Lost River (17 page)

His father performed a noisy climb up and flopped into the tufted passenger seat with a heavy gust of breath. He whipped out a handkerchief to mop his brow, then waved it in the direction of the French Quarter. Louis shifted the transmission into gear and pushed the accelerator handle.

By the time they arrived on Royal Street, he had heard his father's rendition of the meeting with Anderson three times. The King of Storyville had made promises. It was a terrible situation but not hopeless. Just a madman running loose. Valentin St. Cyr had come out from wherever he'd been hiding for the past few years to take care of it.

Louis smiled slightly at the mention of the name. Honore let himself down to the banquette in front of the building.

"You can take the car to the garage," he said.

"I will," Louis said. "First I have a small errand."

Justine and Valentin were equally relieved that Monday was her day to make market. She dressed in silence, and the kiss she delivered as she left their rooms was suited more for a distant cousin than the man with whom she shared a bed.

Once the door had closed behind her, Valentin felt a small butterfly of panic in his chest, a twinge of dread that in some small way he had lost her. It was a good thing that he was exhausted from lack of sleep, the long walks to and from the District, and tangling with Justine before and after the fact. He went into the bedroom, undressed, and crawled in under the sheet.

Tired as he was, sleep didn't come right away. Gazing up at the cracks in the plaster ceiling, he wondered frankly if his pride was leading him to a terrible mistake. Even so, it didn't change the fact that someone was slithering around Storyville under the cover of night, murdering men and taking the trouble of cutting into their flesh, a lunatic to be sure, and a danger to the streets.

The question he had posed to Justine was not just a retort. Who else could bring down such a killer? The police? Not with Captain Picot in charge. Tom Anderson might once have been able to rouse the entire department with a few words whispered into the right official's ear. But not anymore, and so Picot could drag his feet even more than usual and hope for the worst.

The French Market on North Peters Street had for over 120 years been a daily celebration of New Orleans' palate. The market, located on the edge of the Quarter, opened well before dawn and went full steam until around one o'clock, when traffic began to wind down. Up to that point, it was a beehive of the noise, color, and motion of commerce that rang with old echoes.

Working-class women and maids from homes in the Garden District, Esplanade Ridge, and the Storyville mansions assembled to forage and haggle. The male contingent was represented by chefs who insisted on selecting their own foodstuffs, servants in various shades of brown, and hapless husbands who found themselves traipsing like pack mules behind their busy wives. On the intersecting streets, hacks and automobiles waited to help carry the women and their purchases to kitchens all over the city.

Justine loved the market and spent a good part of her Mondays grazing. Her mother had taught her to cook a bit, and she learned more on the road, including how to make a feast out of next to nothing.

For the rest of the week, she shopped with a bucket and rope. The produce hawker would roll along the curb, and the lady of the house would call down her needs and lower a bucket with coins at the bottom on a rope. Once filled, the bucket went up and the wagon rolled away, and on to the next address.

Justine much preferred the market, and loved to wander alone up and down the aisles, taking in the colors and the scents. It was like strolling into the mouth of a cornucopia.

On this day, though, her thoughts were on Valentin and how he had maneuvered his way back into Storyville. The betrayal wasn't so blatant that she had him cornered; he was too clever—or maybe lucky—for that. She knew as well as anyone how he could work the streets. Still, he was breaking his promise to her.

She was so absorbed in these thoughts that three times she had to go back to vendors she had passed by mistake. Walking away from the third, she topped off her morning by running directly into the chest of a man coming the other way. The basket over her arm tipped, and oranges, onions, sassafras, peppers, limes, and garlic came tumbling out. The other half of the collision muttered an apology and immediately bent down to grab what he could, even scuttling part of the way under a stand to chase down an errant orange.

When he crawled back out and straightened up, she found herself looking into a face so striking that her breath caught for a moment. The unblemished flesh had a slight tan cast set off by a near-perfect nose, full lips, and chiseled cheekbones. The eyes were the pale green color of Riesling wine. Dark blond hair, longish and straight, was carefully combed and oiled. He looked like nothing so much as a cameo, and she guessed that he took much care to create the effect. Along with this, he smelled good; the obvious benefit of a cologne, and not one that many men would employ.

With all this, there was something predatory about him, and he gazed openly into her eyes as he brushed the dust from the sleeves of his day coat. She stuttered apologies, stumbling over her words and making no sense whatsoever. Gently, with a small smile, he dropped the last orange back into her basket.

"I'm so sorry," she said for the fifth time.

"It was my fault. Please forgive me."

"No, really, I wasn't watching ... I was..." She got lost again.

His white smile stayed in place and, tilting his head, he said, "Will you let me buy you a cup of coffee?" The small café with the bakery counter was only a few paces behind her. He caught her eye again and served up a deeper smile. "Please."

With one smooth motion, he cupped her elbow in one hand and swept the basket from her forearm with the other. He steered her out of the foot traffic to the recess of the café and then to a table. She was relieved when he stepped away to fetch their refreshments; she needed a moment.

In the years since she had been "ruined," it had been the rare man who could rouse her. She knew them too well. The kind ones bored her, and the dangerous types were more like thieves in the night. So it had always required a particular touch to get through her defenses. Valentin had possessed it, and one day she woke up to find he had breached her wall. She hadn't been able to shake him, even when he wandered away or she had to put him out.

This handsome fellow who was now turning away from the counter with two cups had the same sort of wicked charm, but his came more in ebbs. Justine took hold of herself. She had no intention of falling for some charmer's play, though she didn't mind the attention at all. Let Valentin see her now; how she wished he could...

