Lost River by David Fulmer

me to blow 'em all, and I was glad to do it, just so they would get gone. I done one at a time, whilst the others watched. When I got done, they say 'You a good sport, Essie,' and left out without givin' me a goddamn nickel!"
    Valentin waited an extra moment to make sure she was finished. He hated hearing such stories. He said, "You know the boys?"
    Essie's gaze shifted. "No, but if I seed 'em again, I bet I would."
    "What about names?"
    "The one was called 'James.' Didn't hear no others." She was silent for a few seconds, then peered at him blearily. "'My in some kinda trouble, Mr. Valentin?"
    "No, you're not," the detective said. "Thank you for the information." He went into his pocket and handed her a Liberty half. "And they won't bother you anymore."
    Essie grinned, showing the gaps of missing teeth once more. It was a gruesome sight, and Valentin thought about young boys from good families making cruel sport of this poor slattern.
    He thanked her and started back the way he had come. It had been a safe visit. He found out what he needed, and as far as he knew, no one aside from Essie had recognized him.
    When he reached the next corner, he stopped to gaze across the avenue at the whitewashed wall of St. Louis Cemetery No. 2, known as "the City of the Dead" and the final resting place of those uptown citizens who could afford it. How many characters he could name resided inside those walls? Too many to count, a parade of the deceased, reaching all the way back to his childhood, beginning with the barely remembered faces of his brother and sister, taken by the yellow fever epidemic they called "Bronze John"; his father, murdered by a mob and followed by a string of villains and their victims. It was some grim procession he had left behind.
    Now he felt a flush of guilt. He could say the same about whoever was still alive in Storyville. He had abandoned all of them, from the madams in their Basin Street mansions down to the poor wretches like Essie Gill.
    Thinking these thoughts, he ambled south, took in the sights, finding the streets in a general state of disrepair. Tom Anderson had always made a point of keeping the District tidy, as if to belie the debauchery upon which it thrived. The banquettes were cleaned, the garbage collected, and the gutters washed, if Anderson had to pay the crews himself. Now it all seemed soiled and worn around the edges, as if someone wasn't making the effort.
    A half block on, he passed a woman in a common dress, cheap wig, and a hat pulled down low. Old habit had him steal a glance. The keen planes of the woman's face and the hawk-sharp light in her eyes made a startling contrast to her tawdry shirtwaist and mess of fake hair. She returned his glance, and though it was only a flicker, he was startled by a cold hard light, as if a photograph had jumped into focus.
    Then she had hurried past, and he looked over his shoulder, puzzled by what he had seen. Something was wrong about her, but he couldn't settle on what that might be. In the next moment, he considered how long he had been gone from those streets and how much he'd forgotten.

    Evelyne moved off at a good clip. She sensed the man she passed casting his eyes on her and stifled her own urge to turn around. She couldn't imagine what he was doing there, in that place, at that time. And though they'd never met, she had heard enough to be able to identify him on sight. The good news was that he didn't recognize her, but it wouldn't have mattered much if he did. They'd meet up soon enough.

    The door to Mangetta's Saloon on Marais Street stood open to allow cool air inside. Valentin had barely stepped over the threshold when he heard a voice call out in a whoop of surprise.
    "
Managg'! Non lo credo!
Look who's here!"
    Frank Mangetta hurried from behind the bar, his teeth flashing with a pleasure that lit up his round peasant face as he raised his arms in a Sicilian welcome that embraced the very air around him. The three customers at the