“You know when he’ll hit town or where he’s holing up?” I asked.
“Nah. Not yet. For all I know, he’s already here.” Frankie twitched and looked over his shoulder. “See ya, kid.”
I grabbed my skirt and quickened my pace toward the bookshop. It had been two years since the incident. Cincinnati hadn’t been back in the Quarter, and no one missed him. He claimed he worked on the fringes for Carlos Marcello, the godfather of the New Orleans mafia. No one believed him, but no one outright challenged him on it, either. Cincinnati proudly wore expensive suits—suits that didn’t quite fit him. It was rumored that his clothes were stolen from corpses, people he had killed for Carlos Marcello. Cokie said it was bad mojo to wear a dead man’s suit.
Carlos Marcello ran the syndicate and owned land just outside Orleans Parish. Talk amongst the locals was that Marcello stocked his swamps with alligators and dumped his dead bodies there. A postman once told Cokie that he saw shoes floating on top of the filmy swamp. Willie knew Carlos Marcello. She sent girls out to his Town and Country Motel when the heat was on the house on Conti. That’s where Mother met Cincinnati.
Cincinnati had a thing for Mother. He brought her expensive gifts and claimed she looked just like Jane Russell from the Hollywood magazines. I guess that meant I looked like Jane Russell, too, but maybe Jane Russell without makeup, nice clothes, or styled hair. Our brown eyes were set a bit far apart, and we had high foreheads, a mess of dark hair, and lips that always looked pouty.
Mother was crazy about Cincinnati, even once claimed they were in love. Sometimes Mother was embarrassingly stupid. It was bad enough she turned tricks with a criminal like Cincinnati, but in love with him? Pathetic. Willie hated Cincinnati. I despised him.
I cut through the skinny street near the jeweler, dodging a man peeing against the wall. I used E. M. Forster to wave the smell of moldy oak away from my face as I stepped quickly across the wet flagstones. If the Quarter smelled this bad in cool weather, it would reek this spring and be simply rancid by summer. I made my way up Toulouse toward Royal and heard Blind Otis singing the blues, stamping his foot and sliding a dull butter knife across his steel strings.
Bar and restaurant owners stood on ladders, decorating their doors and windows for the night’s festivities. At midnight, 1950 would finally arrive. A fizz of excitement perked through the streets. People were anxious to put the decade, and the war, behind them. A pair of lovers cut in front of me to chase a taxi while a small man in ragged clothing stood up against a building saying “hallelujah” over and over again.
Last time Cincinnati was in town, he got drunk and beat Mother. Willie kicked down the door and shot at him, grazing his leg. I drove Mother to the hospital in Cokie’s cab. After he sobered up, Cincinnati actually had the guts to come to the hospital. I threw hot coffee on him and told him I’d called the cops. He left town limping, but not without promising to come back.
“Just you wait,” he whispered, licking his teeth. “I’m gonna get you, Josie Moraine.”
I shook off the shiver.
“Hey, Motor City.”
I turned toward the voice. Jesse Thierry sat on his motorcycle, staring at me from across the street. Jesse was quiet and often spoke through only a nod or a smile. Sometimes I thought he was watching me, which was ridiculous, because Jesse Thierry would have no interest in someone like me. He might be quiet, but his looks were not. He was striking and edgy, in a way that made me feel uncomfortable. Others didn’t find Jesse’s looks unsettling. Tourists turned to look at him. He was constantly trailed by girls.
“You need a ride?” he asked. I shook my head.
“I want a ride, Jesse!” said a blonde next to him.
He ignored her. “You sure, Jo?”
“I’m sure. Thanks, Jesse.”
He nodded, fired up the bike, and sped away, leaving the girls on the sidewalk.
The noise faded as I turned onto Royal. The deep blue sign with gold lettering came into view, hanging from a wrought-iron bracket above the door: MARLOWE’S BOOKSHOP. Through the window, I could see Patrick sitting at the counter. The bell tinkled overhead as I entered the store, and the calming smell of paper and dust surrounded me.
