“You know, to get the unanimous decision, Chief Justice Warren had to agree to the infamous language of having integration ‘with all deliberate speed.’ What was that? How can speed be deliberate? If the decision was a watershed, the language was a dam against change. Brown came out in 1954, and here it was 1961, and the schools still weren’t integrated, and the transportation system still was segregated.
“That’s why I had gone on the Freedom Ride. I believed it was the dawn of a new time in the country. We had a new young president, and JFK had inspired all of us in college. ‘Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.’ We believed him. I had done something for my country with the Freedom Ride, and now I was doing something for grandfather. And for myself.
“So, I steered that big Oldsmobile to the right and headed down the dirt road for Cottoncrest. You could see it in the distance across the fields. It was a narrow dirt road in those days, not the fine paved one the tourist buses travel now.
“Cottoncrest back then wasn’t anything like you see it today. Now it’s all pristine and nice, restored with bright white paint. Now the vegetable garden is filled with tomatoes and eggplant and onions and squash and okra and mirliton that they serve you at the Cottoncrest restaurant for the plate lunches and fancy candlelight dinners. Now it’s got the rose garden with its neat paths and the masses of azaleas and hedges of ligustrum and honeysuckle twined around the picket fence from the parking lot to the gift shop.
“But back in ’61, when I first saw it, Cottoncrest was in a state of advanced decay. Those wide columns, which run up three stories, were mildewed and worn. Some portions had just rotted away. The veranda was sagging, and parts of the galleries on the upper levels had gaps so large that they looked unsafe to walk on. Thick vines had climbed up the sides of the house and had spread across most of the roof so that the house looked as if it was being slowly covered with a ratty green carpet.
“It was a house that had more pride than prestige. Like its owner.”
1893
Chapter 70
“The minute I saw the Freimer blade, I knew that Zig must have sent you here. No one in New Orleans—that is, no one who’s not working for me—has such a blade. I know that Zig only wholesales them to one other person. The Jew Peddler who told him about the Freimers in the first place.”
Antonio Micelli, in his red vest, was sitting with Jake at a table in a dimly lit corner of the room where Antonio could see everything but few people could see him. The band was playing again. Coso was back behind the bar. Lulu was back upstairs with a new customer. Betsy was dancing with a man at the bar, the top of her dress still around her waist. Other girls in various stages of undress were dancing with each other, whiling away these late after-midnight hours until the dawn came and they could finally go off duty.
Jake and Antonio had already reached a deal. Jake had offered $35 for sanctuary for up to two weeks. Antonio had countered at $200. They had settled for $75, which Jake had just paid.
“You knew,” Jake asked, “that I told Zig about the Freimers?”
Even in the dim light, Jake could see Antonio’s broad smile and white teeth as Antonio said, with satisfaction, “Information is something valuable, is it not?”
Jake marveled at how Antonio had known that it was Jake who had convinced Zig to import Freimers from Germany. Jake had seen them while he had worked on the docks in Hamburg, after he left Russia and before he came to America, and Jake knew that no American knife could match the keen edge and precision of a Freimer.
Jake took a small sip of the whiskey in his tumbler. “A Freimer is my protection. I’m just glad you recognized the one I carried. Your double-barreled shotgun, however,” Jake said, pointing to the weapon that was propped on the side of Antonio’s chair, “seems protection enough.”
“Protection? You can never have too much protection.” Antonio rolled up the sleeves of his blue-and-white stripped shirt, revealing long red scars on both arms. “You see these? I have them on my back as well. Lucky to escape the massacres with just these. But they’re so ugly, I have to keep them covered all the time.”
“My people have a saying,” said Jake. “The ugliest life is better than the nicest death.” Jake silently thought it sounded better in Yiddish. Der miesteh leben iz besser fun shesten toit.
