Madam (18 page)

“Got a important announcement—”

“You the mayor o’ Venus Alley, Snitch?” another whore piped up. Laughter rumbled through the street.

“Y’all won’t be laughin’ when ya hear what I gotta say.”

“Spit it out, then, Snitch!” Mary shouted.

“I just come from the Cabildo—”

At the mere mention of the Cabildo, a shirtless man with a bow tie still around his neck darted from a crib, holding up his pants.

“All them muckamucks,” Snitch shouted, “they be layin’ boundaries for a new district of vice. And I’m gonna be the first to tell y’all, Venus Alley ain’t in them boundaries.”

A crowd had gathered now, and everyone turned to each other, murmuring with confusion.

“What does that mean, Mary?” Charlotte asked.

Mary called out to Snitch, “You sayin’ they gonna up and move Venus Alley?”

Snitch shook his head. “Don’t ’spect this shit hole’s part of their plan.”

Commotion erupted from the crowd. Charlotte searched Mary’s face for an answer, but Mary couldn’t even look at her, her mind was spinning so fast. If this was true, then what, oh Lord, had she done? She felt dizzy. The crib was supposed to be their future, not a piss pot. Oh Lord, oh Lord, this couldn’t be true, couldn’t really be happening—it was probably just Snitch telling tales, he and his blather.

“Where the fuck’s Tom Anderson?” a whore shouted. “Did he send you to tell us?”

Snitch’s eyes grew wide. “I swear I ain’t seen Mistah Anderson—”

“Yeah, where the fuck is Anderson?” another whore yelled. “That bastard be makin’ all that money off us. Why ain’t he standin’ up for us?”

“Oh Lawd,” Snitch moaned. He hopped down from the crate just as an apple went flying across the street, smashing a window. The whore who threw it marveled at her aim. “Fuck you, Tom Anderson,” she added. Others in the crowd loudly agreed.

Mary quickly realized the scene on the Alley could get bad. She watched as Snitch raced off, knowing full well where the little prattler was headed. Go tell the boss man that his Alley whores were fixing to riot. Mary took Charlotte’s arm. “C’mon, it’s back to scrubbing,” she said, doing her best to sound unaffected. “No use worryin’ till we know for sure we got troubles to worry about.”

A strange hush fell over the Alley as they all waited. It was as if they were collectively holding their breath, waiting for someone to tell them if they could go on working, or if they were going to starve to death. Folks milled around, picking their teeth, kicking the dirt. Mary had cleaned so hard, she’d worn a hole straight through the rag. Never had the crib been so spotless.

And then, a hullabaloo rose up from down the street. Mary and Charlotte rushed to the door.

Emerging from a cloud of dust, Tom Anderson, surrounded by his burly men, strode like a posse into town. All of Venus Alley moved into the street.

“Ah, a crowd of women scorned,” Anderson said to his men. Coolly, he made his way to the center of the Alley, and the whores and pimps formed a dense circle around him. Charlotte and Mary lingered in the crib doorway, not wanting to be too close in case things took an ugly turn.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Anderson boomed, flashing a wide grin, “my friends, my colleagues—”

“Ya sold us down the river, Anderson!” a whore shouted. Hissing swept through the crowd and fists rose into the air.

“Want me to corral ’em, Mistah Anderson?” Tater asked.

Anderson surveyed the rabble and, for the first time, considered the weight of the whores’ desperation. Compassion wasn’t a feeling he was comfortable with, but even he couldn’t disregard their dire circumstances—this was their livelihood. Without whoring, they would starve to death. He motioned Tater back. “Let’s try talking to them first,” he said.

His smile disappeared as he shifted tactics and earnestly looked out over the ragged crowd. “Y’all have every right to be angry,” he announced. “I’m angry too. I fought this ordinance tooth and nail. You may see me as someone with a modicum of power. Well, I’ve been wielding everything I can against them supposedly God-fearing men running around on a witch hunt. There’s one particular rat, Alderman Sidney Story—”

“Story’s got a weeny wick!” a whore shouted.

Anderson snickered. “Anyone here vouch for that personally?” The crowd laughed in spite of themselves. Anderson took it in, knowing he was getting them to come around. “Not a one?” he asked. “Well, at least Story practices what he preaches!” He watched the faces in the crowd soften, chuckle even, and he immediately knew he had them back where he wanted them.

“So it seems, my friends, that today, Alderman Story finally got his tiny cock rubbed. I was as shocked as y’all at the news of this Story District . . . this . . .
Storyville
.” He paused, impressed by his own cleverness; that did have a nice ring to it. “See, I’m here to personally tell you, that no one’s abandoning you. We’re gonna get through this, and we’re gonna do it together. Look around you. Do you like how you’re living now? This, my friends is an opportunity for change. For rising up. For making a better life. I even heard talk of black whores having their very own street to conduct business. Imagine that! When this ordinance takes effect in one month’s time, you can rest assured that Storyville will make things better. This is liberty and justice, even for whores. God bless New Orleans!”

The crowd broke into applause. Anderson tried to meet people’s eyes as he humbly nodded with appreciation—stifling any hint that inside he was gloating.

