5
Mrs. Reid had been shadowing her daughter all the way from Chestnut Street. She had known something was up the moment Mamie answered the door the afternoon before. Mamie claimed it was a delivery boy with the wrong address, but Mrs. Reid’s nose had started twitching as soon as she saw her daughter’s flushed cheeks. She knew darn well that Mamie had no suitors in New Orleans—her daughter wouldn’t give the time of day to even the finest prospects—which meant only one thing…
She followed Mamie at a distance, seeing right through her ruse of a sick friend. Her daughter was never a good liar, doubly so when that boy was in the frame. Mrs. Reid tailed her daughter all the way downtown; the girl was so away with the fairies that her mother didn’t even have to be circumspect. When the French Market came into view, Mrs. Reid merged with the crowd opposite the Indians hawking wares. She watched, her suspicions confirmed when her only daughter embraced that scalawag, Leon Christmas.
As the couple walked arm-in-arm down Bourbon Street, Mrs. Reid followed twenty feet behind them, hunched over, clutching her purse to her chest, and wary of drunken revelers who were too shameless to wait for sundown. She almost made her presence known when the pair ducked into some dive on Royal, but when they re-emerged soon after, she was glad she hadn’t. A crowd of drinkers gathered around Lee at the doorway, slapping him on the back, slipping cigars into his breast pocket.
Mrs. Reid’s curiosity was piqued—enough that she followed the pair out to Spanish Fort, all the way up by Lake Pontchartrain. Enough to track them for the entire afternoon while they canoodled brazenly among the penny arcades. Enough to keep her mouth shut, even though she was burning with rage. Something was up, but she wanted to determine what it was before confronting them.
On the way back from Spanish Fort, Mrs. Reid was scheming about how to end Lee’s interest in Mamie for good, perhaps by insisting on Mamie’s marriage to one of the many suitable boys her daughter had summarily dismissed. But instead of turning left to Chestnut Street, the couple made their way downtown once more.
Mrs. Reid, her nerves frayed, was tiring of the pursuit, and she resolved to confront the couple if they entered another saloon. To her surprise, Lee and Mamie stopped short of the French Quarter and turned toward the station. She lurked as they approached the ticket counter, but she was too far away to eavesdrop on the transaction. Instead, she noted the number of the platform and accosted the nearest porter. She seethed in the station house until departure time, holding out hope that her daughter was simply conducting a drawn-out goodbye, rather than engaging in something more sinister. The couple walked hand-in-hand to the carriage and paused at the doorway. Then Lee held the door for Mamie while she clambered aboard.
Mrs. Reid sprang into action. Running out from the station house, she shrieked, “Stop that train. Help!” She scurried up and down the platform, screaming for the watchman. “Help, please, someone. Stop that train!”
The train was already pulling out, however. Mrs. Reid grabbed the rear handrail, desperate to halt it any way she could, even to the point of doing herself an injury. When she was dragged from her feet, the screams from folks on the platform finally saw the train halted.
Inside the carriage, Lee made for the door, but Mamie stayed his hand. “You’d best stay here.”
She noticed his wounded look and was touched. “I’m coming back, silly,” she said. “I just need to check she’s all right.” Mamie stepped down onto the platform. The police, attracted by the screams, were already attending to her mother, who was shaken up but unharmed.
Mrs. Reid brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You plan to marry this boy without permission? You mean to elope? Bring shame on this family? After everything we’ve—”
Mamie stepped back into the carriage and shut the door. She didn’t feel like arguing in front of a bunch of rubbernecking strangers—not when her mother was this riled up and unlikely to listen to reason. With Lee’s hand around her waist, she watched through the grimy window as her mother flew into a rage, accosting the policemen, insisting they place Mamie and Lee under arrest. But no charge could be made—Mamie had reached the age where she could decide such matters for herself; the train was allowed to depart, and the two young lovers sped north.
