Vendetta Trail (7 page)

DE LUCA WAS SITTING AT A TABLE ON THE PORTICO
at the back of his house, sipping a glass of wine as he read the
New Orleans Picayune.

“Don De Luca?”

De Luca looked up from his newspaper and saw Provenzano.

“Yes?”

“Morello is here,” Provenzano said.

“Did he come alone?”

“Yes.”

“Is everything ready?” De Luca asked.

“Yes.”

De Luca folded his newspaper and lay it aside. “Very well, tell the others. Then bring him back here.”

RACHEL WAS LOOKING AT A FIELD OF FLOWERS,
blue bachelor’s buttons, yellow black-eyed Susans, orange butterfly weeds, and cardinal flowers that were a brilliant red. The flowers moved gently to and fro in the breeze, causing the colors to meld and join together in one giant patchwork quilt.

The windmill answered a breeze and, as the blades began spinning, she could hear a squeaking sound.

The squeak got louder and more insistent and the pictures in her mind drifted away. The squeaking windmill was replaced by the squeaking sound of her bed. The flowers were gone too, and in their stead she saw the flocked wallpaper of her room.

“Uhnn!” the man who was thrusting against her said. “Uhn, uhn, uhn, ohhhhhh!”

He stopped his thrusting, the bed stopped squeaking, and he lay on her with all his weight, breathing hard.

“Honey,” Rachel said quietly. “Honey, you’re weighing me down.” She pushed against him, insistently, but not too aggressively.

“Oh yeah,” he said. He rolled off of her, then lay in the bed beside her, still breathing hard. “Damn, that was good.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you liked it.”

Rachel’s client was a man named Pietro Franchetti. She knew that he was Italian and was connected in some way with De Luca, but she didn’t know all the ins and outs of the Sicilian groups who so controlled New Orleans.

They lay side by side for a few minutes longer before Rachel spoke again. “Pietro, I’m going to have to get on back downstairs now,” she said.

“All right.”

Pietro sat up, then reached for his pants. He laughed. “I didn’t bother to put on my underdrawers because I knew I was comin’ here tonight.”

“That sounds like a smart move to me,” Rachel said.

From the room next to hers, Rachael heard a popping sound, then a cry.

She slipped into a robe, then walked to the door.

“I wouldn’t open the door if I were you,” Pietro said.

Rachel looked back toward him.

“You don’t want to get involved with someone like Sal Vizzini,” Pietro said.

“Why is he like that?” Rachel asked. “Why is he so cruel?”

“It is not good to ask such things,” Pietro replied.

Rachel heard another popping sound and another cry.

“Please…don’t,” she heard. She recognized Evangeline’s voice, even though it was muffled and filled with pain.

“Shut up, bitch,” she heard Vizzini say. “I’ve bought and paid for you. You’ll do any damn thing I want.”

Hawke was passing by the bottom of the stairs, carrying a cup of coffee he had just gotten from the kitchen, when he
heard the exchange. Stopping, he looked up toward the top of the stairs and waited for a moment.

“You said that if I let you come back, you wouldn’t hurt me anymore,” he heard Evangeline say. “You promised.”

He heard a man’s laughter. “Since when does a promise made to a whore mean anything?”

“It’s Evangeline,” Clarisse said when she saw Hawke standing at the foot of the stairs.

Hawke nodded. “Yes, I know. It’s Vizzini again, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so. He is such an evil person.”

“Maybe someone should have a talk with him,” Hawke suggested.

“Yes, but who would have the courage?” Clarisse asked.

Hawke returned to his piano, but he kept a close eye on the stairs. When he saw Vizzini coming down the stairs, he cut his song short, in order to keep an eye on Evangeline’s abuser. Then, when Vizzini went out the front door, Hawke stepped out the back.

The night creatures were singing as Hawke stood in the gazebo, waiting. The dark air was warm, moist, and malodorous with the stench of the outhouse that sat back in the corner.

As he knew he would, Vizzini headed toward the outhouse to relieve himself before he started home. Hawke waited until he unbuttoned his pants, then Hawke suddenly stepped behind him and grabbed him.

“Here!” Vizzini said in sharp fear. “What are you doing?”