A pimp shouted, “Ya runnin’ for office?”

Anderson chuckled modestly. One of these days, he thought. One of these days.

Charlotte started clapping, then looked to Mary and abruptly stopped. Mary was stone-faced as she wondered why everyone was applauding—weren’t they listening to what Anderson
wasn’t
saying? The rules were changing, but what were the new rules? Just where would they go if Venus Alley was to be shuttered? And then what would that cost? And would there be room for them all? She hadn’t heard him speak of these things. But one thing was clear, and crushingly so: what was the point of having your own crib if you didn’t have the Alley?

C
HAPTER TWELVE

City Hall, New Orleans

H
unched over his desk at City Hall, the city treasurer absentmindedly glanced up from his ledger, only to have the numbers he was tabulating blown clear from his head by the sight before him. Stepping into the rotunda were the most garish gaggle of women: Countess Lulu White, surrounded by seven of her young ladies. The treasurer suddenly found himself in the midst of more plumes, diamonds, taffeta, and perfume than had ever been present at one time in City Hall. He promptly sneezed.

“Why, bless your heart,” Lulu cooed, “and a very good morning, Monsieur. I have traversed all the way to City Hall today, in this unseasonably warm weather I might add.” She fanned herself dramatically. “Accompanied by my lovely nieces . . .” The ladies curtsied.

The treasurer took a gulp of air.

Lulu continued, “I’d like to receive my license to operate an official and legalized house of amusement in the new district.”

“Well, ma’am,” the treasurer stammered, “you are the first—”

“Of course I am!” Lulu interjected. “Before you stands the premiere proprietress of Basin Street.” Her girls gloated and fawned, clapping their hands and playfully bowing.

It had only been a couple of days since the incident with Judge Beares, and only in this city would the lead suspect freely waltz into City Hall without so much as a care. But never would Lulu let anyone know that the unjustness was not lost on her. Her belly hadn’t stopped churning since, although she knew she had to carry on—approaching the advent of Storyville with her head held high, as a countess would.

The treasurer’s voice was squeaky. “No one’s quite prepared yet, this all just happened.”

But Lulu just looked at him expectantly.

He nervously shuffled through papers. “Ah, here, the notice.” He scanned the paper. “As written, the fee for said license is one hundred dollars—”

But before he could finish, Lulu ceremoniously presented a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill.

“With the addition of,” the treasurer continued, “a one-dollar tax.”

“Oh, silly me,” Lulu exclaimed. “I have your dollar bill. Right here . . .” She leaned over to spill her cleavage in the treasurer’s face, a sliver of green buried in her ample bosom. The ladies snickered.

Aghast, the treasurer averted his eyes. “Ma’am, that is not appropriate.”

“No? Oh, but your dollar’s right here. . . .” Lulu gave her chest a wiggle. The treasurer was having none of it and refused to look at her.

“Monsieur Treasurer isn’t being much fun.” Lulu pouted. “Poodle, darling, would you mind helping me fulfill this ever-so-ridiculous tax?”

Poodle stepped forward from the group of ladies. She was all of twenty years old and had a head of pouffy, white-blond hair, the inspiration for her name. She leaned her face into Lulu’s bosom and pulled out the dollar with her teeth. The others gave her a round of applause.

Lulu took the dollar from Poodle’s jaws and handed it to the treasurer. “Monsieur . . .”

With disgust, he took a handkerchief from his pocket in order to swaddle the dollar. Accompanied by a perturbed grunt, he slid over the license certificate. “Sign.”

As if on cue, a pink-cheeked girl, Fannie, her lips painted to look like a baby-doll’s, presented Lulu with a tortoiseshell pen. Ceremoniously, Lulu announced each word as she wrote with flourish: “Countess. Lulu. White.” Complete, she displayed the certificate for her girls to see, and they marveled as if it were the Constitution of the United States.

“Ladies,” Lulu announced, “we are official . . . legal . . . harlots!”

The Pig Ankle saloon was as dingy as it was empty, but for the few regulars who seemed to blend into the warped wood, worn barstools, and clouds of smoke. Lobrano, only six minutes out of jail, was already sidled up to the bar.

“Absinthe,” he barked.

He’d been released from the jail cell after he’d started going into fits and spurts, violently shaking and sweating as if he was with a high fever—this, after he’d been screaming for days that his crotch was on fire. The jailkeep and other inmates didn’t know what to make of these spells, but they weren’t keen on taking any chances of catching the sickness, or the demon, whichever was possessing Philip Lobrano. On instinct, however, Lobrano knew he wasn’t ill with influenza or Devil spirits. It was the drink. He needed his liquor, and his body was screaming and writhing in every which way trying to tell him.

The bartender filled a tall glass halfway with green liquid. Over the glass he placed a slotted spoon, setting a sugar cube atop it. As he dribbled water over the spoon, the sugar dissolved, and the drink swirled to a murky white.

Lobrano paid no mind to the ritual. His legs were jittering and his teeth chattering, and he grabbed for the glass, draining it in two swallows. He let out a soothed sigh as the liquor coursed through his body.
Hot damn, that’s some good tonic
.

“Another,” he barked.