man?"
Beansoup nodded busily as they turned onto Basin Street. "I know all them fellows. I run their errands. Go to the apothecary when they need somethin'. Deliver their confident'al messages around town, whatever else." He looked up at the detective and closed one eye. "You seen 'em in them fine suits, all them rings and such?"
"I have, yes," Valentin said.
"All of 'em wear them fine new suits," Beansoup went on earnestly. "New derby hats. Diamonds in their garters. They always got plenty money. But not one of 'em got a proper position."
Valentin played his part. "They all have women taking care of them."
Beansoup winked and pointed a finger. "That's right. That's what I'm gonna do. Get a woman take care of me."
Valentin nodded soberly. "I see."
The boy spat the plum pit into the gutter. Then he reached into a grimy pocket and pulled out a handful of printed cards. "See this here?" Valentin looked. "Grace O'Leary" was inscribed across the top card in flowery script. "I stand on the corner. Fellow lookin' for a girl, I send him round to Grace. She been payin' me twenty-five cents every time."
"Sounds like a fair shake," Valentin said.
"Yeah, well, I'm gonna raise my price," Beansoup confided. "Pretty soon, she'll be buying me clothes and smokes, whatever I want."
"And she'll agree to that?"
The boy sniffed. "She'll agree or I'll give her a slap or two." He smacked a flat palm on his scrawny chest. "I know how to handle a goddamn whore."
Valentin was about to warn him against raising a hand to any Storyville woman when the kid suddenly began bawling out a song about his "big fat mama wit' d'meat shakin' off d'bone," screeched away in a flat, nasal gutbucket voice. People passing on the banquette turned to stare and some of them started laughing. Beansoup stopped just as suddenly as he had started and said, "Honeyboy."
Valentin felt his hearing return. "What?"
Beansoup was all earnest again. "Honeyboy. That's my moniker." He peered at the detective. "Whatcha think?"
Valentin made a show of thinking it over. "I'm sure it suits you," he said. They stepped under the colonnade at Anderson's Café and he laid a hand on Beansoup's shoulder. He dug into his vest pocket with the other hand and produced a silver Liberty quarter, which he pressed into the boy's palm. Then he tilted his head toward the door.
"I suppose this is about the murder last night," he murmured.
Beansoup studied the coin. "Yeah, I spose it is." He yawned and looked away down the street. Valentin dug deeper, produced another quarter. He dropped it into the cupped palm, right next to the first one.
"Some people been talkin' already," Beansoup said, his eyes fixed on the two coins, '"bout how maybe that wa'nt just a lady gettin kilt like usual."
"And?"
"And Mr. Tom's a little vexed about it, that's all," the boy said with an off-handed shrug.
Valentin pondered the information as Beansoup rolled the coins about his palm. Then he reached for the door handle. "What was it?" he said. "Your moniker?"
The boy looked up and smiled with a mouth full of brown crooked teeth. "Honeyboy."
"I'll remember," Valentin said and stepped inside.
The Café was dark, the curtains drawn like it was still the dead of night. The only thing moving was the tall Negro sweeping the floor in a slow rhythm. Tom Anderson looked up from his table and waved a beckoning hand. Valentin walked along the bar and took a seat. Anderson had a thick
sheaf of papers before him, filled with tiny print that was very official looking. He put his pen down, laced his fingers together and furrowed his brow gravely. "Another murder?" he said.
Valentin gave a brief nod. "It was up Bienville at Lizzie Taylor's," he said, though Anderson surely knew all this.
"And another black rose?" The blue eyes rested on Valentin's face.
"That's correct."
Anderson mulled it over, frowning, then said, "What's the word on the street?"
"I've heard nothing at all," Valentin said.
The white man sat
Beansoup nodded busily as they turned onto Basin Street. "I know all them fellows. I run their errands. Go to the apothecary when they need somethin'. Deliver their confident'al messages around town, whatever else." He looked up at the detective and closed one eye. "You seen 'em in them fine suits, all them rings and such?"
"I have, yes," Valentin said.
"All of 'em wear them fine new suits," Beansoup went on earnestly. "New derby hats. Diamonds in their garters. They always got plenty money. But not one of 'em got a proper position."
Valentin played his part. "They all have women taking care of them."
Beansoup winked and pointed a finger. "That's right. That's what I'm gonna do. Get a woman take care of me."
Valentin nodded soberly. "I see."
The boy spat the plum pit into the gutter. Then he reached into a grimy pocket and pulled out a handful of printed cards. "See this here?" Valentin looked. "Grace O'Leary" was inscribed across the top card in flowery script. "I stand on the corner. Fellow lookin' for a girl, I send him round to Grace. She been payin' me twenty-five cents every time."
"Sounds like a fair shake," Valentin said.
"Yeah, well, I'm gonna raise my price," Beansoup confided. "Pretty soon, she'll be buying me clothes and smokes, whatever I want."
"And she'll agree to that?"
The boy sniffed. "She'll agree or I'll give her a slap or two." He smacked a flat palm on his scrawny chest. "I know how to handle a goddamn whore."
Valentin was about to warn him against raising a hand to any Storyville woman when the kid suddenly began bawling out a song about his "big fat mama wit' d'meat shakin' off d'bone," screeched away in a flat, nasal gutbucket voice. People passing on the banquette turned to stare and some of them started laughing. Beansoup stopped just as suddenly as he had started and said, "Honeyboy."
Valentin felt his hearing return. "What?"
Beansoup was all earnest again. "Honeyboy. That's my moniker." He peered at the detective. "Whatcha think?"
Valentin made a show of thinking it over. "I'm sure it suits you," he said. They stepped under the colonnade at Anderson's Café and he laid a hand on Beansoup's shoulder. He dug into his vest pocket with the other hand and produced a silver Liberty quarter, which he pressed into the boy's palm. Then he tilted his head toward the door.
"I suppose this is about the murder last night," he murmured.
Beansoup studied the coin. "Yeah, I spose it is." He yawned and looked away down the street. Valentin dug deeper, produced another quarter. He dropped it into the cupped palm, right next to the first one.
"Some people been talkin' already," Beansoup said, his eyes fixed on the two coins, '"bout how maybe that wa'nt just a lady gettin kilt like usual."
"And?"
"And Mr. Tom's a little vexed about it, that's all," the boy said with an off-handed shrug.
Valentin pondered the information as Beansoup rolled the coins about his palm. Then he reached for the door handle. "What was it?" he said. "Your moniker?"
The boy looked up and smiled with a mouth full of brown crooked teeth. "Honeyboy."
"I'll remember," Valentin said and stepped inside.
The Café was dark, the curtains drawn like it was still the dead of night. The only thing moving was the tall Negro sweeping the floor in a slow rhythm. Tom Anderson looked up from his table and waved a beckoning hand. Valentin walked along the bar and took a seat. Anderson had a thick
sheaf of papers before him, filled with tiny print that was very official looking. He put his pen down, laced his fingers together and furrowed his brow gravely. "Another murder?" he said.
Valentin gave a brief nod. "It was up Bienville at Lizzie Taylor's," he said, though Anderson surely knew all this.
"And another black rose?" The blue eyes rested on Valentin's face.
"That's correct."
Anderson mulled it over, frowning, then said, "What's the word on the street?"
"I've heard nothing at all," Valentin said.
The white man sat
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