“I’m throwing your ass in the toilet,” Hawke said in a hissing whisper.

“What? Do you know who I am?”

“I know exactly who you are, Vizzini,” Hawke said. “You are a piece of shit.”

Hawke grabbed Vizzini by the scruff of his neck and the seat of his pants. With one powerful lift, he picked Vizzini up.

“What are you…arrrghh!” Vizzini shouted, though his final words were mumbled when his head was submerged in the honey bucket beneath the only hole of the one-hole toilet.

BACK INSIDE THE HOUSE, CLARISSE AND THE OTHERS
were blissfully unaware of what had just taken place outside. When Hawke came back in, Clarisse assumed that he had just stepped out for a little air or perhaps to use the toilet. Hawke went immediately to the piano and started playing again.

Clarisse was standing at the foot of the stairs when Rachel came down. The height of the evening had not yet been reached, and there were still several men and women in the parlor.

“Good evening, Clarisse,” Rachel said as she passed the madam of the house.

“Good evening, Rachel. How did it go with Mr. Franchetti?”

“He seemed well satisfied,” Rachel said.

Clarisse stared at Rachel for a long moment. “Honey, why do you do this kind of work if you hate it so?”

“I’ve never said I hated it,” Rachel replied.

Clarisse put her hand on Rachel’s neck and squeezed it gently. “You don’t have to say it, dear. It’s written on your face like a book.”

“Oh,” Rachel said. “I’m sorry. I hope the men don’t think…”

Clarisse interrupted her with a laugh. “Honey, men don’t think. Period,” she said. “When a beautiful girl like you spreads her legs for them, all their thoughts and feelings are in one place.”

Rachel laughed with her.

“I understand you got a letter from Louise.”

“Yes, a couple of weeks ago.”

“How is she doing?”

“She’s doing fine.”

“I’m real glad about that. I miss her. She was a sweet girl.”

Suddenly the front door opened and Vizzini stepped inside. He let out a loud yell.

“Who did this?” he shouted angrily. His sudden entrance brought all other activity to a halt and everyone looked toward the front door. Vizzini was covered with an odorous brown sludgelike substance.

“My God! What the hell did you fall into?” someone near the door shouted. By now, the stench was permeating the entire parlor.

“I want to know who threw me into the toilet!” Vizzini shouted.

For a moment there was a stunned silence, then someone laughed out loud and that broke the ice for the others. The parlor roared with laughter.

“Don’t you laugh!” Vizzini shouted, pointing to the parlor. “Don’t you sons of bitches laugh!”

Despite their fear of him, the laughter continued unabated, and Vizzini stood there for a moment longer, fuming in anger and humiliation. Then, realizing that he was the object of their ridicule, he turned and hurried out of the parlor, chased by the howling laughter and catcalls of the men and women of the House of the Evening Star.

“Whew,” Clarisse said, fanning her hand under her nose. “Would some of you please open the windows so we can get some air in here? Doney, please come and clean this up.”

“Yes, ma’am, I be right there,” Doney replied, hurrying toward the front door with a bucket and some rags. “It be a pleasure to clean this up after seein’ that man get his comeuppance,” she added, laughing.

“All right, ladies and gentlemen, the disturbance is over. Let’s settle down now,” Clarisse called. “Mr. Hawke, would you play for us, please?”

“It will be my pleasure.”

“And if you would, dedicate the song to whoever the stalwart soul was who pushed Vizzini into the toilet.”

Hawke chuckled. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “That will be my pleasure as well.”

Rachel walked through the parlor to sit on the sofa nearest the piano so she could listen to the music. The music wasn’t the only reason she chose to sit here. She sat here because she wanted to be close to Hawke.

Ever since he arrived, Hawke had been polite to her; but then he was polite to all the girls. And he was never judgmental, nor patronizing. But Rachel was disappointed because, although she had recognized him right away, he still hadn’t recognized her.

To be fair to him, she realized there was no real reason he should recognize her. After all, it had been a very long time since they last saw each other, and she had been much younger then.

She recalled the last time she had seen him, dashingly handsome then, as now. Then, however, he had been wearing the gray and gold uniform of a regiment of Confederate cavalry.

