Free Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) by David Fulmer Page A

minutes, she had gone from being eyed like a prize by a wealthy Frenchman to ducking her head and hiding in shame from a dirty thirteen-year-old street urchin.
    The bells struck three-quarters and she let out a sigh of dismay. She knew that Beansoup had more than likely scampered into the Café to tell Valentin what he had seen. He was just too much the busy bee. So she had been caught out, and she had no doubt that she was going to pay for it.
    She put the book aside, got up, and went into the bedroom. She sat down on the edge of the bed, realizing that there was another possibility: Valentin might hear the news and not say a word about it, because he didn't care what she did anymore.

    Willie Cornish lifted his valve trombone and held one last long middle G until it filled the room to its grimy walls, then ran the scale like he was scurrying up a ladder. It was a good try, but he couldn't reach the top, and the run died in a weak gasp. With a tired chop of his hand, he brought the song to an end. He dropped the horn to his side and croaked, "G'night'chall."
    Mumford flexed his aching fingers, sat forward in the chair to stretch his stiff back, then drew a handkerchief from his pocket to dab his brow. He took a moment to wipe the side of his guitar where the sweat from under his arm had already begun to blur the finish, then laid it gently in its case. It was exhausting business vying with noisy horns, and every night he had to beat so much hell out of the fragile box of wood and wire that Mr. Orville Gibson of Kalamazoo, Michigan, would likely drop dead if he saw the punishment Jeff had visited upon the fine instrument that his workmen had crafted.
    There were a few claps, hoots, and calls for more, though they didn't carry much vigor. Jeff stood and made a small bow, for what little it mattered. The rest of the fellows had already packed up their horns and left the stage. He looked around the room, saw only the usual stragglers, the bartender, and one stranger who was slumped against the back wall with a slouch hat pulled low over his eyes—no doubt one of those determined drunkards who searched high and low for the last open saloon so that he might have a final round before the thick New Orleans darkness was broken by the hard morning light.
    The woman who had appeared so mysteriously to lead him into the alley and then evaporate was not in sight. Jeff wondered frankly if he had lost his mind or had indeed been visited by a haint.
    He packed up his guitar, said his good-nights, and walked across the filthy sawdust floor and out onto the banquette. He could feel the sweat drying to a salty film over every inch of his body, and his ears were still ringing from the hours of loud brass, shrieking clarinet, and thumping bass fiddle.
    After all that raucous jass, Marais Street was like a cemetery. Nothing was moving. Not a single sot staggered along the gutter and not one sporting girl screeched a curse into the failing night. It was one of those strange hollow pockets that came but once a night and usually in the minutes before dawn. He felt like he could hear a cat slinking.
    He passed the alley, looked into the shadows. It seemed unreal, something that happened a long time ago. At least it was going to make a hell of a story. He yawned and rubbed his face and continued west, going home, almost shuffling, his guitar case banging the side of his leg. He would have paid a Liberty dollar for a streetcar ride, or even a leg up on the back of a hack, but nothing was moving at this hour. So he shuffled on.
    As he passed another alleyway, this one between Fourth and Third streets, he heard a voice mutter. He glanced over, expecting to see a man with a woman either on her knees or bent over with her hands splayed against the wall and her petticoats hiked. It was a common enough sight in these parts. It always amused him that these couples never stopped their exertions, but simply glared with reproof until the intruder went on his