Lost River by David Fulmer Page B

a plaint that Valentin used to hear every time he had wandered too far from where he belonged, at least as the saloonkeeper saw it. As before, he couldn't think of an answer that made sense. The little pander of using the Italian for "uncle" hadn't helped.
    At the same time, the detective didn't take
Zi'
Franco's insulted frown too seriously. "Is this what you want to talk about?" he said.
    Frank shook his head slightly and gave a sad half smile, Storyville's own Pagliacci. "Drink your wine," he said.
    He asked after Justine, and Valentin inquired about some of the characters from around the District, and what new musicians were worth a listen. He heard a few good stories about women who did not risk having their private parts stuffed with firecrackers. All in all, he heard nothing remarkable.
    The saloonkeeper said, "Then there's that thing down on Liberty Street..."
    "You mean that fellow they found?" Valentin didn't mention Mary Jane Parker's summons, but Frank was eyeing him as if he knew all about it.
    "There's something not right with that."
    "I don't see it," Valentin said.
    "You ain't around to see anything," Frank retorted. He picked up an olive, chewed for a pensive moment. "You visit Mr. Anderson lately?"
    "No, why?"
    "He don't look so good. People say he ain't doing so good."
    "Is he sick?"
    "He's something, I don't know what. Just not the same."
    Valentin lifted his glass and put it back down again. He didn't drink much these days, and the wine was going right to his head. "Maybe I'd better head home," he said.
    Frank smiled laconically. "You just got here," he said, and poured more wine into Valentin's glass.

    The cook who came in early to ready the kitchen for the evening rush at Anderson's Café fixed a late lunch for Mr. Tom, which Ned then brought to his table. He was eating when Billy Struve wandered in from the street, stopping at the bar to have the janitor fetch him a short glass of whiskey. It was not his first of the day; Anderson could tell by the wide arc of his steps as he crossed the marble-tiled floor.
    After Valentin St. Cyr turned his back on the District, Struve had stepped in as the King of Storyville's right-hand man. Though there was no comparison between the sharp-eyed Creole detective and this happy-go-lucky gadabout, Struve was loyal and dependable in his own small way, and that was something.
    Anderson looked up from his plate and used his fork to point his red-faced, bleary-eyed visitor to the opposite chair. Struve sat, helped himself to a slopping sip of his drink, and let out a relieved sigh.
    "So?" the older man inquired.
    Struve ran down the list of Storyville gossip and scandals, failing as usual to notice his host's impatience. He had always been a useful spy, gathering up bits of dirt from the streets, what this madam was saying about that madam and what they were both saying about the King of Storyville; what city official had taken a shine to what sporting girl; or which pious church elder preferred the company of men. Anderson had once delighted in hearing these sordid details, as much for their entertainment value as for the usefulness. Now it mostly just irritated him. After almost twenty years, what did he care about such nonsense?
    He longed for the likes of St. Cyr, who always appeared on time, stone sober, and with the information he needed, nothing less and nothing more, and every bit of it valuable.
    But St. Cyr had gone on the payroll of a set of rich downtown lawyers, doing their dirty work, and no one had come along to replace him. Certainly not Struve, who, having quaffed his whiskey, was now waving to Ned for a refill. The janitor looked at Anderson, who gave a slight shake of his head. One more drink and the man would be worthless.
    "What about Liberty Street?" he asked. "Any more news?"
    Struve blinked his wet eyes. "Liberty ... oh, that ... No, nothing more. Coppers don't know how the body got there. Or who killed him, none of that. Pretty damn funny, if you