FOURTEEN

Bas wants to know who is the one they have dubbed the "Black Rose Killer" in the spate of recent deaths in the Tenderloin?

It seems that the dastardly fellow leaves a black rose behind wherever he causes his mayhem, hence the name.

Someone knows who it is, but isn't saying.

—THE SUN

Valentin felt curiously at ease for a fellow who faced Monday with an empty plate before him.

He had arrived back at his rooms the evening before to find that Beansoup had shown up at the door on an uninvited visit. Justine took pity on the boy and insisted that he stay for dinner. So they spent the evening sitting at the kitchen table and later on the balcony, he and Justine drinking wine and listening to Beansoup tell preposterous stories about his exploits. When it got late, she invited him to sleep on the couch and she made him a fine bed there. Valentin stood by, a silent witness to her continued nesting. With Beansoup tucked in and snoring softly, they went to the bedroom and frolicked before falling into a sound sleep.

That one evening with no talk of murders or crazy King Bolden or anything at all about Storyville had worked to lighten his spirits. What was done was done, and he was surprised to find himself feeling a certain relief. He shoved aside his guilt at leaving Bolden to his own devices. He had lost his livelihood defending that maniac, and that should be enough for old time's sake. It wasn't like they were the best of friends anymore; those days were long gone. He didn't even think much about what he was going to do next. For one day, he would attend to his own simple pleasures.

Even the weather was cooperating, the streets morning bright. Downstairs at the tobacco shop, he exchanged pleasantries with old Gaspare, bought himself a packet of Richmond Straight Cuts, and put a nickel on the counter for the morning edition of The Sun, like any other regular fellow. He had to smile at the picture he must have presented as he stepped onto the banquette.

He leaned against a lamppost to peruse his paper. He noted with appropriate interest that the murder trial of Leonard K. Thaw was still the big national story, with a debate over the sanity of the killer of millionaire Stanford White marking the headline. Further down the page was news of a war brewing in Nicaragua, items on the battle over railroad trusts, and a visit by the Ambassador from Japan. There was also notice of the passing of a prominent New Orleans attorney and a cartoon drawing of Teddy Roosevelt with huge mustache, teeth and glasses on a globe-sized head, perched upon a tiny pony. There was no mention of the Storyville murders, at least no front-page mention.

He almost didn't bother to go any further, but his curiosity led him on and there it was on page two, a story about the grand funeral of Miss Florence Mantley, late of Basin Street. It was a transparent piece that mourned the madam's passing and made only slight reference to the "undisclosed accident" that had caused her tragic death. It seemed Anderson and the police had managed to keep Miss Mantley off the killer's resume, at least for the moment. Good luck to them, he mused vacantly.

Turning another page, his eye was caught by the column by the character who went by the moniker "Bas Bleu," known as the prime monger (and often creator) of gossip from the Uptown streets. The fellow, who through much subterfuge kept his identity unknown, feared no one, not Anderson, nor the Mayor, nor the Police Department, nor the criminal elements. He barked at the stuffy Americans on one side of Basin Street and the scarlet kings and queens on the other. His ear was to the wind and he would flaunt a rumor in the blink of an eye.

Bas led this day's charge with some banter about a certain prominent madam's recent dramatic weight gain. He turned his attention to a local businessman, "old Jew Myers," and a suspicious contract to sew uniforms for the police department. Then he plunged on to a screed about the "strange passing of Miss Florence Mantley, in the wake of the violent deaths of at least four sporting girls in the Tenderloin." Valentin straightened, feeling uneasy, and read on.

What is afoot in Anderson County? The good word has it that a certain obstacle has been removed from the case (with a 'good riddance' from Mr. Tom, Chief O'Connor, and the hoi-polloi of the demi-monde), and the police now have a clear path to ending this terrible string of crimes, which some are calling the "black rose murders." It seems this certain fellow had neither the nerve nor the wits to handle such serious business and has been put quite rightly in his place.

Valentin stared at the print, feeling his breath grow short as a rush of blood rose to his face. He cursed, then let out a bitter laugh at the sheer audacity of the item. He read it again, galled as much by the words on the page as what—and who—was behind them. The nix was out on him and it could have come only from one source: Anderson, no doubt by way of Billy Struve. It was intended to get Uptown whispering, to clear a path so that Buddy Bolden could be lynched without a rope. It was so clever he had to admire it. He crumpled the newspaper, pitched it directly into the gutter and stalked away down Magazine Street.

