Lost River by David Fulmer Page A

bar, the first of the day, were used to these operatic displays and smiled before returning to their lonely drinks.
    The saloonkeeper crossed the floor to throw one thick and affectionate arm around Valentin's shoulders and steer him to the booth in the back corner.
    Valentin sighed and settled back into the old leather. Mangetta's was a Storyville landmark, a building divided in half with a grocery on one side and the saloon on the other, the two large rooms connected by an archway. The store opened early and closed at sundown to serve the red-light district and the Italian community beyond it. At noon the saloon began serving drinks and light meals and in the evening transformed into a music hall with the best jass players New Orleans had to offer.
    It was in fact Frank Mangetta who had first brought musicians across Canal from Rampart Street, throwing Negroes, Italians, Creoles, Frenchmen, and Americans together on one low stage. While there was a long-standing tradition of colored "professors" playing piano in bordello parlors, this was something else entirely.
    The saloonkeeper, a violinist of little talent himself, hadn't asked permission, and before anyone thought to stop it, the wall had been breached. The music was just too fine and the crowds that filled the house nightly too eager to spend their dollars. Within another year a half-dozen saloons were offering bands that mixed races on a regular basis, and no one blinked an eye, all thanks to the rotund, mustachioed fellow who now wore an eye-twinkling grin of delight as he made his way back to the booth, a bottle and two glasses in hand.
    He slid onto the cracked leather seat, poured the wine, and handed a glass to Valentin. "
Salud.
"
    Valentin murmured a response and slouched deeper. Frank Mangetta was family, a cousin of his father's from the old country, and
compare
to Valentin in New Orleans. Frank had known him all his life, had witnessed the tragedies that had befallen the family, had kept a close watch as
Valentino
grew to manhood and switched careers from petty criminal to policeman and then to private detective. One of the rooms over the grocery had been his home for a while. In the Sicilian tradition, Frank stood as substitute father, and Valentin had always been grateful for it.
    Though not at this moment, because the substitute father was treating him to a glittering stare and a lip that curled in reproof.
    "
Come sta?
" he muttered tightly, belying the courtesy of the words.
    "
Sta bene,
" Valentin said. He'd lost most of his Italian; at least he remembered that much.
    Before the saloonkeeper could continue the scolding, a cook came out of the kitchen, carrying a plate of black olives, prosciutto, and provolone, along with a half loaf of bread. He put the food on the table and went away. Though the detective had eaten only a couple hours before, he fell to nibbling hungrily.
    "So, you still hiding?" Frank said.
    Valentin smiled slightly and shook his head.
    "What then?"
    "Busy, that's all."
    "Oh,
busy.
I see.
Capisco.
I'm busy, too. But not too busy to come over to see you on Spain Street, what, five, six times a year? But, you, you're too
occupato
to visit one time in three years?"
    Valentin felt his cheeks reddening. "I just—"
    "Then why you come by today?"
    Valentin said, "I ... I had something to work on over here." He fumbled. "
Sto ... sto lavorando.
"
    "Oh? You working? Well, that's all right, then."
    Valentin made an empty gesture. It was true; he had no excuse, and he didn't want to try and explain.
    A moment passed and Frank relented. "What kind of something?"
    The detective took a sip of his wine and told Frank about the Claiborne Avenue escapades of James Beck and his friends. Frank listened, faintly amused, and then got annoyed again. He sat back and folded his arms.
    "That's what you come over here for?"
    Valentin, embarrassed, said, "
Zi'
Franco, I'm—"
    "Don't give me
'Zi'
Franco,'" he said. "Why you working for those people?"
    It was