Gods of New Orleans

by AJ Sikes

  “Just keep walking, Aiden,” his pa said. “Don’t pay ‘em no mind.”

  Aiden walked beside his pa, playing out what he’d seen and wondering what he’d done to put the girls off him and his pa so bad.

  Up ahead, a dark-skinned gentleman came toward them. He wore a fine suit and porkpie hat and carried a walking stick that tapped a steady rhythm on the ground as he stepped. Aiden picked up on it first because his pa wasn’t looking at the man, but it was clear the guy meant to block their path and to do it quick. His feet and stick hit the sidewalk, clicking and snapping like typewriter keys. Aiden tugged on his pa’s sleeve in time to get his old man’s attention before they collided with the guy marching toward them.

  The man drew up sharp and proper, with his stick between his toes and both hands on its head. His eyes met Aiden’s and he spat out a question that made Aiden’s skin crawl.

  “May I ask just what in the name of Jehovah the two of you think you might be doing walking down this street?”

  “We was‌—‌” Aiden’s pa started to say.

  “I am speaking to the boy,” the man said, not looking at Aiden’s pa.

  “Now hold on,” his pa said. “I’m the father here, and I’ll speak for my son. We‌—‌”

  The man’s hands moved like lightning, bringing the tip of his stick up under Aiden’s pa’s chin just like that. Aiden spotted the little knife that extended from the stick to poke at his pa’s gullet.

  “You’ll do no such speaking,” the man said, his eyes rounded with something like rage. “You’ll keep your fool Dove mouth shut unless you want another hole in your person. And this one won’t just mark ya. It’ll kill ya.” The man’s eyes rounded big and bright white, and full of what Aiden could only call hate.

  Aiden’s pa stepped back as fast as the man had brought his stick up, so the knife point was left hanging in midair. The man slowly lowered the stick and did something with his hands on the stick’s head to bring the knife back inside.

  “I asked you a question, Dove,” he said aiming a finger at Aiden while he kept his eyes locked on Aiden’s pa. With a quick glance, Aiden saw his pa looking ready for a fight but not so ready that he’d risk actually starting one. All around them the street seemed to go still. The calls from the stoop girls had stopped and only shuffling feet or cart wheels came through the air to Aiden’s ears.

  “I am growing mightily weary of waiting for my answer, Dove,” the man said, turning his head to stare at Aiden now.

  “We . . . like my pa‌—‌” Aiden started. His voice seemed to have snuck back into his throat, though, and the words wouldn’t come out unless he forced them. “We was . . . just out. Looking for work.”

  “Work?” the man said, his eyes flashing open with a mix of fright and fury. “For the likes of you? A little Dove and his clipped pappy. And you like to be finding work along the Magazine? If that ain’t the best story I’ve ever heard.”

  “It ain’t a story, mister‌—‌”

  “Oh no? Well go on and tell me the long and short of it. I’m just dying to hear it.”

  “Well, okay . . . ,” Aiden began, feeling his voice taking over now and getting the words back where they belonged on his tongue. “We just got to town and settled in over on Constance Street. My ma works the dressmaker’s shop there, along with the other sewing ladies. Me and Pa, we set out trying to find our way now, so we can help keep the home, too. Like a real man does, you know?”

  The Negro seemed ready to slap the words right back into Aiden’s mouth, and for a second Aiden thought he would. Then the man’s face split open in a grin and he let out a belly laugh that shook Aiden to his feet.

  “Well now, Dove. That is a story, indeed. And it’s one I’m like to believe. But tell me now, how do you propose to find work when you got a man like this by your side? He’s been clipped, and surely you know what that means.”

  “Clipped? You mean how he got stabbed? That was all because some guy had his fingers in my ma’s hair. Ain’t that right, Pa? Tell him, will ya? How come I gotta do all the talking here?”

  “I . . . ,” his pa started to say. “I can’t, Aiden.”

  “Whaddya mean you can’t? You’re talking to me, ain’t ya’? Jeez, Pa. Help me out here. C’mon.”

  The dark-skinned gentleman spoke then. “Your pappy knows, Little Dove. He clearly knows what clipped means, and he knows better than to speak out of turn again. Ain’t that right, Dove?”