Justine had opened the door and stepped onto the balcony just as he appeared on the banquette, so close that she could almost read the newspaper over his shoulder. She saw him lean his lazy body on the lamppost and read over the front page. She saw him turn unhurriedly to the inside and peruse another page, looking so at ease and she thought of calling his name, surprising him, just to see the look on his face. He turned another page and she saw him tense. He read for a moment, then looked away, shook his head, and started reading again, his posture going all stiff with anger.

A few moments later, he crumpled the paper, looking like he wanted instead to tear it into pieces. He tossed it into the gutter and stalked away, his head bent to the banquette, as if there was something hanging onto his coattails that neither his jerking steps nor the morning breeze from the river could dislodge.

She watched him stop on the corner at Gravier, stare at some point in the distance, then continue at a foot-dragging pace, a man swimming upstream in a river of trouble. She hurried down to the street, bought herself a copy of The Sun, and scanned it until she found the article. Reading slowly, she felt her heart sink. For a little while, she had thought it was all over.

For the next two days, he skulked about, barely uttering a word to her. She kept busy with the rooms and did her best to stay out of his way. He disappeared for long hours without explaining, and at night he made no move to her, but tossed about so much that she barely slept at all. Beansoup, however, had found Valentin's couch much to his liking, and Justine didn't have the heart to send him back out on the street. He wandered who knew where during the days, but he always found his way back to Magazine Street in time for dinner.

One afternoon, he showed up with a small Negro boy from the Colored Waifs Home named Louis something. Beansoup, it turned out, had bragged to his friends about the Creole detective and the Creole detective's friend King Bolden, and young Louis was eager to get a close-up look at the famous trumpet player. Disappointment showed in his button eyes when he found that King Bolden was not on the premises. Justine invited him to stay and eat, but he refused politely and went away.

Valentin walked up the steps to his rooms on Wednesday afternoon, just as a hard rain returned to pelt the streets. Justine was sitting on the couch, reading one of his books. After a few minutes, she caught him acting strangely, walking around, glancing at her with his eyebrows knit, then sitting down, getting up, and doing it all over again. Finally, catching another of his looks, she said, "What's the matter?"

"I was an obstacle," he said. She closed the book. He stood in the middle of the room, his arms crossed. "You should see the way they look at me on the street. Like I'm the one did those murders."

"But what do you care what them people think?"

He began pacing up and down. "That's not it. Don't you see? Now they'll say Bolden's guilty, but they couldn't hang charges on him because his pal St. Cyr got in the way."

"Well, there ain't nothin' you can do about that," she said quietly.

Valentin scowled and nodded briefly. "Maybe not. But before he's arrested, convicted and put to death, some evidence of his guilt would be in order."

She saw the sudden glimmer in his eye. "But, you're out of it now," she reminded him. "You said so yourself."

He stopped pacing and clapped his hands together in sudden animation. "Exactly! I don't work for Anderson anymore, and I sure don't have to worry about Picot and the coppers. I was an obstacle. They wanted me out of the way and they got their wish."

"But didn't Mr. Anderson say—"

"All he said was that I wasn't working for him," he told her. "He didn't tell me not—" He stopped and stared blankly at the wall for a moment, as a notion came and went. He shook his head. "I can do whatever I want. And what I want is to find out once and for all if Buddy had anything to do with those murders."

"How?"

He thought about it. "Maybe I'll ask him."

"Do what?"

"I'll ask him if he did it," he said. "It's the one thing I haven't done since this mess began. The one thing I guarantee nobody's done. Ask him if he killed those women and see what he says."

"Well, he's not going to admit to it," she said, and looked at him thoughtfully. "But what if he does? What if he says, 'Yes, I did it.' And then he tells you how, and when, and everything else? What if it has been him all along, Valentin? What'll you do then?"

"I'll turn him over to the coppers," Valentin said. "Or take care of it myself. Shoot him in the head and put him out of his misery."

"You could do that?"

"I could, yes," he said, looking starkly grim. "By God, after all this, if I find out it was him, I swear, I'll put him in his grave."

Magazine was getting noisy with the chatter of wagon wheels on cobblestones, the bleats of automobile horns trading with the whinnies of horses, the blue crackle of the streetcars, the early whistles of tugboats on the river. Morning light drifted through the windows.

Valentin made up a pot of coffee on the kitchen stove, chewing on a French roll while he waited for it to boil. He went back into the front room and woke Beansoup with a gentle shake. The boy sat up. He looked so comical with his hair sticking out at ridiculous angles and his befuddled expression that Valentin almost laughed.

