Out of the Easy (2 page)

“Don’t ma’am me, girl. You’ll call me Willie. Do you understand?” She shifted in her chair. I spied what looked like the butt of a gun stuffed down the side of the seat cushion.

“Yes, Mrs. Willie,” I replied.

“Not Mrs. Willie. Just Willie.”

I stared at her. “Actually, Willie, I prefer Jo, and honestly, I don’t much care for bows.” I pulled the ribbon from my thick brown bob and reached for the lighter on the table.

“I didn’t ask for a light,” said Willie.

“No, but you’ve tapped your cigarette fifty-three times . . . now fifty-four, so I thought you might like to smoke it.”

Willie sighed. “Fine, Jo, light my cigarette and pour me a Scotch.”

“Neat or on the rocks?” I asked.

Her mouth opened in surprise, then snapped shut. “Neat.” She eyed me as I lit her cigarette.

“Well, Louise,” said Willie, a long exhale of smoke curling above her head, “you’ve managed to mess things up royal, now, haven’t you?”

Mother sighed.

“You can’t stay here, not with a child. You’ll have to get a place,” said Willie.

“I don’t have any money,” said Mother.

“Sell those pearls to my pawn in the morning and you’ll have some spending money. There’s a small apartment on Dauphine that one of my bookies was renting. The idiot went and got himself shot last week. He’s taking a dirt nap and won’t need the place. The rent is paid until the thirtieth. I’ll make some arrangements, and we’ll see where you are at the end of the month.”

“All right, Willie,” said Mother.

I handed Willie the drink and sat back down, nudging the bow under the settee with my foot.

She took a sip and nodded. “Honestly, Louise, a seven-year-old bartender?”

Mother shrugged.

That was ten years ago. She never did buy me the doll.

TWO

They thought I couldn’t hear their whispers, their snickers. I had heard them for ten years. I cut across Conti toward Chartres, clutching my book under my arm. The vibration of my humming blocked out the sound. Courtesan, harlot, hooker, whore. I’d heard them all. In fact, I could look at someone and predict which one they’d use.

“Hello, Josie,” they’d say with a half smile, followed by a sigh and sometimes a shake of the head. They acted like they felt sorry for me, but as soon as they were ten steps away, I’d hear one of the words, along with my mother’s name. The wealthy women pretended it singed their tongue to say
whore.
They’d whisper it and raise their eyebrows. Then they’d fake an expression of shock, like the word itself had crawled into their pants with a case of the clap. They didn’t need to feel sorry for me. I was nothing like Mother. After all, Mother was only half of the equation.

“Josie! Wait up, Yankee girl.”

Frankie, one of Willie’s information men, was at my side, his tall, slinky frame bending over mine. “What’s the rush?” he asked, licking his fingers and smoothing his greased hair.

“I have to get to the bookshop,” I said. “I’m late for work.”

“Sheesh, what would ol’ man Marlowe do without you? You spoonin’ him applesauce these days? I hear he’s just about dead.”

“He’s very much alive, Frankie. He’s just . . . retired.” I shot him a look.

“Ooh, defensive. You got something goin’ with Marlowe?”

“Frankie!” What a horrible thought. Charlie Marlowe was not only ancient, he was like family.

“Or maybe you got a thing for his son, is that it? You got eyes on looping with Junior so you can inherit that dusty book nook you love so well?” He elbowed me, laughing.

I stopped walking. “Can I help you with something, Frankie?”

He pulled me onward, his voice low. “Actually, yeah. Can you tell Willie that word on my side is that Cincinnati’s comin’ down?”

A chill ran beneath the surface of my skin. I tried to keep my step steady. “Cincinnati?”

“Can you let her know, Josie?”

“I won’t see Willie till morning, you know that,” I said.

“You still not going near the place after dark? Such a smart one, you are. Well, give her word Cincinnati’s around. She’ll want to know.”

“I hope I don’t forget,” I said, opening my palm.

“Oooh. Beggar woman!”

“Businesswoman,” I corrected him. “Remember, Willie doesn’t like surprises.”

“No, she don’t,” he said, digging in his pocket. “What do you do with all this bank, Josie? Be a lot easier if you just lifted your skirt.”

“The only reason I’d lift my skirt is to pull out my pistol and plug you in the head.”

My money was none of Frankie’s business. I was getting out of New Orleans. My plan included bus fare and cash reserves to cover a full year of living expenses, enough time to get me on my feet. A business book I read in the shop said that it was always best to have at least twelve months’ savings. Once I had the money, I’d decide where to go.

“All right, all right,” he said. “You know I’m only joking.”

“Why don’t you just buy a book from me at the shop, Frankie?”

“You know I don’t like to read, Yankee girl. Don’t think anyone likes to read as much as you do. What you got under your arm this time?”

“E. M. Forster.”

“Never heard of it.” He grabbed my hand and dropped some coins in my palm. “There, now don’t forget to tell her. I won’t get paid if you forget.”

“You know when he’ll hit town or where he’s holing up?” I asked.

“Nah. Not yet. For all I know, he’s already here.” Frankie twitched and looked over his shoulder. “See ya, kid.”

I grabbed my skirt and quickened my pace toward the bookshop. It had been two years since the incident. Cincinnati hadn’t been back in the Quarter, and no one missed him. He claimed he worked on the fringes for Carlos Marcello, the godfather of the New Orleans mafia. No one believed him, but no one outright challenged him on it, either. Cincinnati proudly wore expensive suits—suits that didn’t quite fit him. It was rumored that his clothes were stolen from corpses, people he had killed for Carlos Marcello. Cokie said it was bad mojo to wear a dead man’s suit.