  Aiden looked between the two men, his pa and the man with the walking stick that hid a knife in the tip. As he watched the two men face off, his pa’s face softened and fell, and a tear crept out of his left eye.

  “Yeah,” Aiden’s pa said. “I know what it means. Or I can figure it well enough I guess.”

  Aiden waited for his pa to finish, and he could see the man with the stick was waiting, too. He tapped a foot and rolled the fingers of one hand across the back of the other that held his walking stick steady.

  Aiden’s pa started up again, and said something that made Aiden’s blood go cold in his veins. “It means I can’t work in this town, Aiden. That’s right, isn’t it? Sir?”

  In that instant, Aiden remembered what the barman had said when they first got into New Orleans.

  “Won’t be finding work with a mitt like that on ya.”

  The man they’d met on the street nodded at Aiden and his pa, and then he said, “Yes it is, Dove. That is right.”

  He reached a hand into his coat and brought out a slim metal case, like for holding cigarettes. He held the case out, toward Aiden, and flipped it open to reveal a small stack of visiting cards.

  “Go on and take one, Little Dove. You apply at the address thereon and you’ll like to be finding yourself . . . some work, I daresay.”

  Aiden lifted a card from the case. It was a thin cream-colored piece of paper, but heavy, not like the newsprint he used to read when he worked for Mr. Brand. The card had a name and a street number on it, and a little note.

  Chez Jambord et Pomet

  45 Lafitte Street

  For seekers of employment in New Orleans

  Adien read the card while the man with the stick closed his little metal case and put it back in his coat.

  “Now if you’d be so kind as to get this clipped bird off my street,” the man said with a smirk in Aiden’s direction. “I believe I can be wishing you a good day. And if you dilly or dally a second longer, I’m like to forget my offer and have the both of you run out of town on a rail.”

  Aiden’s pa didn’t waste a breath. He turned and stepped fast down the sidewalk so that Aiden had to scurry to catch up with him. When he did, he thought of asking his pa what it was all about and how come he went quiet and got soft back there. But the look of shame on his pa’s face said enough.

  Chapter 16

  Emma wrung out another wet rag in the bucket beside her. She let it hang off the rim and sat back against the wall. The house Bacchus gave them wasn’t much to look at, even after three days straight of nothing but scrubbing and polishing. The walls were clean at last, and the few furnishings that’d been in the place were no longer coated in dust. A carpet in the front bedroom had to be thrown in the dustbin out back. There was one chair in the back bedroom that Emma swore had bloodstains on it, but she’d scrubbed it clean anyway, telling herself not to notice.

  Just get it clean. Clean as can be is all we need.

  The bathroom and kitchen were the easiest of all, since they had tile floors. The wood floors through the rest of the house, however, needed more work than Emma could do on her own, and Eddie was still in no shape to bend or get down on his knees.

  Bacchus had sent them to a sawbones he said they could trust.

  “Man works for me. So he works for you. When I tell him he does.”

  Emma couldn’t suppress the shiver that whipped through her when the gangster put a hand on her waist and escorted her into the doctor’s clinic. Two of Bacchus’ toughs had helped Eddie in and the do
ctor didn’t spare a moment when he saw how bad Eddie’d been hurt.

  “Lucky he’s still breathing . . . ,” the doctor had said as he peeled Eddie’s shirt off and exposed the bruises around his ribs. Emma had cried long silent tears while the doctor and one of Bacchus’ boys wrapped bandages around her lover’s middle.

  Right where my arms should have been, she’d thought to herself while the tears rolled down her face.

  But now they were home together, and Emma had cleaned the place up as nice as she could. The work wasn’t finished, but she was. And she knew Eddie wasn’t ready to take over.

  Of course, the man just couldn’t let things lie. Emma jerked up from where she sat when he crawled into the room with a rag in his hand.

  “Eddie, you’ll just make it worse,” Emma said, giving him a bent eye and reaching for the rag. He didn’t miss a beat and slopped the rag in the bucket, splashing Emma with some of the sudsy water. She gave a little squeal when it soaked through her skirt.

