Madam (11 page)

“Should we take her in?” one officer asked the other. He grimaced at Beulah.

“The ugly stick sure likes you,” he said to her, and for once she had the sense to keep her mouth shut. “Let her go,” he instructed his partner. “Don’t want to be lookin’ at that all night.”

“Ya heard him, get on now!” the first officer ordered, kicking dust at Beulah. She stumbled away as fast as she could.

From a safe distance, another watchful eye took in the chaos: Kermit McCracken, senior reporter for the
Mascot
. On his head an ever-present bowler hat, and in his hand an ever-present notebook. It was his personal mission to expose corruption in this city, especially on Venus Alley; given his high calling, he barely ever slept. And now he was practically licking his lips—this was the type of story he lived for. Writing furiously, he recorded how many people had been rounded up and how many cribs had been boarded. After only ten minutes, he’d tallied a dozen cribs barricaded and two paddy wagons packed full, filthy fingers clasping the bar windows as pimps’ bruised and confused faces peered through.

After the screaming and commotion died down, the Alley seemed oddly still but for the whimpering of a few wandering, snotty-nosed children, their mothers having run off to save themselves. A sweaty Inspector O’Connor stood in the middle of the Alley, surveying the destruction with a series of prideful nods. “This constitutes a public service to the city of New Orleans,” he announced, even though the only Alley inhabitants left were tightly packed in the paddy wagons. “Today,” he continued, “we’re throwing out the trash.” With that, he motioned to his men to head onward.

McCracken scrawled a headline in his notebook: “
DISGUSTING DEPRAVITY SILENCED ON VENUS ALLEY! BUT FOR HOW LONG? DOZENS OF DEVIL WORKERS IMPRISONED!
” before hurrying after them. He couldn’t wait to meet them at the police station and begin his onslaught of questions—this was going to be the story of the year!

Snitch, however, waited until the last officer had disappeared before gingerly emerging from his hiding place. He surveyed the damage. The Alley looked like a battle site with broken glass and debris strewn everywhere; even the rats had taken cover. But Snitch wasn’t sidelined for long—oh no, he had his own agenda to pursue. He dutifully ran off, straight to Anderson’s Saloon.

Snitch found Tom Anderson alone at the bar, calmly sipping a glass of orange juice, reading the front page news of the
Picayune
. Snitch couldn’t believe his fate—could it be that Tom Anderson himself, lord of the Underworld, hadn’t heard about the raid, and that he, little Snitch of the Alley, was going to have the privilege of telling him? Nearly giddy, Snitch’s chest heaved so quickly he could barely get his words out.

“Saw it all, Mistah Anderson! Scared the bejesus from me! Whole bunch of cribs . . . all boarded up . . . peet daddies hauled to jail.”

Anderson sipped his juice and nodded with feigned concern. “Is that so? Sounds horrible, just horrible.”

Snitch caught his breath. “Oddest thing, though, Mistah Anderson,” he said pointedly. “Inspector O’Connor, he had a list of pimps to arrest. Saw him lookin’ it over real careful and crossin’ off names. And all o’ them, they be the most delinquent peet daddies on the Alley. The cribs that was boarded up, they be the ones Tater and Sheep-Eye always waitin’ on to collect.”

For a moment, Anderson was caught off guard—but just for a moment. Then he chuckled to himself. He’d known the little pest was crafty, but this was rather impressive. He gave the kid a crooked smile. “Snitch,” he said, “you just might have enough gumption to be mayor of New Orleans one day.”

Snitch nearly burst with excitement. “Ya mean it, Mistah Anderson? Ya really mean it?”

Anderson reached into his pocket and took out a fifty-cent piece. “Now get on outta here,” he said, tossing the coin.

C
HAPTER SIX

M
ary didn’t exactly know why, but as she walked to work, she found herself straying from her normal route and turning onto Customhouse, and then onto Marais, and suddenly, she was standing outside of Pete Lala’s Café.

She craned to hear piano music, but there was none. Slowly, she walked by the windows of the café, watching the black folks inside eating and laughing. She spotted the piano, asleep in the back, its lid closed over the keys. She had a sinking feeling, but it was immediately followed by a touch of relief. It was just as well that she didn’t encounter that piano player again.

She turned back toward Venus Alley, but as she neared, she sensed something wasn’t quite right—the streets that were normally wide-awake were as quiet as that piano. By the time she stepped onto the Alley, it was clear a terrible thing had gone down, like a tornado had ripped through this street alone. Mary picked her way among the broken boards and shards of glass. A few other whores were doing the same, trying to see if they could make business today, though clearly the answer was no. Only the rats and raccoons were frolicking as they scavenged among the debris.

As she neared her crib, Mary saw Beulah sitting out front, smoking a corncob pipe. Beulah looked up, and Mary was surprised to feel a comfort in seeing that familiar face.

“We all doomed,” Beulah announced, and Mary’s gaze traveled to the knotty beams that crisscrossed their crib’s door.

“Worst raid these eyes ever seen,” Beulah said.

A shiver traveled through Mary as she digested what had happened.

“Lucky you wasn’t here, girl. Sho as shit, was it ugly! Johns gonna be too ’fraid to ever come back.”

