Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries)

by David Fulmer

  "What's this about?" she crabbed.

  The one on the right produced a New Orleans Police badge. "We're collectin'," he said.

  "We paid," the madam said. "Yesterday like always. What the hell is this?"

  "Special tax," the copper said. "We need twenty dollars." He yawned, bored by the whole business.

  The madam began to demand to see the precinct captain. She never got it out, though, because the second fellow suddenly lost all patience with the argument and punched her flush on the mouth, so hard that it knocked her back onto the dirty carpet of the foyer. Her skull banged the floor and her eyes went wide with shock as her gums spurted blood. The two doves, veterans of male violence, turned into statuettes.

  "Now get the goddamn money," the first fellow ordered in the same flat voice.

  When Valentin got to the intersection of Jackson and Freret, he looked around until he spied a house with a wreath that was affixed to a door, stark black against the white clapboards. There were no banquettes on these poor streets, just gravel pathways, and he walked to the shotgun double, trailing little swirls of dust.

  He stepped onto the perron and knocked, once, twice, before he heard footsteps padding across the floor. The door opened and he was staring up at a young woman's striking face, dark, oval shaped, with high cheekbones and a perfect round nose. Her eyes were also round, black as ink, long lashed, and slightly lidded, making her appear a little sleepy. There was a gap between her ivory-white front teeth and a girlish pucker to her full lips. He guessed her to be not much past twenty. Her black hair was straight and woven in back into one long braid. Her figure was full in the bust and hips, her smooth skin a shade between cocoa and ebony. She gave off an earthy, florid scent, as if the perfume of flowers was wafting from every one of her pores.

  She was wearing a loose cotton frock of pale blue pastel that hung below her knees, as common as a servant's. Her feet were bare and around her left ankle a Liberty dime hung by a thong. Standing there, she looked like a painting of an island girl posed in the doorway of a little grass hut. The only thing missing was a palm tree.

  The voice was right as well. "Suh?" she said with a soft lilt that had started British then turned into something else.

  "Are you Dominique?" Valentin asked.

  "Yes, suh. Dominique Godet."

  "My name's Valentin St. Cyr. I knew Jeff."

  "Oh..." She let out a long sigh and her dark eyes drooped. Then, remembering her manners, she stepped back, holding the door. "Come inside, please, suh."

  He moved past her and into the house, making an effort to hold his thoughts straight. She was even prettier up close, her face a dark flower. Though he had never been one to lose his wits over a woman's looks, Valentin believed this one could pull a fellow dangerously close to the edge. She was that fine. Cornish was right: if Jeff Mumford had strayed, either the girl in the alley was beautiful beyond belief or the guitar player had gone blind or insane.

  He told himself to keep his mind on business as he stepped into her front room. It was furnished sparsely, with two upright chairs against one wall and a long table of pine against the other. A crucifix was affixed on the wall above the table. The only other adornment was an unframed picture that appeared to have been clipped from a magazine, a Caribbean panorama in muted pastels. A packing crate and two satchels had been pushed into the corner.

  Dominique looked wearied, as if she wasn't really in the mood for the guest in the house. She pulled the two chairs away from the wall and set them in the center of the floor, facing each other, doing her best to be courteous.

  She turned a pink palm upward. "Sit down, please," she said. "I'm sorry, but I ain't got much to offer you. Jeff's friends come by yesterday and they ate up and drank everyt'ing we had. Ain't nothin' left."

  Valentin took a seat. "It's all right," he said.

  She sat down in the other chair and placed her hands on her knees. Even though her black eyes were motionless, with a flat calm, he got a sense she was studying him.

  "I'm a private investigator," he began. "And I want to talk to you about Jeff's death."

  It didn't move her. She didn't ask why he was investigating or on whose behalf. She just continued to watch him with that odd blank gaze.

  "Will that be all right with you?" he said.

