“Shut my mouth,” said Dick. “Shut it to the ground.”
Hundreds of souls were inside—men, women, child gentlemen and child ladies—dancing and hollering, or at least doing their best guess at how dancing and hollering should look.
“They don’t seem scared of any Axman to me,” said Isadore.
He couldn’t see the musicians’ faces clearly across the cathedral but he did notice that the cornet player had a white bath towel hanging around his neck, in the King Oliver style. Only one player in town dared to imitate Oliver so blatantly.
“Can you make out who’s playing?” asked Dick.
“I’ll be damned.”
“Don’t tell me. Dippermouth’s crew?”
“I won’t tell you.”
“Shit. How much you think they got?”
“Seventy? Maybe eighty.”
“Praise the Axman!”
Isadore cussed. The band swung into “High Society.”
The fire spread down the avenue. On nearly every block music poured from the windows of the millionaire palaces, music that the residents of those palaces until that night would have called degenerate, a manifestation of what the Times-Picayune called “a low streak in man’s tastes that has not yet come out in civilization’s wash.” Bailey was right. Fear had broken the levee.
They cut into the Garden District at Second Street and it was the same. In the picture window of a mansion on Prytania he spotted Buddie Petit’s band. Through an open door he spied a trio of white musicians in blackface. In a backyard garden a sextet was made up of kids Isadore had seen busking outside the Funky Butt, the youngest still in short pants, while the partygoers had colored their faces with charcoal. They drunkenly yelled nonsense such as “Jazz it up!” and “I’ll be jinks swing!” and “You’re telling I!” It was grotesque, wrong, disgusting. Still the music was playing everywhere.
“We must’ve been the first band to stop playing tonight,” said Sore Dick. “We should’ve hung on for another session.”
A man in blackface shouted from the terrace of a mansion on Coliseum. “Y’all musicians?”
They froze.
“You there!”
“Yes, sir,” said Isadore. “We’re musicians.”
“You play the hot stuff?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How about you boys jazz it with us then? A couple of dollars in it for you.”
“Yes, sir!” said Sore Dick, but he held up short when he saw Isadore’s face.
“Go ahead. But I’m not playing for a bunch of foons at this hour.”
“I have no place to be.”
“Suit yourself.”
“It’s not bad, Izzy, all these folks loving hot music. No matter how it came about.”
Isadore continued downtown past an endless procession of jazz parties—the music bursting drunkenly out of mansions and town houses and later, as he passed Jackson Street, cottages and run-down shacks. It was a cool night, but the windows were left open to the street so as not to leave any doubt about what music was being played, even though the Axman’s witching hour had passed. Where there wasn’t a band, a man was playing a horn or a guitar, a record was rotating on a Victor, or a family was singing a cappella. Dick was right. Isn’t this what Isadore wanted? It didn’t matter that the people discovered the music because of a letter from the Axman. Especially since he was the Axman.
Still, he couldn’t enjoy it. Not because Dippermouth Armstrong and apparently every other halfway competent musician in New Orleans had reaped high-paying gigs from his gambit—many probably paying higher than his. Nor because he was sick of having to appeal to bigots who didn’t know the difference between rag and swing, treasure and trash. He didn’t mind not getting credit either. All these things bit at him, sure, but they just nibbled around the main problem. Yes, he wanted people to learn the music and embrace it, but he had come about it the wrong way. He had taken a shortcut. It was as if he had altered the flow of history, diverting the river, forcing what should have been a slow serpentine meander into a rigid shortcut: a canal. The water had flowed too fast, down an unnatural channel, over dark territories. It was bad water now. When he drank it in, the music that cascaded from every home he passed, it gave him a stomachache. It made him sick.
