Lost River (9 page)

Though it was true that much had changed for Picot in those years. Thanks to a chance stumble upon a revolting bit of information involving a member of the police board and a dead woman, he had received a promotion and another bar on each shoulder.

Then-Lieutenant Picot had handled the affair with a sly hand. He whispered the right words to the right people and certain involved parties were paid for their silence. He had played his hand just right, and within a few months, his promotion orders came down. When the announcement was made, he claimed to be as surprised as anyone.

The gossip that he had found a way to blackmail someone important made the rounds, nodded over as one of those things that happened to even the most undeserving louts, like ne'er-do-wells who made big winnings at the track. The months passed, and the grumbles from the other officers stopped.

Along with a fatter pay envelope came a larger piece of the graft money and more power. So life had been mostly pleasant for the new captain, right up until the moment he heard the talk about St. Cyr reappearing in the red-light district. He and the Creole detective had tangled for the better part of ten years, and if Picot had learned one thing, it was that St. Cyr wasn't about to walk away from Storyville, not for good, and probably not until they carted him off in a hoodoo wagon.

The streetlights along the main line flickered and then glowed a steady pale yellow. From his office window, Tom Anderson looked down on Basin Street, wondering if the foot traffic was that light or if his mind was playing tricks on him again.

He had spent almost two decades as the King of Storyville, though it was in fact Alderman Sidney Story who created the District by way of a city ordinance. Prostitution was deemed legal there; more precisely, it was pronounced
illegal
everywhere else in New Orleans.

All Tom Anderson did was step into the breach with a vision of Storyville's glorious possibilities and the energy to connive, wheedle, battle, and buy it into reality and then keep it rolling along like a smooth-running machine.

A smooth-running
money
machine, in fact. Something like a quarter million dollars was generated in the bordellos, cribs, saloons, and music halls every month. There were more workers under Anderson's sway than Henry Ford employed in his largest plant. He had hobnobbed with senators and presidents, men of enormous wealth, the royalty of foreign lands, beautiful women. He had no doubt that had he been born in some other time and place, he would have been a political powerhouse or a captain of industry. And yet as Storyville's lord and master, he was quite famous in his own right, afar and at home.

Though his admirers would not be so impressed if they could see him now. Always a thick man, his waistline had advanced with the years. His hair and extravagant mustache, both once a reddish blond and both parted precisely, had gone gray and thin. He had been known for a gaze that was now often weak and watery behind wire-rimmed spectacles. Everything about his body felt slower, like a clock winding down.

Indeed, this evening had just begun and he was ready to go home. But what would he do there? Listen to the birds singing in the eaves?

He turned away from the window and crossed to his desk, a solid affair of good oak that was adorned only by a blotter, a brass reading lamp, a ledger bound in fine leather, and a pen-and-ink set. He kept it that way, as a simple and powerful statement that Mr. Tom Anderson did not need crass symbols of power. As a side benefit, it was simpler to clear when he was in the mood for a quick and breathy dalliance with a compliant young lady.

Settling back in the throne-size chair, he tried to remember the last time the desk had been pressed into that service and could not.

As he mused over how things had changed, his thoughts turned to Valentin St. Cyr. So, the Creole had visited the District that afternoon. The word was that after chasing down some vague business on Claiborne Avenue, of all places, he had stopped to see the Sicilian saloonkeeper Mangetta. He had not paid the King of Storyville the same courtesy.

Tom Anderson was not a man who indulged petty slights and did not take this one to heart. St. Cyr had too much history fending off crooks of every stripe, thieving and murdering sons of bitches, crazy whores, and crazier madams, all on the King of Storyville's behalf. Who could blame him for moving on to other work? At the same time, he was the one person who could be trusted with the arcane inner workings of the District.

The lord of that piece of real estate blinked out of this reverie, aroused by the sound of footsteps on the staircase. He sat forward and flipped open his ledger to October 15. There was nothing entered for that hour, and he frowned, wondering what had slipped his mind. The footfalls drew closer: two people, one heavy, the other lighter.

At the sight of Honore Jacob, Anderson felt a small pain in his temples. Jacob was the landlord of several houses in the District, including Antonia Gonzales's and, more significantly, that Liberty Street house where the body of the Defoor fellow had been found. No doubt it was the reason for the visit.

That was bad enough; add to it Jacob's habit of complaining constantly, and mostly about money, about the coppers, about the madams who rented his properties. He never left home without carrying along a grievance of one sort or another. So the next few minutes promised to be unpleasant. With a quiet sigh, Anderson stood up, placing his palms flat on either side of the blotter.

Jacob was not alone this night. A young man entered on his heels. He was of medium height and lank, with ash-blond hair with the slightest wet curl to it. His cool green eyes and perfect nose were set on a feminine oval of a face. In contrast to his father's loose, rumpled suit, he was done out in a well-tailored coat and trousers of eggshell cassimere. All in all, he cut a striking figure and, from the smug way he cast his eye about, seemed to know it. He studied the King of Storyville with a blank sort of curiosity that lacked regard for so eminent a personage.

"Mr. Tom," Honore Jacob said. "I'm sorry to interrupt your evening." He gestured. "This is my son, Louis."

Anderson nodded to the younger Jacob, and Louis responded with the barest movement of his own head, a gesture just short of insolent. Anderson felt a jab of ire. But what did he expect, that the young fellow would bend a knee? He decided to overlook it and waved the two visitors to the chairs on the other side of the desk.

Jacob asked for an appointment every other week or so, though Anderson was at a loss to understand why. The man rarely made specific demands, preferring instead to roll out a litany of complaints that seemed never to vary: the police were too greedy; the city inspectors too harsh; the madams always trying to cheat him; there were rats everywhere; and there was never,
never
enough cash.

