Chasing the Devil's Tail

by David Fulmer

  There was more to add to the rancor. Around the time of the marriage, one of Nora's distant cousins had whispered to another cousin a rumor of bad blood in the Bolden history, some sort of spirit sickness that went all the way back to Africa and infected the whole lot of them for generations. This cousin repeated what she heard to a neighbor and on and on, until the gossip landed on a Bolden's doorstep. After that, the battle lines were drawn.

  Ida heard the rumor. She believed it then and believed it now. Didn't she see living proof just about every waking day?

  And it had started out so well! Buddy was a musician, a respected vocation around New Orleans. He had been devoted to Nora and the baby and he went to church Sunday mornings and sometimes on Wednesday night. People spoke well of him and he made a good wage for a colored man. But earning a decent living playing for the better class of people and quietly attending to his family just wouldn't do for Mr. Charles Bolden. No, he had something else in mind. So he went about making himself crazy, playing jungle music for drunken niggers and their filthy whores down along Rampart Street, rotting his brain with Raleigh Rye and hot whiskey, using hop and cocaine for all she knew and, of course, running with those lowdown women who would hike their petticoats or go down on their knees for any man with a Liberty quarter in his trousers. Bringing Lord knows what kind of awful gris-gris into her daughter's home. It was a cheap, pitiful tragedy, the worst kind of hoodoo, and God damn Buddy Bolden for visiting it upon her flesh and blood.

  She stopped on the corner and took a breath to calm herself. Peering down the block, she saw there was no crowd around the doorway of 2719, no police wagons in the street. It was quiet. Thank you, Jesus.

  She sighed, pushing her dark thoughts aside. Truth be told, Ida Bass loved her son-in-law. More correctly, she loved the charming, handsome young man who had courted her daughter. The two of them had met at St. John the Fourth. He was a good-hearted fellow; he had been an attentive husband and father. But whatever bad juju had infected the family had caught up with him, too, and made him delirious. There wasn't a hoodoo woman in New Orleans who could fix him; it was too late for that. Ida suspected that Buddy would one day end up dead in some saloon or just go staggering off into his own crazy mind, never to be seen again. Either way, he'd leave his wife a widow and his daughter an orphan.

  The one thing she didn't know, that no one dared tell a doting grandmother, was the talk going round about a suspect in the killings of those sporting girls down in the District. Though more tongues wagged every minute.

  She stepped hesitantly to Nora and Buddy's perron. She lived in mortal fear that one day she would reach that door to find that her lunatic son-in-law had finally gone all the way insane and murdered her daughter and grandbaby in their beds. But Nora appeared at the door, weary and red-eyed, but otherwise fine. And Bernedette giggled happily when she saw her granma'm. She spoiled the child. Ida stepped inside and said, "Is he home?"

  Buddy heard the front door open, heard Nora's quiet voice, heard Ida cooing over her granddaughter. He got up and started to pace, listening to the voices in the other room. They were talking about him, he was sure of that. He saw it in the old woman's eyes every time she came round. How she hated him. And soon enough Nora would hate him, too, and so would his baby Bernedette. Nora's mama would see to that. It was never right between the two families, and the old bitch would fix him good.

  Now the voices dropped down low so he couldn't hear at all. Why did they whisper? He stopped by the door, his eyes wide and ears poised. He could hear the tiniest slide of a valve off a note and he could catch a quarter-tone better than any gutbucket guitar player laying a straight razor to steel strings. So why couldn't he hear their voices?

  He picked up the pitcher off the side table, poured a glass full and drank it in greedy swallows, half the water spilling down the front of his nightshirt. He sat down on the bed and waited. He felt his heart beating. A few minutes passed. Another babble of hushed voices in the front room. Then he heard fingers tapping.

  "Buddy?" Nora opened the door.

  Buddy looked up at her. "What is it? What are you doin' out there?"

  "Mama's fixin' you something to eat."

  He shook his head. "I don't want it."

  Nora stepped into the room and stood over him, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You got to eat," she said. "You'll feel better."

  Buddy stared at his wife, looking for a clue in her dark eyes. He thought he saw something there, a tiny shadow passing over her face. He watched her as she turned away and moved about the room, straightening this and that. She looked nervous. Something was wrong.