Canal Street was a pandemonium. He felt the gravitational pull as he crossed the old district, pedestrians streaming toward the electric marquees of the movie houses and honky-tonks, but he wasn’t prepared for what opened in front of him. A dense confusion of brass and percussion and tinkling piano keys clouded the air and crowds spilled from every bar and tonk. A barker sold sandwiches off the back of a wagon, others sold beer and slugs of whiskey, and freelance musicians weaved through the boulevard, blowing horns and banging drums, a dozen spontaneous second lines marching and dividing and merging. A streetcar, engulfed by the crowd, stalled, and its passengers sang and jumped. And Isadore let his mind jump and sing. What if this was not a passing delirium, the convulsions of a city panicked by a masked maniac—and a great plague, the impending prohibition of liquor, the trauma of a global war—what if this was a revelation?
The old hot players had left town because conditions were better in the North: better wages, easier living, black and tan clubs. But it was also true that the music was beloved in those places. White people and Negroes both packed any show that billed New Orleans jazz. It stood to reason the same would ultimately happen in New Orleans. The only thing holding back the new music was old attitudes. Perhaps the Axman’s letter really had broken those attitudes. It wasn’t the story Isadore had always told himself, about his music showing a new way forward, converting the heathens with his gospel. But if enough people decided they wanted this music, here was a real opportunity. A city hungry for the new music would require a roster of regular players to fill not only every tonk but every hotel lounge, nightclub, and society hall down the line. It would require specialists. It would require maestros. It would require innovators to keep the music expanding and surprising.
The field was open. King Bolden abdicated when he went mad. His successor, King Watzke, was dead, a victim of the Spanish sick. Watzke’s heir, King Keppard, was deposed by King Oliver, and both had escaped North. The kingdom was vulnerable for the taking: the ramparts undefended, the moat dried up. If the mania lasted beyond one night, Isadore would have as good a chance as anyone to inherit the throne. He had his army now, didn’t he? His hungry listeners? A whole city was prepared to hear his cornet wail, growl, and yell. He could almost hear it, his cornet ringing through the streets, shouting, Zeno is king, Zeno is king, ZENO IS KING.
He was feeling pretty good by the time he turned onto Liberty. Even here the music was playing, calling him home. But Miss Daisy’s house was quiet. Though it seemed unnecessary, the streets as loud as they were, Isadore made certain, as he entered, not to let the door slam behind him. The room smelled of sleep and baby powder. Daisy was snoring. Gently Isadore slid his cornet case beneath the bed, careful not to let it knock against the frame. He eased off his pants, pulled up the blanket, and sidled beside Orly. It took about one second to know that she was awake: he couldn’t hear the regular, heavy inhalations that marked her sleep. Nerves: she had been glad for his gig, particularly when she heard how much the Van Benthuysens were offering, but worried about the circumstances. He had done everything to dispel her anxiety short of saying that he had written the damn letter himself; as an extra precaution, he had not even brought the envelope to the post office himself but had left it with Sis Pinky to send with her mail.
“The baby keeping you up?” he whispered. The darkness was thinning but he couldn’t quite make out her features.
She placed her arm around his waist. He inched closer to her, until her full stomach pressed against his. “I was afraid.”
He rubbed her head. “That Axman thing was a joke. Probably a prank.”
“You got home all right?”
“You wouldn’t believe it. The whole city’s gon
e insane. Just about every mansion on St. Charles had a band. The Garden District, downtown, even the big hotels—a circus.”
She didn’t respond. The darkness cleared some more. He saw that she was crying.
“Baby, what is it? All this worry about the Axman?”
Her voice hitched. “A man came tonight.”
“What man?”
“A white man.”
“Here?”
“Shh. You’ll wake Mama.”
“What’d he want?”
She shook her head. “He was talking wild. Talking about you played a dirty trick.”
“A white man came here to say that to you?”
“Did you play a trick on somebody?”
He forced himself to breathe. “How did he look?”
“Like a giant. Bigger than big. Squashed nose. He had angry eyes.”
“What do you mean angry?”
“Small. Spread apart. Always focusing in on you. Narrowing you down.” She flinched at the memory. “How’d you come to know a man like that, Izzy?”
“I don’t know any man fits that description. He probably was just a crazy person. He didn’t try anything with you?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
She shook her head. “He knew your name.”