“No death is nice,” Antonio declared, raising the mug of coffee to his lips. His work was more important than drinking liquor. He had to keep a clear head at all times. “You know about the massacre? No. I can see it in your eyes. You have been out of the city too long. Three months ago two Italians were accused of murdering Hennessy, a policeman. They didn’t do it. We expected them to hang, nonetheless. What would a New Orleans jury do but to agree with the police and convict Italians of murdering an Irishman. But a miracle. The jury found them not guilty.”
Antonio paused, scanning the room, watching the customers. Satisfied, he poured more whiskey into Jake’s tumbler.
“Tears of joy, however, turned to tears for which there was no consolation. The Irish and the Americans in the city became furious. They stormed the police station and killed the two men who had been acquitted. A few days later a boat landed with eighteen hundred Sicilians coming to this country for a better life. They knew nothing of what had happened. How could they know? But the Irish and Americans swarmed the docks, and they massacred fifteen hundred men, women, and children. Do you know what that means? Babies were flung into the harbor to drown. Women were beaten to death, their bodies so badly mangled that we couldn’t identify many of them. The men were shot time and again. It was only by the barest that those of us who had gone down to the dock to greet the arrival were able to save ourselves and a few of the passengers.”
Antonio paused a moment, refastening his shirtsleeves and covering his scars.
“Our best efforts were not enough. My sister, her three children, her husband and two cousins—all were on that boat. All dead.
“Where was the protection of the police? Nowhere. The police let the massacre occur. They encouraged it. So, protection is only where you create it for yourself. La Famiglia was not something I had wanted or needed before the massacre. But now La Famiglia is all that there is. We stick together. We make our own protection. I have Coso. I have my shotgun. I have a Freimer. And I now have hired many men to work for me to protect my business. I have built up my business, and I shall not lose it. No. I have a family. A wife and eight children—seven daughters and one son—and no harm shall befall my business or my family or me.”
“My people,” said Jake, “have another saying. If I am not for myself, who am I for?”
“Your people seem to be full of sayings. I do not have time for sayings. I have time only for action. It is not enough to be for yourself. You must have the support of others. And the only ones you can trust are your family. We Italians know this. This city is too full of people who are either too proud of what they are or want to pass for something that they are not. Here, look at me. I have the skin of an Italian and the hair of an Italian and the accent of an Italian. What can I do but be what I am? My cousin Roberto Micelli, he passes for black Irish. Bobby Mc Kelly they call him. As an Italian Catholic, there are no jobs, but as an Irish Catholic, he can be a conductor on the railroad. That’s where he is now. Conductor McKelly. And you, Jew, you could pass if you wanted. You speak En glish with no accent. You could be almost anyone. You could pass for someone who is not a Jew, and yet you are known as the Jew Peddler.”
Jake said nothing. He could not tell where this conversation was leading. What could he say? As Uncle Avram used to admonish, Far dem emes shlogt men. For the truth you get beaten up.
“I think you do not know New Orleans, even after your two years here in this state,” Antonio warned. “Look, over at the bar, the young girl dancing with the man. What do you see?” Antonio pointed to Betsy.
“A girl. Too pale. Too young as well.”
“What else?”
“Straight black hair. Narrow lips. Tiny nose. Tiny breasts. Slim hips.”
“And white?”
“If you say so.”
“If I say so? To every customer she’s white. She passes. But she’s an octoroon. One eighth black. You know there are lots of octoroons out there. Roberto Micelli—Bobby McKelly—had to arrest an octoroon. Did you know that? An Italian passing for Irish had to arrest an octoroon who could have passed for white but insisted he was black. This Homer Plessy, white as Betsy here, got on a train bound for Covington, a two-hour trip, and went to the first-class Whites Only car. It had been arranged in advance with the railroad. They knew what Plessy wanted to have happen, for he had told them what he was planning to do. So, the railroad told Roberto and gave him instructions. Roberto didn’t want to do it, but he had to follow orders to keep his job. When Roberto asked him for a ticket, this Plessy said, ‘I have to tell you that, according to Louisiana law, I am a colored man.’
