Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries)

by David Fulmer

  About the time he was stepping into the beer hall, Justine was standing in the bedroom of the second-floor apartment on Girod Street, putting the last of her things into a chest of drawers that smelled of cedar.

  She closed the drawer and turned to survey the room. Curtains of white linen rose and fell in the afternoon breeze like waving hands. The brocaded wallpaper beneath the wainscoting had rich red swirls around pale blue crests. The eggshell walls above boasted a series of framed paintings, portraits and gentle landscapes. A fine Persian rug covered the floor. The furniture was finely crafted of old hardwood, oak and walnut.

  She paused to glance at the bed, a wide four-postered affair covered with a thick off-white quilt. It looked quite sturdy.

  She had been in grand hotels a few times, and this was at least as fine as any of them. The room was spotless. She could almost smell the money that had soaked into every surface, and she wondered frankly what she was doing there. She felt ill at ease, like a servant waiting anxiously to please her master.

  Running an idle hand over the polished moldings, she wandered into the front room, where a love seat and single mission rocker were arranged around another Persian rug, this one a red and black design. She crossed to the French door and opened it to the afternoon. There was no balcony, just an ornate wrought-iron railing. She stood there for a long time, looking down on Girod Street, musing on what she had done.

  She had strayed to Basin Street and was introduced to a man who was shopping for a comely woman of color to be his mistress. Valentin had caught her in the betrayal, and not only was he refusing to forgive her, he wouldn't even talk to her about it. So she took her anger and went downstairs to ask Mr. Gaspare to call for a hack to come collect her and her things. The tobacconist gave her a curious stare, then made the call. She went back upstairs, took a long bath, and put on her walking dress. It took no time at all to collect her things. She went into the front room, and when the hack came clopping to the perron, she went out to the balcony and called down to the driver. The teamster, a burly Negro, climbed the steps, collected her few satchels of clothes, and carried them to his rig. She told him to stand ready and went back inside to wait.

  She didn't know how long she had been lingering there, adrift in her thoughts, when Valentin finally showed up, looking like he had been dragged through the streets. He had been gone most of the night and half of the day. He didn't smell like a saloon or a music hall and there was no scent of a woman on him. She wondered where he had been.

  It was his last chance to tell her to stop. He didn't say a word, though, and his expression didn't change at all when she walked out the door, got in the hack, and rode off to the rooms that a wealthy Frenchman had secured for her. The details had all been addressed by Miss Antonia.

  She was glad that Mr. Paul hadn't been there when she arrived. She needed time to draw her mind away from Magazine Street and get it fixed on her new duties. She went down a list in her mind, reminding herself of the expectations from there on. She would be displayed on the Frenchman's arm for certain functions. She would be expected to dress well, fetching and demure, while still revealing just enough of herself to draw men's attentions. In public, she would not speak unless invited to, and then only to fill a silence. No one would care what she thought anyway.

  In private, she would do whatever he demanded on that fine bed, with the skills to keep him happy. If she performed well, they might keep the arrangement for years. It happened. If he decided he wanted her to carry children, she would be set for life. She would never again have to worry about a roof over her head or the source of her next meal. She would never have to sell her favors to strangers. She would be the possession of a rich man and so could hold her head up in public. Her life would be a dream that would pass in loneliness that was as cloistered as a nun's.

  The prospect of all of it drew her into a pit of sadness that made her think of throwing herself over the railing and ending it right there. She didn't want this rich Frenchman and his fine apartment. She didn't want to be his companion and lover, and she surely didn't want to bear his children. She wanted to go home.

  She stopped and got hold of herself. It was too late. She had cast her lot and that was that. It didn't mean she had to be miserable. She turned away from the window and went looking for the bag that held her prescription.

  There was another person in the saloon after all, a sot who huddled over the table in the far corner, a muttering lump in an oversized coat that was too heavy for the close room.