By the time her new friend reached the table, his progress marked by a dozen other female eyes, she was ready. He put her cup down, settled himself, and resumed his study of her face. She wondered for a moment if the French Market might be his turf, a place to hunt pretty women, looking for his next free ride.

"I didn't ask your name," he said, giving her a dimpled smile.

She was trying to recall if she'd ever met a man who was so feminine and yet brashly male at the same time. Keeping her cool, she gave an absent shrug. "And you haven't said yours."

He bowed slightly, like a true gentleman. "It's Louis," he said. He was clearly some snake, his tongue all but flicking into the air around her, and she guessed that he had sunk his fangs into the flesh of more than a few helpless young creatures.

Her vanity was pained to realize that she was too old for him. He couldn't be more than twenty-one. Still, she was flattered, more so when she noticed the looks from the ladies at other tables, as if they had discovered someone who could make their romantic dreams come true—unlike their husbands or even their secret lovers. Justine knew better. Still, she couldn't ignore the stares being cast her way.

The young man across the table did not seem aware of the attention as he fixed his clear green eyes on her. She decided he was one of those who treated seduction as an art.

Even so, she wasn't about to fall for his wiles. Flattered or not, she wasn't angry enough with Valentin to betray him by slipping off to a private room with some handsome fox.

She considered that there were sporting girls and maids from mansions on the premises, and one or more might carry the little scene at the French Market back to Storyville on the tip of her wagging tongue, and from there it might find its way to Valentin's ear. So he wanted to run off and play detective on the streets of the red-light district? Let him think she might engage in some sport of her own.

This went through her head as she sat half listening to Louis talk—about himself, mostly, which didn't surprise her a bit. First it was about his home, then the schools he had attended, then his family, old French and moneyed. And so on. Score a point for Mr. St. Cyr, who didn't speak that much at all, especially not about his life. She dropped in at the middle of something about his plans for the future.

"...an academy," he was saying. "With a literary salon and a music conservatory and an art studio. And"—he smiled—"it would be reserved for women."

"So you could have your pick of the flock?"

He ignored the quip. "You don't believe that women can create? Be artistic? I think that's been proven wrong. Why, just think of..." And on he went. He knew what he was doing, fairly oozing sincerity, and she threw up a shield to deflect him.

"And where will you get the money for this academy full of young women?" she interrupted.

Louis stopped to steal a lazy glance around the room. The reaction from the other tables resembled a pack of dogs going on point.

"Oh, I have some ideas." He shrugged. "Now tell me something about you."

It was almost noon when Valentin woke up. Justine was not back from the French Market, and he rolled out of bed, took a quick bath, dressed, ate a biscuit with a slice of ham, and hurried out the door. In true coward fashion, he cut down Franklin Avenue to avoid running into her. As furtive as a rodent, he rounded the park and entered the District by way of North Rampart Street, circling behind Union Station and crossing over to duck under the colonnade of the corner building.

He knocked on the heavy doors and waited. A dark face peered out through the leaded glass, and the bolt cracked.

"Well, look who we got here," Ned said, pushing the door wide. "Ain't seen you in what, a few years?"

Valentin stepped inside. "How are you, Ned?"

"Day older and a dollar shorter, that's how." The janitor's grin took a crooked turn, and he lowered his voice. "I believe the man's been waitin' for you," he said.

Valentin made his way along the familiar marble-topped bar with its brass rail and rolling ridges of liquor bottles. The chandeliers glistened overhead, and though the spittoons gleamed roundly every ten paces, the carpet held more stains than he remembered, and many of the floor tiles that it intersected were cracked. The bandstand was empty, and any sound brought back a lonely echo. It all looked a little worn out, and yet the Café was by far still the grandest room for dining, dancing, drinking, and dicing in the city of New Orleans.

Tom Anderson did not look up from his papers at Valentin's approach. The detective stopped to help himself to a cup of coffee from the copper urn at the end of the bar, the chicory rising to his nostrils, a local perfume. It was a ritual he had performed a thousand times, and in that instant more months dropped away.

When he turned around, he found the King of Storyville peering at him over the tops of wire-rimmed spectacles. Anderson smiled slightly and waved him to the opposite chair.

Ned came along the back of the bar and stepped to the urn to refill his employer's cup. Valentin was surprised; Anderson had always made a point of serving himself and his guests the morning coffee. Never one to demand kowtowing from the help, he was in fact often criticized for treating the darker races too kindly. Indeed, his right-hand man for the better part of ten years had been a Creole.

That same Creole sat waiting for the King of Storyville to pour a bit of sugar and a drop of cream into his cup.

Stirring idly, Anderson said, "How are you, Valentin?"

The detective said, "I'm well."

"You're still on Spain Street?"

He nodded. Of course, Anderson knew this. The game had begun.

"And your work with those attorneys? How are you getting along there?"

"All right. It pays well."

"I can imagine."

They went around in this dance for a few minutes. Since Valentin was the one who had walked out, he knew he was responsible for the patchwork. Anderson was waiting, so at the next silence, he said, "The murder of this Bolls fellow..."

"Yes?"

"Miss Antonia asked for my help."

"And you agreed."

"I told her I'd see if there was anything I could do."

Anderson's eyebrows arched politely; he hadn't lost his flair for exaggeration. "And so?"

"And so I've come to ask your permission to go on with the investigation. And to ask for any help you can offer."

The King of Storyville regarded him steadily, and Valentin could all but hear the gears churning behind the blue eyes. Though Anderson would appreciate the gesture, there was no way he could greet the detective's return with open arms, no matter how much relief it brought.