by Cari Lynn
“Ya got the shits?” Sheep-Eye asked.
Tater’s inclination was to nod, but that would be a lie. And he could hardly lie on his very first day as a changed man.
“I ain’t doin’ so good,” he stammered. And then his chin started to tremble, and off he ran, the outhouse door swinging shut behind him.
Lobrano was hurting too. He’d known hangovers, but he’d never known heartache, and now the combination was enough to make him want to down another bottle of absinthe—if only he could move.
He had no recollection of the night before, which was how he’d wanted it. He began to wonder if it were possible to will oneself to death. He should fill his pockets with stones and walk himself into the Mississippi. Oh, if only he could move. But when he tried, his head fell back, heavy and slack, and the world began to flip over itself like a carnival ride.
He decided he’d sleep the rest of the day, and when the stupor had lifted, he’d leave a parting gift for Mary, and then he’d collect the stones.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Baby Anna bounced along in a wrap attached to Charlotte. To help make ends meet, Charlotte had gone promptly back to her seamstress work, and her arms were full with a mound of dresses she’d carefully mended. Normally she returned the mending to the dress shop on Customhouse Street, but today the shopkeeper had to tend to an ailing relative, so Charlotte was instructed to deliver the dresses to the owner. The address was Basin, and she was surprised when she turned onto the street to find it in the midst of construction.
She carefully picked her way among the debris, and as she stopped at her destination of number 235, her jaw dropped. She stared up at the stained-glass archway: LULU WHITE. The mansion bustled with workers on ladders painting the trim and women in straw hats planting hyacinths all up and down the walkway, while servants swept up after them all.
“’Scuse us, ma’am.”
Charlotte looked over her shoulder just in time to careen out of the way as a pristine white piano was hoisted up the walkway by three sweaty men.
“Oh goodness me!” Charlotte cried.
The men, red-faced, veins bulging, maneuvered the piano inside. Charlotte, lagging behind, followed them through the open door. Her eyes widened at the gorgeous foyer, with its cathedral ceiling and contrasts of large white marble columns against dark mahogany floors and balustrades so polished and shiny you could see your reflection staring back at you.
There was even more flurry indoors, with wallpaper going up and crates of Champagne being unloaded. In the parlor, two of Lulu’s girls, both fashionably dressed in camisoles and culottes, stood on chairs as they struggled to hang heavy damask curtains while a particularly bossy, pouffy-haired girl ordered them about. “Higher now, Birdie!”
“Poodle, it’s heavy!” Birdie moaned.
“But it’s not straight,” Poodle insisted. “Move the left higher, Gypsy. Not that side, the left.”
In the midst of the hullaballoo the white piano—miraculously—went unnoticed. “Ladies, where you want this?” one of the movers, his voice strained, piped up. But he was ignored, the girls instead focusing wholeheartedly on their task at hand. With quivering arms, the movers lowered the piano to the floor, shaking out their limbs.
Charlotte wondered if these girls were so spoiled that even something as outlandishly gorgeous as the white piano didn’t warrant their attention. To her, of course, every last detail was breathtaking. She was grateful for four walls that didn’t leak when it rained, and to be standing here—just this foyer alone was enchanting, with its huge vessels of fragrant lilies and the way the sun sparkled through the stained glass, casting rainbow prisms throughout the room.
“Sakes alive, higher, ladies,” Poodle called. “Y’all got to raise it up!”
Charlotte worked up her courage and said in a tiny voice, “Got your mendin’. . . .” Of course, no one noticed.
A sudden operatic squeal rang out, echoing throughout the vaulted foyer, and there in an archway appeared the Countess, taking sight of her new, white treasure.
“Oh rhapsody!” she cried, gliding into the room. “Just like pearls. Come, Mistah Flabacher, come have a first look!”
Strolling behind her was a well-fed man with a short auburn beard and a brown three-piece suit. After Marshall Field (owner of what was referred to in Chicago as the Marble Palace department store) recommended his services, Sheldon Flabacher was hired by Lulu to oversee the promotion of not just her bordello within Storyville, but of the mystique and allure of her bordello well beyond New Orleans.
