Madam (26 page)

Mary wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing across the street from Tom Anderson’s saloon. She’d been watching Tater, who was sitting on the stoop, whittling a stub of wood. She knew what she wanted to do—what she needed to do—but just had to convince herself to cross the street.

She watched Tater’s face scrunching as he maneuvered his carving knife. Mary was certain that over his years working around the Alley he’d done unspeakable things, and it soothed her to think that her request of him would hardly be the first and certainly not the last.

She waited some more, until Tater rose, and after he’d walked some paces from the saloon, she hurried after him, trailing behind his clomping boots.

“Mistah Tater,” she called out, and the beast of a man turned his head.

His eyes narrowed at the sight of her. “Ain’t no refunds,” he grumbled and continued on.

“No, it’s regardin’ . . . a different matter. A
paying
matter.”

At this, he paused. Mary motioned him around the corner, where they ducked into a shadowy alley.

“You know of my old bossman, Philip Lobrano?” she said.

He scoffed. “What collector don’t?”

“Well, he did somethin’ . . . somethin’ truly awful.” Mary gulped back the lump in her throat. “He’s a beast . . . a killer. Took the life of my little brother. Thing is, the sheriff needs witnesses, and there weren’t none, but me. And guess I don’t count for much. He left a newborn baby with no father. So for the sake of the child, I need to take the law into my own hands, ya see.” She paused to study Tater’s face. He was still listening. “I need to make sure I have your confidence,” she said. He nodded.

From her chemise, she pulled the earnings saved up from the week, including Beulah’s rent, plus the little cash that had been left in the cigar box. “Mistah Tater, if you could know the things he’s done through all my years—”

But Tater was already itching to move on. He didn’t need to know, didn’t care. “Good as done,” he said. As he went to stash the money, his whittling fell from his pocket. Mary picked up the stump; on a smoothed side, Tater had carved a likeness of Jesus.

C
HAPTER NINETEEN

Canal Street

A
t the Public Order Committee’s weekly meeting, Alderman Story stood at the head of the room addressing the dozen committee members as if he were still in front of the boisterous crowd from the Cabildo. “We are in our glory today,” he said, holding his arms toward the sky. “It is through our dedication and determination that we have achieved high distinction for our beloved New Orleans by putting on the map this country’s first and only legalized and regulated red-light district.”

His sermon-like rant was interrupted by a woman’s high-pitched shout: “You hypocrites!”

All heads turned to see the angular, pale face of Jean Gordon peering in through the open window and taking a spiteful look around the room. “Ye serpents, ye generation of vipers!” she hissed, eyeing each and every man. “How can ye escape the damnation of hell?”

“Mrs. Gordon!” Story gasped, his face flushing crimson.

“I’m talking most of all to you, Alderman Story,” she spat. “How can you escape the damnation of hell with your Storyville going on a page of our history?”

“You, ma’am, are impertinent,” Story said, hurrying to close the window. But Mrs. Gordon, as the president of the Travelers Aid Society, didn’t see it that way, and as Story attempted to shut the window, she flailed her arms.

“The Travelers Aid Society will not be silenced!”

Story was all but pushing her head back out the window, wrangling with her limbs, and somehow, he finally managed to inch the window closed. Muted for the time being, Jean was still in full view, gesticulating wildly. She slapped a picket sign against the glass pane: STORYVILLE IS THE DEVIL
.

At this, Story brusquely pulled the drapes. He loped back to the table, attempting to regain composure. “Before resuming business, I’d like to note the usage of a highly inappropriate moniker for the District.”

“Tom Anderson’s terminology,” one of the committee members offered up.

“The point being,” Story scoffed, “that the only acceptable references for our district are, simply, ‘The District,’ or, if you must, ‘The Tenderloin.’ Consider all other terms slanderous. And rather insulting.”

Men’s eyes darted to one another; they were all guilty of using
Storyville
.

“Alderman, I mean no dissent,” one man piped up, “but I’m seeing the ailment progressing still. Lewd and abandoned women are habitating in the house right next door to mine, as if all our effort has been for naught.”

“I know we’d all like to just round up the trollops and dump them in the swamp,” Story replied, “but this major upheaval can’t possibly be expected to transpire overnight. According to the ordinance, there’s still a fortnight’s time.” He quickly referenced the ordinance document, running a delicate finger down the page. “Ah yes, here is the precise language: ‘After the deadline, it will become unlawful for any woman notoriously abandoned to lewdness to inhabit or sleep in a house, room, or closet outside the District boundaries. White and octoroon women of ill repute will reside below Canal Street. Negro whores are relegated to Franklin Street.’”

He looked up from the page. Without the open window, the already warm room was growing close, and men began to dab handkerchiefs at their perspiring foreheads. “I’m sure there will be stragglers,” Story continued, “but by and by, the transition’s gone tolerably well, and I have reason to believe it will continue as such.”

“What’s the recourse if whores don’t abide by the January first deadline, Alderman?”

“We will start by instituting a significant fine. If they still don’t abide, they’ll be jailed without question. I’m hopeful there won’t be but sparse cases of noncompliance.”

