by Lynn Shurr
“Oh, I’d like a Manhattan, please,” Roz answered. Zorro grinned.
“We got gin. The whiskey ran out about an hour ago. You want it on the rocks, with tonic or straight?”
“Lovely Senorita, I don’t suppose you would have a bottle of fine wine anywhere on the premises?” Zorro asked.
The waitress scratched her head with the tip of the pencil. “Might have a bottle of Granny’s cherry bounce under the counter.”
“Excelente. Bring that and two clean glasses.”
“Your poison.” The waitress shrugged and gyrated among the tables to get their order.
“It is unwise to drink the gin in this cantina, gypsy lady, though the whiskey would have been safe,” the bandit shouted over the racket of the band. In the heat of the small, crowded room, he removed his cape and hung his sword on the back of the chair, but did not unmask.
As it turned out, Granny’s cherry bounce, served in a dark bottle with a cork stuck in its top, provided a very nice buzz by the time they reached its bottom. Roz motioned to a rear door that was being opened and closed often enough to let in bursts of sunlight and let out some of the smoke. “What’s in the back?”
“Ah, a courtyard, some rooms, a necessary, and a way out if the place is raided.”
“Well, I could use some fresh air and the necessary.”
He held her chair in gentlemanly fashion and broke a way through the crowded tables to the rear door. They exited into a surprisingly pleasant courtyard with a small fountain in its center and clumps of banana trees sprouting in its corners. A rear gate leading to an alley, rows of small numbered rooms on either side, and a privy off to the right surrounded by lush foliage ringed the space. Roz floated in the direction of the outhouse. “I won’t be long, caballero. Don’t leave.”
When she returned, greatly relieved, her Spanish gentleman was talking to a mulatto woman who held a bundle of dirty laundry in her hands. As Roz crossed the courtyard, a costumed couple, still giggling with drink, emerged from one of the rooms and went back into the speakeasy.
“Doing a good business today, Anna-Marie?” she heard her masked man ask.
“No rest for the wicked, Doctor Pierre. Eh, you want a room? I won’t tell JoJo. He don’t count the sheets I wash. Lucky number seven, she’s all made up and ready to go. I got the key right here. Some lagnaippe for taking care of my girl when she got the clap.” The yellow woman tossed her load of soiled linens into a basket and took a set of fresh sheets from a pile stacked on one of the bar’s bentwood chairs. Draping her burden over one arm, she fished in her apron for the key and dangled it before him.
“Not today, Senora, but you have my thanks.”
“Yes,” said Roz as she came up behind him. “Yes, we want the key.”
She stroked the dark hair at the nape of his neck and recognized the same small shiver she had gotten out of him on the balcony of the Yacht Club.
“Ah, you should take the room. It’s Mardi Gras, and who knows when you will have another chance with the gypsy lady, eh?” Anna-Marie said, still dangling temptation.
“You’re sure? You must be sure,” he said to Roz so seriously, his breath hot against her cheek.
She took the key for him and led the way to number seven. In the small, dim room, the only light came through the open transom over the door. The floor was cool linoleum, and someone had thrust a stalk of narcissus with a scent as strong as sex into the neck of a green bottle centered on a small table. He pulled a cord, and a naked lightbulb burned overhead. A single chair stood handy to hold discarded clothes. The sheets on the double bed smelled clean and were crisp to the touch.
Roz reached up to untie his mask, but he stopped her hand. “No. If we unmask, I must take you home, as I should.”
“The girl you know is at home with a hot water bottle on her belly. Forget her, and be with me, Senor.”
He placed his lips on hers and drew the red silk blouse down low on her white arms. He kissed her neck and moved across the top of her breasts with his lips, the feel of his moustache on her skin arousing. Urgently, Roz struggled free of the sleeves of the blouse. He pulled the silk to her waist and suckled each of her nipples in turn. With his hands, he rubbed them lightly until her knees buckled against the edge of the bed with its ironed sheets.
Roz reached up to open the black shirt and move her hands over the dark hair covering his chest and ran in a line down his taut belly. It felt as smooth and soft as his mustache. She unbuttoned the top of his pants.
