Madam (5 page)

The cribs were the only buildings on the Alley, moldy shanties sinking into the soft ground and threatening to crumble with every summer storm. Even still, it was a fortunate whore who had use of one, as there were just a few dozen.

Up and down the street, whores lounged in the crib doorways. Wearing chippies—which, if you wrapped it right, could come off with one tug—they posed seductively, allowing a shoulder to be exposed or showing leg up to the thigh. They called their pitches like the sellers in the French Market.

“Come looka what I got, Papa!”

“Ya come to the right door fo’ a good time!”

“I’ll make ya happy as a pig in slop!”

“C’mere, handsome, wanna tell ya sumpthin’. . . .”

Other more desperate whores who didn’t have use of a crib prowled the street, going right up to johns and trying to convince them to just lean up against the side of a building. Mary had never stooped to that, not even in her early days, back when she had to skip supper just to save up and buy herself a kip. She could have saved up more quickly had she not been so high-minded, but the way she saw it, she may be an Alley whore, but at least she practiced her trade behind a closed door and on a bedroll.

Also, unlike many of the other girls on the Alley, Mary wasn’t hanging on to the notion that some john would fall in love and want to save her. She gave up those daydreams long ago. She’d heard of it happening once or twice and always the man took the girl far from here, where she could start anew as a legitimate woman and wife. But Mary would never leave here without her family, so even if some starry-eyed john were willing to look past her lot in life, he certainly wouldn’t want to claim responsibility for her kin, too.

Mary’s thoughts traveled to the man with the green eyes and the fluttering sense of what it might be like to really connect with another person. Even though it had only been a fleeting moment or two, it had felt . . . well, nice. And there wasn’t too much in Mary’s day that felt that way. She tried to imagine a world where her days would only be about catching the genuine affection of a man. But she shook off the notions, too farfetched to even daydream about, and besides, she shouldn’t go soft over a john, even for just a moment. Shouldn’t ever get caught up in a man beyond what he could do for business.

She continued making her way down the Alley, passing a group of teenaged boys. Barefoot and in knickers and suspenders, they huddled under the gas streetlamp, a small pile of pennies as their wager in a rowdy game of agates. A boy shot crooked, and a bright red marble smacked Mary’s boot.

“There goes your masher,” one of the boys huffed to the shooter.

Mary picked up the marble, holding it to the light to see that the red sphere was sliced with a bright yellow orb.

“Called a Devil’s Eye,” the shooter said.

Mary twisted the marble, watching it glisten like the stars and wondering how the yellow eye had gotten into the middle of the smooth globe.

“You can keep it, pretty lady,” the shooter offered. “For a trick.”

His friend shook his head under a too-big straw hat. “My pop says if you’re gonna touch a whore, make sure it ain’t no Alley skank.”

Another boy joined in the raking—no matter that his clothes were just as frayed and his feet just as dirty as Mary’s. “I wouldn’t bang her with your dick,” he said, pointing to one of his friends. Then he pointed to another. “And with him pushing.” At this, they all roared with laughter.

Mary glared at them, tempted to just pocket their curious agate and be on her way. But instead, she gave the Devil’s Eye a good throw back into the circle, knocking the other marbles and ruining their play.

“Bona fide lavenders!” she shouted and headed off. They hissed and booed after her. Although she wasn’t exactly sure why it was this way, Mary knew it never hurt business to imply that a man had some lavender in him, maybe had certain tendencies, or was a little light on his toes. Chances were, that man would sneak off and come to see her, paying her just to prove her accusations weren’t true. Sometimes he was trying to prove it to himself; but mostly it seemed about the opinion of a stranger, even if it was just proof of his manliness to a lowly whore.

Mary moved on, passing a young redheaded boy she often saw sitting on a stoop. He took a puff on a cigarette, exhaling through a freckly, button nose. Lazily, he bellowed, “Maw!”

There was no response, and, from the aimless look on his face, he hadn’t really expected one. He hollered again, this time as if he were being stolen by gypsies. “Ma-a-a-a-w!” But none of the whores even turned—no kid of theirs was no problem of theirs. At last, a woman’s out-of-breath voice screeched from a nearby crib, “Boy, I says a minute!” The child scowled and took another puff of his cigarette. He reminded Mary of how her younger brother, Peter, had looked as a child, with purplish puddles under his eyes and a slight frame that wasn’t frail enough to be called sickly but not solid enough to quit worrying over. Only, Mama would’ve whipped Peter good for smoking. Not that they had any money to spend on a smoke anyway.

