Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) Read online

  ***

  He finished the rest of his errands and got back to Magazine Street in the middle of the afternoon. Justine had put out a cold plate of andouille, cheese, vegetables, and French bread. After he ate, he thanked her with a quiet courtesy that made her feel like a servant and went off to the bedroom. She heard the springs squeak, then silence.

  She stepped into the kitchen, opened the cupboard, and found the packet of Straight Cuts that Valentin kept there. She carried one to the balcony, where the rough smell of the tobacco would dissipate. Snapping a lucifer on a brick, she leaned in the doorway to blow out a long spiral of smoke.

  When she touched an absent finger to the scar along her hairline, she felt the slight depression where the flesh had never quite healed back. It was a souvenir. A sudden memory of the moment when she had received it brought a spike of fear that was followed by a flush of anger. The feeling seeped away, leaving her all bewildered, as if she had lost something. She watched the street, trying to make her thoughts wind their way back the way they had come. When she felt the ember of the cigarette burning close to her fingers, she gave up. She tossed the butt over the railing. It left a tail of tiny embers before it landed in the gutter.

  She looked over at the Banks' Arcade, four stories, brown stoned, and stately. With its gardens and ornate fountain, its fine dining establishment and elegant suites upstairs where gentlemen entertained their paramours, it was a place reserved for the well-to-do French and Americans of New Orleans. As she watched, a woman stepped through the tall wrought-iron gate of the side garden and onto the banquette. Justine stared; there was something familiar about the woman—her face half veiled beneath a Floradora, her fine silk dress and brocade shawl, the way she held herself, her head high and shoulders squared. Justine knew that the woman, a pretty quadroon, had spent the night with a gentleman of means in one of the upper-floor suites and was waiting for the cabriolet that was now rounding the corner of Gravier Street to carry her away.

  The carriage pulled up and the Negro driver bent down to offer her his hand. As she pulled herself up, she must have sensed Justine's stare, because she raised her head. Their eyes met over fifty feet of air. Then the quadroon woman smiled slightly and settled back into the fine red leather seat. The driver cracked his little whip and the carriage clattered off to turn the corner of Common Street.

  Standing above the morning traffic, her hands resting on the wrought-iron railing, Justine slipped into a reverie. She saw herself in a dress with a bodice that showed off her narrow waist and the curve of her bust. Her hair was up and she had on just enough mascara to bring her slanted eyes out over au-lait cheekbones. She smiled at the reflection and the woman in the glass smiled back, as if she was—

  She jumped a little, startled by a singsong call from down the street. The greengrocer's wagon was rolling around the corner, the wheels creaking and groaning under a full load of produce. She stood still for a long moment, letting go of her crazy thoughts, letting them swirl away like bits of colored paper caught in an updraft. Her mind cleared and she was back on Magazine Street on a Friday afternoon in September. She went to find her bucket and rope.

  Friday nights were always busy at the Café and Valentin left just after dinner. Before he went out the door, he kissed her gently on the forehead. Then he escaped, leaving her to see her own way through the long evening.

  The sun was going down. Terrence Lacombe sat on the gray greasy mattress in the room in the hotel on Peters Street, breaking down his clarinet. Pawning it meant he wouldn't be able to work if a job came along. It didn't matter; he was getting sick. Already he had chills and a feeling of something crawling on his skin, the cold burning itch that would soon be driving him half mad if he didn't do something about it. He wanted to chase the pictures that kept coming into his head, too: a big black man sprawled all bloody on the bed, a butchered carcass. Just the image brought another shudder. He snapped the case closed and stood up.

  He was pulling on his overcoat when he heard footsteps out in the hallway. He froze, figuring it was the manager coming around for the week's rent, money he didn't have. He took a step toward the window, then remembered that the fire escape was fixed so it didn't reach the ground, forestalling exits just like the one he was considering.