“How is he today?” I asked.
“Today’s a good day. He knows my name. I think for a second he even remembered I’m his son,” said Patrick, leaning back on his usual chair behind the counter.
“Wonderful!” I meant it. Some days Mr. Marlowe didn’t recognize Patrick. Sometimes he swore at him, even threw things at him. Those were bad days.
“Your pal Cokie came by,” said Patrick. “He said to give you this.” He slid a folded piece of paper across the counter.
I opened it.
CINCYNATTY.
It was written in Cokie’s shaky handwriting.
“I didn’t read it, but I think he means Cincinnati,” said Patrick.
“You didn’t read it, huh?” Patrick had just turned twenty-one but still teased like a boy who milked girls’ pigtails at recess.
He smiled. “He doesn’t know how to spell it. Is he going to Cincinnati?”
“Mmm . . . must be. Did you save me a paper?”
He pointed to a copy of the Times-Picayune, neatly folded on my chair.
“Thanks. I’ll take over in a minute,” I told him.
“Really, Jo, the Picayune is so boring. They intentionally leave out news from the Quarter and . . .”
Patrick’s voice trailed off as I made my way through the tall shelves of books toward the squirrelly staircase at the back of the shop. I had kept my own apartment since I was eleven. It wasn’t really an apartment, not at first anyway. It was a tiny office with a bathroom attached. I had been sleeping in the bookshop since I was ten, when Mother started her fits and beat me with an umbrella for no good reason. I quickly learned she was happiest when I wasn’t around. So I’d hide in the bookshop just before close and sleep under the large desk in the office.
On my eleventh birthday, I crept up the stairs after the store was locked. The office had been transformed. The windows and walls had been washed. The desk was still there, but all the boxes were cleared out and there was a bed, a small dresser, and even bookshelves in the corner. Flowered curtains hung from a rod over the open window, and music floated up from Bourbon Street. A single key hung on a nail. A lock had been installed on the door and a baseball bat leaned up against the bed. We never spoke of the arrangement. I simply began working for Mr. Marlowe in the store in exchange for the lodging.
I unlocked the door and slipped inside, quickly bolting it again. I got down on my hands and knees and pulled up a floorboard underneath my bed, feeling around until my fingers hit the cigar box. I dropped the coins from Frankie inside and put the floorboard back in place. I crawled out from under the bed and snapped the drapes shut. Then I opened the note from Cokie.
CINCYNATTY.
THREE
“I’ll be right back,” I told Patrick when I came down into the shop.
“Aw, come on. It’s New Year’s Eve,” he complained.
“It’s only one o’clock.”
“But I’ve got things to do,” he said.
“I’ll just be a minute,” I told him, rushing out the door.
I ran across the street to Sal’s. Willie was a good customer at Sal’s restaurant, and he let me use his telephone when I needed it. Actually, Willie was a good customer at many places, and fortunately, those benefits extended to me.
“Hi, Maria,” I said to the hostess, pointing to the telephone at the back. She nodded.
I picked up the phone and dialed HEmlock 4673.
Dora answered after only one ring in her fake breathy voice.
“It’s Jo. I need to speak to Willie.”
“Hey, sugar, she’s resting.”
Resti
ng? Willie never took naps. “Wake her up.”
Dora put the receiver down. I heard her shoes clack and then fade on the hardwood floor as she went to get Willie. I could tell by the way the backs slapped against her heels that she was wearing the red-feathered mules that she bought mail-order from Frederick’s of Fifth Avenue. I twisted the telephone cord, and it slipped between my fingers. My hand was sweating. I wiped the moisture on my skirt.
“Buttons and bows,” said Willie, not even bothering to say hello.
“What?”
“The tune you were humming. It’s ‘Buttons and Bows.’ Look, I need a little peace before the walls start shaking. What the hell’s so important?”
“Cincinnati.”
