Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (8 page)

Jeff was sure he had imagined the whole thing and gave up. He was turning around to head to the bar for a drink when she appeared suddenly out of one of the shadowy recesses between the furnace stacks. He took a step back. When she stared directly into his eyes, he had a startling notion that he knew her from somewhere, though he knew that couldn't be.

She was wearing a simple walking dress. That was all she had in common with the strumpets who were wandering or staggering around the saloon, looking to earn some quick Liberty dollars. She was watching his face from beneath a hat with a low brim that partially shaded her features. He was nervous trying to think of something to say when she leaned closer and in a throaty whisper murmured, "What's your name?"

"Jefferson. Jeff. Mumford."

"Jeff Mumford." Her eyes settled coolly. "Well, I'd like to get a breath of air, Jeff Mumford."

Outside, she led him through the crowd, down the banquette to the next corner. She kept her head down and they didn't look at each other, like two strangers who just happened to be going the same direction. When they turned onto Villere Street, she steered him along the block some twenty paces to an alleyway that ran between two storefronts, just wide enough to permit a hack to pass. She slowed her steps and looked back over her shoulder, inviting him with her eyes. "In here," she said in her low voice.

Jeff followed her into the dark space, still not quite believing what was happening. A glimmer in a corner of his mind told him that he was being played for a sucker and some roughneck was about to appear with a knife or a pistol to rob and murder him on the spot. He'd heard of such things.

The woman kept watching him in a way that was oddly familiar and another warning bell sounded from far in the back of his head. There was something not quite right about her eyes. Still, she looked ready and willing. He was ready to put his qualms aside and see what she was good for, when from the street he heard Cornish yell, "Jeff Mumford!"

The woman's cool eyes slid off him and she frowned in the direction of the voice

Jeff said, "
Damn
him!"

Cornish called his name again, drawing closer. The woman's gaze came back. First she looked angry; then she gave him a smile that he read in an instant. He almost called out to Cornish to go fuck his fat self, because he had something to attend to.

The trombone player wasn't going to let it be. "Jeff Mumford!" he called, now even closer.

"Jesus Christ! I've gotta go play," Jeff said.

"Later, then," the woman said. "I'll wait for you."

Still, he hesitated. One like her didn't come along often—or ever.

"Go on," she murmured. "I'll come find you after."

Jeff gave her a smile and a wink and slipped out of the alley. Cornish was standing on the corner, looking his way. As Jeff hurried to join him, he saw the big man gazing dazedly past him toward the alley, his mouth half open. He glanced back in time to see the woman turn away down the banquette, her skirts trailing behind, a pretty witch in flight. It was such a vision that Cornish stood staring until the guitar player yelled at him to come along.

When an hour passed and she didn't reappear, he began to wonder if he really had imagined the whole thing. He knew that voodoo women talked about haints that took the form of women who came to men in their beds. Maybe they came to jass players in music halls, too. He never believed that sort of thing; now he wasn't so sure.

No, something had happened; he could tell by the way Cornish kept glancing over at him. And he could not shake the baffling notion that the woman was somehow familiar. Another hour went by and the cramped room got stickier with the heat of all the sweating bodies shoved together. A cloud of tobacco smoke hung thick and gray near the ceiling. The band played louder and faster and the dancing got wilder. There was a fight, with shouts and some shoving that was taken outdoors. The door swung open and closed as the sports and the sporting girls and the others, black, white, and every shade in-between, milled in and out. Jeff kept looking, but she was not among them. If she'd ever been there, she was gone now.

Justine sat on the couch with her feet up, looking out at the dark street. One of Valentin's books lay open on her lap. She had been trying to read, but the words just blurred. The St. Boniface bells had just struck two thirty, tolling with a gloom that fit her mood so perfectly that it almost made her laugh.