  The footsteps drew close, stopped for a breathless instant at his threshold, then turned and padded back down the hall. Terrence fidgeted, grinding his long, dirty nails into his palms. It didn't matter if it was a trick. He had to go through the door to get to the pawnshop to get the cash to get the remedy he needed this night. He pulled his coat tighter around his throat and made ready to bolt if he had to, past the clerk and down the stairs and out onto the street and away.

  He opened the door a few inches, then a little wider. He stuck his head out to peer up and down the corridor. It was empty and early evening silent. He was just about to step out and make his escape when he noticed the paper sack at his feet. He took another sneaking glance along the hallway in both directions, then snapped it up, ducked back, and closed the door.

  His thin fingers were beginning to tremble as he reached inside the sock and drew out a glassine envelope that held a good tablespoon of crystalline powder, off-white in color. Terrence stared at it in wonder. He couldn't imagine who would present such a lagniappe or why. Then he didn't care; another wave of nausea was rising in his gut.

  In less than a minute, he had the powder cooking in his blackened tin and had pulled his belt off his waist and strapped it about his arm. He forced his hands to stop shaking and, with a practiced move that was almost graceful in its delicacy, used his brass-plated syringe to draw off the liquid. Eyeing a place he hadn't yet ravaged, he guided the needle into the vein. Then he slipped the plunger back, sucking blood. He waited a sweet, agonizing second, then pressed with his thumb.

  It came on like a dizzying rush of warm air through his head and then through every cell in his body. The sick feeling was washed aside and he felt like he had settled into a steaming bath.

  He heard the door hinges squeak. He was turning his head to see who it was when he felt a blow to his heart like someone had slammed him in the chest with a sledgehammer.

  A second blow came, this one knocking him sideways off the bed. He did not feel his head collide with the bare floor, only that he was looking up now and that a face was looming over him, already turning black around the edges. The mouth moved, biting off words that were lost in the roar of blood in his ears. Another shuddering wave came over him, bursting from the middle of his chest to the tips of his fingers. The face disappeared into blackness and he was gone.

  A moment passed and the door to the room creaked closed.

  It was near 5 A.M. and Anderson's Café was quiet. The band had long since stopped and the bartenders had all gone home. Mr. Tom had slipped off for his rendezvous with a girl from Gypsy Shafer's.

  Valentin said good night to the old Negro watchman, then walked outside to stand on the banquette. None of the streetcars were running yet. He had money in his pocket for a hack but decided to walk the ten blocks south. As he crossed Dauphine Street, he heard rubber tires swishing up from behind. A surrey rolled to a stop and Jelly Roll Morton looked down from the rear seat. "You want a ride?"

  "What are you doing here?" Valentin said.

  "On my way home. Come on, we'll carry you."

  "I'd just as soon walk."

  "All right, then." Morton stepped down onto the banquette. He was a sight, all done up in his finest, as crisp as if he had just dressed for a night out on the town. He told the driver to go on and wait for him at the corner of Magazine. The carriage clattered away. After they had walked a few paces along the banquette, the piano man glanced at Valentin and said, "Well?"

  "Well, what?"

  "What about Noiret?"

  Valentin gave him an annoyed look. "Is that why you stopped? Because if it is, you need to call him back before he gets too far on." Morton opened his mouth to protest, but Valentin cut him off.
"I saw Lulu White this morning." He came up with a severe look. "You need to stop spreading rumors."

  "They ain't rumors," the piano player sniffed. He looked around, as if someone might be lurking nearby, then dropped his voice to a deep whisper and said, "Why Noiret? Why him?"

  Valentin wanted to say because most likely he was a good-for-nothing son of a bitch. He didn't, though, and Morton went ahead and answered his own question. "Because he was working on the wrong side of Canal Street." He took another furtive look around. "You know how those people are," he said urgently. "They ain't gonna allow it."

  Valentin shook his head in exasperation. He was not about to get into another argument over this crazy business. Morton didn't understand. It wasn't just that Antoine Noiret was nothing to him. Or that the murder was already three days old and had happened far back on Philip Street, along a row of dingy houses that were broken up into tiny rooms available to transients by the day or week and to cheap whores by the hour. Without even seeing the place, Valentin knew Noiret wasn't the first dead body that had been carted out the front door.