Beansoup followed his host into the kitchen on stumbling bare feet and sat down at the table. Valentin put a cup of chicory coffee and a roll before the boy and then took the opposite chair. Beansoup slurped his coffee and gnawed hungrily at the roll, every now and again glancing over his shoulder, now wide awake and able to appreciate a peek at Justine in her nightdress.

Valentin brought his attention back around. "I need your help with something," he said and the kid stopped eating and began to grin.

After Beansoup had finished his breakfast (two more rolls, an apple and another cup of coffee), he pulled on his shoes and went out the door, intent on his errands, but not so intent that he didn't pause for a last glance at the crack in the bedroom door before he left.

Valentin went to the balcony and watched the skinny legs and arms disappear down Magazine, then went back into the bedroom, sat down on the mattress and ran a finger along Justine's cheek. She opened her eyes and smiled softly.

"Are you coming back to bed?" she murmured.

"No," he said, "I can't sleep."

"Why dontcha just let it be?" she said. "Let the police catch him. Whoever it is."

"No," he said. He saw the expression and went ahead and admitted the rest of it. "If the coppers beat me to the killer, I can't ever show my face around here again." She frowned, and he said, "Have the kid stay here again tonight." She looked at him, surprised. "Well, he needs a place to lay his head," he said, "and it'll make me feel better."

They were silent, lost in their thoughts. He felt her hand on his arm. "You gonna be careful?" He nodded. "Real careful?" He smiled and nodded again. Her eyes wandered to the doorway. "Where's Beansoup?" she whispered. When Valentin explained that he had sent the kid off, she smiled, her eyes got smoky as she reached down, threw the coverlet aside, and pulled up the hem of her nightdress.

Late that afternoon, she stood in the doorway and watched him walk down the stairs. The street door opened and closed with a muted rattling of glass. She stepped back inside.

Beansoup sat stiffly on the couch, eyes wide with the vigilance that Valentin had told him was required for this task. Justine smiled; he looked like a startled mannequin, his bony limbs rigid, his eyes unblinking, his ears perked to the slightest untoward sound. She went to gather up the sewing she had begun, a new set of curtains to replace the yellowed and tattered ones that had hung in the street windows, probably for years.

It was nowhere close to the time that Buddy would get to Longshoreman's Hall, but Valentin wanted to be outside, moving, doing something. So he wandered, making his way along the north end of the Vieux Carre, down the streets that crisscrossed the one square mile that had composed the original city and now constituted Creole New Orleans. He passed through the cool shadows of elegant brick houses and under the ornate, wrought iron colonnades that hung over the banquettes.

His steps led him to the corner of Orleans Street, where he found himself gazing on the cuspate spire of St. Ignatius. He studied the church building long minutes, then crossed over and climbed the stone steps to heavy oak doors adorned with heavy oak crosses.

He walked through the silence of the chapel that was heavy with the smell of incense and stepped into the narrow corridor in the back corner. He spent a moment fixing his collar and cuffs. Then he knocked sharply two times and pushed the door open without waiting for an invitation.

John Rice looked up from his desk, a pen poised over a letter, his eyes widening in surprise behind his glasses. As Valentin closed the door behind him, he saw doubt flicker over the parish clerk's face.

But then Rice composed himself and said, "Mr...."

"St. Cyr," Valentin told him, though of course the parish clerk knew what it was.

Rice laid his pen aside. "Can I help you with something?" He did not make the offer of a seat.

"I stopped by to ask after Father Dupre," Valentin said.

The parish clerk made a show of pursing his lips with officious puzzlement. "You're inquiring on behalf of Mr. Anderson?" Rice said.

So it was going to be a fencing match. "Mr. Anderson will be pleased to learn any news about the Father's health," Valentin said as a parry, wondering if John Rice knew of his dismissal and would call him on it.

Perhaps not. The parish clerk patted his already neat hair and said, "Father Dupre is doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances. The staff at Jackson is taking excellent care of him." He took off his glasses, held the lenses in front of his face, and replaced them. His gaze wandered to the letter on his desk.

"Was the exact nature of Father's illness ever discovered?" Valentin inquired in a tone that was casual but concerned.

Rice considered, then said, with deliberation, "You may tell Mr. Anderson that the Father is in the best of hands. There's been some improvement, but these cases are very difficult." He produced a small, stiff smile. "Of course, we would all be most grateful if Mr. Anderson remembers Father Dupre in his prayers." He entwined his fingers and waited.