“Roberto asked him to move to the cars for Negroes and drunks, but, as planned, Plessy refused. So Roberto arrested him, as planned, which was what Plessy wanted so he could sue the railroad. The ‘Irish’ conductor arrested someone who insisted he was colored although his skin was lighter than the conductor’s. Plessy’s skin was as light as Betsy’s.”
Jake looked again at Betsy, dancing with her pale white breasts exposed. So Plessy was as light as Betsy. Both of them were darker than Rebecca, and all three of them were of mixed blood.
Chapter 71
Where the Mississippi River makes the huge curve that gives the Crescent City its name, it curls back northward in an eight-mile loop as if it wants to take one last look at the vast continent through which it has flowed, and then, at the foot of Canal Street, at the very place where the French Quarter begins, it abruptly dips south to empty into the Gulf of Mexico more than eighty miles away.
As Bucky and Tee Ray walked upriver from the foot of Canal Street into the Tchoupitoulas Wharf area, Bucky gazed around him in wonderment.
The street was crowded, although it was just shortly after dawn. The October sun that was casting its glow upon them rose over the west bank of the river, which, because of the Mississippi’s serpentine path, was east of them at this point.
There were more people here in this one spot than lived in the entire town of Parteblanc. Bucky couldn’t believe the variety of occupations, of dress, and of skin colors. Black women balancing baskets on their heads. Mulattoes hauling carts of goods. Strong-limbed sailors on the decks of massive steamships were directing crews of men carrying one armload of goods after the next up gangplanks and stowing them into immense holds below decks. Gangs of ruddy Irishmen were unloading roomfuls of furniture newly arrived from abroad—heavy armoires, intricate cabinets, inlaid tables, stout chairs, and fine linen. Scurrying pods of Chinese peddled tea and cakes alongside Negroes hawking winter vegetables. And in the doorways of the back alleys were women raising their skirts to their thighs, even at this early hour, seeking to lure the passing men inside.
“Come on, Bucky, keep up!” Tee Ray plowed ahead through the crowd.
Almost trotting to keep abreast of Tee Ray as they wove their way down the packed street, Bucky pointed out excitedly, “Look at that over there. A darky and a Chinaman, shoulder to shoulder, like it was natural. And them women in the doorways—white and black and all colors in between—showin’ themselves all over. And the sun comin’ up in over what they call west bank! Well, back at Parteblanc they ain’t never gonna believe me when I tell them what I done saw. They just ain’t. Have you ever seen such wonderment?”
“Once we catch the Jew and take care of him—and I got the feelin’ we’re real near to doin’ that—we’ll go down to a fast house, you and me. Then you’re gonna see and experience some real wonderment.”
“Can’t we go tonight, Tee Ray? Just once?”
“Afterwards, Bucky. Look, we’re here.”
Tee Ray had stopped in front of a wooden building where there were two sets of shutters, one stacked on top of the other. The lower ones were closed, but the upper ones had been opened, and through them Bucky and Tee Ray could see that the ceiling was at least fifteen feet high. A sign hung over the door: ISAAC HABER & CO.
“Remember, Tee Ray, I’m the one with the badge. I’m in charge, just like Raifer said.”
Tee Ray held his tongue and pushed open the door. Inside, a small, compact man with wiry hair was writing in a large ledger at a desk piled high with papers. The warehouse stretched out behind him. Above him, draped from the rafters, hung long ropes and coils of wire and huge nets. On the wooden floor were crates and boxes stacked high. Along one wall were skins. Long planks of rattlesnake and cottonmouth, stretched out in taut lines. Muskrat and rabbit in furry mounds. Bobcat and bear with their heads still attached.
Zig quickly took stock of the two who had just walked in. They were not buyers, traders, or trappers.
“You Mr. Haber?” asked the disheveled young man, almost a boy still, with a greasy face and stained shirt.
“Certainly.” Zig stood up, closed his ledger, and walked around the desk to shake their hands. “What can I do for two fine gentlemen this morning?”