There was silence on Willie’s end of the line. I heard the flip and flick of her sterling cigarette lighter and then a long breath as she inhaled and exhaled the smoke. “Who told you?”
“Frankie,” I said. “He found me after I left your house. I was on my way to the bookshop.”
“When’s he in?” asked Willie.
“Said he didn’t know, just that he was on his way and that he could be here already. Where’s Mother?” I asked.
“Upstairs. She’s been a giggling idiot all morning,” said Willie.
“You think she knows?”
“Of course she knows. I knew something was up. Dora said she got a phone call two days ago. She’s been a complete imbecile ever since.” I heard the long intake of breath, the hold, and then the flutter as Willie expelled the curling smoke from her nostrils.
“Cokie knows. He left me a note,” I said.
“Good. Cokie’s scheduled for a few drop-offs tonight. He’ll keep me posted. Are you at Sal’s?”
“Yes. Cokie said the Dukes of Dixieland are playing tonight at the Paddock, so I thought I’d—”
“Absolutely not. I don’t want you seen in the Quarter,” said Willie.
“But, Willie, it’s New Year’s Eve,” I argued.
“I don’t give a rip. You’re staying in—locked in. You understand?” she said.
I hesitated, wondering how far I could push it. “I hear Cincinnati’s in with Carlos Marcello now.”
“Mind your own business,” Willie snapped. “Come over in the morning.”
“It’s just—I worry about Mother,” I said.
“Worry about yourself. Your mother’s a stupid whore.” The line clicked and went dead.
FOUR
“Sorry about that,” I said to Patrick as I returned to the bookshop.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine, why?”
“You have red splotches on your neck. Here, your beloved society page is chock-full today.” He tossed the paper at me as I sat next to him behind the counter. His voice elevated to a prissy, nasal tone. “Miss Blanche Fournet of Birmingham, Alabama, who is spending part of her winter season in New Orleans, was the guest of honor at a luncheon given by her aunt and uncle Dr. and Mrs. George C. Fournet. The table was decorated with pale blue hydrangeas, and all the lovely guests had a perfectly boring time.”
I laughed and swatted him across the shoulder with the paper.
“Really, Jo. Your obsession with Uptown and the society page is ridiculous. When are you gonna realize that those women are just a bunch of pretentious old biddies?”
The bell jingled, and a tall, handsome man in a tailored suit entered the shop.
“Afternoon,” he said, smiling and nodding to us. “How are y’all today?”
The man’s accent was Southern, but not from New Orleans. His skin was deeply tanned, making his teeth and broad smile sparkling white, like Cary Grant.
“Fine, thank you. Visiting New Orleans for the holiday, sir?” I asked.
“Is it that obvious?” said the man, grinning.
“I’m sorry, I just meant—”
“No apologies. You’re correct. I’m just down from Memphis for the Sugar Bowl.”
“Do you play?” asked Patrick, eyeing the man’s height and broad shoulders.
“I did. Wide receiver for Vanderbilt. I used to come here with the team, and we’d duke it out with Tulane. Always loved it. New Orleans was a great place to get in trouble, and I did my fair share, mind you.” He gave a knowing wink to Patrick. “Y’all in school at Tulane?” he asked.
“I just finished up at Loyola,” said Patrick.
“And you, pretty lady?” The gorgeous man looked at me.
College? Yes! I wanted to scream. I’d love to go to college. Instead I smiled and looked down.
“She’s trying to make up her mind,” said Patrick, jumping in. “You know the type, so smart, they’re all fighting over her.”
“Are you looking for anything in particular today?” I asked, changing the subject. I casually put two fingers on the counter, signaling to Patrick. It was one of the games we played, trying to guess what type of book the customer wanted. My two fingers told Patrick I was betting a dime that Mr. Memphis was interested in history. Patrick closed his left fist. That meant he wagered sports related.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” he replied, taking off his hat. His black hair glistened in the afternoon sun streaming through the front window. “Keats.”
“Poetry?” said Patrick.
“Ah, surprised, are you? Well, let’s not judge a book by its cover, now. Even football players like poetry,” he said.