Valentin nodded briefly and made his exit. The parish clerk stared at the closed door, then reached directly for the walnut box on his desk that housed the telephone.

He walked out of the Quarter and into Storyville as darkness descended. He felt like he should be looking for something among the passing faces; or maybe there would be something, some key, lying on the banquette or floating in the humid air, and all he would have to do was see it and snatch it away.

He stopped when he reached the corner of Canal and Basin streets and looked back down-the-line. The piece to the puzzle had not appeared, maybe because everything he needed had been there for the taking all along. Maybe it was true that Buddy Bolden was the murderer of five innocent women. Maybe it was just that simple, and just that sad.

It was almost eight o'clock when he finally reached Rampart Street. The Longshoreman's Hall was lit up with electric lights strung all across the facade, casting a weak amber glow over the crowd at the front door, a raucous mob of sports and girls from the houses, gangs of college boys, out-of-town drummers in twos and threes, plus the usual assortment of sports, gamblers and local ne'er-do-wells. Above their chatter, the sound of a band jassing noisily came bubbling out the open doors of the building.

He stepped around the crowd and peered in through one of the tall windows. It was the King Bolden Band, all right, just like the signs next to the doors announced. But it was no surprise that there was no King Bolden on the stage, or that there was another horn player in his place. He could guess what it meant, and the only true surprise was it hadn't happened sooner.

He moved away from the window and into the street, watching for the familiar profile to come into view. Inside, the band wound down and the music stopped in a swell of applause and cheers. A few minutes later, Jeff Mumford and Jimmy Johnson stepped through the doors and found a place at the corner of the building to get a breath of air. Mumford, flexing his fingers, caught sight of the Creole detective and quickly averted his eyes. He worked his fingers for another half-minute, then straightened and walked over to where Valentin was standing.

The guitar player looked sheepish as he nodded a greeting. "You looking for Buddy?" Valentin nodded. "I might as well tell you. Willie said we're done with him."

"Does he know?" Valentin said.

The guitar player shook his head, looking genuinely regretful. "Nossir, I don't believe so. We just couldn't put up with it no more. Buddy, he's just ... he's..." Mumford made a futile gesture, then gave Valentin an earnest look. "Can you tell him, Mr. St. Cyr? It'd be better that way." He offered his hand and then walked back to join Johnson. The two musicians went inside. Presently the band started up with "Sugaree."

If there was a night for Buddy to miss a show, this was it, but not five minutes later, Valentin saw the lank profile wavering out of the darkness up Rampart Street. Bolden reeled around the corner at Dryades and stopped dead in his tracks, his face breaking into a grin of delight as he took in the crowd milling on the banquette and spilling out into the cobbled street. Then he saw Valentin approaching him and let out a little laugh of surprise.

"Well, what the hell!" he said. "What are you doin' down here?"

Valentin blocked his path. "I want to talk to you."

Buddy waved his horn in the air. "Yeah, that's fine, but not now. I got to get inside, make some music for these folk."

Valentin held out both his hands. "Just hold up for a minute."

Buddy was about to brush by when the doors to the dance hall opened and the sound of a cornet came chattering out, carried along on a gurgling stream of rhythm. His head swung around and he frowned. "What the hell is that?" he said. "Who's playin' that horn?"

***

Longshoreman's Hall was a box of a building with a huge, open dance floor of rough pine flooring, ringed on three sides by a balcony that was crowded with tables. Beneath the balcony were more tables and, top and bottom, they were all packed with revelers. The two bars, one on each side of the door, were three deep with men shouting and grabbing for beer, champagne, and short glasses of Raleigh Rye. The floor was a bobbing pool of dancing couples, all sweated-up in the close air. On the stage, sounding loud and perky, was the Bolden Band: the regular fellows, minus Bolden, but plus another, a short brown man in a slouch hat, playing a golden cornet.

Buddy moved stiffly through the crowd of jigging bodies, getting jostled by elbows and shoulders and hips. It was dark, and nobody seemed to notice that it was King Bolden passing by. No one saw, and no one called his name. Valentin had followed him inside, but now he hung back, not wanting to witness what was about to happen.

Buddy, peering at the stage, saw the rotund man with the horn: Freddie Keppard, the only horn player in New Orleans that was in his class. Buddy pushed through the front line of the dancers, his cornet jiggling in his hand, trying to hold his smile.