  She let out a small sigh and said, "Yes, all right, suh." She blinked once, slowly, gathering her thoughts. "That night ... he left out of here to go play over in Storyville. I went off to bed. The next thing I know, it's morning, and the police is at the door, asking can I come identify his body." Her voice broke on the last word; she let out a short breath and her eyes swam, forming black pools, and her body seemed to go liquid with grief. She collected herself. "I went with them to the station and they took me down in the basement and there he was ... They had him all laid out." She swallowed and her lip trembled. "They said they found him dead in some alley over there. And that he drank some kind of poison." She bent her head to dab her eye on the sleeve of her frock.

  He allowed a respectful pause. "Do you know if he was having trouble with anyone?"

  "He didn't say so. He never said much of nothin', though."

  "Was he drinking?" He kept his voice matter-of-fact. "Using hop?"

  Dominique shook her head. "Oh, no, suh. He didn't mess with none of that. Maybe a little glass of whiskey now and then."

  "What about gambling?"

  She didn't respond to the question. Instead, she fixed her gaze on him again, holding it for a long moment. He returned the stare, a guilty pleasure. She raised one hand from her lap and touched a gentle finger to her lower lip. It was an odd, fetching gesture that distracted him, whether she meant it to or not. "I don't believe he cared for gambling," she said finally.

  Now she slumped in her chair and crossed her bare feet, looking even more drained. And yet he got the notion that she would sit there for as long as he wished, politely answering his questions. He also guessed that she couldn't tell him much more than she already had.

  He looked around the room and his eyes came to rest on the crate and satchels in the corner. "So, are you leaving now?"

  "I want to go home." It sounded like a child's petulant plaint.

  "Where's that?"

  "Tobago. I can't go right away, though. I ain't got the money."

  "It looks like you're all packed."

  "Most of that's Jeff's t'ings. His clothes and his watch and chain. His guitar and all. There's a man comin' to collect it and send it on. His family wired back a little bit of money to have his body carried home, too."

  Valentin tilted his head. "Would you mind if I had a look?"

  "I don't mind, no, suh," she said.

  He got up, went to the corner, knelt down, and lifted the lid of the crate. Along with the guitar case, it was filled with men's clothes, folded neatly, every piece of good quality and nicely tailored. "He certainly cared about his wardrobe," he commented.

  "Oh, yes, he liked to look good, all right. He always liked to look good for the ladies." He caught the tiniest chill in her words.

  Valentin straightened and turned around. "Was there anyone in particular?"

  She blinked up at him. "What's that?"

  "I asked if there was a particular woman Jeff was friendly with."

  Her face closed and her soft mouth drew out to a pout. "I ain't got no idea." She leaned forward, one hand on either side of the chair and hunched forward in a lazy posture, not realizing or caring that the movement had loosened her frock to permit him a glance at her upper anatomy. A golden chain gleamed against the dark swell of her bosom. When he managed to pull his gaze away, he met hers and was startled to see a curiously sly light there.

  He felt his face getting warm and stammered, "What, uh ... what did you say you were going to do now?"

  Her gaze shifted away. "I got to get a little bit of money together," she said. "I don't know how, though. Jeff paid for everything here. He wanted it that way." She pondered. "Guess I'll go
downtown and see if I can find some work for now." She came up with a dim smile that held a shade of mischief. "Or I could go to Perdido Street. A madam down there told me I could come around anytime."

  It gave him a startled pause and sent his thoughts into a spin. There was no doubt about that; she could get a room in a house in Black Storyville that very day. Once the word got around, the sports and well-to-do Negro citizens would come running. She might at first be distraught at having to use her body that way. No matter; there was always hop or morphine or rye whiskey to cure that, not to mention the cash and the gifts. She could easily earn in two nights what a shopgirl took home in a week. She might become some rounder's mainstay and live the life of a kept woman.

  She would do well, and she'd have the money to go home in a matter of weeks, a month at most. But he had seen it too many times to count: a girl who went into a house just to make some quick cash ended up spending her life there. It was a trap, as sticky as a spider's web. A year or two of hard fucking would start wearing on her and she wouldn't be quite as pretty. Lines would break her satiny complexion and her firm body would start to sag. She would be drinking or doping more and more as the rigors of the life wore her down. Before she knew it, she would be thirty and on her way down a sad road that led only one direction. She might never get back to her island. She might never get out of New Orleans at all.

