The thick heat of the early afternoon air further weighted the melancholic mood pressing against me as I stood beside Mo in front of the French Quarter home I’d shared with my family.
Dust and sea salt clung to the surface of my happy memories. The once cheerful, yellow paint of the shuttered doors and windows was chipped and peeling. The red brick had the appearance of having been neglected far longer than the five months since Mam turned the key in the lock and pulled me away. A rusted nail secured a sign to the front shutter informing anyone who came within reading distance that the bank now owned the property.
Relief and sadness jockeyed for dominance in my heart at this empty, abandoned and sad reflection of my former life. “Mam and Da couldn’t afford the payment anymore. Luckily nobody else seems to have been able to either.”
I attempted to peak through the slats of the shutters, but the effort proved fruitless.
“The front rooms are set up for a cafe. Mam tried to earn extra money the best she could when Da got sick. Finn and his friends built a wall to separate the cafe from the parlor. The wall is solid. I couldn’t ever hear a thing from the cafe when I was in the house.”
Mo appraised the front of the house and the neighborhood in both directions as I spoke.
“There are three small rooms down the hall to the left. Mam left them in case patients showed up. The farthest room has a door that leads to the parlor.” As people ran poor and the financial crisis spread, fewer people sought the help of a doctor. Even seeking a traiteur’s assistance became a luxury. It was a sad time when people embraced death so their families might be able to afford one turnip for the coming week’s soup. Mam had always held out hope that her patients would come back, and she could return to the trade she’d spent her life perfecting.
Mo nodded appreciatively, His initial uncertainty about this dusty old relic gave way to belief in the potential it held. “How much did your parents owe?”
“I’m not certain.” My heart dropped. Buoyed by big aspirations, I’d failed to consider the cost of reacquiring my family home. Something in my mind regarded this as my family’s house, giving me the right to walk back into it.
“I can find out. I know some people.”
“Where will we get the money? I didn’t think about that.”
“I’ve got money,” Mo said. He pulled me to him and kissed my temple without further explanation. “It’s perfect. Right here on Royal Street.”
Within two days, Mo knew the exact dollar amount my parents owed on the house, offered the bank a hundred and fifty dollars less and signed the paperwork in my brother’s name. He listed me as co-owner. “It should belong to you,” he said. “It always should have.”
The keys were light in my hand, the weight of freedom and hope. Energy burst from my pores as I threw open the shutters and pulled Mo through the front door. I was excited to share the best features of the house with him, the ones that made it the perfect location for a speakeasy. “The cafe is small and manageable. We can serve sandwiches and coffee. Nobody’s needin’ more than that these days.”
The eatery occupied a small area with a six-seat counter dividing the service area from the dining room. A pass-through provided a glimpse into a back kitchen offering minimal counter space and a single stove. Five small round tables sat along the wide dust-covered window looking out over Royal Street. Mismatched wooden chairs provided seating for two adults per table.
I grasped Mo’s hand and pulled him around the corner to each of the treatment rooms. “I don’t know what we can use them for. Smokin’ rooms maybe.”
In the third room I tugged the door of the narrow closet. The upper corner stuck but gave with a second pull. I threw Mo a taunting smile as I stepped inside and pushed against the paneling. It popped open, joints squeaking a bit in opposition to being opened after so long.
Mo’s face lit up like a lad gazing up at his first Ferris wheel. He stepped through the doorway into the hidden parlor.
“Made it easier to get away when the difficult patients showed up. Mam could say Da had been called out, and he’d stay in the house until they left.”
Mo followed me through the rest of the house. We determined the parlor really was the best place to set up the bar. Mam’s piano remained in the room and could provide entertainment. The heavy woven damask drapes would easily block out the sunlight and prevent indoor lighting from being seen by anyone outside of the house. Several of the houses on this stretch of Royal Street were empty and the owners of the others could easily be persuaded—with cash, of course—to mind their own business. Everyone in New Orleans was struggling. A little money went a long way to reduce problems.
“This is the best feature.” In the mudroom, at the back of the house, I pointed out the old coal chute. A small hinged door blended into the paneling. Another was located on the outside of the house. “The coal could be brought in without the delivery boys havin’ to go through the house. And the owners could get the coal without having to go outside.”
Mo pulled the door open and ducked low, looking into the small space.
“Finn used it to stash some of the items he was fencin’. It was also big enough for him to hide in. He reset the doors, so they weren’t as obvious. A revenuer might not even notice it. If nothin’ else, it’s a quick getaway. There’s an old shed in the next yard that backs up to it. It has a false wall in the back with shovels leanin’ against it. Even if the police went in, it’d take them time to figure out there’s a door at the back of it. By then, we’d be long gone.”
“Your brother was a natural,” Mo said with awe. He cast a quick look at me to see if he’d offended me.