It was more than six months before Mr. & Mrs. Reid calmed enough to allow the newlyweds to visit. Impressed by Mamie’s letters about the house Lee had built in Vicksburg, his promising career, and, not least, the young couple’s impending child, the Reid family eventually welcomed Lee and Mamie back into their fold. Once Lee ensured he could keep his job, the newlyweds moved to New Orleans a month later, taking a house on Poydras, a few block from the station, just past Lafayette Square.
The one concession Lee had to make to familial bliss was hiding his prized possession: a framed copy of the Daily Picayune detailing their dramatic elopement, which the boys in the station yard had presented them as a wedding gift. The headline always made him chuckle. “BOLD LOCHINVAR—Steals His Young Bride From Her Mother and Speeds Away To Vicksburg—An Unwilling Parent But A Merry Christmas Pair.”
It was a small price to pay for peace, much as Lee was fond of it. He guessed his father would never have dreamed of seeing his son in the newspaper—even if it was for causing trouble.
6
Lee clocked off a couple of minutes early and made his way to the entrance of the station yard with Boyd Cetti, who had moved down from Vicksburg to be closer to his ailing mother. Boyd elbowed him in the ribs. “That’s him.”
Lee thanked his friend and made his way over to the ruddy Irishman. As they passed through the gate of the station yard, he put his hand on the fireman’s shoulder. “Say, you O’Brien?”
The man stopped dead and squared up to him. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m Lee Christmas.” He put out his hand. “And I’d like to buy you a drink.”
“Then lead on, my friend,” said O’Brien. “This drink won’t buy itself.” He clapped Lee on the back. “Had me worried for a second. Thought you were … oh, it doesn’t matter. Hey, why don’t we head on down to Tom Cook’s place?”
“Sounds good to me.” Lee caught Boyd’s eye as he passed, winking, then headed down Poydras with the Irishman in tow.
A couple of hours later, their table filled with empty glasses, Lee began pressing him for more details. “O’Brien—”
“I told you already,” he said. “Name’s Benny. Every time you say ‘O’Brien’ I think I’m in some kind of trouble.
Lee chuckled. “Fair enough. Anyway, as I was saying, I got two young kids now—”
“What are their names?”
“Ed and Hattie. But as I was—”
“I’ve got three myself.”
“That’s great, Benny, but you must understand my predicament. Salary only goes so far.”
“You want to know about the drainage gig?”
“Well … yeah.”
Benny O’Brien turned and shouted for two more whiskeys.
“So what is it you do exactly?” Lee asked.
“That’s not important. It’s a city job, that’s all you need to know.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning all you gotta do to earn your pay is…” Benny raised his forefinger in apology as he drained his glass in one gulp. He smiled, his lips glistening with alcohol, and then belched. “All you gotta do is turn up and collect.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That and kick up a piece to your supervisor.”
Lee could barely contain his excitement. Money for nothing? It sounded too good to be true. “So what do I got to do?”
“That’s the tricky bit,” said O’Brien. “The lads handing out these gigs aren’t the charitable sort.”
Lee was expecting him to say more, but the Irishman fondled his empty glass instead. He waved for another round of drinks.
The bartender delivered them with a grunt; O’Brien waited until he was out of earshot. “I think you’re getting more than your money’s wo
rth, but you seem like a decent skin, so I’ll fill you in.”
He clinked glasses with the Irishman, and watched as O’Brien emptied his glass once more. Lee followed suit.
“God, this American whiskey is awful shite.” He grimaced. “Politicians run the whole game in this city,” O’Brien continued. “They get elected, then they hand out favors to their supporters—guys like me who knock on doors and hand out pamphlets and then spend all of Election Day dragging drunks from the Irish Channel up to vote.”
Lee pondered this for a moment. “How do I get in on this game?”
“You gotta start doing favors for the right people.”
“And how do I meet them?”
“Jesus, you’re eager.” O’Brien paused, scrutinizing Lee’s face. “All right. Look down at the other end of the bar, over my shoulder.” Lee glanced to the left. “See all those guys at the end, with their fancy hats and jimswingers?”