The madam had divined something from their passing encounter at the French Market a month or so ago. When the first invitation to visit arrived a week later, Justine guessed what it was about. She didn't respond. She stood before the mirror and told herself that she wasn't ready, not yet. It wasn't as if Valentin got drunk and beat her, or ran with street whores, or gambled away their money on the turn of a dirty card. That would have made it easy.

A second invitation came, then the third, both unerringly polite. She kept them tucked away in her purse, taking them out now and again. She couldn't think of a reason why she should go. Then she couldn't think of a reason why she shouldn't. She was confused, her regular state of mind lately. She didn't know what she was doing anymore.

Then that morning found her standing on Basin Street and a few minutes later on Miss Antonia's gallery. Afterward, she went back home and fidgeted until she could calm herself enough for a nap. When she woke up, she fidgeted some more, until she was sure Valentin wasn't coming back but going directly to work at the Café. She took a long bath and laid out one of her finer dresses and a new hat. Though she didn't like them, she wore a corset that cinched her waist and raised and plumped her bust. Then a shirtwaist that accentuated her figure all the more. The hat, a flowered affair, had a veil to hide her features.

She slipped outside in the falling darkness, hoping that Mr. Gaspare wouldn't see her and call out. She went around the block to Poydras Street and got on the St. Charles Line car. She spent the ride enjoying the admiring glances of the male passengers. Now she felt like a schoolgirl off on some innocent mischief.

One of the men tipped his hat and offered her a hand down at the corner of Rampart Street. She walked up one block, then crossed quickly over Basin Street, and went up the steps to the gallery.

She rang the merry bell and Miss Antonia herself appeared to whisk her inside. They spent an idle hour gossiping in the madam's private sitting room. Justine had been away from the District for a long time and there was much to discuss. She did not mention Valentin and Miss Antonia did not ask after him, even though they both knew that at that very moment he was working just down the street. The madam served glasses of champagne and Justine got a little tipsy. It was like old times, when it was slow because of the weather or just a quiet night, and the girls would sit around talking and drinking until they got sleepy. There were no men demanding their attentions or favors. They were simply young again, and for a little while the drink washed away their heartbroken histories.

Miss Antonia excused herself and when she returned she brought a gentleman, a slender, well-dressed Frenchman whom she introduced as Paul Baudel. Mr. Baudel bowed politely, his Gallic eye sweeping Justine's face and body with a modest though clearly appraising glance. They chatted about nothing of importance for a few moments. Then the madam escorted him back into the front parlor, where his friends were waiting.

Miss Antonia returned and poured more champagne. She mentioned in passing that Baudel was a gentleman of considerable means, having married into one of New Orleans' most prominent old French families, the Sartains, their fortune coming from thousands of acres of rice plantations on the Delta to the north. Sadly, she said, the family had this generation produced three daughters and one drunken fool of a son, and so Paul, the arranged groom of their eldest daughter, was picked to replace the ailing father and manage the company. He made a success, enriching the family's coffers, and was much respected in the business community and in New Orleans social circles, known to give to the Opera House on the one hand and the Colored Waif's Home on the other. He had a sterling reputation and was a devout member of St. Michael's Church.

Though all this information was delivered in a casual way, as if it was just more idle chatter, Justine understood perfectly that she was being courted. There was nothing more said about it, and when the clock on the mantel chimed ten, she took her leave. That's when it happened.

Miss Antonia called for a carriage to carry her home, then stood on the gallery, waving a good-bye. Justine lifted her skirt and went down the steps and across the banquette. The driver offered her a hand up. She had just stepped on the running board when she sensed something and turned her head to see Beansoup standing there, staring at her, his face twisted up in bafflement, as if he couldn't quite grasp the picture before him. She realized that she had forgotten to lower the veil.

She stopped with one foot up as their gazes locked. His mouth opened and he raised a hand to greet her. She could tell that he still wasn't sure if it was her. He had seen her in the morning in her nightshirt and kimono with her hair all undone. He had seen her in one of her simple cotton shifts. He had never beheld her in the kind of finery that was intended to catch a man's eye.