  A few minutes later, Ida stepped into the doorway, holding a plate and some silver. She looked at Buddy's drawn face, his skittish eyes, the stubble of rough beard, the stain of dried blood. The close smell in the room made her hold her breath. Under it all was an odor like one of Bernedette's wet diapers. This from a man who used to spend hours fussing with his hair and clothes before he'd take a step outdoors.

  She saw the way Nora stood away from her husband, watching him with a fretful expression and she thought: You best fret, child.

  "Here you are, Buddy." Ida put a soothing tone to her voice as she held out the plate. Buddy shook his head slightly, so she set it down on the night table. "Don't you want to eat something?" She held a fork in her right hand.

  Buddy glanced at the plate, smelled the fried eggs and grits. And something else, something that didn't belong. His eyes flicked; he understood. Ida stood there, holding the fork, tines out, a devil's implement. His eyes fixed on it. The sharp tines glistened and he felt a thrill of fear. He had a sudden urge to let out a wild laugh. They didn't know that he knew.

  Nora said, "Buddy, what's wrong?"

  He rose up, pointing a finger at his mother-in-law. "She's—She's tryin' to—" but the rest of the words wouldn't come.

  Ida rolled her eyes in exasperation. Buddy had come half out of the bed, pointing a shaking finger and stuttering at her like some child throwing a tantrum. She dropped the fork onto the plate. It clattered and made a little spray of grits when it landed. What she wanted to do was call him down right then and there. But she knew that would only make it worse. She shook her head and turned away.

  Buddy caught the look on his mother-in-law's face and saw her mask come away. She was turning for the door, leaving food meant to poison him. He knew. He knew. He knew.

  A sudden bolt ran up his spine, sending a red flash into his brain. His hand swung out and grabbed hold of the handle of the water pitcher. He heard Nora scream as he swung his arm, bringing the pitcher sideways across Ida's head. She shrieked and fell against the wall as the pitcher shattered into a dozen pieces. There was a splatter of crimson over the old woman's hair as she grabbed and held fast to the doorjamb, going down, looking stunned, like she'd been pole-axed. Buddy now stood back, holding the handle of the pitcher, blinking in befuddlement.

  Nora saw the glazed, empty look in Buddy's eyes. She ran to the door and all but dragged her mother out of the bedroom and down the hall.

  Buddy sat down on the bed. He saw the pattern the grits and eggs and blood and water made on the wall and the floor. There were broken shards of ceramic lying about. He knew something was wrong. He wondered what had happened. Then he heard his wife calling out the window for somebody to help, somebody quick get the police. Her voice sounded like a wild horn reaching for some impossible note.

  Quite suddenly, the room was filled with a quiet light as the walls fell away. Something broke and, for the first time in a long time, his head didn't hurt at all. The crushing weight was gone; he was as light as the breeze. He hadn't felt that way since he was a schoolboy.

  He sighed deeply and smiled. It felt like it was over now.

  Picot stood in the doorway to St. Cyr's rooms. The Creole detective was at the window, looking out onto Magazine Street.

  The copper's eyes roamed around, taking in the mess in the room, complete with bloodstains.

&nb
sp; "Look at this," he said. "Look at what he done. Two people in Charity."

  Valentin kept staring out the window. "What do you want, Picot?" he said.

  "I come to tell you there ain't no reason for you to finish the job on Bolden," Picot said. "We got him."

  Valentin turned around. "Seems he come home this morning, actin' all crazy," Picot said. "Tore his own house up. But his wife got him settled, least she thought so." He went on, enjoying the beaten look on St. Cyr's face. "Her mama come over to help out, you know, to make him something to eat. But your friend Bolden, he gets it in his head that the old woman is tryin' to poison him." He laughed bluntly. "You know what he does? He jumps up out of bed, grabs hold of a water pitcher and hits her over the head. Broke the damn thing all to pieces and cut her up pretty good. Some neighbor called a wagon and they came and carried him over to Parish Prison. Again." Picot nodded emphatically. "Now, them detectives, they gonna get a confession outta him, i guarantee."