Mary never said a word to any of the children around here—why should she, when every year many wouldn’t make it to spring? Heck, she didn’t pay much mind to the other whores, either, but for a different reason. Sure, plagues hit hard on the Alley, but any whore who’d come of age here was a hearty breed. That wasn’t to say that plenty of women didn’t turn dark and shadowy and then disappear altogether, but you’d not be met kindly if you asked after anyone’s health—might lead them to think you were gunning for their crib or trying to steal johns. Besides, no one had money for a funeral service, let alone a proper burial, anyway. Mary had long ago realized it was best to just let people fade away, to just keep to yourself and know you were the better for not knowing. Nod at familiar faces, but don’t step too close; don’t ask questions or effort over small talk; don’t bother learning anybody’s name.

It was only a hardened person who could live like this, but it was the way of the Alley, where most people barely had a pot to piss in let alone a window to dump it out of. Here, you couldn’t expect anything from anyone—not when just one trick could be the difference between a square meal or your stomach begging all night. Not when this kind of struggle, this vying with every other soul here, was your daily toil. Not when people could become fierce with desperation, and that was the worst kind of fierceness.

So it was for the good of all that they followed the unwritten rule of going about your own business and not blinking at anyone else’s. Especially when a whore had a big mess on her hands—like the old bat at the end of the row, calling to Mary.

“Help a friend?” she pleaded, her brows raising hopefully as Mary approached.

Looking down, Mary saw the woman’s troubles: out cold in her crib doorway was a round, bald man, spread flat on his back, his face salt white. Mary gave a nervous shake of her head. She didn’t need to be anywhere near a dead john.

The whore’s expression turned ugly as Mary passed. “Egg-sucking dawg,” she snapped before resuming a wide-legged stance, wrapping her hands around the man’s armpits, and giving a tug as hard as she could. Shaking and heaving under the weight, she slowly dragged the man out the door, his shirt hiking up, his rolls of flesh joggling. She cursed him under her breath. “Devil’s spawn, what nerve to just keel over. Coulda crushed me, ya son of a bitch.”

As she dragged him, her chippie loosened and eventually slipped around her shoulders, granting the Alley a full view of her saggy breasts. With a breathless grunt, she dropped the body smack in the middle of the dusty, dung-littered banquette. He fell limp and lifeless.

No sooner did the dust cloud clear than Snitch, a twelve-year-old black boy, inched over to watch. He fancied himself the official eyes and ears of Venus Alley, and unlike the rest of the folks here, he always made it a point to know everyone’s business.

“Well, ain’t this bold,” Snitch said with an amused shake of his head. He called out, “Times like this ya wish your crib had a back door.” Snitch was flitty as a skeetahawk, darting out of nowhere to circle around everyone’s heads. Mary suspected that Snitch’s antics were going to be the death of him one day.

A small crowd began to gather, and even Mary couldn’t help but linger. They craned to see if they knew the unfortunate fella splayed in the road, but no one’s eyes flickered with recognition. The old whore tightened her chippie as she inched away from the body, but just as she was about to full-out ditch him, she noticed a gold wedding band. Her agitated face suddenly registered a spark of luck. With a quick motion she squatted down and laid claim to his left hand, trying to inconspicuously wiggle, then twist, then pull the stubborn ring off his chubby finger.

“Go on now, ain’t nobody watchin’ but us chickens,” Snitch said.

The whore looked up. “Poor scamp’s ticker just gave out,” she said with a defensive shrug. The ring suddenly released, causing the whore to fall back on her ass with her chippie dropping open again, this time fully. She first slipped the ring into her boot before bothering to cover herself. As she glanced up, she suddenly became aware of all the onlookers. Immediately knowing her predicament wasn’t good, she rolled back onto her knees and solemnly dropped her head over the body. She crossed herself and clasped her hands in prayer. “May he rest in peace,” she muttered.