“Mistah Flabacher, doesn’t this practically publicize itself?” Lulu said, running her hand along the alabaster.
“As creamy as your fair complexion, madam,” he replied, to which Lulu raised an eyebrow; she wasn’t exactly creamy white. She thought it best to educate the Union man.
“That’s coco latte, Mistah Flabacher. An octoroon is a mix of many, shall we say, flavors. A little French, a little Spanish, a sprinkle of African. It’s a divine blend of exotica.” She glanced into the parlor. “Poodle! Show these boys where the music making will be, and have them discard the old Steinway.”
With a pout, Poodle stepped down from her perch. “Good luck without me,” she said lowly to her worker bees, and then waved to the movers. “This way.” The men and the piano teetered after her down the hall. Gypsy and Birdie finally let their tired arms drop, breathing sighs of relief.
No one, still, had bothered to notice Charlotte, who was quietly hidden in the corner. She stepped forward, trying once again with her plea, “’Scuse me, ma’am—” But she was promptly interrupted by a loud knock on the front door, even though it was still wide open.
Through the doorway popped a bowler hat. “I’m here to see a Mistah Flay-botcher,” announced Kermit McCracken. He removed his hat as he stepped inside.
Flabacher hurried over with an effusive grin, hand extended. “That’s Flay-bocker. Sheldon Flabacher. From Chicago.”
But rather than shake his hand, McCracken opened his notebook.
“Well, thanks for coming by on such short notice,” Flabacher said, flustered. “Let me introduce you to the Countess.” He turned toward Lulu and was surprised to glimpse a quizzical look on her face. “This gentleman is writing a newspaper article on the commencement of Storyville,” Flabacher explained, “and I thought it the perfect opportunity to show him around. No such article would be complete without due attention to you, madam.”
Lulu let out a caustic giggle. “Oh, the Mascot always gives me plenty of attention. Isn’t that right, Mistah McCracken?”
McCracken cleared his throat.
“Ah, so the two of you are already acquainted?” Flabacher asked, disappointed he wasn’t presenting the Countess with a new and important contact.
“Mistah McCracken, if my publicist wants to grant you an official interview, then bien sûr,” Lulu said with a wave of her hand. “Entrez-vous!”
Over by the window, Gypsy and Birdie confusedly looked at each other. “What’s a publist?” Birdie whispered.
“Someone who publisisizes,” Gypsy said knowingly.
McCracken looked down his nose at Flabacher. “Mistah Flay-bocker, isn’t publicity just haughty boosterism?”
Flabacher feigned a polite grin. “I’m afraid you’re stuck in old times if you think ill of advertising.”
“Oh, haughty . . . naughty,” Lulu interjected, not wanting to drag out McCracken’s visit any longer. She opened her arms, gesturing to the grandness around her. “This most gorgeous Mahogany Hall, now legal, will be christened Maison Joie.”
McCracken winced at the use of christened.
By this time, Charlotte had completely lost her nerve and shrunk into the corner, realizing she’d just have to wait it all out.
From the still-open front door, two men in white gloves appeared, carefully clasping a large rectangular package, paper and twine covering it for protection. As Poodle sauntered back into the foyer, she caught sight of the
new delivery. “The painting?” she cried, rushing over to tear away the wrapping like a little girl on her birthday. But as the paper fell and the framed painting was revealed, Poodle’s smile dwindled. She cocked her head, as if needing to view it from another angle. Then, solemnly, she turned to the Countess. “I think it melted.”
Lulu smiled gently. “It’s called Impressionism,” she said, more for McCracken’s benefit than Poodle’s. “This is Monet’s masterpiece Vétheuil in the Fog. A very famous Parisian opera singer and art collector once felt as you did, rejecting the painting directly to Monet’s face. Several years later, the painting received the honor and acclaim it deserved. It is dubbed ‘The White Symphony.’ And now it finds its rightful home.”
