Read Online Chasing the Devil's Tail by David Fulmer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Fulmer
Ads: Link
it was a fact of life.
Most likely, the sad business would flicker away and be forgotten. The bodies of Annie Robie and Gran Tillman would go down into the cold ground or into paupers' biers; old Father Dupre would fade into infirmity in his own private grave behind the stone walls at Jackson; and business in Anderson County would go on without a pause.
The State Senator picked up his pen and returned to his work.
FIVE
The class with which I have come in contact is not what would be considered desirable, being entirely of the Sicilian type. Illiterate and tending to be unruly and used only for manual labor, having had no training nor education and not being adaptable for scientific pursuits nor for diversified or intensified agricultural pursuits without close attention.
L.H. Lancaster
President, Progressive Union
Thibodeaux, Louisiana
New Orleans Parish Prison was a harsh, blank, three-story gravestone that stretched along Royal Street from St. Louis to Conti, a scofflaw's nightmare that began the moment his disobedient shoes were dragged up to the gray and somber edifice.
The ugly, glowering block of granite housed courtrooms, municipal offices, a police precinct and, in the basement, a gruesome excuse for a jail, all connected by echoing corridors and stairwells. If Hell could fit in a city block, Valentin had reflected, it would have the exact appearance of this building; and should he ever again be tempted by the fruits of crime, he need only poke his nose down the west side of the French
Quarter, catch a glimpse of a single bleak cornerstone of the building, and he would be cured.
So it was only fitting that as he was arriving there late that afternoon, J. Picot was coming down the broad stone steps. The policeman stopped in his tracks and looked St. Cyr up and down, his lips curling. "Now what?" When the Creole detective didn't answer directly, Picot's grimace turned into a thin smile. "You here about Bolden? I heard they brought him in last night. Everybody heard. He was yellin' and screamin', fightin' with the officers. They had to put him down."
"Put him down how?" Valentin asked.
Picot made a lazy mime of swinging a club. "Knocked him cold, I hear. But I wasn't there," he added with a tone of regret. He fastened a hard eye on St. Cyr. "What, you goin' his bail now?"
Valentin shrugged. The copper shook his head. "I wouldn't waste my money. They need to throw away the key on that one. Nothin' but a rowdy. We get more calls when that band of his is playing somewhere. It makes people crazy. There oughta be a law." Picot's expression turned sardonic. "But while you're inside, go ahead ask him about that Negro girl over to Cassie Maples'," he said.
Valentin glanced at him sharply, but the copper had turned abruptly and was walking down the steps. "Watch yourself round here," he snickered over his shoulder. "You wouldn't want to find yourself locked up with him." That would mean locked up in the Colored section, as they both knew. Picot strolled off.
The fellow who had caused all the ruckus presented such a picture staring out from the dim shadows of the cell that Valentin almost smiled. Buddy looked exactly like he had when they were kids and caught in some mischief: baffled by the fuss, but
mostly indignant at being nabbed at all. Valentin stepped closer and noticed his right eye, slightly swollen, and purple-blue tinge of bruises here and there on his head. Behind him on a pallet on the stone floor, a lump of putrid-smelling humanity lay snoring up a storm. Up and down the narrow corridor echoed sounds and smells more akin to Audubon Zoo.
"Buddy?" Valentin said.
"My horn," Bolden murmured in a tragic voice. "They took my horn."
"What happened?" Valentin said.
The prisoner turned away and began pacing behind the bars. "I don't know. One minute we were playing. The next thing I know there's all this noise and the coppers came in and they carried me away."
"You scuffled with them."
Bolden stopped his
Most likely, the sad business would flicker away and be forgotten. The bodies of Annie Robie and Gran Tillman would go down into the cold ground or into paupers' biers; old Father Dupre would fade into infirmity in his own private grave behind the stone walls at Jackson; and business in Anderson County would go on without a pause.
The State Senator picked up his pen and returned to his work.
FIVE
The class with which I have come in contact is not what would be considered desirable, being entirely of the Sicilian type. Illiterate and tending to be unruly and used only for manual labor, having had no training nor education and not being adaptable for scientific pursuits nor for diversified or intensified agricultural pursuits without close attention.
L.H. Lancaster
President, Progressive Union
Thibodeaux, Louisiana
New Orleans Parish Prison was a harsh, blank, three-story gravestone that stretched along Royal Street from St. Louis to Conti, a scofflaw's nightmare that began the moment his disobedient shoes were dragged up to the gray and somber edifice.
The ugly, glowering block of granite housed courtrooms, municipal offices, a police precinct and, in the basement, a gruesome excuse for a jail, all connected by echoing corridors and stairwells. If Hell could fit in a city block, Valentin had reflected, it would have the exact appearance of this building; and should he ever again be tempted by the fruits of crime, he need only poke his nose down the west side of the French
Quarter, catch a glimpse of a single bleak cornerstone of the building, and he would be cured.
So it was only fitting that as he was arriving there late that afternoon, J. Picot was coming down the broad stone steps. The policeman stopped in his tracks and looked St. Cyr up and down, his lips curling. "Now what?" When the Creole detective didn't answer directly, Picot's grimace turned into a thin smile. "You here about Bolden? I heard they brought him in last night. Everybody heard. He was yellin' and screamin', fightin' with the officers. They had to put him down."
"Put him down how?" Valentin asked.
Picot made a lazy mime of swinging a club. "Knocked him cold, I hear. But I wasn't there," he added with a tone of regret. He fastened a hard eye on St. Cyr. "What, you goin' his bail now?"
Valentin shrugged. The copper shook his head. "I wouldn't waste my money. They need to throw away the key on that one. Nothin' but a rowdy. We get more calls when that band of his is playing somewhere. It makes people crazy. There oughta be a law." Picot's expression turned sardonic. "But while you're inside, go ahead ask him about that Negro girl over to Cassie Maples'," he said.
Valentin glanced at him sharply, but the copper had turned abruptly and was walking down the steps. "Watch yourself round here," he snickered over his shoulder. "You wouldn't want to find yourself locked up with him." That would mean locked up in the Colored section, as they both knew. Picot strolled off.
The fellow who had caused all the ruckus presented such a picture staring out from the dim shadows of the cell that Valentin almost smiled. Buddy looked exactly like he had when they were kids and caught in some mischief: baffled by the fuss, but
mostly indignant at being nabbed at all. Valentin stepped closer and noticed his right eye, slightly swollen, and purple-blue tinge of bruises here and there on his head. Behind him on a pallet on the stone floor, a lump of putrid-smelling humanity lay snoring up a storm. Up and down the narrow corridor echoed sounds and smells more akin to Audubon Zoo.
"Buddy?" Valentin said.
"My horn," Bolden murmured in a tragic voice. "They took my horn."
"What happened?" Valentin said.
The prisoner turned away and began pacing behind the bars. "I don't know. One minute we were playing. The next thing I know there's all this noise and the coppers came in and they carried me away."
"You scuffled with them."
Bolden stopped his
Similar Books