  “Can’t have you doin’ all the cleanin’ up now, Emma. Wouldn’t be right.”

  Emma wanted to argue, but at the same time she didn’t. Eddie was the reason they had a home of their own, and she knew it. But that didn’t make it easier to accept how quickly she’d gone from calling the shots to following them.

  Eddie had kept the horn he’d gotten from the barman at Hardy’s place, and there wasn’t any protest from either Hardy or his bartender. When Bacchus brought them to the little shotgun cottage over on Dumaine, he’d handed them the keys and told Eddie to “keep an eye on her for me.”

  Emma hadn’t been sure if Bacchus had meant the house, the horn, or her.

  With Eddie making lazy passes with his rag along the floorboards, Emma scrubbed as fast as she could, trying to get the lion’s share done so Eddie wouldn’t have to work too hard. She knew he’d need his strength to play later that night. It would be his first show without her, but it would also pay in cash.

  Their gig at Hardy’s place had paid in room and a little board, if you count two heels of bread and a wedge of dry cheese. They’d eaten proper that day that Bacchus came to collect them, but Hardy said it would have to come off their pay for the night anyway. And sure enough, it had been slim picking since then. Now, even with Bacchus lording over them, Emma didn’t know when she’d see something like a decent meal again.

  When they’d arrived, the icebox in the back of the kitchen had some provisions in it. Nothing too fancy, just some cabbage, collards, a few apples, and a bottle of milk that was already going off. They’d eaten all of the food in the first two days, adding it to a steak Emma bought from a nearby butcher’s. Bacchus had given Eddie a few dollars.

  “To get you and Miss Emma in good order before your big night.”

  But that money was gone now, and even with the promise of a cash gig on the horizon, Emma still felt the bite of worry in her gut.

  “You think you’ll earn enough for us to get some more food stored up, Eddie?”

  “Huh?” he said, like she’d woken him from a dream.

  “Tonight. You’re playing that gig for Bacchus tonight. He said he’d pay you in cash, and I’m wondering if you know how much it’s gonna be.”

  “No idea, Lovebird. But you know, it’s got to be better than what we been earnin’ this week. Sure would like to know who’s gonna pay us for all this cleanin’ up we been doin’.”

  Emma couldn’t help but laugh. Even in the worst moments, Eddie’s funny bone could tickle her into liking their chances again. She slapped her rag into the bucket and a spray of water fanned out and covered Eddie’s flank.

  “Hey watch out now, girl,” he said, laughing, and then flung his rag at the bucket. He turned away to avoid the splash and Emma did the same, but they both ended up with suds on their backs and in their hair.

  Emma turned back to see Eddie holding his ribs and wincing. She went to him right away.

  “I told you to take it easy, Eddie.”

  “I know, Lovebird,” he said. “I know. Help me to the bedroom, hey? I need to lie down a bit before tonight.”

  Emma put a hand under his arm and stood. She supported his weight as best she could as he pushed himself off the floor on shaky legs. Together they stepped slow down the hall and into the back bedroom.

  Eddie moved carefully to the bed and kept his weight on Emma’s arm. He turned so as to lie down on his back and Emma leaned to hold his weight and let him down onto the mattress easily. She caught the grin on his face a second later and then they were tumbling to the mattress, his hands around her waist and their lips pressed together.

  “You sneak, Eddie Collins,” Emma said, playfully batting a hand on his chest. “Playing possum. You better not’ve been holding back all along. This girl’s been on her knees scrubbing and scraping for three days now.”

  “Hey now, Lovebird. Just makin’ sure I rested, so you can put all that strength you been buildin’ up to good use.”

  Eddie wrapped his arms around her and they gently rolled together across the bed. Eddie winced as she moved with him, but soon enough they were into that rhythm from before. His hands, her hips. Her lips to his lips. His fingers through her tousled hair, still ratty and short from when she’d cut in to hide with the gypsies in Chicago City. The bandana she’d tied around it slid down around her collar, pushed by Eddie’s anxious fingers.