She didn’t think she had ever seen anyone as handsome,
nor had there ever been anything as exciting as watching the county regiment marching off under fluttering flags to do battle for Georgia and the Confederate States of America.

“Oh, Mama, I pray that nothing happens to father and to Mason Hawke while they are off fighting in the war.”

“But, Rachel, you should pray for all of our brave young men, not just father and Mason Hawke. You should also pray for Mason Hawke’s brother and father, as well as all of the other soldiers in the regiment.”

“Oh, I do, Mama. I do pray for all of them,” Rachel said. “And I feel guilty.”

Rachel’s mother laughed. “Why do you feel guilty?”

“Because they will be in such danger while we will be safe at home.”

“That is the nature of war, my dear. The men go off to do battle and the women stay home to pray for them.”

As it turned out, Rachel was not as safe as she thought she would be. The war had been going on for four long years on the night six Yankee soldiers smashed down the door and came into the house. After taking what little food remained, the six men took turns raping Rachel and her mother.

Afterward, as Rachel lay bleeding and hurting in a crumpled heap over in the corner, the youngest of the soldiers came over to talk to her. He had a pained look of contrition on his face and he tried to offer her a piece of cornbread.

Pulling her quilt more tightly around her, Rachel drew away from him, looking at him through large, hurt, and terrified eyes. She refused the cornbread.

“I’m sorry,” the young soldier said. He sighed and looked over his shoulder at the other five men, who, by now, were throwing out their bedrolls on the living room floor.

“Normally, this ain’t the way we are,” the boy soldier said.
“I mean, we’re good people. We ain’t really like this. I don’t know what…uh…that is, we ain’t never done nothin’ like this before.”

The young soldier pointed to the soldier who had stripes on his sleeve. “Sergeant Miller there, well, he’s married and has two kids. He’s a mechanic. Gibson is a farmer. And them other two boys works in a mill. Me, well, I just got out of school.”

Rachel said nothing.

“Anyway,” the young soldier continued. “I been prayin’ to the Lord to forgive me for what we…I mean, for what I done to you and your ma. This war, it makes…”—he stopped in midsentence and sighed. “Well, I don’t expect you to find it in your heart to forgive me,” he said. “But I do want you to know that I’m sorry.”

The soldiers left the next morning without forcing themselves on Rachel or her mother a second time. Rachel couldn’t find it in her heart to forgive them, but she did adjust to what happened to her.

Her mother never did adjust and wasn’t “quite right” after that. Rachel’s father had died of dysentery shortly after the war began and, though she prayed for forgiveness for such thoughts, Rachel was glad that her father had not lived to see her mother this way.

Rachel took care of her mother as best she could, but within two years of the war’s end, her mother was dead and Rachel found herself without a farm and with no place to go. In order to support herself, she took a job in the laundry. One of her coworkers was Sally, a young black girl who had once been a slave of her family. It was from Sally that Rachel learned about the House of the Evening Star.

“It’s in New Orleans, and my sister works there,” Sally said after she told Rachel about it.

“Your sister? Are you talking about Fancy? Our Fancy?”

Like Sally, Fancy had been one of her family’s slaves.

“Yes’m, that be the one I’m talkin’ about, all right. You might remember, Fancy be a shine.”

Calling Fancy a “shine,” Rachel knew, referred to the fact that she was very light-skinned.

“And Fancy say that the New Orleans gentlemens likes the light-skin Coloreds almost as much as they like the white girls. She say it’s a real nice place too, the girls is treated real good and they makes lots of money.”

“They make a lot of money? How much money is a lot of money?” Rachel asked.

“Fancy say she make a hundred dollars a month,” Sally said.

Rachel gasped in amazement. “A hundred dollars a month? Lord, I didn’t know there was so much money in the world.”

“You could make that much money,” Sally said. “You be a real pretty girl. I expect lots of men would pay money to be with you.”

“Sally, are you suggesting that I become a prostitute?”

“No, ma’am, I ain’t suggestin’ nothin’. I’m just tellin’ you that you could make lots of money doin’ that if you wanted to.”

At first Rachel thought she should be angry with Sally, but the more she thought about it, the better the idea sounded to her. And why not? She wasn’t entitled to any pride or shame anyway. That had been taken from her, along with her innocence when she was raped by the Yankee soldiers.