“They the politicians?” asked Lee, confused.
O’Brien laughed. “Hell, no. They’re the lads doing favors. You got to get in with them first.”
Lee was about to ask another question, but the Irishman waved him away and stood. “Nice to make your acquaintance, but if I don’t toddle off, my wife will have my guts for garters.”
Lee stood and shook his hand. “Say, you wouldn’t be a pal and introduce me—”
O’Brien was already shaking his head. “This is as far as I go. And, if you want my advice, greasy overalls ain’t gonna impress those guys much. Best get yourself a new jacket. Silk hat too.”
He watched the Irishman stagger out of the joint, and then turned his attention to the tyros propping up the bar near the entrance. He noted their clothes and their exaggerated gestures, as well as the furious rate at which they were consuming booze. Lee figured it was about time he made a name for himself in the political circles of the Third Ward.
With that decided, what little money he was bringing home was spent on a fancy clothes and nocturnal escapades. To get in with the political crowd, Lee felt he had to act like them, which meant drinking all evening in Remy Klock’s saloon around the corner from his house, or Tom Cook’s place near the station, before whiling away the small hours in one of New Orleans’ innumerable gambling dens. He soon discovered a prodigious appetite for liquor, in all its many forms. His family only survived by leaning heavily on Mamie’s parents—especially important now that they had two young children. Lee spent more and more evenings out of the house, to the chagrin of his wife. Election season was his excuse. He had signed on to hustle for the saloon-keeper Remy Klock as Sheriff of Orleans Parish.
* * *
Mamie watched Lee taking off his boots at the door. “You look tired,” she said, fanning herself with one hand. “Want to take a nap while I fix you something?”
Lee shook his head. “I’d love to, but I’m not stopping.”
“You’re going out again tonight?”
He nodded wearily. “Election will be over soon.”
“But you just worked a double.”
Lee shrugged his shoulders and made his way upstairs. Mamie followed him, entering the bedroom as he was pulling off his socks. He smiled as he unbuttoned his shirt. “If you want a show, you just have to ask.”
Mamie blushed. “You’re incorrigible, Lee Christmas.”
He took out his suit and laid it on the bed.
“You better be washing up before you put that on.”
He saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”
“It certainly cost enough.” She pouted.
“Aw, don’t be sore. You know why I’m doing all this.”
“I remember,” said Mamie, pursing her lips. “I just wish you didn’t have to go to those places.”
“Remy Klock runs a straight joint. Don’t listen to that nonsense put about by his opponents. They’re trying to drag his name through the mud because we’re licking ’em fair and square.”
“I’m not worried about Remy’s place. It’s where you go after.”
Lee spread his hands. “Some of these rich types … I dunno. They have funny ideas about how they want to spend their money.”
“Father McGinty says there’s loose women in those sporting establishments.” Mamie curled her lip with the last words.
“They got gambling too, but you don’t see me losing my shirt,” Lee replied angrily. He paused for a moment, deciding to change tack, and stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “Besides,” he said, putting an arm around his wife and searching out the small of her back. “I got all I could ever need right here.”
Mamie allowed herself a brief smile before pushing him away. “If you think you’re going to get that before you head out for a night’s drinking…”
“You afraid of a little grease? Never stopped you before.”
“Lee!” She slapped him playfully on the arm. “You’ll wake the children.”
“You mean you’ll wake ’em, if last time was anything to go by.”
A cry from the neighboring room interrupted him. “Daddy!”
She waggled a finger at him. “Do not go in there until you’ve cleaned yourself up. I don’t want them clambering all over your dirty overalls. Get yourself washed, and I’ll tell them you’ll be there in a minute to say goodnight.”
“Sure thing.”
“You certain you don’t want something to eat? I’ve some stew I can heat up. Will only take a minute.”