“Not yet.” He stopped her. Tossing her ruffled skirt to her waist, he raised her hips and removed the silly pantaloons. Bending, he kissed her inner thighs above the rolls of her dark stockings. His mustache tickled as he drew closer to her center and kissed her there. He used his tongue to turn the heat gathering low in her body into flame. Roz tossed and arched.
He came up to meet her mouth, and she could taste herself on his lips and the hair of his mustache. He said against her cheek once more, “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Please. Just don’t leave me with a baby.”
He nodded against her shoulder. Roz fumbled with the rest of his buttons, and when he sprang free, she shoved up with her hips and urged him inside her with both hands on his buttocks. He entered partway and teased her with small, shallow thrusts until she raked his back with the long nails she had lacquered red the night before.
He pulled back and surged forward until she was full and in discomfort, until he moved again, faster and without stopping. The fire roared inside her and burst into a shower of sparks she felt all the way to the tips of her toes and fingers. He moved even faster, and the sparks flew until suddenly, he left her and turned aside. Against her hip, the sheets became warm and wet with his seed. He rested with his head between her breasts.
“Pierre, I—”
“Only El Zorro is here. He robs from the rich.” Roz heard his bitter laugh against her chest. “You must understand, mi corazon, at midnight we repent and wear our ashes. There is no future for a bandit and his gypsy girl.”
She wouldn’t cry. He had given her exactly what she wanted, but nothing more. Roz drew up her blouse, and when he rose, she lowered her ruffled skirt and found her pantaloons on the floor. She patted her head and found the wig and mask still in place. Shaking a little, she picked up the Spanish shawl that had fallen to the floor, wrapped herself tightly, and moved toward the door.
“Let me take you back to Esplanade,” he said.
“No. I’ll go alone.”
Roz left by the alley, following it until she reached a major street. When she glanced back, she saw El Zorro had retrieved his cape and sword and stalked not far behind. She merged with the revelers and walked toward home, her Mardi Gras over well before midnight. When she passed into the alley behind her parents’ mansion and slipped through the gate into the dependency, he remained behind her, seeing her safely home.
She changed back into her nightgown, and back into Rosamond St. Rochelle, Queen of the Krewe of Hercules. When her family returned, she was freshly washed and dressing for the bal masque of Rex.
Chapter Six
The Lenten season had begun in the St. Rochelle mansion. To the cook, it meant shopping the stalls for a glorious variety of seafood fresh from the Gulf, rather than purchasing the roast of beef or thick chops of pork. To Roxie, Lent meant no sweet rolls for breakfast or candy treats. To her mother’s mah-jongg club, it meant that refreshments would consist of thin-sliced cucumber sandwiches or fat dumplings from one of the Chinese restaurants in town, not tiny petits four cakes, to go with their green tea. For Laurence St. Rochelle, Lent meant drinking much more discreetly, and for his child, Rosamond, it meant accepting the inevitable course her life would take.
Rosamond confessed to an indiscretion on Mardi Gras, had been given absolution, and wore her ashes all of Wednesday. The days ahead looked just as gray as the smudge on her forehead. As if she possessed the gift of self-prophecy, Roz had real cramps and her monthlies by Thursd
ay. She stayed in bed until Sunday when her mother demanded she recover enough for Mass and dinner because Mr. Boylan would be joining them.
During the open dancing at the Rex ball, Roz had let Buster monopolize every set. A glare from Burke discouraged cutting in from any of the other boys, who went to dance with young women not yet taken. Of course, Mr. Boylan was coming for Sunday dinner. He and Rosamond were accepted as a couple now. Papa would thump Burke’s back in greeting and take him to the smoking room for a cigar and a nip after dining. She was glad she’d made Papa so happy if not herself.
Uncle Gilbert joined them for the meal. Roz asked if he had been able to enjoy Mardi Gras. “No,” he replied. He could not face his dear Harriet’s favorite day without her. He had stayed at the hospital and given the day off to young Landry.
“And did Dr. Landry have a good carnival celebration?”
“I should say so. He asked me to dress some rather deep scratches on his back when he returned, and I don’t believe he got them in a fight. He’s a fine doctor, but you understand, Rosamond, he’s not our kind. Your parents want the best for you, the very best.”