  "Somet'ing wrong, suh?" She was watching him curiously.

  "Don't do it," he said.

  "Suh?"

  "You'll be sorry if you go to Perdido Street," he said.

  She laughed quietly. "Oh, no, I wouldn't never do that. I don't believe I could. I did get invited, though." She reached over the collar of her frock and pulled on the chain. The gold cross gleamed with a tiny diamond at its center. "Ain't like I'm all alone," she murmured.

  It was time to go. He asked her to try and think of anything that might help him with his investigation. He wrote down his address on a piece of paper, along with the telephone number at Gaspare's, where she could leave a message for him.

  She studied the paper. He thanked her for her time and offered his condolences. She saw him to the door and stood watching him walk away.

  He turned for home, his steps suddenly slowing, as if he was dragging a weight. It had been a good while since he had questioned so many people in the space of an afternoon, and he had forgotten how exhausting it was, listening and watching for the telltale sounds and looks that revealed dodges, lies, slips, and slides. There was no doubt he was off his game.

  He made his way south to Franklin Street. This was the edge of his old neighborhood, the place where he was born and had lived until he was sixteen, and at any intersection, he need only turn his head to see landmarks that would stir memories. He might catch a glimpse of St. Francis de Sales School for Colored, where he had first met and befriended Buddy Bolden. Not far from there was the house where he had been born and raised. It had long since fallen into disrepair, a run-down, deserted hovel. By now it may have collapsed to the ground. There were more such places all around, the houses, storefronts, and street corners he had known so well, the deserted lots where he had played as a happy child.

  It was all that close by, and yet he had no desire to revisit any part of it. He kept on, arriving at the corner in time to pick up a South Peters Line car back downtown. As he rode along, he felt a welcome pang in his stomach that told him he was hungry. He took it as a good sign and guessed that it had much to do with having gone without anything since noon, and perhaps just a bit to do with Dominique Godet. For that little while, she had pushed Justine from his mind.

  He could keep it that way. When he got home, he'd busy himself getting ready for work. He'd stop for dinner along the way and after that he'd be occupied with the main room of the Café, attending to the security of that piece of Tom Anderson's empire.

  The telephone chattered just as the King of Storyville was stepping out of his office for a private visit with Josie Arlington, his most recent paramour. He was of a mind to ignore it. Then it occurred to him it might be Josie herself, warning him to stay away, because Hilma Burt was on the prowl. It had happened before. Once, Hilma had come banging on Miss Arlington's front door just as he and the madam had conjoined upon the plush Louis Quinze divan in her upstairs parlor. Josie was delighted, thinking it the height of pleasure to be serviced so admirably by the King of Storyville, even as his mistress stood waiting like a beggar at her front door.

  It had quite the opposite effect on him. To her dismay, he jumped away, pulled up his britches, and slipped out the back way, as guilty as a dog.

  Josie still got her moment. She called down to allow Miss Burt in, then went to the top of the stairs and stood there, her dress undone and wearing a smile that was full with a meaning that couldn't be denied.

  "Why, he just left," she cooed.

  Hilma had never let him forget it and with the sting of her tongue in mind, he snatched up the earphone and leaned down into the bell. "Yes?"

  The voice on the other end was neither Josie's nor Miss Burt's. It was distinctly male, distinctly clipped and officious, and he recognized it immediately. "Chief O'Connor," he said.

  The voice said, "Tom, I think we've got a problem."

  Three minutes later, the King of Storyville put the phone down. He spent some moments staring out at the night sky over Basin Street. Only when his telephone jangled again did he remember that he was expected at the Arlington.

  Justine took a long bath and put on one of her best dresses in preparation for Mr. Paul's arrival. It was the first time she would greet him as his mistress, the opening scene in a play that was being staged outside her body and mind, or so it seemed. She felt as if she was not taking part in it, but standing in the doorway to watch.