“The man said my name?” The fear declared itself. It started in his chest but he knew it wouldn’t stop there.
“Said he wanted Isadore Zeno.”
“What else did he say?”
“Oh, Izzy, what’s happening?”
At Orly’s raised voice, Miss Daisy’s snore rumbled louder; they paused, and it hitched back into its rhythm.
“He said he came from Tartarus.” She looked a bit confused. “Where’s that—on the north bank? Out by Abita Springs?”
The fear dropped into his bowels. It radiated down his leg. It wrapped cold, tapering fingers around his heart. It whispered from inside his brain.
“It’s south of here.”
“What, like Gretna?”
He had a manic urge to laugh. But if he started, he knew the laughter would turn into a different animal altogether, and he didn’t know what it might devour.
“Uh-huh, baby,” he said. “It’s a bit past Gretna.”
MARCH 20, 1919—CENTRAL BUSINESS DISTRICT—THE GARDEN DISTRICT
She ordered Raymond to take her to Hibernia Bank. She couldn’t help herself. Denzler’s secretary explained that he was in a meeting of the board. Over the secretary’s protests she burst into the conference room. A dozen men sat around an oval table, their hats in their laps. They wore black mourning suits. Denzler sat at the head, facing the double doors.
He glanced up sharply. “That’s fine, Miss Kernaghan. I’m glad you can join us, Mrs. Vizzini.” As if he had invited her. His poise unnerved her.
“Mr. Denzler.” It came out like a shriek. She took a breath and tried again. “Gentlemen, please forgive me. Mr. Denzler, may I speak with you alone?”
“Absolutely not. I want my colleagues to hear everything you have to say.”
“Please let me begin,” she said, “by conveying what deep sorrow I feel for the loss of your nephew. Mr. Davenport was a brilliant, compassionate man with a promising career before him.”
Denzler bared his teeth.
“I cannot imagine how horrible it must be to lose a young family member, a person on whom you rely. A man you hoped to inherit the family’s legacy. I think, for instance, of my own son, Giorgio.”
Denzler slammed his fist on the table. One of the vice presidents’ water glasses overturned, but the man made no effort to dam the rivulet flowing onto his leg.
“I’m sorry,” she said, to buy time. The matter was becoming exceedingly delicate. No false moves now. “I did not mean—”
“Giorgio.” Denzler’s jaw stiffened. “We suspect that your son is the problem.”
“The problem,” she echoed. “The problem with the work delays?”
“We will be conducting our own investigation.”
“Giorgio hasn’t worked at the site since last summer.”
“We are investigating everything. Privately.”
“I don’t like your insinuation.”
The heads of the bankers turned between the antagonists as if watching a tennis rally from the grandstand. Beatrice glanced down at her fingers, at the gold rings that encircled them, and recomposed herself.
“You can no sooner fire us than we can fire you,” she said. “You may recall that Hibernia Bank and Hercules Construction entered jointly into a contract with the city.”
“Murder wasn’t part of the contract.”
It was as bad as she had feared. The ground beneath her turned to mud, sucking her down, and she could hear the sound of mechanical teeth biting, chomping, grinding. “I won’t stand for this kind of talk.”
“Then leave at once.”
What else could she do? She left.
* * *
Lizzie had left in the bathroom the bronze tray containing the ingredients for the immortality bath. Beatrice drew the water from the tap and emptied into the tub the finger bowls of pressed garlic, saffron, zedoary, cardamom, anise. The spiced steam began to rise, carrying her anxieties with it. Once Denzler reflected on the situation, he would come to his senses. He could not possibly raise suspicions about Giorgio to one of his police or journalist friends, could not risk revealing that Hibernia Bank had entered into a criminal conspiracy with Hercules Construction. Still it had been his insistence on a single contractor—an insistence inspired by his private agreement with Beatrice—that secured Hercules’s exclusive control of the project. He could undo everything, especially if financial profitability was no longer his highest priority.
