Madam: A Novel of New Orleans

by Cari Lynn

  “I know we’d all like to just round up the trollops and dump them in the swamp,” Story replied, “but this major upheaval can’t possibly be expected to transpire overnight. According to the ordinance, there’s still a fortnight’s time.” He quickly referenced the ordinance document, running a delicate finger down the page. “Ah yes, here is the precise language: ‘After the deadline, it will become unlawful for any woman notoriously abandoned to lewdness to inhabit or sleep in a house, room, or closet outside the District boundaries. White and octoroon women of ill repute will reside below Canal Street. Negro whores are relegated to Franklin Street.’”

  He looked up from the page. Without the open window, the already warm room was growing close, and men began to dab handkerchiefs at their perspiring foreheads. “I’m sure there will be stragglers,” Story continued, “but by and by, the transition’s gone tolerably well, and I have reason to believe it will continue as such.”

  “What’s the recourse if whores don’t abide by the January first deadline, Alderman?”

  “We will start by instituting a significant fine. If they still don’t abide, they’ll be jailed without question. I’m hopeful there won’t be but sparse cases of noncompliance.”

  “I’ve already seen sporting women promenading to the back o’ town,” a member offered up. “Like rats following the Pied Piper!”

  Another chimed in that with many brothels already vacated, his street felt as serene as it was back when he was just a boy.

  “Have y’all seen the expense going up on Basin Street?” another member asked. “Fine as our Uptown mansions. What strange irony if the whores come to fancy themselves too refined and prideful to let rowdiness muss their elegant new homes.” They all chortled in agreement.

  “Gentlemen,” Story said as if bursting with a secret, “I daresay, I suspect lewd and abandoned women might be fixing to behave themselves in the back o’ town. Now, wouldn’t that be a dandy?”

  Mary slammed her shoe against a tack as she hung a rough handwritten sign on her crib door.

  FANCY GIRLS

  $1 WHITE GIRL

  50¢ NEGRO GIRL

  From behind her she heard Beulah’s throaty voice. “Ya think I can’t read? I ain’t half the snatch you are.”

  Mary sighed as Beulah marched over to her, hand on hip. “It’s just the way it is, Beulah.”

  “Says who? The white man?”

  “This here is my crib now.” She wished the words evoked the pride they were due, but they fell flat to her ear. Still, for the time being, she was in charge. And the first thing she saw to was that an open can of lye, diluted with water to temper the odor, be concealed under the bedside table—if ever Cooper came by, or if ever another john raised his hand to her or tried to stiff her, she’d throw the lye on him. It was a tactic she knew other whores used—the entire Alley knew because you’d hear a burned john screaming bloody murder. Mary had never looked kindly on scarring a man for life, but her mind had seen fit to change. “Beulah, you gonna take your shift or what?”

  Not used to answering to another woman, let alone little Mary Deubler, Beulah arched like a cat. She huffed, “Who died an’ made you Lobrano?”

  The color drained from Mary. Except for the parish sheriff and Tater, she hadn’t told a soul what had happened, so Beulah was blind to the wide-open wound. And Mary wasn’t about to explain. Besides, there were no words, no tears, no emotion left. She felt like a hollow shell of a person. She stepped back to the crib door, raised her shoe, and gave the sign another fierce smack.

  Snitch ambled along Robertson Street, kicking a stone down the road.

  “Hey, Snitch!”

  The boy eagerly looked around, glancing at windows, doorways, and balconies, but saw no one. “Who’s callin’?” he asked into the air.

  “Snitch!” the voice snarled. “For Chrissake, ya dumb mutt. Down here.”

  Snitch spotted a hand beckoning from under a stoop. “Who there?” he asked as he cautiously inched over.

  The hand lurched out and grabbed Snitch’s shirt, yanking him under the stoop, where he was suddenly face-to-face with Lobrano.

  “Jesus, Snitch! No point in me hidin’ if I gotta come knock you in the head.”

  “Mistah Lobrano, what in the hell ya doin’ down here? And you sure look mawmucked. Time for a bath, too, if ya don’t mind me sayin’.”

  “Keep your voice down.” Gaunt and hollow-eyed, Lobrano peered over his shoulders in jerky motions. “They been askin’ ’bout me?”