“Oh, I’m full to the brim with understanding, Uncle.”
“Don’t look so glum. Your nineteenth birthday is only a week away, and I believe there will be cake and a party, Lent or no Lent. I know your father and Burke are concocting some sort of surprise. I believe it might involve something on the racy side. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Racy, sure. I can tell you I am sick to death of being Goody Two-Shoes.”
Uncle Gilbert looked around to make sure her mama was elsewhere. “Next Friday night, Burke is going to fight an exhibition match at Holland House against one of the Italian lightweight contenders. We’ve arranged for you to view the match from a discreet spot on the balcony. If you want, I’ll even place a bet for you in the back room. Don’t pretend you aren’t interested. I can see a light in your eyes. Don’t let on I’ve told you.”
“Oh, Uncle Gil, I’m the best at keeping secrets.”
****
When Friday night arrived, Laurence and Gilbert announced they were taking the birthday girl for dinner at the Holland House, but no one else was invited. Burke would meet them. He and Roz could dance to the band afterwards.
“As if I would intrude. They have those dreadful boxing matches on Friday nights. You will keep Rosamond apart from that crowd, Laurence,” her mother said, her dark eyes full of disapproval.
“Absolutely, my dear,” her husband replied, and the two men, snickering like small boys, put Roz in the touring car and tooled off to the environs of City Park.
A mass of men already swarmed about the temporary ring. A handful of women in gaudy dresses hung on to the arms of big bettors, and small boys ran their selections to Beansy Fauria in the back room. As an amateur and unknown, Burke “Buster” Boylan would fight first against Kid Pesci, the Italian boy from the French Market. Pesci was a lightweight and known to be lightning quick. Bets were on him for the most part, except for the desperate hoping for a long shot and a big payoff.
Roz sat behind the louvered section of the balcony. She wasn’t alone. Some respectable wives sat with her, keeping an eye on their spouses below. A rowdy group of heavily painted females, possibly prostitutes, sat out in the open area. Both groups ignored the others as if a physical wall stood between them.
Buster and the Kid entered the ring from opposite corners. Clearly, Buster was no lightweight. Slipping out of his robe, he flexed the heavy muscles of his biceps and stretched on the ropes. Every wave of his blond hair sat in place, and his chest was as naked as if he had shaved it. Across from him, the Italian kid jogged and jabbed, warming his muscles.
One of the whores leaned over the balcony and called out to Burke. “Oh pretty boy, you send up a note to Flora if you want your boo-boos kissed afterwards.”
Burke looked her way and grinned.
“Oooh, he’s got killer eyes,” Flora told her companions. “Let’s see what you can do with those great big muscles, Killer.”
The referee announced the rules. The bell rang. The Kid came out fast pummeling Buster with light punches. Burke absorbed the blows as if they were nothing and kept his guard up. Then, he swung wide and hard, and the Kid got in a quick hit to the face that split a lip. Buster roared and put in a punch just below the belt, hiding it from the referee with the bulk of his body. A few men on the far side of the ring booed, but no one seemed too disturbed. Round One ended.
In Burke’s corner, Artie Delamare offered a water bottle and a cloth to blot Buster’s lip. The second round went much the same with the Kid dancing and jabbing, and Buster going for the big knockout. He glanced a blow off the side of the Kid’s face and sent a trickle of blood dribbling from Pesci’s nose. By the end of Round Two, the heavier man was clearly tiring while the Kid still looked fresh.
Round Three began. The air stank with the odor of sweat and blood that reminded Roz of the bullfights she and Aunt Harriet had seen in Madrid. She found herself up off her chair and rooting for Buster. The whores, all except Flora, cheered for the Kid. “Hit him, hit him. Knock ’im out.”
The fighters went into a clinch. Buster whispered something to his opponent, a reminder that the wop had been paid well to take a dive in the third. This was only an exhibition match. Who cared, really, with the payoff bigger than the prize? Still, the Kid danced and jabbed. Buster’s face grew red with anger and exertion while the Kid grinned and led him around the ring like a bear with a ring in his nose. Then, a feint, a slip on the sweat-soaked canvas, and the Kid’s arms opened wide. Buster drew back and smashed a gloved fist into the wop’s jaw. The Kid flopped on the mat like a freshly caught mackerel and lay still. Buster drew back a foot as if he were about to kick Pesci in the ribs, but the referee pulled him to the center of the ring, grabbed Burke’s arms and raised them over his head in the traditional pose of victory.
