Gods of New Orleans

by AJ Sikes

“Now, Mister Clemmons,” said the man with his foot on Aiden’s box. “May I be so bold as to ask you to refrain from disrupting this young man while he’s hard at work? After all, if his mother is ad opus, then I’m sure it’ll be only a matter of time before we’ve all had the pleasure. Isn’t that right?”

  The men all set to laughing and Aiden couldn’t take it. Before he knew what he was doing he’d torn the man’s shoe from his foot and flung it into the street. The man nearly fell backward out of his chair he stood up so fast, but Aiden had his hands on the man’s stocking foot and was yanking on that, too.

  He felt a sharp pain in his gut and rolled onto his back into the street. One of the men had kicked him under the table. Aiden clutched his stomach and flipped over onto his knees. A small crowd had formed around the table.

  Every man and woman in the area was watching Aiden, some with looks of horror on their faces, but most with a sort of half glee. Aiden saw bets trade hands between two of the Negro men at the table. The man whose shoe he’d torn off stood beside the table, shaking with rage and ready to kill.

  Aiden felt heated enough himself, and he didn’t back down. But he was wise enough to know when a fight was lost before it had begun. He skipped backward, onto his feet, and nearly stumbled over the man’s shoe. With the crowd watching him, he leaned down and picked it up. The he tossed it to the man, who fumbled it against his chest.

  Aiden had already dashed forward and grabbed up his shine box. He snapped up the brush in his other hand and stuffed it in his pocket before reaching for the polish. His fingers closed on the tin, but it slipped out of his hands as Aiden dodged a kick from the man.

  Snarling, the guy lifted a foot like he’d stomp the shine box out of Aiden’s grip, but Aiden was faster and twisted to the side, so the man’s foot only nicked the corner of the box. Aiden ducked a swing from the guy’s beefy mitt and snatched the polish tin off the ground. Then he wheeled around on his heels and took off down the street.

  A few cheers let out behind him, and a couple of shouts, too. But Aiden didn’t bother looking back. He just pumped his legs and slapped his soles on the street for all he was worth.

  Two streets over he finally let himself settle down to a more even pace. Folks on the sidewalks all looked his way, most shaking their heads. A few pointed and chuckled. When he heard a voice calling “Shine” again, Aiden nearly jumped out of his skin. But it was just a Negro gentleman standing beside a horse and buggy across the street.

  Aiden hotfooted over to the fellow and set his box down beside him.

  “Yessir,” he said. “You needing a shoe shine today?”

  “Sure enough I’m not. But you look to be needing safe passage out of this street,” the man said. “Probably like to be hopping up into my buggy, you know what’s best for your skin.” He pointed back the way Aiden had come.

  Aiden whipped his head around. The big white man had both his shoes on again, and a couple of the other fellows had come with him. Their faces said they were none too pleased with the chase he’d given them, and Aiden didn’t dare think about what they’d do if they caught him.

  Without another thought, Aiden grabbed up his shine box and leaped into the buggy. The Negro gentleman stepped up behind him and grabbed the reins. He slapped them on the horses’ rumps and they were off at a trot. Aiden risked a look out the side of the buggy and saw the big man and his pals spitting in the street and shaking their fists after him.

  “That should be the last you’ll have to worry about those fellows,” the Negro said.

  “Yessir. And thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t mention it. Not everyday I get to help put a knot of trouble into the likes of those hogs. Damn fat cats living off the sweat of other men, deserve a little comeuppance from time to time. Now, you got a badge of transit, don’t you?”

  Aiden nodded, feeling in his pocket for the thin piece of metal he’d got from Mister Hardy on the mooring deck.

  “Well go on then, Dove. Show me you got the right to be sitting beside me here.”

  Aiden pulled the badge from his pocket and held it up for the man to see.

  “Good to go, Dove. Now best put that away lest someone who has to walk gets it in their head they’d rather be the one to ride in my buggy. You like your hand, don’t you, Dove?”

  “Sure I do, mister,” Aiden said, pocketing the badge.