“Ah, with the white piano! I see the theme,” Flabacher regaled. “Mr. McCracken, the Countess has exquisite taste. Truly exquisite.”
Poodle nuzzled herself up to Lulu, placing her head on Lulu’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean to insult the painting, Countess.”
Lulu gave her a motherly nod, then tickled Poodle under the chin. True to her name, Poodle began panting like a puppy. Gypsy and Birdie giggled, and even Charlotte couldn’t help but stifle laughter.
“You getting all this, Mistah McCracken?” Lulu said. “Here’s another tidbit just for you: I specially designed a music box . . . built into my mattress. You ever heard of anything like that before?”
McCracken was stone-faced, his pencil flying across the notebook. And then the room was pierced by a long, high-pitched wail.
Lulu froze, one eyebrow raised. “Did y’all hear a . . . child?” She said the word as if a child were akin to the Devil incarnate. All eyes suddenly found Charlotte, pressed into the corner.
Meekly, Charlotte offered the dresses. “Ma’am . . . your mendin’.”
Just down Basin Street, a spike drove through a railroad tie. For as far as the eye could see the chain gang swung at one spike after another after another, sparks of steel on steel flying. Everywhere were workers, stacks of bricks, stacks of beams, and lumber wagons emblazoned with L’HOTE LUMBER MANUFACTURING COMPANY.
Surveying the construction was Tom Anderson, a smile stretching from one end of his curled mustache to the other. He still couldn’t quite believe his monstrously good fortune that the train depot had happened upon his Basin Street. He’d always fancied himself a pioneer of sorts, but this was trailblazing to a degree even his wildest dreams hadn’t touched—in a short time he would go from kingpin of an alley to overlord of an empire, the first ever of its kind in the United States. He’d fallen into bed the night before with such contented disbelief that he couldn’t help but laugh out loud as he lay there. So fulfilled was he that he didn’t even ring for an evening companion.
He caught sight of a familiar bowler hat sauntering over from Lulu’s bordello. Well aware of the comings and goings around here, Anderson knew that Lulu’s new spin doctor had some asinine plan to solicit the Mascot, and as much as Anderson despised the so-called newspaper, if there was any mention of Storyville in print, there better darn well be mention of him, too.
“Believe it, Mistah McCracken,” Anderson called. “Our little Basin Street’s gonna indubitably be world famous. You’re a most privileged man getting a sneak peek.”
“Yes, the pleasure’s all mine, I’m sure,” McCracken said, not bothering to mask his sarcasm.
But Anderson kept up his pertness. “I’ll personally give you a tour.” He began walking down the line at a brisk clip. McCracken struggled to match his pace and take notes at the same time, which gave Anderson a smug bit of satisfaction. “Right here,” Anderson said, pointing to a pile of rubble, “we have what will be the talented Miss Emma Johnson’s French Studio.” He pointed on down the street. “On the corner there I’m building the most dazzling saloon you’ll ever lay eyes on. And at the end of the banquette, of course, is the finest and first bordello in all of Storyville, Countess Lulu White’s Mahogany Hall.”
“Yes, I’ve already had the privilege of touring that . . . place,” McCracken said.
Anderson stopped walking, turned to McCracken, and dramatically pushed the reporter’s notebook aside. “There are things the Countess has been keeping secret. Now, just between you and me, Mistah McCracken, the Countess is planning a room covered every inch with mirrors.”
McCracken smirked. “How refined.”
Anderson started up walking again, glancing back to make sure McCracken furtively noted the “secret.” “I’m sure the Mascot would be very interested to learn the multitudes of dollars our little District is already pumping into the economy of this fine city,” Anderson continued. He spotted George L’Hote, owner of all the lumber trucks scattered across the construction site. “And here’s a perfect example of the prosperity to be found as a result of the Story ordinance.” Anderson cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, “Mistah L’Hote!”
L’Hote turned, and his face flashed concern. Obligingly, he headed over.
“Good to see you, Tom,” L’Hote said, his voice tinged with caution.
“Likewise. I was just telling Mistah McCracken here, of the Mascot, how business is booming at an all-time high thanks to Storyville.”