  When the bartender brought his mug of beer, Valentin asked after some of the characters from the neighborhood. The barkeep gave only gruff one-word answers: "Gone. Jail. Dead." And so on. The detective understood. He could be a private copper a jealous husband, a creditor, or some other someone on unpleasant business. At the mention of a clarinet player named Lacombe, the barkeep gave him a cool smile, like he was hearing a poor joke, and moved away.

  Valentin finished a second glass of beer, dropped a Liberty dollar, and thanked the bartender, who coughed and spit into a towel. The drunkard at the corner table did not comment.

  Valentin walked out of the saloon with one bit of useful news: Nate Joseph's barbershop had moved from First and Liberty to Jackson near Rampart Street, a busier part of town with more traffic. He headed off that way.

  The best place in the Crescent City to find information or a bit of action was always the nearest barbershop, shaving emporium, or tonsorial parlor. If a fellow wanted to place a bet, pick up a card of hop or an envelope of cocaine, find a particular sort of woman, or secure a quick loan to get him through the week, New Orleans' barbers could provide.

  Nate Joseph's shop offered all these services while also serving as a sort of union hall for the local horn players, guitarists, and drummers. A musician looking for a night's work would find the wooden frames around Nate's long mirrors festooned with scraps of paper announcing who was hiring for this job or that.

  Cornetist, one might read. For two nights' engagement at Longshoreman's Hall. Reading musician only. Call M. Durand.—4461.

  Nate and his barbers maintained a clean shop, unlike many of his competitors. The glass was always polished, the hardwood floor swept and mopped shiny, the chairs saddle-soaped to keep the leather supple. All the potions and tonics that lined the shelves combined to give off a heady aroma.

  The men who congregated there ran the gamut from upstanding citizen to low-down criminal. As long as they made a good appearance and did not cause trouble, Nate welcomed one and all, along with the Liberty dollars they carried in their trousers. Though it could be a raucous place, with loud arguments over women, money, and ponies, no one ever took advantage of the straight razors that lay gleaming wickedly on every surface. Nate wouldn't tolerate it. Pistols were checked at the door.

  The establishment was known for the best haircuts and closest shaves in uptown New Orleans. Nate kept a fellow for manicures and a Negro boy to shine shoes. Valentin's father had brought him there as a child, and it was one of the few places back-of-town that still felt like home.

  He walked in the door to find Willie Cornish with a towel wrapped about his face, leaving just enough space for him to see the eyes widen and the brows arch in surprise when the barber swung the chair around. It was a quiet afternoon and at the moment Willie was the only paying customer. Two rounders sat in chairs in the corner, bickering over the merits of a certain nag. Nate and the other barber were not on the premises.

  "Mr. Valentin." Cornish's voice was a rumble that came from deep in his chest. "What brings you out this way?"

  Valentin said. "Can you spare a minute or two?"

  The Negro was agreeable, though there was something guarded in his expression as he plucked off the towel and draped it over one thick shoulder. The barber closed the pearl-handled razor and moved away.

  Willie sat up. He was big all over, six foot three and well past three hundred pounds. His skin was the color of teak and his face was broad, with a wide
African nose, thick cheekbones, heavy jowls. When he was on a stage, his valve trombone looked like a child's toy in his grasp. He had led a series of conglomerations, the most recent being the Crescent City Band. Valentin knew that, like Freddie Keppard, Willie felt bad about the way things had ended with the Bolden Band; and now they had lost Mumford, too.

  "I thought I might see you at the Frenchman's last night," Valentin said as he leaned against the second chair. "Everyone was there."

  "Oh, no, not me," Cornish said with a nervous laugh. "My woman wouldn't 'low it. We ain't got a show, I got to stay home with her and the childrens." He glanced over at the barber, who was busy cleaning instruments at the basin in the corner, then turned wary eyes back to the Creole detective. "What can I help you with, Mr. Valentin?"

  Valentin said, "It's about Jeff."

  Willie shifted in the chair and his face grew somber. "I still ain't believin' he's gone. He was a decent fellow."