  “Well then, best to be keeping that badge out of sight lest you need it. You go waving it around ….” He trailed off and let his pointing finger finish for him.

  Aiden followed the man’s finger and saw a group of tramps huddled around a doorway to a saloon. Most of them had only one hand and nothing but a stump wrapped in raggedy bandages where the other used to be.

  “Not everybody comes to New Orleans has the right payment for Papa Lebat. Some folks is like to be stealing a badge of passage off them what earns it proper. And some who does the stealing like to be adding an extra bit of punishment, as if to remind folks how easy it is to lose in the Crescent City.”

  Aiden choked back a sob as he remembered his father’s hand and the knife that Celestin Hardy drove into it, pinning his pa’s mitt to the wall of the station house.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “What is it, Dove?”

  “You ever hear of folks just up and leaving New Orleans?”

  “Some do. Sure enough, some do. But if you mean Doves like you what just come to town, it’s only after a long hard day’s work you gonna get free of this city’s sweet embrace.”

  Aiden wanted to ask how the man knew he’d just come to town, but he figured it was plain as day. He’d just about lost his life over a simple shoeshine job.

  Can’t even get that right. Pa’d switch me good if he knew.

  Thoughts of his pa being angry with him didn’t help lift Aiden’s spirits, so he let the buggy man’s words find their way into his chest where he wrapped them up tight with his arms. He ignored the nagging worry that the man next to him knew more about Aiden and his family than he should. The fear that he’d just jumped from the pan into the fire burned behind his eyes, but Aiden closed them tight.

  He’d done his crying, and he fought back the sob that tried its damnedest to squeeze through his eyelids. Aiden sniffed it aside and thought about his ma cleaning up their room above the dress shop. Then he thought about what the buggy driver just told him.

  “Only after a long hard day’s work you gonna get free.”

  Aiden’s eyes snapped open, dry as a summer sky. He had to earn the Conroy family name, like his pa did back in Chicago City. It was long past time for him to work a real job, with real pay. The next time he set foot on the streets of New Orleans, he’d do it as a working man.

  Chapter 13

  The little stage in Hardy’s tavern had been set up with two stools, one for Eddie and another for Emma. A microphone rig stood in front of her stool with a long, snaking cable connecting the mic to a speaker box by her feet. Emma felt cramped up at the front of the stage, but she couldn’t scoot back any. The stage had just enough space for a small trap set behind Emma and Eddie.

  A young dark-skinned man sat behind the drums, tightening them up, tapping them one by one, tuning them with a little metal key he’d fit over each nut around the drum heads. Emma watched him while worry ate away at her insides. She tugged down the hem of her skirt as best she could. Hardy had come in and handed her and Eddie a new set of clothes each. Emma couldn’t help but smile and thank him. Then she put the skirt on. It only just covered her knees, and she had to half sit, half stand against the stool to make sure she didn’t flash the crowd more than they’d paid for.

  The room had more people in it now. Many more. Trios sat at each table, and the barkeep kept up a steady rhythm of pouring while two dark-skinned girls carried drinks around on trays. A few men and their dates stood at the back of the room, framing the door and window. They had drinks in their hands, too.

  Emma’s throat felt dry and she glanced at the bar, h
oping to catch the man’s eye and let on she needed something to wet her whistle before she started in crooning.

  No such luck, though. The man had his hands full keeping the paying customers’ lips from drying out. At last one of the cocktail girls swished by the front of the stage and Emma called to her.

  “Can you get me a bourbon, sister? Neat.”

  The girl looked at her like Emma’d just asked for her first born.

  “You must be crazy,” she said. “Didn’t think Mistah Hardy hired on crazy white girls, but I see I was wrong. Let me just stop what I’m doing for the man and see to your needs now.”

  The girl’s eyes rolled around like she’d see the back of her own head before Emma would ever get a drink out of her. With a sniff, the cocktail girl turned away and headed for the bar where she picked up another round for the trio at the table closest to the stage.

  Two white men and a dark-skinned man sat there, each of them eyeing Emma. The Negro showed less interest than the other two, but only just. The weight of the trio’s collective gaze held Emma fixed where she leaned against the stool. Given the choice, she’d never have worn anything like she had on now. But Hardy was clear as could be when he held out the costume.