The Jacobs had once been among the better of the city's old-line French families, until Honore's brother, also named Louis, squandered a fortune that included whole blocks of the red-light district by bungling every business deal he laid his hands to and then dropping dead from a bad heart before the damage could be repaired. A few modest properties were all that was left.

Anderson had a tray with two glasses and a bottle of brandy waiting at all times, and he now added a third glass from the cabinet behind his desk. As he poured, he glanced up to see the younger man gazing idly around the room as if checking for anything that might amuse him. Honore Jacob, meanwhile, stared fixedly into space, likely cataloging his complaints for the hundredth time.

The attentions of both returned when Anderson handed over the brandies. The two older men raised their glasses and sipped. Louis hesitated, frowning into the golden liquor as if there was something wrong with it. The King of Storyville now counted a second strike, and the visitors hadn't been in the door five minutes.

He sat down again. "So, how can I help you this evening?" He addressed the father, keeping his voice neutral.

As if he'd been waiting for this signal, Honore Jacob hunched forward.

"You hear what happened at my property on Liberty Street?" he said.

"I did," Anderson said. "Very unfortunate. Is there any more news about it?"

"Not that I heard." Jacob shook his head dolefully. "The police don't have a thing. But I don't think they're trying. Don't think they give a goddamn."

The King of Storyville shrugged calmly and took another sip of his brandy. If he was lucky, Jacob would realize that there was nothing he or anyone could do and move on.

"It might not be Basin Street," Louis said. "But it's still Storyville."

Both Anderson and Jacob turned their heads. The cool and prickly note in the son's voice had bordered on the surly. Anderson returned a gaze that was even cooler and waited, expecting the junior Jacob to flinch under his famous gimlet stare. He was surprised that Louis did no such thing, instead turning lazy eyes in the direction of the open window, broadcasting an elegant boredom. The King of Storyville decided that was strike three for this dandy.

The father, sensing a sudden change in the air in the room, spoke up hurriedly. "Sorry, Tom, I should have explained. I'm showing Louis some of the ropes. I mean, in terms of my business affairs..." He tried a short laugh. "We're none of us getting younger, and, uh..." He laughed tensely again. It seemed he'd lost his place.

Anderson drew his stare off Louis and placed it on the father, cutting the son out entirely. "I understand the police are continuing the investigation at Miss Parker's," he said brusquely. "Let's just wait and see what happens. It won't go to make trouble where there isn't any." He produced a tight smile from beneath his mustache. "
Comprenez?
"

Jacob smiled in return, though uneasily. "
Je comprends, oui,
" He finished his brandy and placed the glass carefully on the edge of the desk, still fretting over his son's disrespect. Anderson was ready to dismiss both of them and stood up. Honore Jacob rose in kind.

Louis, however, remained slouched in his chair, his almost-girlish face distracted by some thought. "Perhaps Mr. St. Cyr could be of service," he murmured.

Anderson took pains to not look startled as he gazed at the younger man. "Pardon me?"

"That Creole detective." Louis's lips curled into a mocking smirk. "The one who used to work for you."

The King of Storyville continued to bite down on his bafflement. "I'm sorry? Do you know him?"

"I've heard about him," Louis offered. "I heard he's a very talented fellow when it comes to crimes in this part of the city. Perhaps he can help."

Anderson wanted to say,
Help with what?,
but kept quiet.

The elder Jacob frowned, trying to catch up. "But St. Cyr ... he's not around anymore, is he?"

Anderson shook his head. "No, he's not. He still lives in the city. But he has no business in Storyville."

A moment of terse silence ensued. Then Louis uncoiled and rose to his feet, his expression distant, as if he'd already lost interest in the subject at hand. Tom Anderson studied him for another few seconds before returning his attention to the father.

"You don't need to worry, Honore," he said, and waved a hand toward the window and the street-lit panorama beyond. "Look out there. It's calm. We have these incidents now and then. But things go back to where they belong." As soon as the words were out, he wondered if his guests could hear the hollow note in his voice.

He brought his gaze back to the landlord, who nodded, then performed a bow that was thinly sincere. Louis crossed to the door without as much as a look back, and his father cast an apologetic glance over his shoulder. Anderson was not mollified. Three wives and several other women had given him enough children to have lost count. So he knew misbehavior when he saw it and now produced a cold frown that said,
Next time, leave your brat at home.

The Jacobs made their exit along the short hallway and down the stairs. The King of Storyville refilled his brandy glass and crossed to the window to gaze on Basin Street and the eddies of men traveling to or from this or that sporting house or saloon. Momentarily, he saw Jacob, elder and junior, appear on the banquette. The father's hands wagged about as he lectured his son about his disrespect for the King of Storyville.

Who now paused to consider how odd it was that the younger man had thrown out St. Cyr's name like that. He wondered if the fates were trying to tell him something. Not that it mattered; he had never turned to anything or anyone but his own instincts to make his way. Save for the Creole detective, that is.

He pushed all these thoughts aside. Night had fallen, and once again Storyville was coming to life.

William Brown paced the floor of his room a hundred times over, left and right, up and down, at severe but exact angles. He wanted to leave but couldn't, not until he received his orders. So he walked until he swore he could look down and see where his soles had worn a ditch in the hard wood.

He found himself at the washstand, staring into a mirror so cracked and tinted that he could barely make out his features, but beholding a pale, smallish man with an oval head shaved clean. His eyes were too large, his nose too long, and his lips jutted like a Mississippi carp's. He knew if he kept staring into the dirty glass, all these features would grow larger and then larger still, until he was one of the grotesque ogres in the carnival parade.