  Snitch inched away, knowing the man was in a bad state—even worse than usual. “Who been askin’?”

  “Everybody.”

  “Can’t says I heard nobody askin’ after ya, Mistah Lobrano. How come you ain’t runnin’ your gal no more?”

  “Oh, they be talkin’,” Lobrano assured him. “I’m sure they’re lookin’ for me.”

  “Like I said,” Snitch insisted, “I ain’t heard no one lookin’—”

  “Whatcha got today?” Lobrano interrupted, his face twitching.

  “What’s into you? You’re skittish as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs.”

  “I want that fix you sell.”

  Snitch began to dig into his satchel, when he paused. “Got a dollar for me, Mistah Lobrano?”

  Lobrano stared at him as if he could cadge his way through. But Snitch wasn’t budging, and stared right back. He knew how desperate Lobrano was, could tell by the dripping sweat on his face and the tremor of his hands.

  With a huff, Lobrano dug in his pockets, counting out his change. “Spare me a nickel?” he pleaded.

  “Aw, now, if I spare all y’all, I’ll be bare-assed,” Snitch said.

  “Just this once,” Lobrano pleaded. Snitch eyed him warily.

  “For fuck’s sake, it’s just a goddamn nickel!” Lobrano snapped.

  Knowing Lobrano’s volatility, and that he was practically trapped under this stoop with a crazy lout, Snitch gave in and pulled a small paper bag from his satchel. “Ya remember the kindness I’m showin’ you now,” Snitch said before handing the bag over.

  Near salivating, Lobrano made a jittery grab for the bag, ripping into it. He scooped up a dirty fingernail of white powder and snorted it.

  Snitch shook his head as he climbed back to the street. He continued on to Venus Alley, where he was met by a whore everyone called Martha Washington, for she was surely the oldest whore around. The trull had to be fifty, maybe even sixty years old, Snitch figured, something ancient, especially for this cesspool. Martha lingered outside a crib, offering her saggy breasts to passersby.

  “Get it while it’s hot! Hot pussy!” she called through several missing teeth.

  Men gave her pitiful looks as they passed, and one mercifully tossed her a coin. But as she scurried to retrieve it from the ground, Snitch swooped in, scooping it up.

  “Snitch! I’ll whop your ass!” she hollered.

  “Gotta catch me first, ratty ole bat!” Snitch taunted and took off running, smacking full-on into another boy carrying an armful of complicated-looking contraptions, all of which came clattering to the ground.

  But as Snitch looked up, he realized this wasn’t a boy at all, but a little man. A grotesque-looking little man with a bulbous forehead and a hunched-over back. Snitch’s eyes widened. “S . . . s . . . sorry, mistah.”

  Before the man could respond, Snitch took off again, hightailing it down the Alley.

  The man was not unused to this kind of reaction, and he quietly began to gather his belongings, first picking up his 8 x 10 camera and inspecting it with concern. He peered at the ground glass, tested the knobs, touched the delicate bellows, and dusted the lens with his shirt sleeve. He breathed a sigh of relief that everything seemed unharmed.

  All the while, Mary had been watching from the stoop of her nearby crib. Eager to see the contraption and, more so, to occupy her unsettled mind, she wandered over.

  “Whatcha got there?” she asked.

  The s
trange fellow looked askance at the worn shoes in front of him and continued picking up the scattered parts from the ground.

  “That a photographic camera?” she pushed.

  He couldn’t help but glance up at this pest, but his crinkled forehead softened as he took in the dark-haired girl and her gray eyes. He gave her a shy nod before returning to survey his equipment.

  “Ain’t never seen a photographic camera up close,” Mary said. “That’s a fancy contraption. Careful, because some folks ’round here might try to swipe that.”

  The odd little man shifted uncomfortably, not used to this much attention from a female. Awkwardly, he leaned in the opposite direction.

  As Mary studied him, her brow furled with sympathy. “You ain’t some kind of half-wit, are ya?”

  The man took a deep, annoyed breath, then squeaked, “No.” The high pitch of his voice wasn’t exactly convincing.