  “You dress right to sing on my stage, or you don’t dress a’tall.”

  So Emma had put on the skirt that hung a good four inches too short, and the blouse that hugged her too tight no matter how she stood or leaned or stooped.

  “We gonna get a song out of you tonight, Little Dove,” said the Negro at the table in front of her.

  Emma tightened her lips and held her chest steady as she could while she met his eyes and held his gaze. She dared him to look away knowing that if he did it would only be to let his eyes travel up and down her legs again. But he stayed put and even cracked a thin smile, the same kind Eddie had on when she first met him.

  On cue, Eddie touched her hip. “Best be warming up those pipes, hey? How about we do ‘Sugar Baby’ first, then on to some of them Gershwin numbers you like?”

  Emma glanced at the Negro at the table and saw he still had that same grin on his mug.

  “Let’s start soft and hot, Eddie,” she said. “How about ‘The Man I Love’?”

  Eddie gave a short chuckle and said, “Okay, Lovebird. Okay.” He put his lips to the loaner horn the barkeep gave him and blew soft and quiet. Emma saw how hard it was for him to play with his ribs still banged up and his lower lip swollen from the beating he’d taken. But the tones came easy and sweet just the same.

  The drummer picked up a slow tempo with his brushes and the crowd went hush just like that. The room seemed to wait on every note from Eddie’s horn, each beat, each brush and tap of the drums. Emma let the music fill her like air after being underwater, but still her chest felt tight and her lips wouldn’t part.

  The barkeep cleared his throat and Emma caught his eye bent her way. She drew in a breath and the first few lyrics came out like a spring breeze. Soon enough she was crooning alongside Eddie’s playing with the drummer keeping time behind them and staying out of the way.

  It had been over a month since Emma and Eddie had shared a stage, the last time being in a Chicago City speak after she’d skipped out on another of her father’s parties. And like that last time, tonight Emma knew she’d done right teaming up with Eddie. Whatever they’d left behind them was where it belonged, and now so were they.

  Emma let the memories of Chicago City fall away with each word she sang, like the lyrics were gusts of a welcome wind clearing the landscape after a storm. Around the room, couples danced slow and close, hands held hands and traced lovers’ trails around necks and down backs. Emma breathed in the warmth and love she saw around her and sent it back out in the song while Eddie blew and blew on his horn, backing her up and carrying her at the same time.

  The trio at the table in front of the stage had gone quiet, but now the Negro kept his eyes on Emma the whole time. He didn’t seem to get that she and Eddie were a couple, so as she let the last few lyrics drop from her lips like honey, Emma reached out and touched Eddie’s knee with her hand, light and sweet.

  He blew the last note and the drummer tied it up with a bow, brushing a quiet finish across his snare.

  The room lit up with applause and cheers, even the three men at the front table had glad looks on their mugs now. The Negro seemed to get the skinny. Emma saw him send a wink at Eddie, almost like he meant to congratulate him. Then Emma caught the smirk that held the man’s eyes up and she knew he had more than congratulations in mind.

  Ignoring the leers and wolfish grins from the front table, Emma hummed the opening line to another Gershwin tune. They played it and a few more numbers before taking their first break. The barkeep sent the cocktail girl over with a platter full of bourbon. Eddie passed, but said he’d take some water. Emma wanted to down his glass, too, but let the drummer have it instead. She sipped hers while she waited for the barkeep to signal their second set.

  The time came before too long and Emma had to set down her bourbon only half finished. She’d forgotten to keep up her innocent act, and caught the looks the men at the front table sent her way.

  Yeah, the gal can drink, fellas. What of it?

  She only hoped they wouldn’t hassle her after the show. She’d made it clear as day she and Eddie were a matched set, but it was just as clear that he’d be no good in a fight if it came to that. The guys at the table weren’t all the way to wolf town, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t get that way after a few more drinks.

