by Cari Lynn
She took a sip, and then said the only thing that came to mind. “Can’t blame you for wanting your trick aways from the Alley.”
He cocked his head as if perplexed, and she immediately felt stupid for speaking.
Leaning in, Anderson rested his forearms on his thighs. “Miss Deubler—it is Miss Deubler, right?”
Mary nodded.
“Please don’t take offense, but I haven’t called you here for a trick.”
Her palms started to sweat. If Anderson spoke Lobrano’s name, she didn’t know what she’d do, didn’t know if she could keep the angry tears back. She commanded herself not to cry in front of Tom Anderson. She was not going to crumple and demean herself. She straightened up her spine. Hold your head high.
“This is a bit of a sensitive nature,” Anderson began.
Mary took a gulp of air, hashing out what she’d say—a person can’t choose their kin, Mistah Anderson.
“My God, Miss Deubler, you look as if I’m scaring you out of your wits. There’s no reason for you to be frightened of me. I have only your best interests at heart with my proposition for you. I think you’ll find it as interesting as I do.”
Mary’s mouth squeezed into a line. A proposition?
“I’ve been noticing,” Anderson continued, “that you are a woman with an open mind and a high degree of intelligence.” He paused as if waiting for Mary to concur, but she was too busy wondering if he hadn’t summoned the wrong girl. Sure she could read, a rare ability on the Alley, but why would he care about that?
“One decision I commend you for is your willingness to share your crib with a Negro. Those are my folks too, practically raised me, you see. You should hear me play spirituals on a church organ!” He chuckled, but it fell flat as Mary stared blankly at him, her mind clicking away in confusion. “Anyway,” he continued, “you, like a very intelligent person, recognize that people are people, and also that a dollar’s a dollar, business is business. You are a true capitalist.”
Mary had never heard of a capitalist before, and now she was one?
“But you know, of course, that Storyville’s not so open-minded. Colored folk are going to be relegated to Franklin Street, and that just isn’t going to be appetizing to those folks from the North who don’t possess all sorts of crazy notions about one people being better than the other.”
Mary hoped she wasn’t letting on how lost she was—why was Beulah Ripley now a part of this? Heck, she’d been sharing space with Beulah for years, something Lobrano had drummed up when he needed extra cash. Lobrano couldn’t have cared if Beulah had two heads, so long as she could turn a trick and count well enough to know if a john was paying her right. Then again, she supposed Anderson had a point, that not everyone would have been amenable to taking shifts with Beulah, thinking she’d spread vermin or carried disease. Reluctantly, Mary also thought back to the colored john who’d come by her crib with two whole dollars.
“So you’re probably wondering what I’m proposing,” Anderson said, “and I recognize you may already have other plans. But if I can entice you, I think we’d have a nice business opportunity if there were a house in Storyville that welcomed whites and blacks . . . quietly, of course.” He studied her face, looking for some flicker of agreement, but Mary still wasn’t following.
Sure, fine, welcome coloreds, she thought. She wanted to say aloud, I’ll be left out in the cold, starving, thank you very much. But she kept that to herself. She chewed on her lower lip, hoping all this would suddenly snap into some kind of sense.
“Shame on me,” Anderson said, flashing his smile, “I’ve been doing all the talking. Can I get you something real to drink? Is it too early for a whiskey? Is it ever too early for a whiskey?”
“Oh, thank you, but no.” Mary said softly.
He raised himself from his chair and moved to hover near her. She breathed in his clean scent again.
“So, you’re keeping me in such suspense,” he said. “Do tell me what you think of my idea.”
Mary blanched. “Uh, well. To be honest with you, Mistah Anderson, I don’t know what your idea has to do with me.”
He chuckled. “You are a sharp gal. See, the notion I had is that you can run a house, a regular bordello, and no one around here will be the wiser that the coloreds can come there too. It’ll just be our little secret.”
Mary felt a rising heat again. She gulped down the water. Holy Mary Magdalene, are my ears playing tricks on me, or did Mistah Tom Anderson just propose I run a bordello? Her head grew light. The room began to turn very bright, then very white.