Mary quickly tried to console Beulah, as much as her own self. “You know how short their memories are. You’ll see. The next boatload of sailors ain’t gonna be wise to any of this. They’ll hightail it over with no care in the world.”

Beulah gave an empty, unconvinced shrug, then took some puffs from her pipe.

Some moments of silence passed before Mary timidly asked, “Where’s Lobrano?”

“Here,” Beulah said, and reached into her pocket. She pulled out a stuffed doll stitched from a potato sack, a red yarn
X
marking its heart. She’d pushed a straight pin into the center of the heart. “I put a
gris-gris
on you,” she hissed to the doll, giving the pin another twist to dig it deeper. “Feel this for ev’ry dollar I ain’t gonna earn, for ev’ry bite of food I ain’t gonna put in the bellies of my kin. Feel it, ya maggot, while ya rot in jail.”

Mary lurched. “Lobrano’s in jail?”

“That’s what Snitch told me. Said they dragged his bony ass from the Pig Ankle and won’t let him out till he makes the rent.” She pointed her pipe toward the other boarded-up cribs. “They be in the same awful fate as us’n.”

Mary plopped down on the stoop next to her and noticed that Beulah’s arm was scratched and bruised. “Did they rough you up?”

Beulah winced, then shot Mary a look that she should mind her own business. They sat silently again. Mary’s gaze came to rest on the black magic doll with the pin through its heart. Should be through his crotch, she thought, recalling the night before. She envisioned Lobrano sitting in jail and figured he should just now be starting to itch and burn, with the worst of the firestorm landing late tonight. She giggled at the thought of it.

“Law, you’re soppin’ mad!” Beulah said, inching her rear away from Mary. “You be laughin’ when we be sittin’ here like mites in a steamin’ pile of horse shit?”

Mites? The words knocked the laughter right out of Mary, and she bolted up. All this time she’d been spouting off how she didn’t need Lobrano, and now he was gone—for a bit at least. Here was her chance to fend for herself. Here was the opportunity she’d been waiting for.

“Beulah, we’re gonna be all right,” she said sternly, needing to hear the assurance in her own voice.

Beulah waved her off. “You’s half-cocked, girl. Good that you’s a pretty little thing, ’cause your head ain’t workin’ right.”

“I mean it, Beulah,” Mary said as she rose. She had an idea, and maybe it was just half-cocked enough to work. Beulah’s mumbling quickly faded as Mary ran off, the notion in her mind so strong she didn’t hear or see much of anything as she ran all the way home. Once inside her tiny house, she darted straight to the bureau, pushing it aside and reaching for the cigar box. It was only at this moment, with the box in her hands, that she stopped to take a deep breath.

This was the heaviest the box had ever been. She cracked open the lid and lifted the stack of bills. Lining the bottom of the box, a picture postcard stared up at her. She’d forgotten it was there, and the sight of it brought memories washing over her. It depicted a mansion with a towering cupola, the Arlington Hot Springs Hotel, which seemed ready to swing open its fancy doors.
Come, Miss Deubler, we’ve had your room ready and waiting all this time. Here, take off your shoes for a polish, and let us launder your clothes while you change into your bathing outfit and soak your worries away in the hot springs. You don’t own a bathing outfit? We’ll just have to take care of that right away, no need to worry. There’s no worry here at all.
Mary thought back to all those days she’d stared at this postcard wishing for someday, that magical someday when she’d go there, just like Mama had.

Releasing the wooden lid, the box snapped closed over the postcard. Her hands shook as she slid all the money she had in the world into her cleavage. She put the box back in the floor and repositioned the bureau, then ran out of the house as fast as she could before she had time to reconsider what she was about to do.

With a steady clip, Mary made her way to Tom Anderson’s saloon. She’d never before been in his saloon. She only knew it was the place where peet daddies paid their rent and that it had the biggest, fanciest sign in town: ANDERSON—you could see it a block away.

As she stepped inside, she couldn’t help but notice that it smelled so . . . so clean, like lemons and washing soda, not at all what she’d expected since she hadn’t ever stepped into a saloon without crinkling her nose at the odor of stale booze and rotted cigars. But this saloon went beyond just clean—the deep wood floors weren’t warped or scuffed, and Mary could even see her reflection, misshapen like in a circus mirror, in the shiny brass bar rail. Row after row of bottles stretched the length of the counter, advertising that any liquor you could want was available here.

Shyly, Mary approached the barkeep—even he was in a pressed white shirt, black vest, and bow tie. “’Scuse me, sir, where do you . . . I . . . pay rent?”

He nodded toward the back of the saloon, where Mary saw two closed doors. With shaky knees, she headed back, dawdling just long enough to marvel at the gleaming copper ceiling, each square sculpted with designs of circles and spades. Seemed such a stretch to reconcile that Mister Anderson earned all this fanciness from the smut on Venus Alley, where the only tin decoration might be an empty can of beans occupied by a rat.

Deep voices, followed by booming laughter seeped from behind the closed door on Mary’s right. She looked over her shoulder, back at the barkeep. “Sir?”

He looked up, motioned to the left door. She was relieved, since she certainly didn’t want to walk in on something in progress, but as she hovered her hand over the door, she felt her stomach flutter.
Am I really going through with this? Is whoever’s behind this door gonna toss me right out of here? And, my oh my, what is Lobrano gonna do to me when he steps into this hornet’s nest?