As the tune wound down, Willie Cornish looked over the bell of his trombone and damn, if it wasn't Bolden coming through the crowd. In another second, Mumford saw him and so did the others, Freddie, too, and they all started looking off somewhere, as if the notes to the next number were written on the flaking wall paint.

The song ended and the fellows went to fiddling with their instruments. Buddy understood: they were making time for him to get up there, to tell Freddie thanks for sitting in, but King Bolden was here now, and ready to make some noise.

Willie watched him edge closer to the bandstand, waiting for an invitation. He turned away, blew the spit out of his horn, trying to get out of it. He felt the others watching out of the corners of their eyes and Keppard faded back, not wanting to get in the middle of something. Willie turned around as Bolden moved closer. The dance floor was clearing and finally some of the people noticed and started pointing and whispering. Look, that's King Bolden there...

Buddy looked up at Willie Cornish and made a move to step on stage and get going. But Cornish held up a big hand, pink palm out, and said, "Wait a minute, now." Buddy stopped. There was movement behind him, and more whispers.

Cornish couldn't think of how else to put it, so he muttered brusquely, "Look here, we hired Freddie." Buddy gave him a blank stare, so Cornish leaned down closer to his face and closer to his ear. "We don't need you no more, Buddy," he said in his low, gravelly voice. Buddy still didn't seem to understand, so he said, loud enough for the fellows on the stage and the dancers standing closest to hear, "You're out of it, y'understand? We can't be workin' with the likes of you. It's done. There ain't no Bolden Band no more."

He straightened quickly, took a half-step back, waiting for Bolden to go wild and start tearing the place apart, but Buddy just stared blankly, like he hadn't heard a word. The trombone player shrugged his big shoulders and turned away.

Buddy stood there, looking from one face to the next, his mouth working up and down. But they wouldn't return his stare, wouldn't pay him any attention at all. Cornish whipped an angry hand up to lead them into a slow-drag blues.

No one cared to dance. Most eyes in the room fell on Buddy, standing alone and very still in the middle of the dance floor. The song wound on, a deep, liquid-blue haze, and he brought the cornet to his lips at one point and a murmur like a small breeze passed through the crowd. But then he dropped it to his side and let it dangle. Voices were whispering now and the news went through the house in bare seconds. Not a few of these same people had been around when Kid Bolden first got up and started making people all crazy with his music, and now the last scene in the drama was being played out before their eyes.

Cornish waved his hand to bring the blues down short and stole a glance at Buddy, standing there like an empty sack. The room was still, like somebody had just been shot. Cornish shook his head, then turned around and counted out one-two-three, one-two-three, to start up "Goldenrod Rag."

At the fourth bar, a couple moved onto the dance floor, and then there was another, and then a dozen, and then it seemed the whole house descended, arms flailing gaily and feet stomping all merry on the rough boards. For a minute or so, they moved around Buddy in little eddies. Here and there, a reveler reeled by and gave a knowing glance, That's right, that's King Bolden. The band chugged along and it was Keppard up there now, and if it wasn't Buddy's soaring, staccato brass, he was tight and plenty loud.

They played on and Buddy seemed to grow smaller, shrinking away, until no one noticed him much at all. So that only a few people looked around when the light-skinned fellow slipped through the crowd, took his arm and led him away.

Buddy had taken only a few stumbling steps down the banquette when the cornet dropped from his hand and clattered into the gutter. Valentin saw it fall and called his name, but Buddy walked stiffly down Rampart toward Dryades, never once looking back.

Valentin stopped to pick up the horn. There was a fresh dent in the brass to join all the old dirty ones. King Bolden had once preened the perfect silver curves, the silent sliding valves with their mother-of-pearl buttons, so the deep glow of polished brass reflected his strange circus world. And over the horizon of the bell, he could see all the tan and brown and black faces looking up at him. It was the very horn that had blasted New Orleans out of its slumber and set a whole city to jassing. But now it seemed lifeless, all dull gray and scratched and dinged, a forlorn and forgotten piece of metal, something for the junkman's horse-drawn wagon. Valentin thought to lay it down and let it be, but then he stuck it under his arm and followed Buddy into the night.

They walked along the railroad tracks that ran through the yard behind Union Station. The night wind kicked up whorls of dust and gravel, and in the distance off to their left, Storyville rose like a vaudeville stage, all tawdry light, herky-jerky motion and tinny noise.