  Eddie blew a few notes to warm up. The drummer had gone off to hit the washroom and just as he came back the front door opened up. In walked a crew of three men, all tight together and looking like they could own the place if they didn’t already.

  Emma’s heart skipped when she saw the man in the middle. All of him. The heavy form of Mr. Bacchus entered the room flanked by his two goons, the same ones who were with him on Hardy’s mooring deck. Now Bacchus stood in the doorway spread out like a blanket to block whatever lamplight still filtered into the tavern.

  Night had fallen right as Emma and Eddie had started their first set, and the darkness seemed to settle that much more with Bacchus and his heavies in the room.

  “Mr. Bacchus,” the barkeep said. “Wel-welcome, Sir. I wasn’t‌—‌”

  “No, you wasn’t. And you won’t,” Bacchus said, lifting a palm and flicking his fingers in the barkeep’s direction as if shooing a fly. The barkeep shrank behind the bar and went back to wiping glasses while a slick of sweat trickled down his brow.

  The two torpedoes moved into the room ahead of their boss and made straight for the table at the front of the stage. The three men there didn’t waste any time getting clear and soon enough Bacchus and his boys had front row seats for the show.

  “I believe I heard that horn as we came in,” Bacchus said, motioning at Eddie. “Was you just warming up for us, or did we interrupt a number? I do apologize if the latter. But please, play on, Mister Eddie Collins from Chicago City. I would be delighted to hear you blowing . . . on my horn.”

  Emma didn’t miss Bacchus’ jab, and she could see Eddie hadn’t missed it either. They traded a look of worry before turning back to smile at the gangster. Bacchus swiveled his massive head in Emma’s direction and gave her a grin that said he owned her as much as he owned the horn Eddie played or the hat he’d just taken off and set on the table in front of him.

  “If you’d be so kind, Miss Emma, may I ask that you sing us a number? By request?”

  Emma tried to nod once but her neck and shoulders shook enough that she was sure she looked like a marionette in the hands of a drunk.

  “What‌—‌what would you like to hear, Mr. Bacchus?”

  “How about a slow tune, something from up your way? We don’t hear much Chicago City music down here in New Orleans what with travel restrictions being as they are. Indeed, one might suggest that nobody in this room has heard music from up the river in a good long time.�
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  Emma didn’t miss the stress Bacchus put on that phrase. She didn’t miss the whispers and knowing looks that sprouted around the room like grapevines hanging heavy and ripe with gossip. She didn’t know what to sing, but Eddie saved her by blowing the first two notes of ‘Toddlin’ Town’. It was an old favorite and one they’d sung every chance they got back at the Chicago City speaks where they used to meet every weekend.

  But as she sang and Eddie played, the lyrics took on a pale, empty hue. Her lips went tight and thin, and each time she named the city they’d left behind, it felt like a knife was working around her insides.

  Bacchus had relaxed into a comfortable slouch. His goons kept their posture tight and their hands close to their jackets, but the room showed no signs of trouble, at least none that Emma could see.

  Except what’s up here on the stage.

  They picked a number about New Orleans next, as the crowd seemed to get that life up the river wasn’t worth singing about. Looking out at glum faces wasn’t going to do anything to improve Emma’s mood, so she signaled Eddie to play ‘Way Down Yonder’.

  Through the rest of the set, Bacchus and his two torpedoes stayed put, with the boss’s eyes on the stage and his boys’ roving their gaze around the room.

  It wasn’t until the last number that Emma keyed in to what was going on. This was Hardy’s tavern. The man may work for Bacchus, but that didn’t mean he owed his boss anything beyond the loyalty of a servant. Hardy stood to make a lot of scratch off Emma and Eddie if tonight’s packed room was any measure of how it would be in the future.

  And Bacchus was here to jump Hardy’s claim. Emma almost faltered on the lyrics, but she caught the lump in her throat and turned it into a cough between lines. The crowd whooped and clapped when the final song was done, and even Bacchus rose to join the standing ovation. Emma spotted Hardy’s face at the back of the crowd, over by the stairs. He must have come down while she was singing. Or maybe he’d flickered in like a candlewick touched by a match.