“Really wish I could, Mamie, but I’m already late as it is.”
His wife looked deflated.
“Look,” he said. “I was saving this as a surprise, but I got the day off tomorrow. How’s about we bring the kids out to Spanish Fort and show them our old stomping ground?”
“That would be swell.” Mamie’s face pinched all of a sudden. “Just one thing.”
“What?”
“I promised my mother she could spend some time with the children tomorrow. You know she’s always complaining she doesn’t see enough of them.”
“Bring her along,” he said.
Mamie raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“More the merrier.”
She pecked him on the cheek. “Thank you. Now go wash up. Can’t keep these rich types waiting.”
7
Mamie rose at the crack of dawn, awakened by the cries of little Ed demanding to be fed. She eyed Lee’s empty side of the bed with dismay. Things are never simple with this one.
Her husband spent all his time running around trying to impress people in the Third Ward, but Mamie knew whom he truly wanted to impress. She couldn’t help suspecting that her mother would be happier if he just spent more time at home with his children.
She felt guilty immediately, berating herself for the thought as she nursed Ed and gazed down on his placid face. Lee is a good man and a good husband, she told herself, even if he is a bit scatty. After finally lulling Ed back to sleep, Mamie tiptoed from the room and went downstairs to make herself some coffee. No point going back to bed now. Hattie will be up soon anyway.
The water hadn’t yet come to the boil when someone knocked on the door. Surprised, she checked the clock; it was barely past six. Before she got a chance to answer, a second, more urgent rasp of knuckles echoed through the house, loud enough to wake Hattie, who began calling for her mother. Mamie hollered up the stairs to console her daughter, and then opened the door, slowly at first until she saw it was just a messenger boy.
“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am. Engineer Christmas is needed at the depot.”
“But it’s his day off.”
“All I know is he’s needed by eight. Boss has a shipment of bananas spoiling in the yard.”
Mamie sighed. “Well, he ain’t here. You best get up the road to Remy Klock’s and ask around. If he’s not there, try Tom Cook’s.
“And if he’s not there either?”
She tried to keep her exasperation in check. “Then your guess is as good as mine.”
“Thank you, ma’a
m. Sorry once again for disturbing you.” The boy dashed off.
“Make sure he stops here first,” Mamie shouted after him. “He’s wearing his suit!” Then, embarrassed at letting the whole street know her business, she went back inside and called up to the mewling Hattie, “I’m coming!”
When Lee finally made it home, just shy of eight, Mamie’s mother was ensconced at the kitchen table, sipping tea and drumming her fingers. She stared at the clock and tutted when he entered. Mamie could immediately see the condition he was in, and enlisted her mother to help stop him. Not that Mrs. Reid needed much prodding. “You’re in no fit state, Lee. Look at yourself. You can barely stand.”
He swayed in the doorway before leaning against the jamb. “I’ll be fine, ma’am.”
She shook her head. “You can’t go. Listen to me. I had a dream last night that if you took out this engine, you’d never take out another.”
“Nonsense,” he growled, waving away his mother-in-law’s objections with a meaty paw. “Some coffee and I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t have time for coffee. He barely had time to divest himself of his finery and change into his overalls before Mamie raced him down to the station—where she had to help hoist him into the cab. When she returned home, her mother was preparing breakfast for the children.
“Your father just left with the coffee,” her mother said. “That pot was strong enough to wake the dead.”
“You sure he’ll get there in time?”
Mrs. Reid shushed her. “I told him to head for the crossing, to be safe. Lee’s train will be slow enough there for him to pass it aboard.”
“I should have done more to stop him. He’s in no condition. What if—”
Mamie’s mother shot her a look as she covered Ed’s ears. “We’ll have none of that talk around you-know-who.”
Mamie bit her lip.
“And if you’re worried about that dream nonsense, I only made that up so Lee might change his mind.”
“Really?”
She drew her lips into a bloodless smile. “And we both should know better at this point.”
Mercenary Page 2