“But how would I ever get on there?” Rachel asked. “I mean, if there is that much money to be made, I’m sure there are many who apply for the position.”

“If you go see Fancy, she help you get on,” Sally said.

“Fancy might be your sister, but she was one of our slaves. Why would she be willing to help me?” Rachel asked.

“’Cause she be your sister too,” Sally said.

“What?” Rachel asked in shock. “Fancy is my sister? But how is that possible?”

Sally laughed. “Miss Rachel, if you don’ know how babies is borned, you ain’t goin’ be much good as a whore, no matter how pretty you is.”

“I know how babies are born,” Rachel said. “I just don’t know how it is that Fancy could be my sister.”

“’Cause your daddy visit my mama from time to time,” Sally said.

“I…I never knew.”

“No, ma’am, I don’t reckon they was many folks what know’d, bein’ as your daddy and my mama was quiet about it. But your daddy know’d and from time to time he would come down and bounce Fancy on his knee and tell her that she was just as purty as a little pair of red shoes.”

Rachel gasped. “As ‘pretty as a little pair of red shoes’? That’s what my father would say to Fancy?”

“That’s what he said, all right.”

“Why that…that’s exactly what he used to say to me,” Rachel said. “Oh my, it is true! He was Fancy’s father. She is my sister.”

Armed with a letter from Sally, Rachel went to New Orleans, where Fancy not only helped her get a job with the House of the Evening Star, but received her so warmly that the two half-sisters became very close friends.

Now, as Rachel sat on the sofa near the piano listening to the music, her half-sister came over to sit with her.

Fancy was an exceptionally beautiful girl with copper-toned skin, large dark eyes with big fanlike eyelashes, high cheekbones, and luxuriant black hair. As a result of her exotic beauty, she was one of the most sought-after girls in the house.

“Are you going to tell him?” Fancy asked.

“No.”

“I think you should tell him who you are,” Fancy urged.

“No, I can’t,” Rachel answered.

“Why not? He’s leaving tomorrow. If you don’t tell him now, Rachel, he’s never going to know.”

“It’s better this way.”

“Why is it better this way?”

“Fancy, do you think I want him to know I’m a whore?”

Fancy laughed. “Rachel, he works here. He
knows
you are a whore.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t know who I am.”

“If you don’t tell him, I’m going to,” Fancy insisted. She started to stand.

“Fancy, no, please, don’t!” Rachel said, reaching out to pull her back. Rachel’s plea was so sincere that Fancy acquiesced.

“All right, if you don’t want me to tell him, I won’t,” she said, sitting back down.

“Thank you.”

“But you’re crazy,” Fancy said. “You know that, don’t you? A man like that and you know him from the past, but you don’t say anything about it. I sure can’t understand that.”

“Rachel?” a man’s voice said.

Looking up from the sofa, Rachel saw a small balding man.

“Professor Tompkins,” she said, flashing a sweet smile at him. “How good to see you tonight.”

“Do you think we could, uh, go upstairs?” Tompkins asked, almost embarrassed by the asking.

“Why, of course we can,” Rachel replied. “I would be delighted to spend some time with you.”

As Rachel and Professor Tompkins started toward the stairs, they passed a man of medium height, with dark hair and dark blue eyes. He was wearing a hat with a small round crown and a small brim. He lifted it by way of greeting Rachel.

“Hello, Mr. Provenzano,” Rachel said.

Professor Tompkins looked away pointedly, as if trying to avoid recognition.

“I enjoyed your last concert, Professor,” Provenzano said. “I like Rossini. You should play more Italian composers.”

Professor Tompkins held his left hand up, as if shielding his face.

“Yes, uh, thank you,” he mumbled.

Provenzano laughed at the professor’s embarrassment, then walked over to Fancy. “Fancy,
buona sera,”
he said.

“Vinnie,” Fancy said, smiling coquettishly at him. “I thought you said you had a meeting and you weren’t going to come tonight.”

“I did. But the meeting didn’t last long,” Vinnie said.

“It didn’t go well?”

“You might say that the man I met with lost his head,” Vinnie said with an ironic chuckle.