Buddy came upon a club car that had been pushed off on a siding and sat down heavily on the bottom step. He leaned back, gripped the railing and closed his eyes for a moment. He looked up when he heard Valentin come along and right away saw the horn. "Whatchu doin' with that?" he muttered tonelessly.

"You dropped it," Valentin said and held it out to him.

Buddy turned his head away. "I don't want the goddamn thing."

"You dropped it on the street," Valentin repeated. "In the gutter back there on Ramp—"

"Y'hear me?" Buddy yelled suddenly. "I said I don't want the goddamn thing!"

Valentin shrugged and tossed the horn on the second step. Buddy winced at the sound of brass clanking on steel. "Why dontcha just keep it?" His mouth twisted into a ghastly smile. "You ain't heard? Ain't no King Bolden Band no more."

"I heard," Valentin said. He watched Buddy's face, saw the awful, broken look, and tried to think of something else to say.

"And after what I done for them!" Bolden cried out. "They wouldn't one of them be nothin' if it wasn't for me. Willie Cornish, that fat fuck of a black-ass nigger, tellin' me there ain't no Bolden Band. Mumford acting like I ain't even there, and his own mama was a whore down—"

"I don't want to hear that," Valentin cut in.

Bolden stopped and gave him a hard look. "You see what they did? You see what they did to me?"

"I saw," Valentin said.

"Well, who the fuck's Willie Cornish to tell—"

"What do you care?" Valentin said. He suddenly felt very tired of all of it.

Buddy's bloodshot eyes fixed on him. "What's that?"

"I said, what do you care?" He waved a hand back the way they'd come. "You don't give a goddamn about that band."

"Whatchu talkin' about?" Bolden said. "I started—"

"You don't!" Valentin cut him off again. "And you don't care about Nora or the baby, either."

"Don't you—"

"You don't give a good goddamn for anything, except getting drunk or smoking hop or chasing after some whore. Just whatever the hell pleases you. Ain't that right?"

Buddy stared at him, then let out a dull laugh. "You don't know nothin'," he said roughly.

"I know I'm about the only friend you got left!"

"You ain't no friend of mine," Buddy said in a low, mean voice.

Valentin felt a hot flush rising to his face. "Oh, no? Who do you think's been protecting you? Who you think kept the coppers from taking you down all this time?"

Buddy frowned in annoyance. "Whatchu talkin' about? Taking me down for what?"

"For those goddamn murders in Storyville!" Speaking the words made his stomach churn.

Buddy's mouth fell open. "What'd you say?"

Valentin let out a blunt, exasperated laugh. "That's right! You get it? The coppers and just about everybody else back-of-town think it was you murdered Annie. And Gran Tillman and Martha—"

Buddy lunged off the steel steps and grabbed a handful of Valentin's shirt in his fist. "You shut your goddamn mouth right now!" he snarled. Their feet went sliding on gravel and Valentin saw Buddy's black eyes were swimming with rage.

He clamped his left hand on Bolden's trembling wrist. "You knew every damn one of them!" he seethed. "You were seen at those houses. You got no alibis. That adds up to guilty!"

Buddy looked stunned for a moment and his grip weakened. He gaped at Valentin with some kind of terrible wonder. "They think ... But I didn't ... I didn't hurt nobody." Sudden blades of light shot from his eyes and his grip tightened again, choking now. "You goddamn son of a whore!" His voice almost broke. "I didn't hurt nobody!" He leaned close and Valentin could smell his breath, hot whiskey and yen pox and something bloody. "I didn't do none of that, you fucking dago fucking bastard!"

There was a second's frigid pause as Buddy wavered and Valentin took the second to slam him hard in the chest. He heard a hiss of breath and he slammed him again, knocking him sprawling into the side of the car. He thought it would stop then, that the shock would fix him where he stood. But Buddy came raging back, and clamped both his hands on Valentin's throat. He tried to wrench loose, but Bolden was bearing down with the same iron fingers that had worked that loud horn.

He couldn't breathe and he was standing outside of it, thinking: he'll let go ... he'll stop ... But Buddy didn't stop. He was trying to choke the life out of him. Valentin's brain was going blank as the Storyville lights began to dance like flames.