  Their shirts ruffled up as they pressed and slid against each other. They tangled their hands, pushing her skirt aside and his slacks down and out of the way. The bed creaked. Emma’s ears followed the rhythm of the groans and squeaks of the old metal four-poster. And she caught every moan and gasp of pleasure from Eddie. His voice mingled with her own, like his music behind her singing. Only this time the stage was in the bedroom of their little shotgun shack in New Orleans.

  She’d flown them over a thousand miles from home, and the whole way it had felt like she was leaving it all behind. As she held Eddie against her, the feeling of loss slipped away and New Orleans became the place she was always meant to be, a haunted place that surrounded her, held her close, and kept her warm and tight.

  When they were done, they lay together in a quiet embrace, Emma’s hand on Eddie’s chest. She watched the rise and fall of his breath. Soon enough her eyes drooped and the dark of New Orleans rushed in to claim her fully this time.

  ~•~

  Emma and Eddie snapped awake to a hammering on the front door. Eddie didn’t miss a beat and shoved Emma aside so he could slide off the bed and get his clothes back right. He gasped and put a hand to his side as he stood, and Emma didn’t miss the look of pain on his face.

  “Eddie, you‌—‌”

  “I’m fine, Emma. Fine. You just get yourself right. I’ll go see who it is.”

  Eddie finished tucking his shirt into his pants and struggled into his suspenders again. Emma shimmied to the foot of the bed and straightened her skirt and did up her blouse again. Her hair still wasn’t much to speak of on a good day, so she just slipped the bandana off her neck and retied it while Eddie went to see who was out front. Emma’s hands froze tying the bandana when she heard the door open and let Bacchus’s angry voice into the house.

  “I do hope,” the big man said, his heavy tread following his words into the house. “I said, I do hope, Mr. Collins. Do you know what I hope?”

  “N-no, sir. No sir, Mister Bacchus, I don’t.”

  “What I hope, Mr. Collins, is that you were not exerting yourself overly much. I see the way you hold your hand to your ribs. I’m counting on your horn tonight, and if you know what’s good for your silly black ass, you’ll be blowing as fine as you did the first time I heard you play.”

  “Yessir, Mr. Bacchus. I can play just fine.”

  Emma waited for it. She could feel the air shift, like every move Mr. Bacchus made was a heavy stone thrown in a lake.

  “Let’s hope you don’t need your legs to be tip-top, then. This is for just in case,” the big man said. A second later Emma heard a
thwack and Eddie cried out. A second strike followed the first and Eddie’s muffled cry echoed down the hall to the back bedroom where Emma stood shaking with terror.

  “Now, Mr. Collins. You’d best be able to blow that horn tonight. And if you can’t, those little taps are gonna come a whole lot worse when I deliver them a second time. Or I might like to call on the Birdman to ensure you see straight. Do we understand each other?”

  Emma heard Eddie stifle a sob and then say, “Yes . . . yessir, Mr. Bacchus.”

  “That’s good. Now go on and get ready. Streetcar is coming by in about thirty minutes. And it’s a ten-minute walk to the stop on a good pair of legs.”

  Emma clutched her hands over her mouth, waiting for the sound of another strike, but none came. The door closed a second later and she heard shuffling sounds from down the hall. She dared to peek around the doorjamb and saw Eddie on his knees, one hand still held to his ribs. The other was holding him up off the floor.

  She ran to him, and helped him up. She supported him all the way down the hall, back to the bedroom where they were both careful to sit on the bed at the same time, mostly so Eddie could lean on Emma.

  “Eddie, what are we gonna do? We can’t stay here. Not if he’s going to hit you every time he feels like it. We can’t‌—‌”

  “We gonna be fine, Emma,” he said. “Don’t you worry. Boss just upset is all. Gotta keep the man happy. We’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

  “But what does he have to be upset about? We were just having a little fun.” Emma felt her chest rising and the outrage she’d once felt for every man in Chicago City climbing up her throat. “Does this mean we can’t love each other like we used to because Mr. High-and-Mighty won’t like it? Is he worried that you’ll come into his room smelling like another woman? Is that it? He doesn’t want his high rollers and fat cats thinking the jazz man is getting it better than they are?”