  Valentin stood motionless as Picot backed out the door. "So, Mr. Detective, you can forget about it. This one's closed up good. And it's about damn time." He walked to the door, stopped and turned around. "Too bad about your sportin' girl and that boy," he said. "Never shoulda got this far. Never shoulda happened." His round shape disappeared down the stairwell.

  Valentin went back to Charity Hospital and sat by Justine's bedside until mid-afternoon, studying her bruised face, swathed all around in white.

  He walked up the stone steps of Parish Prison at four o'clock, stepping out of an afternoon sopping with humidity into the cool stone corridors. He went down two sets of stairs to the detention center and stepped up to a tall desk to state his business to a uniformed copper with sallow skin, an enormous brush mustache and red, wet eyes that swam around Valentin's face.

  Valentin requested permission to visit the prisoner, and when he supplied his name, the desk sergeant muttered raggedly under his breath. He took his time producing a visitor's card from a drawer, tossed it across the desk, and then embarked on a long-winded instruction about prison security that was meant to be insulting. Then he jerked a thumb and watched as Valentin was ushered through the metal door by a police guard, a heavy-set young man with dull eyes and red, tobacco-stuffed cheeks.

  Valentin followed the guard down the row of cells. His escort pointed a finger at the last cell, then stepped back, leaned against the opposite wall and crossed his arms.

  Valentin's gaze roamed the shadows. There was a bed and a bucket, a tiny window up high and a bundle of sticks and rags shoved into the corner. Then the bundle moved and he realized it was Buddy. "Jesus Christ!" He glanced at the guard, who shook his head with rude disgust, as if to say, These lunatic cases—that's what happens.

  Valentin put his hands on the bars. "Buddy," he called softly. There was only the slightest movement from the corner of the cell. "Buddy, it's Tino," he said. For a long moment, there was no response. Then Buddy turned in the general direction of the front of the cell. Valentin was startled by the stark, angled planes of his face, as if the bones beneath were trying to push out through the skin. There was a blank, becalmed, still-water look in his eyes.

  "It's Tino," he repeated. Bolden stared back at him evenly, but with no hint of recognition. Valentin turned to the guard. "Can you let me in there with him?"

  The guard made a self-important show of thinking about it as he worked over his chaw. Then he dropped a hand to his side and came up with a ring of keys. The bolt slid back with a clank that echoed down the corridor. The guard pulled the cell door open.

  Buddy, sitting on the stone floor at the end of the iron bed, watched the visitor step inside with curious eyes.

  "Buddy," Valentin said tentatively. Bolden looked at him but said nothing. "It's Tino. Valentin St. Cyr."

  Buddy nodded vaguely, as if he was being introduced to someone he had met once or twice, but couldn't quite recall. Valentin lowered his voice even more, and Buddy suddenly leaned forward, his eyes wide, almost childlike. "Valentino Saracena. From St. Francis de Sales School."

  Bolden considered the information, then stood up, smiled nervously, bobbed his head one time, and extended a clumsy hand. The two men greeted each other formally. The guard, catching sight of their clasped hands, said, "Hey, now, none of that," and they broke their grip. There was now something impish behind Buddy's eyes, like the two of them were schoolboys once again, caught at some prank.

  "How are you feeling?" Valentin asked him.

  "It's very dark in here," Buddy muttered vacantly.

  "I need you to tell me something," Valentin said. Bolden cocked an eyebrow. "I need you to tell me about Annie Robie."

  A flicker of recognition crossed his features. "I knew her, yessir," he said. "She's dead now."

  Valentin stole a glance at the guard, who was now staring at the wall at the end of the corridor as if Holy Scripture was carved there. He turned back to Buddy. "She's dead, that's right," he said. "And so is Gran Tillman. And Martha Devereaux."

  "And Jennie ... Jennie ... uh..." Bolden said.

  "Hix," Valentin said. "Hix."

  "And Florence Mantley."

  Bolden nodded sagely. "Yes. She flew out the window."

  "That's right," Valentin said. His voice was getting thick. "And then there were some people attacked. A woman named Justine Mancarre. The kid they call Beansoup. And your mother-in-law."