“Of course they do,” I replied. “The poetry section is right this way.”
“I’ve got to run,” said Patrick. “Josie will take it from here. Keats is one of her favorites. Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Forrest Hearne,” said the gentleman, extending his hand to Patrick. “Nice to meet you, too.”
I led Mr. Hearne toward the back of the shop to the tall case of poetry books.
“They say Keats fell in love with his neighbor,” I told him over my shoulder.
“Yes, but I’ve read it was a tumultuous affair,” he said, challenging me. “Keats demanded that all of the letters between them be burned upon his death. So I guess we’ll never know the truth.”
I stopped at the stack with my back to Mr. Hearne and quickly scanned the alphabetized books for the letter K.
“Here we are, Keats.” I turned around. Mr. Hearne was quite close, staring at me.
“Do I . . . know you somehow?” he asked seriously. “There’s something about you that seems awfully familiar.”
I felt a trickle of sweat between my shoulder blades. “I don’t think so. I’ve never been to Tennessee.”
“But I’ve been to New Orleans, many times,” he said, adjusting the knot in his silk tie.
“I must have one of those familiar faces, I guess,” I said, stepping away from him and the bookshelf. “Just holler if you need anything else.”
I walked back to the counter, humming, aware of his gaze upon me as I slipped between the stacks. How could I be familiar to a former Vanderbilt football player from Tennessee who looked like a movie star and liked poetry? But his expression had been genuine, not like one of the sweet-talking men with bloodshot eyes that I saw at Willie’s when I cleaned in the mornings. Sometimes, if I arrived before six A.M., I’d pass a trick on the way out. Most men didn’t stay all night. Willie always said she wasn’t holding a slumber party unless they wanted to pay good and big for one. No, most men would leave with a grin after they’d done their business. The men who stayed the whole night had a lot of money, but also a lack of something else, like they had a hole in their soul too big to be patched. More often than not, they’d try to make conversation with me before they left in the morning. The conversation was awkward, guilt soaked, and generally included the standard line that I looked familiar. But the way Mr. Hearne asked felt sincere, like it puzzled him somehow.
He walked b
ack to the counter carrying two books.
“Ah, yes, this is a nice choice,” I said, examining the volume of Keats he’d selected.
“For Marion, my wife,” he said.
“Oh, and David Copperfield too.”
“That’s for me. I must have ten copies by now.”
I smiled. “It’s my most favorite of all Dickens. It’s so inspiring, thinking that David Copperfield was based on Dickens’s own life, that someone could overcome that kind of suffering and poverty to finally achieve happiness.”
I had said too much. He was giving me the look. I hated the look. It was the “You’ve had it tough, huh, kid?” look. It made me feel pathetic.
Hearne spoke softly. “I know what you mean. I had kind of a Copperfield childhood myself.”
I stared at him, shocked that the sophisticated man in front of me could have ever known poverty or suffering. Had he really recast himself? My surprise registered with him.
He nodded. “Decisions, they shape our destiny.” Without opening the book, he began to recite from David Copperfield. “‘Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else . . .’”
I nodded and finished it with him. “‘These pages must show.’”
We stood, not knowing each other, but understanding each other completely. A car horn honked from the street, severing our stares.
I quickly finished the receipt total and turned the pad to him. “Shall I wrap them for you?”
“No, that’s not necessary.” He took out a money clip from his interior suit pocket. The man had what Willie called “a head of lettuce.” There were so many bills, they burst and flowered from the silver clip. I noticed his shiny Lord Elgin watch as he handed me a fifty-dollar bill.
“I’m sorry,” I breathed. “I’m afraid I don’t have change for something that large.”
“My fault. I forgot to get change at the hotel. Would you take a check?” he asked.
We didn’t accept checks, unless they came from customers with an account. We had had our share of rubber bouncers from stragglers in the Quarter. A sign in front of the register displayed our no-check policy. “Of course,” I told him. “A check is fine.”