  “All right, then. Well, I’ll just leave you be. But if I were you, I wouldn’t stick around here for long.” Mary turned back to her crib.

  The man collected his equipment in his arms, but before heading down the street he furtively looked over his shoulder, watching Mary as she walked back to her crib and straightened the sign nailed out front.

  A john was waiting for her, kicking around dirt at the crib door. “Just about to go elsewhere,” he said. She forced a smile and promptly led him inside.

  Later that night, after the john and three others since him had come and gone, Mary sat on the step of her crib, staring at the moon. She clutched the Voodoo doll Beulah had left behind, the black yarn X marking the heart of Philip Lobrano. She balled it up in her fist and then watched as it sprang back to shape. She would riddle the effigy with daggers and burn it in flames if she thought it would actually affect Lobrano.

  “Excuse me, miss,” a voice squeaked.

  Mary glanced up to see the odd-looking camera man, all his equipment still in his arms. “Come back for a trick, little man?”

  His jaw dropped.

  “I hate to disappoint you,” Mary continued, “but I ain’t on the clock now. Ya see, I’m sitting here doing something a whore ain’t supposed to do. I’m thinking. That’s what I’m doing. So leave me be, all right?”

  “Miss, if I might be so bold,” he squeaked. “I have come to request a photographic sitting. Thank you.”

  Mary chortled. “Oh, I ain’t doing no nudie photographs. Let’s just get that straight.”

  The little man squirmed, “Oh no, no, no, no.”

  Mary eyed him, such a strange fellow, with a head too big and body too little and a voice too high. “Then what do you want me for?” she asked with an empty shrug. “I ain’t much use with my clothes on.”

  “It’s a portrait, miss.” He bashfully dropped his head, addressing the ground. “You have a kind face.”

  Mary was caught off guard by how touched she was. Perhaps this was the nicest thing a stranger had said to her in a long, long time, if not ever. Her clenched fist softened and the Voodoo doll fell from her clutch.

  It had been one of her secret wishes to one day have her photograph taken and put in a frame. She had envisioned that she’d be dressed in a corset and wearing velvet gloves, and that she’d be in a proper setting—a parlor, a gazebo maybe—but no matter, here was a professional photographer wanting to train the camera on just her.

  “Suppose I could put on my striped stockings,” she said, a brightness filling her voice for the first time in a while. “My name’s Mary, by the way.” She held out her hand, but the little man didn’t dare take it.

  “E. J. Bellocq,” he said, casting his eyes away from her.

  “Well, come on in, Mistah Bellocq.”

  As Mary rolled on her stockings, Bellocq purposefully busied himself with preparing and assembling his equipment.

  “Shall I sit or stand?” Mary asked. But he didn’t answer. She draped a sheet over the little table and brought in a chair from the stoop. Then she removed from a crevice in the floorboard a near-empty bottle of Raleigh Rye. “Would you like a drink? It’s the good kind. A john paid me in a half-full bottle. And this is a special occasion, not every day that a girl gets her photograph made.”

  “I abstain,” Bellocq replied softly, and Mary gave him a respectful nod, even though he still hadn’t looked her way. Carefully, she poured herself just a splash, holding the bottle to the light to note what was left.

  Mary sat and waited, and eventually attempted to fill the awkward silence with small talk. “Worked hard on making this crib something to be proud of,” she said.

  Bellocq spread flash powder on a metal tray and coated the wet plate.

  “Scrubbed these boards till my hands were raw,” she continued. “See those curtains? My brother’s wife sewed them up.” She gulped. “His widow,” she corrected, a quiver in her voice. It was as if she needed to practice saying it to a stranger. She watched as Bellocq set the camera on the tripod. The word widow meant nothing to him, and why should it? How could anyone know of her pain or that the word also meant a child would never know her father?

  As he adjusted the tripod, his eyes fell on a picture postcard tacked to the wall. He lingered.

  “It’s a pretty photograph, ain’t it?” she said. “Better than looking at the johns. It’s the Arlington Hotel. Somewhere far away.”

  Bellocq wondered how this Alley whore knew of places far from here. He’d like to know of those places too. But he was sure he never would. He ducked beneath the cape of the camera.