  Buddy was watching Valentin steadily, nodding, but with no sign of understanding in his dark eyes. Those names didn't mean anything to him.

  "You know why you're in here?" Valentin asked him.

  There was a long moment's silence, and then, in a normal voice Bolden said, "Oh, yes, because it was me that did that. I did it to all of them."

  Valentin felt a sudden, icy chill. "You did what?" he whispered. On the edge of his vision, he saw the guard waking up, moving closer to the cell door.

  Bolden turned his face to the patch of light cast by the tiny window. "i killed them women," he repeated loudly, to no one in particular. As Valentin gaped, the guard looked frantically around for help. "All those poor girls ... and that madam." He began talking faster, as his eyes flicked crazily about the cell. "Yes! Yes! All them sports and them pimps and gamblers, too. All them fellows in the band. i killed them all! i killed them all! Everybody's dead!" His voice had gone up a half-octave. Down the cellblock, the other prisoners shouted for him to shut up. Buddy's gaze was piercing as he turned to point a finger at Valentin. "You're dead," he announced. He looked at the guard. "And you're dead." Abruptly, his legs folded and he collapsed onto the bunk. His voice grew somber. "Nora's dead. Her mama's dead. And my little baby Bernedette." He drew in a deep, trembling breath. "And me. I'm the deadest one of all. Everybody's dead now. Everybody. Dead ... dead ... dead."

  Valentin put a hand on the bars to steady himself. The guard snorted loudly, folded his arms and leaned against the wall once more, his jaw moving in slow circles. Buddy folded into himself like a flower in the dark of night. A slow minute passed.

  "I'm going to go now," Valentin said.

  The man on the bunk glanced up and for a brief instant, his eyes cleared and his face softened. The tiniest inkling of a smile lit up his features as he raised a hand in farewell. "Good-bye, fellow," he murmured.

  Valentin gestured to the guard. The door was opened and he stepped into the corridor and walked away. The guard spit a languid stream of dirty red-brown on the floor as he swung his keys up to lock the cell. The bolt sliding back into place sounded like a blow from a hammer.

  At the City Attorney's office, he learned that Charles Bolden's criminal hearing was scheduled for Thursday, June the 4th. At that time, he was informed, it would be determined if there was evidence to bind the accused over for the assault on his mother-in-law. It would also be determined if there was sufficient evidence to hold the accused for the murder of one or more lewd and abandoned women in the District of New Orleans commonly known as Storyville.

  As he stepped onto the
banquette, he heard the rattling cough of an automobile engine coming along Royal Street. The motorcar pulled up, wheels sloshing in the filthy gutter. The two toughs sat like twin blocks of stone in the front seat of Anderson's yellow Winton, eyeing him coldly. The one in the shotgun seat reached around and opened the rear door. Valentin got in.

  Anderson was sitting at his usual table, dressed in a light-gray three-piece suit, a long, gold watch chain across his paunch. As the Creole detective approached, he motioned for him to take the opposite chair. Ceiling fans whispered overhead.

  "You spoke to Mr. Bolden?" the white man asked directly.

  "I visited him," Valentin said, marveling at how fast the news had traveled.

  The King of Storyville said, "And now do you believe he committed those murders?"

  Valentin shook his head.

  "What about the attack on your young lady and the boy?"

  Valentin said nothing.

  "And his mother-in-law?"

  "That one, yes," he conceded.

  "But you think he's innocent of the rest of it." Anderson's tone was curious, as if he was edifying himself on some arcane subject of interest.

  Valentin knew he wasn't going to sway the man, but he went ahead and spoke up anyway. "I think he made himself a convenient suspect, is all. Someone to pin those crimes on."

  Anderson pondered for a moment. "So the killer is still on the loose."

  "Yes."

  "What are you going to do about it?"

  "Try to run him to ground."

  "And if that's against my wishes?"

  "I'm not in your employ, sir. I believe that allows me—"

  "Allows you?" Anderson barked, and rapped his fist on the table. "You are allowed to do what I say! Are you forgetting who's in charge here? Have you lost your mind now? You go against me, and I'll make your life a misery, friend!"