from up your way? We don’t hear much Chicago City music down here in New Orleans what with travel restrictions being as they are. Indeed, one might suggest that nobody in this room has heard music from
up the river
in a good long time.”

Emma didn’t miss the stress Bacchus put on that phrase. She didn’t miss the whispers and knowing looks that sprouted around the room like grapevines hanging heavy and ripe with gossip. She didn’t know what to sing, but Eddie saved her by blowing the first two notes of ‘Toddlin’ Town’. It was an old favorite and one they’d sung every chance they got back at the Chicago City speaks where they used to meet every weekend.

But as she sang and Eddie played, the lyrics took on a pale, empty hue. Her lips went tight and thin, and each time she named the city they’d left behind, it felt like a knife was working around her insides.

Bacchus had relaxed into a comfortable slouch. His goons kept their posture tight and their hands close to their jackets, but the room showed no signs of trouble, at least none that Emma could see.

Except what’s up here on the stage.

They picked a number about New Orleans next, as the crowd seemed to get that life
up the river
wasn’t worth singing about. Looking out at glum faces wasn’t going to do anything to improve Emma’s mood, so she signaled Eddie to play ‘Way Down Yonder’.

Through the rest of the set, Bacchus and his two torpedoes stayed put, with the boss’s eyes on the stage and his boys’ roving their gaze around the room.

It wasn’t until the last number that Emma keyed in to what was going on. This was Hardy’s tavern. The man may work for Bacchus, but that didn’t mean he owed his boss anything beyond the loyalty of a servant. Hardy stood to make a lot of scratch off Emma and Eddie if tonight’s packed room was any measure of how it would be in the future.

And Bacchus was here to jump Hardy’s claim. Emma almost faltered on the lyrics, but she caught the lump in her throat and turned it into a cough between lines. The crowd whooped and clapped when the final song was done, and even Bacchus rose to join the standing ovation. Emma spotted Hardy’s face at the back of the crowd, over by the stairs. He must have come down while she was singing. Or maybe he’d flickered in like a candlewick touched by a match.

Bacchus handed one of his goons a small envelope before he waved them both in Hardy’s direction. They parted the crowd like knives through warm butter until they stood face-to-face with Hardy. Emma watched the man for some sign or reply, but he kept his lips tight and his eyes locked on some point out in the room, like he was forcing himself not to glare death at the two tough birds handing him a slim payoff for his golden geese.

Hardy stuffed the envelope into his coat, and for a second it looked like he’d pull his gat. Emma saw the red mist that had formed around Hardy on the mooring deck just before he shot Otis. It circled his head like a halo, and Emma had to force herself to look away. But in that instant, the mist seemed to flee from Hardy, leaving him looking more shell-shocked than when Bacchus’ goons gave him the payoff.

The mist swelled into the room, above the heads of every man and woman in the place. Emma looked at the people all standing there with their eyes on Bacchus, waiting for him to let them go back to doing what they’d come here to do. Nobody else seemed to notice the red vapor that hung heavy in the air above them. Emma nearly choked when the mist gathered in a ball above Bacchus’s head and then dropped like stone, washing over him and seeping into his skin until it vanished from sight.

Bacchus gave a loud grunt, startling the room back into action. People acted like they’d just woken up and noticed they still have all their arms and legs. Men checked their wallets, and then their women, while Bacchus gave a short, deep laugh and spoke up at last, breaking through the rustling of coats and jangling of beads.

“Well, now that matter is settled, my friends. Mr. Eddie Collins, Miss Emma,” Bacchus said, nodding at each of them in turn, “would you kindly accompany me to your new lodgings? You’ll find some new clothes in my car, and these gentlemen will see to your airship. She’ll be berthing at a deck closer to home from now on.”

Emma’s heart skipped and she felt the floor fall out from under her. The room went sideways in her vision and the last thing she heard was Eddie groaning as he held her against his chest.