  "Good guitar player too."

  "He was that," Cornish said, jumping to familiar ground with an emphatic nod. "Anybody could play behind King Bolden had to have somethin', yessir! Had to have somethin' is right. He done good with us, too."

  A motorcar rattled over the Jackson Street cobbles. It wasn't that often one appeared in this part of town, and they all stopped to look out the wide window. The machine, a Model N with a bad exhaust, turned the next corner and the racket subsided. The barber went to humming a tune as he cleaned his razors. The rounders changed their bickering to the subject of sporting ladies.

  Valentin said, "Have you heard anyone else talking about what happened to him?"

  "No, sir," Cornish said. "Not a thing." He paused. "I guess he just got into somethin' that went bad for him." There was the smallest note of strain in that rumbling voice, as if he was skirting something.

  Valentin lowered his voice. "You played that night. Was there anything unusual going on?"

  "Nothin' I could tell," the big man said, pursing his lips. "We done five, six hours, from before ten till after three. When it was over, we packed up and went on home. Jeff left out by hisself." He stopped and sighed again, ruminatively. "It musta happened just after that..."

  "Was he having any trouble lately?"

  Cornish blinked and his brow furrowed. "No," he said, "no trouble." He repeated, "He was a good sort, didn't drink much and didn't gamble, kept his mind on his music and practiced on his off days. He was even known to attend church now and—"

  "What about this woman of his?" the detective broke in.

  "Yessir?" Willie said carefully.

  "Who is she?"

  "Ethiopian gal name of ... Dominique. That's it. She's off of some island somewhere." His wide eyes got wider and he stretched out his arms. "Fine-lookin'. Darker than me, though. We talkin' a black girl, now."

  "They stayed together?"

  "They did, yessir. A little house right up on Freret. Just past Jackson. I believe she's still there."

  "Any others he might have been going around with?"

  Cornish's thick lips pursed and Valentin could tell he was watching his words again. "I don't know 'bout none of that," he said. "I'll tell you, though, if they was any, then he was a fool. You oughta see this here Dominique." His shook his head in admiration.

  "She the kind men would fight over?"

  "Maybe so, if she was on the street. It wa'nt like that. She's young and she ain't been here long. She stayed at home. I don't think he had no trouble with her."

  Willie looked over at the barber as if to beckon him, but the fellow had his back turned as he worked at the sink. There was no doubt about it; the Negro wanted out from under the detective's attention.

  "You know he's the second musician died in the past week," Valentin said.

  Cornish looked startled for a second. "Oh ... who ... you mean Noiret?" His face fell into a grimace of disgust. "Now, that wa'nt no surprise at all. He wasn't no damn good. I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner."

  "He and Mumford played in a band together at one time."

  "Yessir, that's right." He shifted in the chair. "That was a while back, though. Couple years. Hell, you know how it is round here. Sooner or later, everybody play with everybody else."

  Valentin hesitated for a second, then said, "Morton and some of the others think both of them were killed because they were playing in Storyville. With white men."

  Cornish rolled his big eyes. "Oh, yeah, I heard some of that."

  "And you don't believe it."

  "Why the hell would anyone care?" he said. "Enough to go killin' somebody over it, I mean. Don't make no damn sense at all."

  "That's what I thought, too."

  The big man came up with a wry grin. "It ain't like we high society, Mr. Valentin. Once you blow a horn on Rampart Street, you just another nigger."

  They shared a short laugh and then Valentin said, "Do you know a fellow named Lacombe? Plays clarinet?" The laugh died as quickly as it had begun and Cornish came up with an odd look. Valentin said, "What is it?"

  "You mean Terrence Lacombe?"

  "If that's the name, yes. Why?"

  "That boy dead," the barber said. He'd been listening after all.

  Valentin stared at him. "Dead how?"

  "Dope," the barber said, mimicking an injection. "He took a needle. Took it one time too many. They found him dead on the floor of his room."