Snitch eyed the whore like a wildcat, circling before running off. She nervously called after him, “Snitch, ya keep this to yourself, now!” But he didn’t look back. She grimaced, then gave a swift, frustrated kick to the dead man’s rib cage, her twiggy foot helplessly bouncing off his numb flesh. As she moved away, she carefully swept the ground with her boot, trying to scuff up the lines in the dirt that linked the body to her crib. “Nothin’ happened. Ain’t nothin’ to see,” she called out. “Just a bad ticker.”

Mary headed on her way, as did the others, their curiosity sated. They all knew that whore would be walking scared for a time. Not that whores and their peet daddies weren’t used to walking scared; after all, no one here was working lawfully. Any one of them could be put under by a steep fine, and there was nothing to keep a whore from getting tossed in jail, especially when the city got its seasonal hankering to demonstrate efforts at combating vice.

Although Mary didn’t have much, she counted honesty as one thing she could call her own. While it seemed insincere for a person of the Underworld to be spouting off about honest living, she was quick to justify her profession. It was of a man’s own free will if he wanted to use her services. Besides, what else was there for someone like her? She wasn’t learned enough to be a teacher, and she didn’t have any land to live off, so what was she supposed to do with the other two mouths she had to feed and a baby on the way?

She knew there were some whores who never feared God their whole lives—these were the ones who’d saunter right up to a man on the Alley, spit tobacco juice in his eyes to stun him, and then rob him down to his watch fob. That wasn’t her. Yes, she made her living as she did, but she conducted herself fairly and honestly. A person had to find some way to live peaceably with herself, and that was what she abided by.

As she walked, she avoided the corner of Franklin and Customhouse. If Lobrano was drinking, he was sure to be there, at the Pig Ankle, deepening the groove he’d already worn into the corner barstool. It wasn’t unlike him to spend most of the daylight there, slumped over glass after cloudy glass of absinthe and washing it down with Lithia water until he saw the Green Fairy herself step from the picture on the bottle and come sit right next to him.

Instead, Mary turned onto Marais Street, on the edge of Venus Alley. The Waffle Wagon was parked up the block, and the sweet aroma tickled her nose. But she had no money to spare for a delight just now, even though her stomach was rumbling. Rather, she focused on the sound of lively piano music, and since it was free to listen, she allowed herself the indulgence. She followed the music to the open window of Pete Lala’s Café, an eating place for black folks. It was a jaunty tune that leapt from inside—the kind that made you unable to keep your feet from tapping. Only, the music suddenly stopped, then started up again, then stopped. Curious, Mary peeked in to see what the racket was about.

The café was as tidy as it was empty. She scanned past half a dozen tables with red-checked cloths, the chairs perfectly pushed in, awaiting the next morning’s customers. At the very back of the room, a young, light-skinned black man sat at an old, upright piano, banging on the keys with a fever. Banging away—until, abruptly, his fingers paused in midair. He urgently turned to scribble on a piece of paper. Then he tapped his pencil, thinking . . . thinking. . . . He took a crimson silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. Then, just like that, he dropped the handkerchief, dropped the pencil, and his fingers flew back to the piano, running up and down the keys.

Mary had never seen a person so full of concentration like that, and his playing, it was some kind of powerful! She closed her eyes and tried swaying to the music, but the kip on her back wasn’t exactly a good dance partner.

When she opened her eyes, the piano player was staring right at her, looking straight into her face as if he knew her. Feeling like a little snoop, Mary’s cheeks reddened. At this, the piano player gave her a wink. She quickly looked away, blushing even more. She knew she should turn and hurry right off, but for some reason her boots felt like lead.

“Come on in and have a listen,” the piano player called.

Mary was immediately struck by how perfect his talk was, as if he were from the North or educated, or maybe both. All she could do was stammer. “I was just dawdlin’. . . . Should be mindin’ my own business.”

But he called to her again. “My name’s Ferdinand.”

Not used to friendly salutations, Mary froze. “I . . . gotta get home,” was all she could spit out.

“You can come by and hear me another time if you’d like,” he offered.

She feebly nodded and forced herself to hurry off. It wasn’t until she was down the block that her sense kicked back in. Clearly, she had no manners. Here was someone being nothing but friendly to her, and she . . . well, maybe she
would
go by one day to hear him play again. But she quickly stopped herself. That was a Negro establishment, and she had no place there. And she probably shouldn’t be listening to their music, either, although she wasn’t exactly sure why. Silly girl, she scolded herself. She had troubles enough without being friendly with a colored fellow.