Carlos Marcello ran the syndicate and owned land just outside Orleans Parish. Talk amongst the locals was that Marcello stocked his swamps with alligators and dumped his dead bodies there. A postman once told Cokie that he saw shoes floating on top of the filmy swamp. Willie knew Carlos Marcello. She sent girls out to his Town and Country Motel when the heat was on the house on Conti. That’s where Mother met Cincinnati.

Cincinnati had a thing for Mother. He brought her expensive gifts and claimed she looked just like Jane Russell from the Hollywood magazines. I guess that meant I looked like Jane Russell, too, but maybe Jane Russell without makeup, nice clothes, or styled hair. Our brown eyes were set a bit far apart, and we had high foreheads, a mess of dark hair, and lips that always looked pouty.

Mother was crazy about Cincinnati, even once claimed they were in love. Sometimes Mother was embarrassingly stupid. It was bad enough she turned tricks with a criminal like Cincinnati, but in love with him? Pathetic. Willie hated Cincinnati. I despised him.

I cut through the skinny street near the jeweler, dodging a man peeing against the wall. I used E. M. Forster to wave the smell of moldy oak away from my face as I stepped quickly across the wet flagstones. If the Quarter smelled this bad in cool weather, it would reek this spring and be simply rancid by summer. I made my way up Toulouse toward Royal and heard Blind Otis singing the blues, stamping his foot and sliding a dull butter knife across his steel strings.

Bar and restaurant owners stood on ladders, decorating their doors and windows for the night’s festivities. At midnight, 1950 would finally arrive. A fizz of excitement perked through the streets. People were anxious to put the decade, and the war, behind them. A pair of lovers cut in front of me to chase a taxi while a small man in ragged clothing stood up against a building saying “hallelujah” over and over again.

Last time Cincinnati was in town, he got drunk and beat Mother. Willie kicked down the door and shot at him, grazing his leg. I drove Mother to the hospital in Cokie’s cab. After he sobered up, Cincinnati actually had the guts to come to the hospital. I threw hot coffee on him and told him I’d called the cops. He left town limping, but not without promising to come back.

“Just you wait,” he whispered, licking his teeth. “I’m gonna get you, Josie Moraine.”

I shook off the shiver.

“Hey, Motor City.”

I turned toward the voice. Jesse Thierry sat on his motorcycle, staring at me from across the street. Jesse was quiet and often spoke through only a nod or a smile. Sometimes I thought he was watching me, which was ridiculous, because Jesse Thierry would have no interest in someone like me. He might be quiet, but his looks were not. He was striking and edgy, in a way that made me feel uncomfortable. Others didn’t find Jesse’s looks unsettling. Tourists turned to look at him. He was constantly trailed by girls.

“You need a ride?” he asked. I shook my head.

“I want a ride, Jesse!” said a blonde next to him.

He ignored her. “You sure, Jo?”

“I’m sure. Thanks, Jesse.”

He nodded, fired up the bike, and sped away, leaving the girls on the sidewalk.

The noise faded as I turned onto Royal. The deep blue sign with gold lettering came into view, hanging from a wrought-iron bracket above the door:
MARLOWE’S BOOKSHOP
. Through the window, I could see Patrick sitting at the counter. The bell tinkled overhead as I entered the store, and the calming smell of paper and dust surrounded me.

“How is he today?” I asked.

“Today’s a good day. He knows my name. I think for a second he even remembered I’m his son,” said Patrick, leaning back on his usual chair behind the counter.

“Wonderful!” I meant it. Some days Mr. Marlowe didn’t recognize Patrick. Sometimes he swore at him, even threw things at him. Those were bad days.

“Your pal Cokie came by,” said Patrick. “He said to give you this.” He slid a folded piece of paper across the counter.

I opened it.

CINCYNATTY.

It was written in Cokie’s shaky handwriting.

“I didn’t read it, but I think he means Cincinnati,” said Patrick.

“You didn’t read it, huh?” Patrick had just turned twenty-one but still teased like a boy who milked girls’ pigtails at recess.

He smiled. “He doesn’t know how to spell it. Is he going to Cincinnati?”

“Mmm . . . must be. Did you save me a paper?”

He pointed to a copy of the
Times-Picayune,
neatly folded on my chair.

“Thanks. I’ll take over in a minute,” I told him.

“Really, Jo, the
Picayune
is so boring. They intentionally leave out news from the Quarter and . . .”

Patrick’s voice trailed off as I made my way through the tall shelves of books toward the squirrelly staircase at the back of the shop. I had kept my own apartment since I was eleven. It wasn’t really an apartment, not at first anyway. It was a tiny office with a bathroom attached. I had been sleeping in the bookshop since I was ten, when Mother started her fits and beat me with an umbrella for no good reason. I quickly learned she was happiest when I wasn’t around. So I’d hide in the bookshop just before close and sleep under the large desk in the office.

On my eleventh birthday, I crept up the stairs after the store was locked. The office had been transformed. The windows and walls had been washed. The desk was still there, but all the boxes were cleared out and there was a bed, a small dresser, and even bookshelves in the corner. Flowered curtains hung from a rod over the open window, and music floated up from Bourbon Street. A single key hung on a nail. A lock had been installed on the door and a baseball bat leaned up against the bed. We never spoke of the arrangement. I simply began working for Mr. Marlowe in the store in exchange for the lodging.

I unlocked the door and slipped inside, quickly bolting it again. I got down on my hands and knees and pulled up a floorboard underneath my bed, feeling around until my fingers hit the cigar box. I dropped the coins from Frankie inside and put the floorboard back in place. I crawled out from under the bed and snapped the drapes shut. Then I opened the note from Cokie.

CINCYNATTY.