  "When did this happen?"

  "It was, when?" He looked at Cornish. "Friday night? Saturday?"

  The big man nodded somberly, then settled back and motioned to the barber, who came up on the chair with a glinting razor in one hand and a cup and brush in the other.

  Valentin stood aside while Cornish got his thick cheeks slathered with foam. "Is there going to be a funeral for Jeff?" he inquired.

  "We gonna have a little parade for him tomorrow," Cornish said. "Won't have no body. I heard they carryin' him back to Arkansas to bury him there. But I think he'd appreciate it if we do somethin'. You'd be welcome."

  Valentin thanked Willie for his time, then took a moment to ask after his family. "How many now?"

  "Eight of 'em." Willie grinned, relieved to be off the subject. '"Well, a nickel is a nickel and a dime's a dime, got a house full of children, ain't none of 'em mine.'" It was a line from a gutbucket tune that had been going around. Valentin smiled, gave a wave of farewell, and went out the door.

  He was almost to Rampart Street and mulling how much—or how little—he had collected so far when he sensed a heavy presence bearing down on him from behind and turned around.

  Most of the shaving soap had been wiped from Cornish's broad jowls. The barber's towel was still draped over his shoulder and he used it to mop his brow before he spoke. "Somethin' I need to tell you, Mr. Valentin," he said, and then looked back the way he came.

  Valentin veered to a grocer's clapboard storefront and gestured for Cornish to follow. He leaned against the rough boards, crossed his arms, and said, "What is it, Willie?"

  The big man looked around again before dropping his voice to a whisper. "This was on Saturday night, the same night Jeff died. We took us a break and when it was time for us to start up again, he wasn't around so I went outside to look for him." His eyebrows peaked. "And he was in the alley out there. With a woman."

  "Who was she?"

  "I don't know."

  "A sporting girl?"

  "I didn't get a real good look at her." There was a tight note in his voice, as if he was biting down on something. "Then afterward, I wasn't even sure I saw what I saw." He stole one more glance up the street while Valentin digested this information. "One more thing," he said. "Why was you askin' about Lacombe?"

  "Someone gave me his name. Why?"

  "'Cause he played in the Union Hall band with Mumford and Noiret, too." He held up three thick black fingers and folded them, one by one. "Noiret, Mumford, Lacombe. They all played together, Mr. Valentin. And now they all dead. Ain't that some odd business?"

  The street los
t its shadows as new rain clouds had come in from the Gulf, throwing a peculiar metallic gray cast over the city.

  Valentin took a cigarillo from his pocket, struck a lucifer on the brick facade of a building, and smoked as he walked east on Liberty Street. He worked to keep his mind clear, because Cornish's parting words had sent a tingle up his backbone.

  Three men who had once played in the same jass band dying in the space of less than a week pushed the bounds of coincidence, even in a shifting fraternity of back-of-town musicians, with almost everyone playing with everyone else at one time or another.

  There was more. He had gone to ask the landlady about one of the victims and she had used another's name. It couldn't be another happenstance. He thought about turning around and marching back to brace her about it, then decided it could wait. He didn't want to spook her. He could still catch her before she left town and find out what kind of game she was playing.

  He had smoked the cigarillo halfway down. It tasted bitter, and he tossed the butt into the gutter. At the next corner, he saw Picot's man again, drawing attention to himself with his clumsy attempts to remain invisible. Valentin snickered faintly; if the lieutenant had any idea how badly he was mangling the case so far, he would have saved himself the trouble.

  Two girls came to fetch the madam in her upstairs room in the house on Robertson Street just as she was settling down with her hop pipe. A minute later she would have been off on a carefree cloud of gray smoke. Instead, she was drawn away by the two doves, both jabbering at the same time about a couple of rough-looking fellows who were at the door, demanding money.

  With a grunt of displeasure, she marched down the hall and down the creaking stairs to the front door. Two men stood there, roughnecks, with the same doughy faces and dull eyes.