Bettors groaned over their losses and put down more money on the next bout. Artie Delamare went to stuff his winnings in his pants pocket. Rosamond St. Rochelle raced down the staircase and found Buster, still gloved and wearing a robe over his shoulders, in the hallway. She rose on her toes and kissed him on the lips, taking in the salty taste of sweat and blood. Burke engulfed her with both arms, smashing Rosamond tight against his slick chest.
This could work out, she thought. Buster was dangerous and unpredictable, not as dull and stuffy as most men of her class. He could be taught to be more subtle in making love, less bearish and clumsy. If she had to marry as her parents wished, might as well be Burke. Papa would be so pleased.
“Now, now, your mother would say you are creating a scene, Rosamond. Let the man clean up and dress. Burke, I’d be pleased to buy you the biggest steak they’ve got and a shrimp cocktail for starters. I won enough on you to pay for the meal.” Laurence clapped Buster on the shoulder and led Rosamond away.
Burke heard her saying, “I’d like a Manhattan, Papa.” Sure, tonight she could have one. In the years ahead, he would cure Rosamond of sluttish habits so her behavior matched her Madonna-like beauty. Her old man had been right. Show Rosie the goods she’d be getting, and all her indifference would fade. College girls liked a display of the manly arts. So did whores.
****
Saturday afternoon was a different matter. Pastel streamers hung from the dining room chandelier and a big frosted cake with pink sugar roses cascading down its sides sat on the table. Madame St. Rochelle had invited the girls of Rosamond’s court to attend the party as well as some of her bluestocking friends from Newcomb. Burke and Artie brought their fraternity brothers from Tulane, and of course, all the family was invited to celebrate Rosamond’s nineteenth birthday soiree.
Madame St. Rochelle rejoiced that she had engaged the snowball man to set up in front of the house. For the last week in March, the weather had turned unseasonably hot. Waiting for the old colored man to shave the ice from his block and pour on the flavoring of choice kept the sm
aller children outside with their sticky treats. Inside, the ice melted in the bowls of chilled shrimp and had to be replenished. She fretted that the chicken salad sandwiches might turn, but everyone seemed to be having a lovely time.
Odette and Odile continually refilled glasses with lemonade and cold, sweet tea. The men took their drinks into the smoking room and came out looking happier. There was an instance when Madame spied Hazel DuLac, one of the maids of the court, taking a small flask from her garter and spiking the beverages of all the girls sitting with her on the front gallery, Rosamond included. She would have to speak to Hazel’s mother, but for the moment, all the guests appeared very gay and lively.
Emmaline St. Rochelle called to her daughter to come cut the cake and begin opening a small mountain of presents. Rosamond, looking rosy in a many layered pink silk crepe frock and a long string of pearls, exclaimed over the scarves and artificial flowers her friends gave her to accessorize her dresses. The girls from Newcomb had gone in together for a large box of art supplies. Papa got a kiss for the new wristwatch and Mama a hug for the diamond bar pin to be used to keep her bodice closed.
Of course, one tasteless joker slipped in a silver flask engraved with “Roz.” Madame suspected that dreadful Artie Delamare, and she wasn’t pleased when her daughter turned her back, slipped the flask in her garter, and asked if anyone could tell she wore it. Buster, who stood very nearby, frowned. Emmaline St. Rochelle said a silent prayer that nothing would make the young man change his mind at the last minute. But no, Burke Boylan called for everyone’s attention. He had one last gift to present.
Taking Rosamond’s hand and flipping open a ring box with his other, he asked, “Dearest Rosie, will you be my wife?”
For a moment, Roz looked stunned, then stared desperately over the gathering of friends to the doorway as if she expected a dark, caped stranger to come rushing in to carry her away. Artie said later when he razzed Buster about giving up his freedom that his intended had been looking for an escape route. The comment earned him a cuff on the jaw that left a bruise.