  Morton had his own ideas, of course, and if there was no stopping him once he got going, it didn't mean Valentin had to listen to it. "I don't want to talk about this anymore, Ferd," he said. He was one of the few people who was still allowed to use Morton's given name. "I just want to get home and go to sleep."

  Morton looked like he was about to come snapping back with something. Then he thought better of it and put his hands behind his back as they walked on. "You ever think about Buddy?" he asked ruminatively as they crossed Camp Street.

  Valentin said, "I do, yes."

  "They'll not make another one like him," the piano man said with a little laugh.

  Valentin never knew what to say when someone mentioned Bolden, so he kept quiet. They walked the last block in silence, each thinking his own thoughts.

  They stopped on the corner where the hack was waiting. Morton reached for the brass bar, then stopped to look down Magazine Street in the direction of Valentin's rooms.

  "How's Miss Justine?" he inquired.

  "She's well. Why?"

  "I'm just asking," Morton said, and smiled curiously. "Make sure you give her my regards."

  He pulled himself up into the wide rear seat. The driver snapped the reins and the carriage rolled away.

  FOUR

  Justine opened her eyes and stared at the cracks in the plaster wall. The pillow was damp where her face had pressed into it and she pushed it away. There was sunlight through the window that opened out over the alley; it had to be late, after ten. She had missed early Mass again.

  She felt Valentin's warm breath on her back and rolled on her side to look at him. She could not count the mornings when she had lain beside him in the bed, wishing they could hide there like sleepy children while the world went on without them. She knew it was silly, a schoolgirl's daydream, and of course she never mentioned it to him. She studied his profile, now unguarded in repose, his olive skin bloodless with sleep, wondering if she watched long enough, she'd be able to read something in his face. Then she thought about shaking him roughly awake to catch him unaware and ask him exactly what was on his mind.

  There was a time when she didn't have to puzzle over it. He would tell her about his days and nights, about the part of his life that she didn't see. He described the cases he worked and she giggled over the gossip he brought home. He had even told her about his past, about the tragedies that had rained down on his world as a young boy.

  There was more. He had listened to her stories, too, intrigued by her tales of the life she'd led before she landed in New Orleans. Unlike most rounders, who cared nothing for a girl other than to serve their basest needs, Valentin had shown true concern for her. He had taken her out of Miss Antonia's to protect her. He had stayed by her bedside while she recovered from her injuries. When it was all over, he didn't exactly invite her to stay, but he didn't put her out, either, and so there she remained.

  She had a sudden memory of the moment she realized something had gone askew. He had come back from his last visit to the hospital in Jackson and there was a look on his face that she had never seen before. He wouldn't—or couldn't—tell her what was wrong. He just sat across the table from her and didn't say a thing. At one point he reached over and ran gentle fingers along her unhealed scar. His gray eyes were stricken, wounded, as if he was the one who had put it there. She never forgot that look, because it had lain so heavily on that moment.

  She came to understand in the months since that he was carrying a terrible burden of guilt over what had happened to his friend Bolden—and to her. It started small, then grew to a presence between them, like a third person in their rooms, an intruder who wouldn't leave. Or so she imagined. She didn't even understand what went through her mind some days. Whatever it was, real or imagined, he had let it get the best of him.

  As the time passed, they spoke less and of less important things. He didn't bring much of himself home anymore. They frolicked less often, and so she had to wonder frankly what she was doing there.

  She thought of waking him up at that moment with a rough shake and asking him just that. Before she got foolish and actually did it, she slipped out of bed, maneuvering over him delicately until her feet touched the floor. She took the silk kimono that was draped at the end of the bed and pulled it on over her thin nightshirt. As she reached the door, she heard the springs squeak and looked back. He had turned on his stomach and sprawled his arms wide, as if reclaiming the bed for his own. She went into the bathroom to start the water in the iron tub, then went into the kitchen to put the coffee on.