It happened with no thought at all. He dropped his right hand to his back pocket and came up with the whalebone sap, snapping it around to crack Buddy full force behind the ear. The iron clamp on his windpipe flinched. He swung again and Buddy staggered, grabbing for a hold on the side of the car, a sudden gush of blood down his collar. His black eyes went wild, and he rushed forward again. But Valentin saw him coming, dropped the sap and snatched the Iver Johnson from his pocket. He took one fast step back, stuck out his arm at full length, and shoved the short barrel into the flesh of Buddy's cheek, freezing him.

"I'll kill you, goddamn it!" he yelled, and his voice broke.

It lasted only seconds, but it seemed to go on forever. Valentin felt a cold rage and a colder fear, just like the moment before he shot a hole right through Eddie McTier's chest. His brain unlocked and a voice was whispering: one pull and it will all be over. He caught the harsh, knowing look on Bolden's face and he felt his heart begin to break apart. The finger on the trigger relaxed.

Buddy jerked away from the barrel of the pistol and stumbled back. "You're gonna be sorry." His stare was hateful, and his wounded voice was full of venom. "I'm tellin' you you're gonna be sorry for what you done to me."

His crazy gaze shifted and he stalked off around the back of the car, stumbling over the first rail. He lurched out of sight and his curses were lost in the rumble of a train rolling through the back of the yard.

Valentin's hand shook as he lowered the pistol, put it back in his pocket and bent down to pick up the sap. He leaned a hand against the side of the car to catch his breath and try to keep his stomach from coming up. A minute passed. He went around to the back of the car, stopping to collect the cornet. Bolden was not in sight. Valentin crossed over the tracks. "Buddy?" he called. He looked all around the yard, expecting to see the stark figure staggering about on the rough gravel. But there was nothing but long blue shadows and the clacking of the train moving off into the black Louisiana night.

He tucked the horn under his arm and began walking at a quicker pace. He crossed the next set of tracks, heading out of the yard in the direction of Storyville, calling, "Buddy! Buddy Bolden!"

The flat was quiet. Beansoup was curled in a ball on the couch, deep in sleep. In the bedroom, Justine dozed beneath the baire. The bells of St. John's had just tolled two times when the street door opened and closed. A figure stood motionless in the dark foyer at the bottom of the stairwell, poised, listening. One step up, then a second. The third step creaked, and the figure froze for five seconds. Then it was a few more swift silent steps to the second floor landing.

Beansoup heard a tapping on the door and opened one sleepy eye. Another tap-tap-tap and he sat up, blinking groggily in the dark. There was one more soft tap, and somebody whispering something. It was Mr. St. Cyr, home from his rounds. He untangled the sheet from around his legs, stumbled groggily to the door, and threw back the bolt.

The door burst open, hitting him full on, and a blow came hard across his forehead. He stumbled back blindly, tripping on the braided rug. He was already on the floor when the second blow came with a flash of light and a sharp pain that sent his head spinning in black circles. He cried out and slumped over on his side. Feet scrambled past his face and he tried to open his mouth, but he couldn't make any noise. He lifted his head, but the spinning made him dizzier and he fell back, unconscious.

Justine heard a noise from out in the front room that brought her half-awake. The apartment door opened with a bang, and then there was a thump, a strange heavy sound, followed by a muffled cry. It wasn't right at all, and she wondered if she was dreaming. She pulled herself up from her sleep and was reaching for the baire just as the bedroom door was flung wide.

She saw the shadow and knew it wasn't him. Then she thought it was the kid, but before that had crossed her mind the shadow came at her. In a blur, the baire was ripped down and pulled around her. She caught the motion of something swinging round in an arc and tried to move away, but the blow caught her high on the head and knocked her back across the bed in a flash of red pain that made her ears ring. Another glancing blow on the shoulder knocked her the other way.

A sudden spike of rage came out of her belly, a blood-red wave that drove her up off the bed, the baire still twisted around her. She threw herself against the shadow and her weight forced the body into the wall. She heard a sharp grunt and they tumbled down to the floor, arms, legs, and baire in a tangle. She was trying to fight, but the arm with the weapon came free and she couldn't cover up and there was another blast of bright pain on the back of her head and suddenly she couldn't move. She knew there was another blow coming, the one that would finish it. But before it landed, the shadowy form jerked away and there was a scrabbling of steps across the wood floor. Then the door slammed, and the only sound was a low moaning from the front room.

What seemed like hours passed before she got one hand to move, then the other. It took more hours for her to tug the ends of the baire from around her head and shoulders. She crawled to the doorway on all fours and saw the boy's body all crumpled into the corner. She heard his groans and tried to call out to him, but couldn't make her mouth work for all the blood. There was a terrible, numbing throb in her head, but she forced herself to stay up on her trembling hands and knees and crawl.