“Miss Deubler, are you all right? Miss . . . ?”
Anderson popped his head out the door. “Tater, we’re gonna need some smelling salts in here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Miss Addie, I smell your cookin’ all the way up the banquette!” exclaimed Little Louie as he hauled a bucket of coal into the Countess’s kitchen.
Addie paused from the mound of dough she’d been kneading to give the boy a motherly nod. His face was smudged with coal dust, but rarely was he without his wide, bright grin.
“Sit yourself on down,” Addie said. “Here’s some cubie yon and dirty rice for you.” She scooped some fish stew from a cast iron pot simmering over the fire and set the bowl on the table. Louie climbed up into the chair and dug into the stew as if it were to be snatched away at any moment. Addie observed the ravenous child, and as soon as he’d filled his mouth a few times she added another ladleful to his helping.
“So how Mayann be?” she asked.
Louie shrugged.
“You tell her I been askin’ after her,” Addie said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Louie answered between mouthfuls. “Will tell her next time she come ’round.”
Yep, just as Addie had suspected: Louie’s mother had run off again.
“I’ll pack some lagniappe for you, and for your sister and grandmama, too.”
“You’re very kind, Miss Addie,” Louie said.
Addie didn’t know what came over her, but the boy’s words moved her to tears. She didn’t show him, of course, just dabbed at her eyes with her apron, then got back to the dough. “Well, land sakes, Little Louie, I ain’t never seen anyone eat so fast. Slow yourself down, that bowl ain’t goin’ nowhere!”
“When I’m done, want me to bring the coal upstairs?” Louie asked.
“Naw, the Countess is up there with some muckety-mucks. Think it’s important talk, so don’t want them to hear no racket.” She sighed. “Things are changin’ ’round these parts. City ain’t never gonna be the same.”
The muckety-mucks upstairs were Anderson, Flabacher, and the Countess, holding court in the library. The topic of conversation: the promotion of Storyville. Lulu was poised on her chaise longue, her long gold cigarette holder dangling from her gloved fingers. Anderson and Flabacher sat on opposite sides of the room from each other, both sucking on fat cigars. Smoke clouds lingered in the room despite the French doors that opened onto a veranda, sheer curtains swaying in the gentle breeze of the evening.
“Mistah Flabacher had the brilliant notion of printing a bulletin describing my elegant château,” Lulu said, “and putting it right in men’s hands as they get off the train.”
Anderson studied Flabacher. What an obsequious blowhard, he thought. How could Lulu be wasting time with this bag of hot air? But he smiled politely. “They raise ’em bright in Chicago,” he said, tapping his forefinger to his head.
Flabacher smiled back with feigned modesty.
“Here’s another idea,” Anderson said, tilting back his head and blowing a perfect smoke ring. “We could do an entire directory. A booklet describing all the new bordellos and their lovely madams.”
Flabacher was quick to pipe up. “While an interesting notion, Mr. Anderson, clearly, the Countess’s place is too regal to simply be lumped with all the other houses.”
“Tom, since when am I so ordinary to you?” Lulu said with a playful pout.
> “There’s not an ordinary inch on you, my dear,” Anderson replied. “Don’t be misunderstanding me, your château will have the first and best listing. You can include a professional likeness of this house even. Thing is, we can sell advertisements in our own directory. Local merchants will pay to advertise, knowing their wares will appear right under the nose of every man stepping from that train. We can get our own promotion and turn a profit on our little directory, all at the same time.”
Lulu cocked an eyebrow. “I knew there was something I liked about you, Tom Anderson,” she said.
Flabacher, however, was slightly confused by the idea. “So, let me get this straight. . . . You’re proposing advertisements in our advertisement?”
“Voilà, free publicity!” Lulu exclaimed. “And with a little on the side pour vous, Tom. And a little on the side pour moi.”
Flabacher gave a slow nod as comprehension began to settle in.
