part of the District as the denizens of the grand mansions on Basin Street.
Of course the madam understood this, because she began complaining to him the moment her vast bottom hit the chair. "You tell Mr. Tom Anderson something," she groused. "We ain't next door to his damn Café, but this is still Storyville. You tell him that." She rapped her knuckles on the table. "Ain't like we don't pay the goddamn coppers enough as it is! I hand over my envelope every Monday evening. I got chits in a jar over there that say I paid. Then these two show up at the door."
Valentin said, "When was this?"
"Wednesday, around suppertime. They said they was police. The one pulls out a badge, tells me I got to give him twenty dollars. Said it's a special fee or he's gonna shut me down. What the hell was I gonna do? He had a badge. So I give him the twenty dollars."
She pulled a soiled handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose, a wet, noisy snort.
"That ain't all," she went on. "I ask him for a chit to show I paid, he says, 'We don't give no goddamn chits.' Tells me to shut up about it. But they still ain't finished. One of my girls come down the stairs to see what the fuss is about, and this fellow takes ahold of her. He pushed her into the closet under the stairwell and makes her give him French right there. Then the partner takes his turn. When she's finished, they don't give her a dime."
"Then what?"
"Then what?" Her mouth twisted. "Then they left. Said they was gonna come back next week to collect again. Said if we tell anyone, there'd be hell to pay." She clenched both her hands into fists. "He grabs hold of me again, says, 'And you know what I mean!' When they walked out the door, they was laughing."
"Can you describe them?"
What she offered didn't help much. They were of average height, the partner slightly heavier than the one who did the talking. They both had medium brown hair, slicked with cheap-smelling pomades. She remembered that the one who showed the badge had a long nose and that his teeth were yellow. She'd never seen either one of them before.
"The fat one had a pistol on him," the madam said. "Mary, that's the girl he took under the stairs, she saw it in his trousers."
"What kind of pistol?"
"I don't know. A regular revolver, I guess."
"Was there anything else?"
"That's all." She gave him a snide look. "Now what are you going to do about it?"
"It sounds like a single incident," Valentin said. "Couple tramps passing through."
"What about the badge?"
He shrugged. "Fake."
The madam said, "It wasn't no damn fake! I seen enough New Orleans badges to know."
He wasn't about to argue with her. He told her he would be looking into it and that she should send word immediately if anyone saw either of the men again. She gave a grudging nod and got up to see him to the door.
Valentin visited a second house, an even shabbier affair a block away, and got a similar story. This visit had come about an hour after they were reported at Miss Butler's. The same demand for twenty dollars was made. The men didn't force anything on any of the girls, but the madam said that they were clearly drunk.
Valentin guessed that they had collected at Carrie Butler's, then visited the first saloon they happened upon to spend their booty. Once into their cups and with the money gone, they realized how easy the pickings had been and went out to find another likely house. They had no doubt caroused with the money they had collected there, too, and would have been throwing cash around like sailors all up and down St. Louis Street.
He spent the next two hours visiting the saloons and sporting houses, covering three blocks south and west. The two impostors were identified at three establishments, though no one knew who they were. Then the leads dried up. The pair wouldn't have dared to venture much farther. At that point, they would be on tonier streets with finer sporting houses and better restaurants and music halls, the kind of places
Of course the madam understood this, because she began complaining to him the moment her vast bottom hit the chair. "You tell Mr. Tom Anderson something," she groused. "We ain't next door to his damn Café, but this is still Storyville. You tell him that." She rapped her knuckles on the table. "Ain't like we don't pay the goddamn coppers enough as it is! I hand over my envelope every Monday evening. I got chits in a jar over there that say I paid. Then these two show up at the door."
Valentin said, "When was this?"
"Wednesday, around suppertime. They said they was police. The one pulls out a badge, tells me I got to give him twenty dollars. Said it's a special fee or he's gonna shut me down. What the hell was I gonna do? He had a badge. So I give him the twenty dollars."
She pulled a soiled handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose, a wet, noisy snort.
"That ain't all," she went on. "I ask him for a chit to show I paid, he says, 'We don't give no goddamn chits.' Tells me to shut up about it. But they still ain't finished. One of my girls come down the stairs to see what the fuss is about, and this fellow takes ahold of her. He pushed her into the closet under the stairwell and makes her give him French right there. Then the partner takes his turn. When she's finished, they don't give her a dime."
"Then what?"
"Then what?" Her mouth twisted. "Then they left. Said they was gonna come back next week to collect again. Said if we tell anyone, there'd be hell to pay." She clenched both her hands into fists. "He grabs hold of me again, says, 'And you know what I mean!' When they walked out the door, they was laughing."
"Can you describe them?"
What she offered didn't help much. They were of average height, the partner slightly heavier than the one who did the talking. They both had medium brown hair, slicked with cheap-smelling pomades. She remembered that the one who showed the badge had a long nose and that his teeth were yellow. She'd never seen either one of them before.
"The fat one had a pistol on him," the madam said. "Mary, that's the girl he took under the stairs, she saw it in his trousers."
"What kind of pistol?"
"I don't know. A regular revolver, I guess."
"Was there anything else?"
"That's all." She gave him a snide look. "Now what are you going to do about it?"
"It sounds like a single incident," Valentin said. "Couple tramps passing through."
"What about the badge?"
He shrugged. "Fake."
The madam said, "It wasn't no damn fake! I seen enough New Orleans badges to know."
He wasn't about to argue with her. He told her he would be looking into it and that she should send word immediately if anyone saw either of the men again. She gave a grudging nod and got up to see him to the door.
Valentin visited a second house, an even shabbier affair a block away, and got a similar story. This visit had come about an hour after they were reported at Miss Butler's. The same demand for twenty dollars was made. The men didn't force anything on any of the girls, but the madam said that they were clearly drunk.
Valentin guessed that they had collected at Carrie Butler's, then visited the first saloon they happened upon to spend their booty. Once into their cups and with the money gone, they realized how easy the pickings had been and went out to find another likely house. They had no doubt caroused with the money they had collected there, too, and would have been throwing cash around like sailors all up and down St. Louis Street.
He spent the next two hours visiting the saloons and sporting houses, covering three blocks south and west. The two impostors were identified at three establishments, though no one knew who they were. Then the leads dried up. The pair wouldn't have dared to venture much farther. At that point, they would be on tonier streets with finer sporting houses and better restaurants and music halls, the kind of places
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