She sprinkled several drops of grain alcohol into the bath and submerged the cup of olive oil. She had entered into a tacit contract with Giorgio: she would protect him and pardon his sins of overaggression while he mastered the family business in preparation for assuming leadership of it. But Giorgio had signed the contract in invisible ink. His solicitousness—the fawning-son business—was an act. Perhaps he had been acting for years. For all of Hugs Davenport’s meddling and condescension, his death was the worst thing that could have befallen Hercules. She wondered if that was Giorgio’s strategy after all: to destroy what she had built. If someone stood in your way, you had the right to remove that person. Did he believe his own mother stood in his way?
Some men purchased their own deaths with cruelty, meanness, or profligate carelessness—men like Salvatore. But what had those grocers done to offend Giorgio? Were they merely late on payments? Strategic violence, she could understand. But she could not forgive intemperance. She could not forgive him for killing Hugs and she could not forgive him for killing poor Rosalba Bucca. It was as if he had become drunk on the blood of his victims. What explained the manner of assault if not a profound thirst for gore? Even a bear killed for sustenance, only when necessary. Giorgio had plenty of access to pistols. Yet there persisted this grim reliance on the ax.
The bath was drawn but something was missing. Everything was missing. She could try to persuade Denzler against hiring new contractors; she could hope for his temper to subside. But she knew she was powerless to change his mind. If he couldn’t have Giorgio arrested without risking his own interests, he would do the next best thing. He would destroy Beatrice Vizzini.
She eased herself into the hot water and, closing her eyes, tried to organize her thoughts. It had been a long time since she had been able to think with clarity or precision—not since September, when she had thought to place Giorgio in Rosie Bucca’s care. Perhaps, given Rosie’s fate, she had not been thinking clearly then either. No, she’d have to go back further, to the evening last July when she deduced that Giorgio might know something about the Besemer ax attack.
No one could escape detection forever. Certainly not a man who killed so unnecessarily. Even if self-interest silenced Denzler, someone would put it together—a
journalist, a detective, a city bureaucrat. Beatrice would be dragged into the public glare. It would be worse for her now: after her delusional Operation Ritz Palace experiment, she was not merely the mother of the killer. She was his accomplice. The vultures would peck through the canal project and the family’s ancillary businesses, legal and shadow alike. They would review, with greater scrutiny, the sudden, mysterious death of Sal Vizzini. They would talk about Giorgio, the mad Axman, a cartoonish ghoul and maniac, as they still spoke about Jack the Ripper nearly three decades after his brief, violent career. Giorgio would seize the immortality that Beatrice had cultivated for herself—a sick, shameful immortality it would be, but an immortality nonetheless. The Vizzini name, if not forgotten, would become a blasphemy.
The bath was not working. Her blood was not circulating properly, her pores remained clogged, and her muscles, untreated by osteopathy for so many months, refused to expel their accumulated poisons. The water didn’t feel right. It did not soothe. It burned. She was bathing in a pool of fire.
She stood but that was even more disagreeable, her brown, puckered skin smarting in the cold air. Lunging for the bathrobe, she nearly tripped over the lip of the bathtub. She saw her skull colliding with the ceramic sink counter, making her go limp, her body collapsing on the floor, the water and blood gathering into pink pools around the tub’s claw feet. With cautious, birdlike movements she wrapped herself in the robe. The bath tray presented itself for scrutiny. Though there were normally six finger bowls, she counted five. From residual flakes and motes she could pick out the zedoary, anise, cardamom, saffron. The last she smelled—garlic. That left what? She went over the recipe in her head.
Blue gentian! Lizzie had forgotten it. Or omitted it purposefully. No wonder the bath had been such a disappointment. Gentian root was a tonic, anthelmintic, and stomachic, promoting digestion, purifying the spleen, dispelling dyspepsia, and counterbalancing the inner poisons. No wonder she felt the way she did. No wonder she felt as if worms were burrowing through her brain, eating her thoughts, squirming deep into the flesh of her heart. No wonder she felt as if her heart were tearing apart.
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