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Authors: David Fulmer
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pacing. "Did I?" He looked confused. "Well, they took my horn," he repeated. Valentin noticed the hands fidgeting about, and it occurred to him that it had been years since he had seen Buddy without a silver cornet either dangling from his fingers or stuck to his lips.
"Where's Nora?" he was saying. "Is she coming to get me out?"
"She can't get you out. They're going to hold you."
Buddy's face twisted up with a finicky disgust. Valentin understood. King Bolden had abruptly become a common criminal, stuck in Parish Prison, just another no-account nigger tramp like the rest of them up and down the line of cells. He blinked tensely. "For how long?"
"Probably two days."
"Two days!"
"It's nothing," Valentin said. "They'll take you out with a gang to clean up the Market." Bolden's face fell further. "You want me to go see her?" Buddy shrugged and muttered
something. "It's only for the two days," Valentin said. "Then I'll come collect you."
King Bolden slumped against the steel bars. "What did they do with my horn?" he said.
Valentin stepped out into a cloudy evening. The streets around him moved in lazy slow-motion with citizens on end-of-the-day errands, sports getting an early line on the night's action, the odd drunkard drifting along on a cloud of cheap whiskey. As he stood on the corner of Canal and Marais, lost in his thoughts, the first thick drops of a Louisiana thundershower splattered on the banquette.
He bent his head, jammed his hands in his pockets and turned down Canal, walking into the approaching storm. He went at a hard pace, his shoes slapping water, putting distance between himself and that grim hulk of a jailhouse. He made his way south by ducking into doorways and under colonnades, stopping here and there for a few moments as the rain turned streets into shallow lagoons, then moving on. By the time he had reached Basin Street, he was half-soaked. He found a dry spot in the doorway of Cairo Club, closed for the night, and drew a thin cigar from his vest pocket. He struck a lucifer on the brick wall and smoked as he watched the hard rain sweep over Storyville.
In the space of a week, he had stood over the corpses of Littlejohn and two sporting girls, both of whom had been left with a black rose. He had taken a strange trip to Jackson with an old priest. And now he had seen King Bolden locked up in Parish Prison.
He guessed that the first three killings would add up to nothing. The Angel of Death stayed busy on these streets of New Orleans, and homicide was only part of his gruesome harvest; there were ravaging diseases and bizarre accidents
and slow suicides to add to the tally, as evidenced by two cemeteriesâSt. Louis No. 1 and No. 2âso full of victims that they were buried atop each other, stacked like cordwood. Around those parts, slipping gently into the Bosom of God took some doing.
So he could forget about the pimp, and Annie Robie and Gran Tillman wouldn't be far behind. Even with Bolden and the priest to muddy the waters, there was nothing to make a fuss over. Old men's wits failed; and Bolden in jail was not exactly a surprise, either. Even Buddy knowing Annie Robie was no great mystery. Back-of-town was nothing if not a small village, so why wouldn't he know such a young, pretty girl?
The black roses were curious, but more than likely a coincidence, like Anderson claimed. Valentin had thought about visiting the local floral shops and ask about anything suspicious, then dismissed the idea. There were only two flowers, after all. It would be a waste of time. Odd things happened daily in Storyville. Once the sun went down, it was all a cheap carnival, layer on layer of illusion pasted on scarlet streets. That was the District, a thousand strange players shoved together on one crowded stage.
He let out a plume of smoke and turned his thoughts back to Bolden, now sitting in that dank cell. He could not remember Buddy even getting into schoolboy fights. No, young Charles Bolden
"Where's Nora?" he was saying. "Is she coming to get me out?"
"She can't get you out. They're going to hold you."
Buddy's face twisted up with a finicky disgust. Valentin understood. King Bolden had abruptly become a common criminal, stuck in Parish Prison, just another no-account nigger tramp like the rest of them up and down the line of cells. He blinked tensely. "For how long?"
"Probably two days."
"Two days!"
"It's nothing," Valentin said. "They'll take you out with a gang to clean up the Market." Bolden's face fell further. "You want me to go see her?" Buddy shrugged and muttered
something. "It's only for the two days," Valentin said. "Then I'll come collect you."
King Bolden slumped against the steel bars. "What did they do with my horn?" he said.
Valentin stepped out into a cloudy evening. The streets around him moved in lazy slow-motion with citizens on end-of-the-day errands, sports getting an early line on the night's action, the odd drunkard drifting along on a cloud of cheap whiskey. As he stood on the corner of Canal and Marais, lost in his thoughts, the first thick drops of a Louisiana thundershower splattered on the banquette.
He bent his head, jammed his hands in his pockets and turned down Canal, walking into the approaching storm. He went at a hard pace, his shoes slapping water, putting distance between himself and that grim hulk of a jailhouse. He made his way south by ducking into doorways and under colonnades, stopping here and there for a few moments as the rain turned streets into shallow lagoons, then moving on. By the time he had reached Basin Street, he was half-soaked. He found a dry spot in the doorway of Cairo Club, closed for the night, and drew a thin cigar from his vest pocket. He struck a lucifer on the brick wall and smoked as he watched the hard rain sweep over Storyville.
In the space of a week, he had stood over the corpses of Littlejohn and two sporting girls, both of whom had been left with a black rose. He had taken a strange trip to Jackson with an old priest. And now he had seen King Bolden locked up in Parish Prison.
He guessed that the first three killings would add up to nothing. The Angel of Death stayed busy on these streets of New Orleans, and homicide was only part of his gruesome harvest; there were ravaging diseases and bizarre accidents
and slow suicides to add to the tally, as evidenced by two cemeteriesâSt. Louis No. 1 and No. 2âso full of victims that they were buried atop each other, stacked like cordwood. Around those parts, slipping gently into the Bosom of God took some doing.
So he could forget about the pimp, and Annie Robie and Gran Tillman wouldn't be far behind. Even with Bolden and the priest to muddy the waters, there was nothing to make a fuss over. Old men's wits failed; and Bolden in jail was not exactly a surprise, either. Even Buddy knowing Annie Robie was no great mystery. Back-of-town was nothing if not a small village, so why wouldn't he know such a young, pretty girl?
The black roses were curious, but more than likely a coincidence, like Anderson claimed. Valentin had thought about visiting the local floral shops and ask about anything suspicious, then dismissed the idea. There were only two flowers, after all. It would be a waste of time. Odd things happened daily in Storyville. Once the sun went down, it was all a cheap carnival, layer on layer of illusion pasted on scarlet streets. That was the District, a thousand strange players shoved together on one crowded stage.
He let out a plume of smoke and turned his thoughts back to Bolden, now sitting in that dank cell. He could not remember Buddy even getting into schoolboy fights. No, young Charles Bolden
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