Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (24 page)

He remembered that when he had told Justine the story, he had drawn out all the details and then felt poorly for days afterward. It was too much, a purging that he didn't care to repeat. So he related it to Dominique in an abbreviated form.

He had been born in New Orleans, near First and Liberty streets, to a Creole mother and a Sicilian father. He had lost a younger brother and sister to Bronze John, the yellow fever. There were few families in that time and place that hadn't buried at least one child.

Then came the troubles of the early 1890s, when white hatred for Italians was at a fever pitch, with certain American factions fomenting violence out of jealousy over the Sicilians' control of the produce business on the docks. There had been rioting in the streets that ended horribly in the framing and the mass lynching of eleven innocent Sicilians inside Parish Prison. As the violence raged on, his father had avenged an insult and was abducted and murdered as well, hung from an oak tree on the banks of Lake Pontchartrain.

His mother had sent him away and then descended slowly into madness—or so he had been told. When he came back to New Orleans, she was gone and no one could say where. He searched for her, throughout the city and then far beyond, but she hadn't left a trail. He joined the police force in hopes of tracking her and finding clues to his father's killers. He had failed on both counts. His career as a police officer was mercifully short and he found himself in the employ of Tom Anderson, the King of Storyville, where he had remained for the past eight years.

He did not tell her about any of his cases. He did not talk about the Black Rose murders or King Bolden. It would have been too much.

She listened without moving or making a sound. Her eyes were so dark it was hard to read anything there. The only reaction he could discern was the slightest little breath of pity, a near-silent sigh. "That's so sad," she said after he had finished. "About your family, I mean."

"Lots of people have sad stories," he said.

She nodded. It was now true for her, too. She was quiet for another little while. Then she said, "And what about her?"

"Who?"

"Justine." All the vitriol was gone, and the question came out in a vague way, as if she was satisfying some small curiosity.

He shrugged. "She's taken up with a rich Frenchman."

"And you don't care?"

"He's a man of means. She's lucky. She's in no danger." He realized that was more than he could say for the time she'd spent under his roof.

"I wonder what she wanted here," Dominique murmured, her eyes drooping.

"Who knows?" he said, and smiled at her. "You look like you're ready to go to sleep."

She smiled back at him, a sweet bowing of her full lips. "Maybe just for a little while." She closed her eyes and pulled the sheet around her. "You won't have to stay on the couch tonight," she whispered. A half minute later, she had dropped off. He watched her for a few moments, then got up to dress for work.

Just before he left, there was a knock on the door. One of Mr. Gaspare's young clerks from downstairs had a message from Frank Mangetta, requesting that the detective come by his establishment as soon as possible.

Lieutenant J. Picot stood by the window, watching a line of heavy gray clouds roll in from the west. There would be rain by afternoon, and heavy, by the looks of it. The
Picayune
said it was going to last for days.

In Picot's hand were two pieces of paper. One was the report of the recovering of a body from the river, one Charles Martin, a former musician. Though it had just come in, the news would soon be all over town, including in the ear of Valentin St. Cyr.

How foolish he had been to imagine that Valentin would stay off the game. He had been an idiot, sending those thugs to Robertson Street. They had overdone their task by assaulting the madam and their ruse hadn't fooled the Creole detective one bit. Now he was getting busy, peeking through cracks and turning over rocks. In no time, he would turn over one too many, and there'd be real trouble.

It galled Picot that people dropped dead all over town, but somehow St. Cyr never got a scratch, even though he planted himself right in the middle of all sorts of mayhem. It was like he wore some kind of armor. It was one of the reasons Tom Anderson used him.

The Creole had already begun to unwind the first strands of the case, and Picot felt powerless to do anything about it. He knew that St. Cyr would eventually figure out why those musicians had turned up dead and again embarrass the New Orleans Police Department. It was bad news for the department. It was worse news for Picot for a whole other reason.

With a growing sense of panic, the lieutenant had gone looking for something that would stop St. Cyr. The man's entire family was gone, so there was no angle there. The woman who had stayed with him for the last two years had just packed up and left him—another dead end. Picot knew about the island girl who had been with Jefferson Mumford and was now staying in St. Cyr's rooms. Though it was strange business, it was nothing he could use. The girl had only been in the city for a year and had behaved herself. St. Cyr was just that lucky. No one like her had ever shown up on J. Picot's doorstep.

The lieutenant went back to the first girl, Justine Mancarre, and realized that he knew nothing about her, which was a mistake any way he looked at it. He went to work fixing that. He sent one of his people to speak to Antonia Gonzales, as the girl had rented a room from the Basin Street madam when she first arrived in the city. Miss Antonia couldn't say much, only that Justine had been on the road in traveling shows for some time. It was a common tale and it led nowhere. Then one of the other girls mentioned in passing that she had spoken once or twice about Evangeline Parish.

It was a start. Picot was aware of the fact that a decent portion of the denizens of uptown New Orleans were either running or hiding from something. Over a period of twenty-four hours, telegrams flew and telephone calls crept back and forth between his precinct and the parish. The information came in bits and pieces; soon enough, it began to add up. Picot got excited. The name Mancarre had struck a chord with someone in the sheriff's office. The final bit arrived in the form of a telegram, the other paper that he held in his hand.

He could barely contain himself. Suddenly everything had changed around, and it was his turn to run the game and set things right. He was a police officer. He, not some damned Creole detective, was the authority and the power in those parts. It was time to settle that business once and for all.

Picot moved away from the window and went to his desk. He snatched up the handpiece of the telephone set, then hesitated for a moment. When St. Cyr found out what he was doing, there would be hell to pay. The detective might even come looking to kill him. Picot knew the man could do violence. He knew about McTier the Georgia gambler and others who had crossed him. He knew what a risk he was taking. It didn't matter; there was no other way. He had only one hand to play.