  At seven o'clock she heard an automobile come to a rackety stop on the street and arranged herself prettily on the love seat.

  His steps came lightly up the stairs. Curiously, he knocked and then waited for her to invite him in, nervous as a suitor. He stepped gingerly into the room, took off his hat, and held it before him as if trying to hide behind it. With that bit of business, it began to dawn on her that he might not be what she had expected at all. He had yet to display one bit of backbone.

  Now seeing him more closely, she noticed more signs of a weak man about him. His beard and mustache hid a shallow chin and a nervous thin-lipped mouth. His nostrils twitched like someone was tickling his nose, and his pale eyes were skittish.

  And when she motioned him to join her on the love seat, he looked like he was ready to jump back through the door and run away. In another man, all this might have come off as boyish charm. From him, it was just irritating and she fought a sudden urge to slap his face to get him to stop his jittering.

  The impulse passed. She remembered what she was doing there and embarked on her duties by offering to serve him some refreshment. He smiled and mumbled something about a glass of sherry.

  She got up and went to the cabinet for the bottle and a glass with a surge of cunning that all but washed away her melancholy. Maybe she could play this feckless rich man as she could never have played Valentin St. Cyr, and have the upper hand. Maybe she could be in charge for once.

  She turned around to face him with the false smile of the serpent that was coiling in her breast.

  Treau Martín walked out the door of the church on Fourth Street, feeling very much sanctified. It had been a good sermon.

  Treau went to church every evening. He went every morning, too, if he could find a service to attend. He spent a good bit of his time in church, working to battle the devil that was chasing after his soul.

  His given name was Charles, but everyone back-of-town called him "Treau," a collapsed version of taureau, or "bull." They had begun calling him that when he was sixteen, they called him that all the time he was playing music, and there were still too many people around from those days who were used to it for him to shed it now. Though of late he did his best to
avoid that crowd.

  To be sure, it seemed an odd moniker for him, because Charles Martin had not been like a bull as a boy and was not so as a man. He was of medium height and build. He was in fact medium from any angle, a middle-brown Negro with even brown eyes and a plain brown face. His hair was cut short and parted neatly on one side. He was not remarkable in any way.

  At least not in any way that anyone would notice at first glance. The nickname had been donned on a special occasion years ago, the first time the young Charles visited a sporting house back-of-town. This was something of a rite for boys his age in uptown New Orleans, and young Charles was all too ready when his turn came.

  It was when he unbuttoned his trousers that the sporting girl, a veteran of Basin Street, gaped in astonishment and cried out, "God in heaven! We got us a petit taureau here!" She went to the door and called down the hall for the other girls to come see. Young Charles stood there, on display and mortified as the girls viewed his yancy in stunned wonder. They murmured amongst themselves. The verdict was unanimous, and so Charles became Taureau, then'T'reau, then simply Treau.

  This feature had been an embarrassment when he was growing up. Then he realized that he had been blessed in a particular way and went about making the most of it. Being a musician gave him ample opportunity. The word got around until all the back-of-town girls knew about him and would call out his nickname and make the crudest gestures when he was onstage. The joke was that he chose to play bass fiddle as a sort of advertisement; a guitar would have been too small for a man with such an unusual gift. It got to be quite the thing for the whores to bring him around when a new dove arrived at a house, a sort of initiation. So he often got for free what every other rounder on the street had to pay for.

  Those were wild times. King Bolden drew so much attention that the other back-of-town jass players got some of the adoration, too, including Treau. He spent long nights playing the saloons and dance halls along Rampart Street and the pavilions out on the lake in the warm months, carrying on like a crazy man. He drank his share and more, hit a pipe now and then, and dallied with the prettiest of the sporting girls. Since this didn't leave much time to hone his musical skills, it was just as well that he played a simple bass fiddle. All he had to do was to lay down a solid thump for the guitar players to ride and the horn players to dance around, and he could apply his energies making mayhem in other ways. He had been just about the happiest young jass man on Rampart Street. He had been the devil's child.