Free Lost River by David Fulmer Page A

she inquired.
    He should have known it wouldn't get past her. She had probably smelled it on him, the special Storyville aroma. Or maybe she caught something in his eye, that predator look that he carried when he worked the streets.
    For a brief moment, his scoundrel self made an appearance and he considered lying. He could tell her he tried to find one of the other investigators to go, only to discover that they were all at the Fair Grounds. But he knew it wouldn't be worth the trouble it would cause, and anyway she was too sharp. So he explained in a few short sentences about James Beck and his friends and poor Essie Gill.
    She said, "And that took you all afternoon?"
    "I stopped to see Frank while I was over there."
    Her expression softened slightly. As badly as she had wanted out of Storyville, she missed some people, and the Sicilian was one of them.
    "How is he?" she said.
    "He's fine," Valentin said. "He asked about you."
    He could tell from her blank expression that the explanation didn't sway her. She stood with one languid hand resting on the bedpost and her kimono hanging open, watching him with her dark eyes. She looked so lovely in that posture that he had to wonder what kind of fool he could be to risk her ire. He made a stab at an expression of contrition.
    She, however, was not inclined to throw him even the thinnest rope. She lifted her hand from the bedpost, tied the sash, and headed off for the kitchen and the dinner that she had left simmering on the stove.
    Valentin reclined in the veiled light, wondering if he really was that much of a fool. Most men would not want much more than what he already had: a good woman, a decent job, a safe home.
    New Orleans was full of private coppers. He could have found one to talk to Essie Gill and taken it from there, avoiding the District altogether. And once he did go, he shouldn't have lingered to encounter the woman with the strange green eyes and then to drink wine and reminisce with Frank Mangetta. He knew it had been a mistake; because he had spent more time in that place than he had in three years, and now part of him wanted to go back again tomorrow.

    By the time Valentin left Storyville for home, the word that he had visited Mangetta's Saloon had already begun dribbling in the direction of Basin Street and the ears of several of the madams of the high-toned mansions.
    The talk also found its way to the police precinct at Parish Prison, where Captain Picot received it with a grunt of irritation. Though it had been a good long time since St. Cyr had gone away, the captain was one person who did not believe that he was done with Storyville, or vice versa.
    Though it was true that much had changed for Picot in those years. Thanks to a chance stumble upon a revolting bit of information involving a member of the police board and a dead woman, he had received a promotion and another bar on each shoulder.
    Then-Lieutenant Picot had handled the affair with a sly hand. He whispered the right words to the right people and certain involved parties were paid for their silence. He had played his hand just right, and within a few months, his promotion orders came down. When the announcement was made, he claimed to be as surprised as anyone.
    The gossip that he had found a way to blackmail someone important made the rounds, nodded over as one of those things that happened to even the most undeserving louts, like ne'er-do-wells who made big winnings at the track. The months passed, and the grumbles from the other officers stopped.
    Along with a fatter pay envelope came a larger piece of the graft money and more power. So life had been mostly pleasant for the new captain, right up until the moment he heard the talk about St. Cyr reappearing in the red-light district. He and the Creole detective had tangled for the better part of ten years, and if Picot had learned one thing, it was that St. Cyr wasn't about to walk away from Storyville, not for good, and probably not until they