  The street was busy with hacks, motorcars, and the occasional streetcar milling up and down as the banquettes filled with pedestrians on Saturday morning errands. Bechamin's front door was standing open and from behind its counter the Frenchman waved a greeting as Justine walked by. She stole a glance across the street toward the Banks' Arcade, recalling the quadroon stepping into the fine carriage, and the way she'd held herself, all stately, a lady in charge of her affairs. Or at least as much as any woman in her world could be.

  A breeze off the river greeted her as she crossed Canal Street. Slipping into the shadows of the Quarter was entering another place, quiet and still at this early hour. She walked more slowly now, meandering up one narrow street, turning a corner, and turning down another. It was pleasant there, shaded from the sun, and as she passed under the colonnades with their wrought-iron railings, she lost track of time.

  Her thoughts again went wandering along with her, drifting away from the narrow streets of the Vieux Carré, out of the city of New Orleans, back along country roads, around the outskirts of little towns, and into the deep green shadows of the bayou. It was a familiar path. Sometimes the memories seeped in like slow water; other times, they leaped in with sudden and jarring focus. At regular intervals lately, she got an overpowering sense of something reaching out of that dark, lush tangle to clutch at her, all but making her heart stop. Then the feelings would pass and she would think she was just plain crazy.

  It had not been so long ago that she was looking out the cracked window of the collapsing shack at the black water that crawled along beneath the ancient trees. No one who saw her parading through the city of New Orleans in her fine dress could guess how far she had traveled. She thought of her brothers and her sisters, wondering where they were now, and if they ever thought of her. It made her heart sink to realize that she might not ever see them again, not after what had happened that one awful August day.

  The brakes of a steam engine shrieked and she all but jumped out of her skin. She looked around, blinking in the late morning sun. The bayou was gone. She was standing on the corner of Basin Street and Iberville, directly across from Anderson's Café. Behind her was Union Station, the trains chugging in from the south and chugging out to the north and west in a long half loop around the border of the District.

  Somehow her absentminded wandering had br
ought her all the way through the Vieux Carré and to the main line of the red-light district. Basin Street was a noisy jumble of metal, the odd harsh music of the infant century. A hack went by, then a streetcar, the wires crackling overhead. She smelled ozone, burning coal, horse manure, the dirty smoke from the motorcars. Delivery boys hurried along the banquettes, sweating as they pulled wagons of goods for the sporting houses. It was the start of another busy Saturday in Storyville.

  Justine peered up and down and across the street to see if anyone had noticed her. Then she realized that none of the people she knew would be out at that hour. Her eyes came to rest on the facade of Antonia Gonzales's mansion, across the street and a half block down. She knew it well. It had been her home for a year and she still thought of it fondly. She had been the fairest of the sporting girls there, and only gentlemen of class and sports who stayed flush won the pleasure of her company. Miss Antonia had been sorry to see her go.

  She heard the faraway bells of St. Ignatius tolling three-quarters. She could make it to noon Mass on time if she hurried along Basin Street and then turned east on St. Ann. Once she stepped inside the chapel, the scent of the incense, the whispered prayers in sonorous Latin rising to the vaulted ceiling, and the pale tinted light through the stained glass windows would combine like a special potion to calm her mind. Her body would unwind, too, as the jumble of thoughts and images inside her head wound down, like a top at the end of its spin. It never failed; though just to make sure, she would stop at the apothecary on her way home and have her prescription filled.

  Though she knew she need only put one foot ahead of the other and start walking, she didn't move. She kept gazing across at Miss Antonia's as she dropped her hand into her purse and brushed a finger over the three pale pink envelopes that were tucked away there. Inside each was a small card with Miss Antonia Gonzales printed on it in fancy script. In the space underneath the name, the madam had penned messages, each one polite, though insistent. Please visit me at your convenience ... Requesting a visit as soon as possible ... Please contact me at your earliest convenience...