He had to be wondering what she was doing there. For an instant, she felt like calling to him, asking what
he
was doing out at that late hour. Hadn't Valentin given instructions that he was to be off the streets after dark?

She caught herself and stepped the rest of the way into the surrey. The driver jumped up into the front seat and snapped the reins. As they pulled into the street, she peeked over her shoulder to see Beansoup standing there, his hand still raised and mouth still half open, watching the carriage roll away. She felt her stomach sink like it was full of lead. It was bad luck, terrible luck. Within a matter of minutes, she had gone from being eyed like a prize by a wealthy Frenchman to ducking her head and hiding in shame from a dirty thirteen-year-old street urchin.

The bells struck three-quarters and she let out a sigh of dismay. She knew that Beansoup had more than likely scampered into the Café to tell Valentin what he had seen. He was just too much the busy bee. So she had been caught out, and she had no doubt that she was going to pay for it.

She put the book aside, got up, and went into the bedroom. She sat down on the edge of the bed, realizing that there was another possibility: Valentin might hear the news and not say a word about it, because he didn't care what she did anymore.

Willie Cornish lifted his valve trombone and held one last long middle G until it filled the room to its grimy walls, then ran the scale like he was scurrying up a ladder. It was a good try, but he couldn't reach the top, and the run died in a weak gasp. With a tired chop of his hand, he brought the song to an end. He dropped the horn to his side and croaked, "G'night'chall."

Mumford flexed his aching fingers, sat forward in the chair to stretch his stiff back, then drew a handkerchief from his pocket to dab his brow. He took a moment to wipe the side of his guitar where the sweat from under his arm had already begun to blur the finish, then laid it gently in its case. It was exhausting business vying with noisy horns, and every night he had to beat so much hell out of the fragile box of wood and wire that Mr. Orville Gibson of Kalamazoo, Michigan, would likely drop dead if he saw the punishment Jeff had visited upon the fine instrument that his workmen had crafted.

There were a few claps, hoots, and calls for more, though they didn't carry much vigor. Jeff stood and made a small bow, for what little it mattered. The rest of the fellows had already packed up their horns and left the stage. He looked around the room, saw only the usual stragglers, the bartender, and one stranger who was slumped against the back wall with a slouch hat pulled low over his eyes—no doubt one of those determined drunkards who searched high and low for the last open saloon so that he might have a final round before the thick New Orleans darkness was broken by the hard morning light.

The woman who had appeared so mysteriously to lead him into the alley and then evaporate was not in sight. Jeff wondered frankly if he had lost his mind or had indeed been visited by a haint.

He packed up his guitar, said his good-nights, and walked across the filthy sawdust floor and out onto the banquette. He could feel the sweat drying to a salty film over every inch of his body, and his ears were still ringing from the hours of loud brass, shrieking clarinet, and thumping bass fiddle.

After all that raucous jass, Marais Street was like a cemetery. Nothing was moving. Not a single sot staggered along the gutter and not one sporting girl screeched a curse into the failing night. It was one of those strange hollow pockets that came but once a night and usually in the minutes before dawn. He felt like he could hear a cat slinking.

He passed the alley, looked into the shadows. It seemed unreal, something that happened a long time ago. At least it was going to make a hell of a story. He yawned and rubbed his face and continued west, going home, almost shuffling, his guitar case banging the side of his leg. He would have paid a Liberty dollar for a streetcar ride, or even a leg up on the back of a hack, but nothing was moving at this hour. So he shuffled on.

As he passed another alleyway, this one between Fourth and Third streets, he heard a voice mutter. He glanced over, expecting to see a man with a woman either on her knees or bent over with her hands splayed against the wall and her petticoats hiked. It was a common enough sight in these parts. It always amused him that these couples never stopped their exertions, but simply glared with reproof until the intruder went on his way.