  Mary found herself nervous, having no idea what to expect from getting a photograph taken. The weight of it was sinking in: never had she imagined when she’d woken this morning—of all mornings—that one of her daydreams would come true. Now all she had left to do was to ride on a train, and get all dressed up and go to the French Opera, and then she could die and go to Heaven! She smiled sadly to herself. And there she would tell Peter all about it.

  Trying to ease her mind, she yammered on. “You came at a good time, Mistah Bellocq. This is the best my crib’s ever looked. And it is mine, you know. But, see, the thing is . . . turns out a crib ain’t something you can be proud of.” She took a sip of her drink then raised the glass and regarded it wistfully.

  Bellocq squeezed the shutter release. There was a sudden flash, then a sizzle.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Toulouse Street

  Peanut shells were littered about Tater’s feet, and the ones that didn’t make it that far still rested on his belly. He polished off the last of the sack of nuts and belched. It was sunset, with a full moon already bright in the sky.

  A couple of hours had passed since Tater had been waiting, and by this point he was itching to just go yank the scallywag out. Except that would have made too much of a scene. So instead, he continued to watch the stoop, hoping that Snitch—who’d angled for a whole silver dollar—knew what he was talking about. Tater figured the dimwit fugitive would have to take a piss at some point—or better yet, a crap. He’d always wanted to off somebody while they were crapping, if for nothing else than the hilarity of it.

  At last, he saw what he’d been waiting for. A mud-caked boot dangled out. And then, hunched over as if contortion would help him be less visible, Lobrano crept from his cover. He scuttled around to the side of the building. And that’s when Tater rose, peanut shells raining from him. He trailed Lobrano, watching him stagger and stumble and thinking that this would almost be too easy. Where was the challenge in going after someone this addled? Like taking candy from a . . . drunkard.

  The sun had set, and Tater inched along in the shadows as Lobrano turned into an alley and started to loosen his belt.

  “Go on, make it a good one,” Tater announced.

  Lobrano’s movements seemed delayed as he realized someone was talking to him. Slowly, he turned to give a squinty look over the alley. “Is that you?” he called, outstretching his arm. He felt around in the air, squinting all the harder. As Lobrano glimpsed Tater, a warm
smile spread across his face. “There ya are, ya came back. This mean ya forgive me?”

  “That’ll be for the Lord Jesus to decide,” Tater said, inching closer.

  Lobrano closed his eyes. “I already set myself right with Jesus.” He was barely able to keep his balance. “Jesus says you’re the one who needs to forgive me. Okay, sissy girl?”

  Tater bristled. “Who ya callin’ sissy girl?”

  “Come on, sissy, let’s do like old times.” Lobrano stumbled forward, nearly collapsing into Tater’s arms. “Come close to me, tell me you forgive me.”

  Unnerved, Tater stepped back as Lobrano grabbed for him. “Come here, we’re kin, remember? You and me ain’t got no one else in the world.” He reached out, and his hand brushed Tater’s crotch. Tater jumped, and at that very moment, the moon disappeared.

  Darkness fell over them like a curtain being pulled across the sky. Tater panicked, wondering if this was the end of the world and everyone was going haywire. Or was it just he being called to Heaven—or Hell?

  Oh dear God, he prayed. Was pledging this act of violence summoning evil spirits? Breathless, he turned in circles, growing discombobulated as he tried to find his way from the pitch-black alley. He tripped and fell flat on his face, surrounded by the scratching of rats as they scattered from where he landed. Scrambling up, he broke into a run, not caring which direction he was headed, so long as it was out of that alley.

  Some moments later, the black curtain began to lift, and the moon crept back into its place. But Tater kept running, his heart feeling as if it might explode from his chest. “I promise to God,” he panted aloud, “my days of no good are over!” He decided to tell Anderson first thing in the morning—that is, if the dear Lord let him live through the night. He swore he’d become as good as an altar boy.

  But the next morning, Tater couldn’t bring himself to tell Anderson. He couldn’t bring himself to do much of anything except blubber like a child. He spent much of the day in the outhouse, trying to toughen himself up, but every time he thought he was okay to go back out and face the boss, his bottom lip began to quiver, and back to the outhouse he’d run.