A mulatto workman, passing by just before dawn on his way to work at the French Market, found her body sprawled halfway out the street door. He ran to a call box, and in ten minutes, a horse-drawn police wagon came pounding down Magazine Street.

Wearied to the bone, Valentin gave up on trying to find Buddy sometime after three o'clock and made his way down Common Street to the river. He sat on a pier, watching the stars through the mist, trying to decide what to do next. Maybe nothing at all; the story would play out with or without him. Let Buddy lose what was left of his mind, let Picot have him, and he could go home to Justine and forget all of it.

He stopped, rubbing his forehead. It was too late for that; he was part of the story, too. He had been part of it all along.

It wasn't until the first deep purple shades of dawn were tainting the black sky over the Gulf that he started home. He turned up Magazine and was almost to Gaspare's when he noticed that his street door was standing open. He took a step closer, saw the blood on the threshold and went racing up the stairs. He opened the door on the front room, ran through the bedroom and then rushed back down the stairwell and onto the street.

The copper behind the desk glanced up at the sweating, shaking, Dago-looking fellow. "What happened on Magazine Street?" the Dago demanded.

The officer examined him up and down for a moment, then said, "Two people was attacked. Young octoroon girl and that kid, what'd they call him ... Beansoup." He cocked an eye at Valentin. "Do you know something—"

"What happened to them?"

"I believe they was carried over to Charity."

He swallowed, steadied himself. "Are they dead?"

The copper shrugged. "That I don't know."

He ran into the lobby of the colored ward of Charity Hospital at seven o'clock and had to pace up and down for twenty minutes before the doctor, a thin, serious-looking Creole, stepped up. "Sir?" he said politely.

"Justine Mancarre," Valentin said.

The doctor said, "She was the victim of an assault. She has some very serious injuries. Traumas to the head."

"But she's alive," Valentin said.

The doctor's eyes shifted away. Picot stepped up, looked at Valentin and said, without preamble, "Well, he's back at it, eh?" He turned to the doctor. "Either one of them die yet?" He said roughly.

The doctor looked at the two men, the copper with his lazy eyes and the other, the light-skinned Creole, with his face all rigid with fear. "They're both alive," he said and saw the Creole sag. "The young lady sustained the most serious injuries, but I expect they'll recover."

Valentin let out a breath and Picot sniffed and shrugged. "That's just as good," he said. "Means we got witnesses."

When the doctor stepped away, Picot turned around and said, "All right, let's get this over with. You know where he was last night?"

Valentin rubbed his eyes wearily. "I saw him at Longshoreman's Hall ... there was this ... his band—"

"His band ain't no more," Picot said. "I heard all about it."

Valentin nodded; of course, Uptown news traveled fast. "We got into ... into a scuffle ... down in the train yard."

"A scuffle?" Picot smiled dimly.

"Then I lost track of him," Valentin said.

"So you got no idea what he was up to, say after two A.M.?" Picot's eyes wandered away. "Where he went? What he mighta been doin'?"

Valentin shook his head.

They stood over Justine's bed. She was all in white, her head bandaged round and round. Her eyes, half-closed, were dark liquid pools in a slow river of morphine. Aware of Picot's surly gaze, Valentin touched her hand, but she didn't respond. The Creole doctor came up behind them.

"When can I question her?" Picot demanded.

"Hard to tell," the doctor said. "Could be as soon as this afternoon. But it could be a few days."

"I'll be around," Picot said. Valentin just stared at her.

The doctor was studying the patient in kind. "Do you know who's responsible?"

Picot answered the doctor easily. "Yessir, I believe we do."

As they stepped up to the nurses' station in the White Ward, it suddenly dawned on Valentin that he didn't know Beansoup's true name. He'd been seeing him on the streets for years, the boy had slept under his roof and eaten at his table, and he had never bothered to ask his name. He felt a flush of shame.

"That would be Emile Carter," the nurse at the desk told them. "His condition is still serious, but he's stable," she said. "You can go up and look in on him if you want. Second floor."

Valentin climbed the stairs with Picot puffing along behind. They stopped in the doorway and looked inside. Stripped of his ragged street clothes and dirty mug all cleaned up, he looked like a different person. He looked like a child.

The two men stepped out of the hospital as the first hard light of day eased its way into the sky over the Gulf. Without a word, they walked off in opposite directions.