"There weren't any signs of a struggle."
"Then it
wasn't
no murder," Picot snapped irritably. Valentin took a step into the hallway, dropping the subject. "But it's funny you should mention it," he heard Picot say. There was a deliberate note in the copper's voice and Valentin stepped back into the doorway. "I found out who was the last man she saw that night." The copper's lips stretched in a smile that the rest of his face didn't join. "It was that horn player Bolden." He laid his cold penny eyes on St. Cyr. "Friend of yours, ain't he?"
Just before the policeman left with the body, Lizzie Taylor, the madam of the house, appeared downstairs. Though she wrung her hands and could barely stifle her wails of grief over the poor woman's death, she was genuinely appalled that Picot wanted the house shut down for the night. "Tonight?" she kept saying between sobs, "The whole house?" But Picot was
firm and, so, in the manner of a wake, Miss Taylor led her girls across Iberville Street to Fewclothes' Cabaret, where they all got properly drunk in Gran Tillman's sainted memory.
Valentin hurried down Conti Street to Antonia Gonzales'. He found Justine dancing in the parlor with another girl while three well-dressed sports watched and whispered amongst themselves. He pulled her into the foyer and she pressed against him, grinning eagerly, a tan imp.
He held her at arm's length. "Listen to me," he said. "Be careful. Please. No strangers."
Justine's eyebrows went up and she smiled a little girl smile. "Are you jealous over me now?"
He said, "I mean it!" and the smile disappeared. "And tell the other girls. They ought not to be careless." He turned for the door.
"Valentin?" She was watching him, waiting. He moved a hand and she ran to get her shawl.
FOUR
To tell a landlady from a boarder, their names have been printed in capital letters.
The star on the side of a landlady's name indicates a first-class house where the finest of women and nothing but wine is sold.
The No. 69 is the sign of a French house. The Jew will be known by a "J."
Wishing you a good time while you are making your rounds,
âT HE B LUE B OOK
Valentin was drinking his second cup of coffee when he heard a whistle from the street. He stepped out onto the balcony and leaned over the railing. Looking up at him from the shadow of the building was the same kid who had fetched him the night before, a pug nosed, pale-eyed, dirt-white product of one of the church orphanages and everyone on the street, where he spent his days, called him Beansoup.
"Mr. St. Cyr?" Beansoup called up. "Mr. Anderson says can you please come to see him at the Café."
"When?" Valentin said.
Beansoup wiped the back of his dirty hand across his
mouth. "He says now. He's says for me to wait and bring you along."
He walked a step or two behind Beansoup, who moved at a rapid, pitched-forward pace, his too-large, cracked leather shoes just skimming the banquette. An empty cloth newspaper sack hung from one of his bony shoulders and the pockets of his dirty white shirt and baggy britches bulged with a collection of litter. They passed by a green grocer and Beansoup, seeing the merchant turn his back, snatched two fat purple plums from the stand. He flipped one to Valentin as he bit into the other.
"How's the newspaper trade?" Valentin asked, polishing the plum on his vest.
Beansoup shot him a look. "It's for kids, is what."
"Yes, but you know that's how Mr. Anderson got his start," Valentin said. "Hawking papers on the street. Look where he is now."
Beansoup's eyes flashed with a sudden cunning. "Anderson got his start ratting to the po-lice," he corrected the detective, chewing noisily. "And he still got all them copper friends. And that's how he operates. I'm gonna do better'n'at. I got my own damn plan."
"What kind of plan?" Valentin said.
The kid wiped a bead of snot from his lip. "I'm goin' to be a fancy man," he announced.
Valentin stifled a laugh. "A fancy
"Then it
wasn't
no murder," Picot snapped irritably. Valentin took a step into the hallway, dropping the subject. "But it's funny you should mention it," he heard Picot say. There was a deliberate note in the copper's voice and Valentin stepped back into the doorway. "I found out who was the last man she saw that night." The copper's lips stretched in a smile that the rest of his face didn't join. "It was that horn player Bolden." He laid his cold penny eyes on St. Cyr. "Friend of yours, ain't he?"
Just before the policeman left with the body, Lizzie Taylor, the madam of the house, appeared downstairs. Though she wrung her hands and could barely stifle her wails of grief over the poor woman's death, she was genuinely appalled that Picot wanted the house shut down for the night. "Tonight?" she kept saying between sobs, "The whole house?" But Picot was
firm and, so, in the manner of a wake, Miss Taylor led her girls across Iberville Street to Fewclothes' Cabaret, where they all got properly drunk in Gran Tillman's sainted memory.
Valentin hurried down Conti Street to Antonia Gonzales'. He found Justine dancing in the parlor with another girl while three well-dressed sports watched and whispered amongst themselves. He pulled her into the foyer and she pressed against him, grinning eagerly, a tan imp.
He held her at arm's length. "Listen to me," he said. "Be careful. Please. No strangers."
Justine's eyebrows went up and she smiled a little girl smile. "Are you jealous over me now?"
He said, "I mean it!" and the smile disappeared. "And tell the other girls. They ought not to be careless." He turned for the door.
"Valentin?" She was watching him, waiting. He moved a hand and she ran to get her shawl.
FOUR
To tell a landlady from a boarder, their names have been printed in capital letters.
The star on the side of a landlady's name indicates a first-class house where the finest of women and nothing but wine is sold.
The No. 69 is the sign of a French house. The Jew will be known by a "J."
Wishing you a good time while you are making your rounds,
âT HE B LUE B OOK
Valentin was drinking his second cup of coffee when he heard a whistle from the street. He stepped out onto the balcony and leaned over the railing. Looking up at him from the shadow of the building was the same kid who had fetched him the night before, a pug nosed, pale-eyed, dirt-white product of one of the church orphanages and everyone on the street, where he spent his days, called him Beansoup.
"Mr. St. Cyr?" Beansoup called up. "Mr. Anderson says can you please come to see him at the Café."
"When?" Valentin said.
Beansoup wiped the back of his dirty hand across his
mouth. "He says now. He's says for me to wait and bring you along."
He walked a step or two behind Beansoup, who moved at a rapid, pitched-forward pace, his too-large, cracked leather shoes just skimming the banquette. An empty cloth newspaper sack hung from one of his bony shoulders and the pockets of his dirty white shirt and baggy britches bulged with a collection of litter. They passed by a green grocer and Beansoup, seeing the merchant turn his back, snatched two fat purple plums from the stand. He flipped one to Valentin as he bit into the other.
"How's the newspaper trade?" Valentin asked, polishing the plum on his vest.
Beansoup shot him a look. "It's for kids, is what."
"Yes, but you know that's how Mr. Anderson got his start," Valentin said. "Hawking papers on the street. Look where he is now."
Beansoup's eyes flashed with a sudden cunning. "Anderson got his start ratting to the po-lice," he corrected the detective, chewing noisily. "And he still got all them copper friends. And that's how he operates. I'm gonna do better'n'at. I got my own damn plan."
"What kind of plan?" Valentin said.
The kid wiped a bead of snot from his lip. "I'm goin' to be a fancy man," he announced.
Valentin stifled a laugh. "A fancy
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