“I’ve already seen sporting women promenading to the back o’ town,” a member offered up. “Like rats following the Pied Piper!”

Another chimed in that with many brothels already vacated, his street felt as serene as it was back when he was just a boy.

“Have y’all seen the expense going up on Basin Street?” another member asked. “Fine as our Uptown mansions. What strange irony if the whores come to fancy themselves too refined and prideful to let rowdiness muss their elegant new homes.” They all chortled in agreement.

“Gentlemen,” Story said as if bursting with a secret, “I daresay, I suspect lewd and abandoned women might be fixing to behave themselves in the back o’ town. Now, wouldn’t that be a dandy?”

Mary slammed her shoe against a tack as she hung a rough handwritten sign on her crib door.

FANCY GIRLS

$1 WHITE GIRL

50¢ NEGRO GIRL

From behind her she heard Beulah’s throaty voice. “Ya think I can’t read? I ain’t half the snatch you are.”

Mary sighed as Beulah marched over to her, hand on hip. “It’s just the way it is, Beulah.”

“Says who? The white man?”

“This here is my crib now.” She wished the words evoked the pride they were due, but they fell flat to her ear. Still, for the time being, she was in charge. And the first thing she saw to was that an open can of lye, diluted with water to temper the odor, be concealed under the bedside table—if ever Cooper came by, or if ever another john raised his hand to her or tried to stiff her, she’d throw the lye on him. It was a tactic she knew other whores used—the entire Alley knew because you’d hear a burned john screaming bloody murder. Mary had never looked kindly on scarring a man for life, but her mind had seen fit to change. “Beulah, you gonna take your shift or what?”

Not used to answering to another woman, let alone little Mary Deubler, Beulah arched like a cat. She huffed, “Who died an’ made you Lobrano?”

The color drained from Mary. Except for the parish sheriff and Tater, she hadn’t told a soul what had happened, so Beulah was blind to the wide-open wound. And Mary wasn’t about to explain. Besides, there were no words, no tears, no emotion left. She felt like a hollow shell of a person. She stepped back to the crib door, raised her shoe, and gave the sign another fierce smack.

Snitch ambled along Robertson Street, kicking a stone down the road.

“Hey, Snitch!”

The boy eagerly looked around, glancing at windows, doorways, and balconies, but saw no one. “Who’s callin’?” he asked into the air.

“Snitch!” the voice snarled. “For Chrissake, ya dumb mutt. Down here.”

Snitch spotted a hand beckoning from under a stoop. “Who there?” he asked as he cautiously inched over.

The hand lurched out and grabbed Snitch’s shirt, yanking him under the stoop, where he was suddenly face-to-face with Lobrano.

“Jesus, Snitch! No point in me hidin’ if I gotta come knock you in the head.”

“Mistah Lobrano, what in the hell ya doin’ down here? And you sure look mawmucked. Time for a bath, too, if ya don’t mind me sayin’.”

“Keep your voice down.” Gaunt and hollow-eyed, Lobrano peered over his shoulders in jerky motions. “They been askin’ ’bout me?”

Snitch inched away, knowing the man was in a bad state—even worse than usual. “Who been askin’?”

“Everybody.”

“Can’t says I heard nobody askin’ after ya, Mistah Lobrano. How come you ain’t runnin’ your gal no more?”

“Oh, they be talkin’,” Lobrano assured him. “I’m sure they’re lookin’ for me.”

“Like I said,” Snitch insisted, “I ain’t heard no one lookin’—”

“Whatcha got today?” Lobrano interrupted, his face twitching.

“What’s into you? You’re skittish as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs.”

“I want that fix you sell.”

Snitch began to dig into his satchel, when he paused. “Got a dollar for me, Mistah Lobrano?”

Lobrano stared at him as if he could cadge his way through. But Snitch wasn’t budging, and stared right back. He knew how desperate Lobrano was, could tell by the dripping sweat on his face and the tremor of his hands.

With a huff, Lobrano dug in his pockets, counting out his change. “Spare me a nickel?” he pleaded.

“Aw, now, if I spare all y’all, I’ll be bare-assed,” Snitch said.

“Just this once,” Lobrano pleaded. Snitch eyed him warily.

“For fuck’s sake, it’s just a goddamn nickel!” Lobrano snapped.

Knowing Lobrano’s volatility, and that he was practically trapped under this stoop with a crazy lout, Snitch gave in and pulled a small paper bag from his satchel. “Ya remember the kindness I’m showin’ you now,” Snitch said before handing the bag over.

Near salivating, Lobrano made a jittery grab for the bag, ripping into it. He scooped up a dirty fingernail of white powder and snorted it.

Snitch shook his head as he climbed back to the street. He continued on to Venus Alley, where he was met by a whore everyone called Martha Washington, for she was surely the oldest whore around. The trull had to be fifty, maybe even sixty years old, Snitch figured, something ancient, especially for this cesspool. Martha lingered outside a crib, offering her saggy breasts to passersby.