“Our booklet needs to have the perfect enticing introduction to Storyville,” Lulu continued. “Mistah Flabacher, you’ll find writing materials in the desk there. Could you notate this, please?”
Flabacher shuffled to the desk as Lulu began composing aloud: “To know the right from the wrong . . . to be sure of yourself . . . go through this little book and read it carefully. And then when you visit Storyville, you will know the best places—”
Anderson cut in, “To spend your time and money, as only the very best homes are advertised.” Flabacher’s hand was flying as he tried to keep up with the two of them—back in Chicago, he had girls to do this for him.
Lulu thought for a moment. “Tom, if this booklet is so very exclusive, we should charge a fee to each madam. After all, if only the very best homes are advertised, it’s a privilege that we’re allowing them in our booklet, no?”
“Of course,” Anderson agreed. “Privileges never come without a premium. But until we can properly determine which houses are the very best, we should give each the benefit of the doubt and sell them all an advertisement.”
“Indeed!” Lulu snickered. “But it must remain a tasteful little booklet. It would seem déclassé to be too obvious with our motivation.”
“We should have a motto of some sort,” Anderson proposed. “All good, profitable organizations do.”
Lulu lit up. “We should borrow our motto from true royalty. ‘The Order of the Garter’!”
Anderson didn’t often admit if he was stumped—and it wasn’t often that he was—but he gave Lulu a shrug. “Educate me.”
Lulu placed her cigarette in a silver ashtray. “The story goes that King Edward III was dancing at a ball with the Fair Maid of Kent, the most beautiful woman in England, when, God forbid, her garter slid south and made a shocking appearance at her ankle. The court was all a-snicker, but Edward did the unthinkable: he plucked up the garter and placed it around his own leg. Quite chivalrous. Then again, perhaps he liked it. You know those English fops, always prancing about with all their playmates.”
“We call them homosexuals in the Midwest,” Flabacher offered.
“Yes, well, Edward then declared his famous words: Honi soit qui mal y pense, ‘Evil be to him who evil thinks.’ The court was shamed into silence, and the motto became known as—”
Anderson finished her sentence. “The Order of the Garter.”
Over a steak-and-eggs breakfast at his saloon, Anderson presented the booklet copy to Mayor Flower, who read it aloud.
“The names of the residents will be found in this directory, alphabetically arranged, under the headlines ‘White’ and ‘Colored.’” Flower looked to Tom. “Colored? You sure you want to be covering all territory here? Maybe a separate booklet for the colored houses since they’re in a separate area?”
“Nonsense,” Anderson said. “A man should have free will to choose any house he wants, and we’re just listing all the options. Besides, some folks want to be very open-minded.”
“We have laws against too much open-mindedness.”
Anderson looked at him pointedly. “There are some extremely wealthy men of color, you know.”
With a skeptical grimace, Flower continued: “The names in capitals are the landladies.” He chuckled, “Landladies, I like that, Tom.”
When he finished reading, he set the booklet on the checkered-cloth-covered table, then searched through his jacket pocket. “There’s just one final thing,” he said, uncapping his Waterman’s fountain pen. He wrote on the cover in capital letters: THIS BOOK MUST NOT BE MAILED.
Anderson nodded broadly. “That’s why you are the mayor, sir.”
Flower puffed up his chest. “Always abiding by the rules and regulations.”
Anderson nodded. “As someone once said, an honest politician is one who stays bought.” They both chortled.
Flower shoveled down half his plate in two bites. “You think merchants will be open to advertising in the booklet?”
“Yes. Well, eventually. They just need to realize Storyville is the next boomtown. With our own type of gold.”
“How many advertisements y’all sold so far?”
“One,” Tom replied. “To Anderson’s Saloon. Word is the owner’s a very generous fellow.”
In the midst of a freshly cleared field, E. J. Bellocq adjusted his tripod and 8 x 10 camera. His choice of subject matter: a tree stump. The little man looked to the setting sun, waiting for the perfect moment to click the shutter.