“Business is good,” L’Hote said stiffly.
“Ah George, no need for modesty,” Anderson said, slapping L’Hote on the back. “Isn’t this the best year in the history of L’Hote Lumber Manufacturing Company?”
L’Hote’s face was slack. “We’re fortunate to be having a good year.”
Anderson noted L’Hote’s resistance. “Well, I couldn’t be happier with the lumber, George. Mistah McCracken, if you pardon my manners, I’d like to take advantage of Mistah L’Hote’s presence and talk a brief business.”
McCracken motioned to go right ahead, and Anderson ushered L’Hote out of earshot.
Leaning in, Anderson spoke quietly through pursed lips. “I heard a nasty, nasty rumor, George. Y’all aren’t requesting a petition to the court over the boundaries of Storyville, now, are you?”
L’Hote shifted nervously. “Tom, I’m in quite a pickle. My family home, my eight children and dear wife, we abide only a block from here. Surely you understand not exposing children to immoral conduct.”
“I ain’t a family man,” Anderson said flatly. “But what I do understand is that a wise man doesn’t take my money with one hand and then shove it up my ass with the other. Are you a wise man, Mistah L’Hote?”
L’Hote took a hard swallow before Anderson answered for him. “’Course you are, and a wise man knows when to keep his mouth shut.” He gave L’Hote another hearty slap on the back. “Glad we had this little talk, George. As I said, your lumber’s working out real well.”
L’Hote tried to speak but faltered, and instead hung his head as he walked away. Anderson turned back to McCracken and, hardly missing a beat, continued his charged rhetoric, bloviating as only the mayor of Storyville could.
“Mark my word, Mistah McCracken, and by that I mean you can quote me: people will cross the ocean just to set foot in Storyville.”
McCracken raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“It’s true,” Anderson insisted. “Life without pleasure”—he inhaled deep through his nostrils, sucking up the breeze of success— “ain’t no life at all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Urselines Street
From the look of Venus Alley Mary sensed she was the only one feeling the weight of its impending close. Business bustled on as usual. Whores chirped about nothing except catty goings-on. Pimps collected their rent.
It knit at her that Tom Anderson hadn’t returned to the Alley with any sort of update. They were two weeks away from doom and no one even knew what their options were—let alone if there were options. It seemed the others just assumed they’d be accounted for, that Anderson had some equivalent to the Alley ready and waiting in the new district. But Mary doubted that was true. She hadn’t yet admitted it aloud, but it was becoming clear to her that Snitch was right
when he said this shit hole wasn’t part of the plan.
She had hoped someone would’ve stepped up and tried to unite the whores and peet daddies in figuring out what to do next. But no one had taken the lead, and although Mary liked to think she would have risen to the task had Peter still been around, she now felt all her energy channeled into just getting through a day.
Oh, the effort it now took going through what used to be mindless motions. She had to practically force herself to bathe and choke down something to eat. And then there was the task of putting on a strong demeanor before Charlotte—even when Charlotte rushed in with stories of the Countess’s mansion and how Mary was pretty enough to be one of her girls. Mary had never lied to Charlotte before, but she’d dug her nails into her fist just to feel something other than the brick in her throat as she forced a tiny smile. “It takes more than pretty,” she’d said softly, then scooped up the bucket to head to the well even though she’d already brought in their water.
What she craved was to crumble in a heap and stay curled up for however long it took until the pain eased. But instead, what pounded in her head with each labored step were the words two weeks. Two weeks until Lord knew what was going to happen to everyone here. She wanted to shout at the top of her lungs, Why are y’all milling around like it’s any other day? What do you think is going to happen come next Friday?
Johns came and went, Mary forcing a coquettish grin. She no longer kept track, no longer counted the money they handed her. She just shoved it into her boot. Why bother? What was a nickel more or less when the days were numbered? She needed steady money, not pocket change.
Late that night, a black john approached as she was sitting on the stoop.
“Lookin’ for Beulah?” Mary asked.