Bucky reached into his pants pocket. He pulled out some twine, then some cigarette paper.
Tee Ray stewed while Bucky fumbled.
Finally, Bucky located his badge and showed it proudly. “I am Deputy Bucky Starner from Petit Rouge Parish, and I got some questions for you.”
“For an officer of the law, I have all the time in the world.”
“We don’t need no time, Mr. Haber. There are really just a few things we got to know. First, do you sell fancy Jew knives?”
Zig remained calm and showed no emotion. This young man was both impertinent and foolish. “I am, as you can see, but a poor merchant. I buy skins and furs. I sell supplies wholesale. You need traps for wolves or bears? Traps I have. You need nets for shrimp or fishing? Nets I have. You need chandlery? That, too, I have.”
“We don’t need no candle-ree. We got more than enough candles in Petit Rouge, and pretty soon we might even have gas lamps on the street corners and ’lectricity!”
Zig hid a smile. “Mr. Deputy, I am sure you have abundant lighting in Petit Rouge. Perhaps I was overexpansive and excessively indirect. You see, in addition to operating a wholesale and brokerage operation, I sell goods for use on ships, both those that are oceangoing and those that ply the Mississippi. That’s what’s called a ship’s chandler. I apologize if I was being obtuse.”
Bucky wasn’t sure he understood all the words Mr. Haber had just used, but he wasn’t going to let on. “No, you were ’tuse enough with your ’ply. But what I want to know is about them fancy Jew knives what that Jew Peddler carries with him and done hid out at Cottoncrest.”
Zig shrugged his shoulders. “A Jew knife? Who knew knives had a religion? You know, Mr. Deputy, I learn something new every day. They just built a big Protestant church up on St. Charles Avenue. Maybe I can talk to them about what kind of Protestant knives they use. With all the Catholic churches in town, I must find out about Catholic knives as well.”
“We ain’t lookin’ for a Catholic knife used by Papists. We’re lookin’ for…”
Bucky stopped because Tee Ray had grabbed his arm. “He’s joshin’ you, Bucky.”
Tee Ray stood up and, reaching into his coat pocket, pulled out a flyer and handed it to Zig, saying coldly. “We’re looking for four criminals. Two niggers—Marcus and Sally—a mulatto named Jenny, and a Jew peddler. They are wanted in Petit Rouge for theft, and the Jew Peddler carried a special kind of knife. Extra sharp. Ain’t any kind of knife none of us have seen before. We heard that you sell fancy knives. Do you got that kind of knife, and do you know a peddler named Jake Gold?”
Zig studied the flyer. “Jake Gold, you say? Never heard of him.”
PART IX
Today
Chapter 72
“When I saw that big Rebel flag
hanging from the porch on the second floor, I was glad that I had bought the little Rebel flag in Des Allemands and had stuck it on the dashboard.
“There was no one in sight when I drove up. The house looked deserted, all empty of feeling, like a place that had lost its soul. If he wasn’t home now, I would sit in the car and wait, but the house was so huge, someone could be far in the back and you wouldn’t know it.
“I walked up the front steps. They weren’t the sturdy concrete structure you see today. The old pine boards were sagging badly, and the brick foundations on which they rested to keep them elevated above the moist soil had cracked.
“I walked across the splintered veranda and got to the big front door. Mildew had turned the corners of the double-wide entry a brownish green. There was no doorbell. The metal knocker was broken off its hinges, so I used my knuckles.
“I rapped several times, but there was no answer. I called out to see if anyone was home. No response.
“I walked around the house on the veranda under those huge columns. You saw for yourself during the first part of the tour; the view from there is a fine one. Of course, back in ’61 there wasn’t the fancy housing development that’s there now over where the sharecroppers’ cabins used to be or the petrochemical refinery and its city of metal and lights over there where the sugar mill was or even that grove of pecan trees where it used to be just fields. No, none of that was there then.
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