“Mighty hot today,” a voice boomed. Leaves crushed under the heft of one Mr. Flabacher, perspiring in the late-day sun.
Bellocq quickly ducked beneath the camera’s black cape in hope of avoiding interruption or, for that matter, any conversation.
Undeterred, Flabacher made his approach. “Hello there, friend. The name’s Sheldon Flabacher,” he announced to the cape. “I inquired at the New Orleans Camera Club and was told I might find you here.”
Silence.
Flabacher followed the line of the camera to the tree stump, then gave a perplexed twist of his mouth. “Doing some ‘field work,’ I see.” He chuckled at his own pun. “Well . . . I hear you are one mighty fine photographer.”
Under the cape, Bellocq remained as still as he could, like a reptile trying to blend into the surroundings.
“Yearbooks,” Flabacher rattled on, “and I understand you even did some stock photographs at the shipyard. That must have been . . . fascinating.” He cleared his throat, at a bit of a loss. “Look, fact is you’re one of five folks in town with a camera, and I need some photographs. It’s for a special promotion, and you seem open to . . .” He glanced to the tree stump. “. . . photographic exploration. So what do you say?”
Bellocq clicked the shutter, and Flabacher took that as a resounding yes. “Grand! I’ve taken the liberty of transcribing the pertinent details.” He removed a card from his shirt pocket. “Sunday afternoon, 235 Basin Street. You’ll be photographing some lovely ladies. The compensation is modest but meaningful.” Awkwardly, he placed the card on top of Bellocq’s cape. Delighted to have you aboard, friend!” He stood there with a dumb grin, waiting for the cape to lift, but there was nothing except stillness, as if the little man had petrified under there. Flabacher’s smile quickly dropped, and with a shrug, he trudged off, dabbing his brow with a handkerchief.
As soon as the labored breathing and heavy-footed clomping faded, Bellocq emerged. He pocketed the card.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Ferdinand angled his way around the crowd of parishioners milling in the aisle, dodging the old ladies yammering about who’d passed on recently, and the younger ladies yammering about someone or other’s new beau, and the men yammering at all the ladies to sit down already, the Lord’s tired of hearing your yat.
As he finally approached the pulpit, Ferd could see Grandmère scolding him under her breath while her hands deftly played a medley of hymns. He slid in next to her on the piano bench and tried to relieve her, but she wasn’t giving up the keys easily.
“Asking too muc
h to praise the Lord on time?” she said through a forced grin.
“Sorry, Grandmère.”
“Where were you this morning when I came to wake you? I couldn’t even tell if your bed was slept in. This about a girl?”
Ferd shook his head. If only she knew that he’d been practicing on Lala’s piano and hadn’t realized night had slipped into morning—she’d have far preferred it be about a girl.
Grandmère finally acquiesced the piano and took her rightful place in the choir. Ferd continued on flawlessly, and as the crowd began to sit they joined the choir in singing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”
Maybe it was his lack of sleep, or maybe just force of habit from composing for the past several hours, but at the end of the song Ferd surprised the congregation—and himself—by finishing with a jaunty, raggedy riff. As his fingers left the keys, he was met with silence, only a nervous cough or two filling the void. He didn’t dare glance to Grandmère, for she was sure to be agape.
And then, from the front pew, a woman called out, “Amen!”
Ferd looked over to see a garishly stunning woman, aglow with diamonds. What, he wondered, was Countess Lulu White doing here?
Throughout the rest of the service, Lulu recited her psalms with the piety of a nun. Whomever coined the phrase “sweating like a whore in church” was certainly not speaking of the Countess.
After the service concluded, Ferd attempted to make his way back down the aisle in the midst of all the reconvened yat, when Lulu put a sparkly hand on his shoulder.
“May I speak with you, Mistah LaMenthe?” she asked.
They stepped back into a pew. “Your playing precedes you,” she said. “I happen to have one of the most gorgeous pianos you’ll ever lay eyes on—and an upcoming party that could use some quality ragtime. I’ve been searching for the best, as they say, professor of the piano. Consider this to have been your audition.”