I smiled at the memory of Finn and the ideas I’d thought were ludicrous at the time. “Yeah. He definitely found his callin’. He anticipated everythin’. Almost everythin’.”
Mo pulled me against him again and kissed me full on the lips before he turned to survey the parlor again. “Finn laid the ground work. Let’s you and I get this place ready for business.”
It took a week to simply clear the dust and clean everything in the house.
The bank hadn’t gotten around to selling off the furniture yet, I imagined they hoped for a buyer with the money to buy the house and furnishings together. Their optimism had worked in our favor.
I pulled the dust sheets aside and hauled everything out to the yard. After a decent bit of knocking about, each piece was dust free and hauled back up the stairs into the house.
The cafe was easy to prepare. With the tables and chairs dusted, we polished the kitchen fixtures and cleaned top to bottom. Mo placed a radio in the cafe to play ball games and music. “It’ll help cover any other noises that might drift out. And if anyone ever complains about noise, we’ll blame the radio.”
At night, we slept on the second floor in Mam and Da’s old bed. It felt awkward at first as though I was disgracing their memory. Then I remembered Mam telling me about when she and Da moved into his parents’ room after they married. Only my grandfather was living at the time, and he refused to let the newly married couple sleep in a single bed when there was a larger one. Mam felt guilty at occupying the bed another couple had shared. “It’s the way of the world,” my grandfather had told her. “Each generation steppin’ aside to ensure a future of new generations.”
My own feelings were more likely laced with guilt that I wasn’t a different person while occupying my parent’s bed. I was now a murderer, preparing to operate an illegal speakeasy in our family home, which I shared with my bootlegger boyfriend. It was no doubt not the future my parents once envisioned for me.
I’m sorry, Mam, I whispered as I cast a glance toward Heaven. I offered a quick sign of the cross to prove I hadn’t forgotten everything she’d ever instilled in me.
June settled hot and heavy in New Orleans, and July was only days away. I dreaded the increasing heat of summer. My skin longed to feel the caress of the early morning breeze that rolled in across Lake Salvador.
The club was nearly ready for business. Mo and I unpacked glasses, wiping them down and sliding them into place on the shelves of our newly installed bar. Mo had negotiated a decent price from a restaurant that recently shut down for Prohibition violations. All the glasses had been hastily packed in newspaper and boxes by some boys Mo hired off the street.
Newspapers littered the pine floorboards of the parlor when we’d finished. It had been months since I’d last heard news that wasn’t delivered by word of mouth or focused on Cleric’s Cove or the Moret gang. I scanned the headlines for updates as I collected the rubbish for the bin.
A mug shot photo on one of the front pages drew my attention. The headline read, “GRANGERS RAIDED. GANG MEMBER SHOT.”
A haunting young girl stared back from the photo, dark and wavy hair mussed and threatening to engulf her face. Her eyes had the vacant, defeated look of someone who’d dared to bet on a single dream, only to have that hope snatched from her. She was beautiful in life, I saw that in her as well as the fire that simmered below the surface of her defeat. The girl’s haunted expression as she looked at the camera felt like a warning to me. This could be my future. It wasn’t a man on the front page of the Times-Picayune. It was a girl.
I read the headline again. I recognized the name “Granger” as the gang that had moved in on Moret business when Claude was jailed. Tim talked about a girl who worked for them. I examined the photo again then read the article.
Her name was Ophelia Breaux. She’d been fleeing from the revenuers when they shot her. The rest of the Granger Gang escaped.
They left her behind.
Several months ago, I might have wondered what could cause a girl to get involved with bootleggers. Now the sobering reality of my own choices settled heavily on my shoulders. I sat at one of the tables in the parlor and quickly found myself lost in the gaze of Ophelia Breaux. I tried desperately to hear any message she might convey to me. We were nearly the same, weren’t we?
And she was left behind.
“What are you readin’?” Mo entered carrying another box. He sat it on the table and looked over my shoulder.
I handed him the paper.
When he finished the article, he placed it back on the table, picked up the box and carried it to the bar.
He didn’t turn. Over his shoulder he said, “You can get out of this if you want. It’s prob’ly for the best actually. What happened to that girl, that’s real, Deary.”
I pushed myself up from the table. Every possible response flitted through my mind as I bridged the distance between us. He’d given me a way out. What we were doing was dangerous—and illegal. I could end up sitting on a cold concrete bench next to the girl from the Granger Gang. How long would I even last in jail? Did I really have it in me to be a criminal?
I leaned against the bar beside Mo.
Caution tempered his gaze, and his breath grew shallow.
“I don’t want out of this, Mo. We’re doin’ somethin’ of our own here. This place, everythin’ that’s happened for us to get this. It means somethin’. It means everythin’.”
He nodded.
“Besides, this happened nearly a month ago. It doesn’t affect us at all.” I looked at the article once more before forcing myself to throw it away.
Mo nodded and pulled me in tight against him.