He picked up the phone and asked the operator to connect him to the police commissioner's office.

Valentin found Frank Mangetta behind the bar, muttering furiously because his day man had gotten drunk at Groshell's Dance Hall the night before and could not be roused from his bed. Valentin received a curt nod of greeting as he settled down to wait. Mangetta careened between the saloon and the grocery to the cadence of a vile string of English and Italian curses.

After about twenty minutes, there was a break in business and the saloon keeper stepped over to lay an elbow on the bar. He got down to business before it got noisy again.

"I don't know if you heard this or not..."

The saloon keeper gave a look that sent a chill running up Valentin's spine. "Heard what?"

"They pulled Treau Martin's body out of the river this morning."

"Jesus! What happened?"

"He was crossing on the ferry and he went in. He drowned. I guess it could have been an accident."

"It wasn't any accident, Frank." He shook his head grimly. "Now there's only the one left."

"Ain't anybody seen him in a long time," Mangetta said. "He might already be gone."

Neither man spoke a name. There was no need. Even a cynical type like Valentin saw no need to tempt fate that carelessly.

Justine heard a familiar piping voice calling from the banquette and in her half drowse, imagined that she was on Magazine Street. She told herself she was dreaming. Then the voice called again, this time louder and accompanied by a sharp whistle. She got up from the couch where she had fallen asleep and pushed one of the street windows open.

Beansoup was back, standing on the banquette below, this time with his friend Louis from the Waif's Home at his side. He lifted a dirty hand and waved the envelope he held there. "I got a message for you," he called up.

Through the fog in her head, she felt a tiny tingle of excitement. If it was Beansoup calling, the message could be from Valentin. She waved for the boys to come inside, and a minute later there was a knock.

Beansoup led Louis into the apartment and stopped to survey the fine furnishings. Then he turned his attention to Miss Justine. She didn't look so good. Her hair was frowsy; her face was a bit gray; her eyes were too wet and seemed unable to fix on anything. She was wearing a kimono and didn't seem to care that it was hanging open, revealing her thin camisole. Beansoup was embarrassed, but kept staring, too. After a short glance, Louis wouldn't look at her at all.

She cleared her throat and said, "Well?"

Beansoup handed over the envelope. When she opened it and took out the folded sheet, she discovered that it was not from Valentin at all. Her dismay was mixed with her astonishment that it was a missive from Tom Anderson, the King of Storyville himself.

The note, on fine cream-colored paper, requested her presence at the Arlington on Saturday at two o'clock in the afternoon "on a matter of some importance." Anderson had apparently penned it himself. The script was thick and sloppy, the scrawl of a man of substance in a hurry.

She looked at the two boys. They were both keeping their eyes averted, and she realized that they were embarrassed that she looked such a mess. She put the envelope and paper between her teeth and fumbled about tying the sash of her kimono. She took the papers out of her mouth and ran the fingers of her free hand through the hopeless mess of her hair. She cleared her throat again. "I don't understand," she said. "What's this about?"

Beansoup shrugged. "I don't know. He said bring it to you, that's all."

She went to get her purse and handed each boy a Liberty quarter. "Tell Mr. Anderson I'll be there," she said.

Beansoup held the coin in his palm, absently, as if there was something else on his mind. Then he jerked his head once and led Louis out the door and down the steps. The street door banged and they were gone.

Justine sat down on the divan and looked at the note again. It was very strange. She had no idea what Tom Anderson could want with her. It was true that he was Valentin's employer. He was probably familiar with Paul Baudel, too. Still, he'd never paid attention to her before. Whatever it was, she'd find out soon enough. Even if she wasn't curious about it, there was no way she could have refused an invitation from the King of Storyville.

Valentin spent another half hour at Mangetta's. The day bartender didn't show his face and there was another rush of business, so the saloon keeper left him alone with his thoughts. It was just as well that the Sicilian was busy and not refilling his empty glass. He did not want the habit of drinking during the day to add to his troubles.

It started to rain and he gazed out the window for some long minutes. Then he turned around and laid the sheet of paper on the bar, took his fountain pen from his pocket, and started to scribble, names and shapes and lines in random patterns.

Every one of the players in a single jass band save one was dead, each one most likely murdered. It could not be coincidence. Four men—each a musician, each colored, and all having played together in one small band, along with a woman connected to at least one of them—dying in the space of two weeks led to only one conclusion. The question wasn't "if" anymore, but "why?" What had they done, what had they seen, or what did they know that had made them targets for murder?

And so quickly that Valentin couldn't catch up. Two were gone before he had lifted a finger. Two more had died while he was trying to make up his mind whether or not to investigate. The landlady on Philip Street had passed him a hint that he never got to use, dying before he could get back to her.

There was only one member of that band left. Maybe. No one knew what happened to the man whom neither Valentin nor Frank Mangetta wanted to name.

Valentin drank the last drops of his brandy, nodded a thank-you to the flustered Sicilian, and went outside to stand on the banquette, smoke one of his cigarillos, and watch the afternoon traffic creep through the rain. After a few puffs, he tossed the butt into the gutter swollen with water, garbage, and horse manure. He pulled his collar up, bent his head, and strode off.

He was fairly soaked by the time he got to the building on St. Charles where Jelly Roll Morton kept his rooms. He climbed the three flights of stairs and spent a good five minutes rapping on the door and calling out before he finally heard the sounds of life from inside. Morton, looking like a train wreck, opened the door. He glared, then waved him inside with a growl of irritation. "What?"