Free Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) by David Fulmer

assistant to Mr. Henry Harris, was at the antique desk, poring over a ledger.
    "It's that Badel fellow," Nelson said. Little glanced up and responded with a curt wave of his hand.
    "He's not here now," Nelson said. He listened for a moment, then said, "I'll tell him," and dropped the hand piece in the cradle. "He says he spoke to Anderson, and everything's been taken care of."
    Little barely nodded as he continued working.

    Jackson Square was a small carnival that ran every day in the midst of the busy city. Along the winding walks, a dozen food carts offered a variety of fare, from fruits to sweets. Valentin stepped up to one, and ordered two boudin sandwiches. While he waited for the food, he looked over the square. The color, noise, and motion were a relief from the close air inside the Parish Prison building.
    Booksellers set up tables, the kind he used to browse all the time. Now he couldn't recall when he'd last bought a nickel volume. He used to stash novels all over his rooms on Magazine Street, as if hiding a shameful vice, then pore over the printed pages like a hungry man devouring a rich soup. Not anymore. Not in a long time.

    A one-man band was performing on the street side, the old Negro plucking a banjo, thumping drums with his feet, blowing a variety of horns and whistles, and singing "Mammy's Little Coon," a popular minstrel show tune. In another corner an Italian, dressed in a dusty and worn tuxedo, was playing opera arias on a violin, his eyes closed over a grand black mustache that was waxed to curlicues on the ends. As always, there was the usual small squad of rascals, pickpockets, and other miscreants, darting like rodents. The two uniformed coppers strolling the perimeter of the square ignored them.
    He paid for the sandwiches and was turning to leave when he saw Beansoup come in through the Decatur Street gate on the heels of a rough-looking Negro carrying an odd instrument, a banjo with six strings instead of four or five. Valentin stopped to watch with interest as the pair took up a place along the walk. He had all but forgotten about Beansoup taking up the harmonica after his street pal Louis had gone off to ride Bernstein's junk wagon and play the drum in the Colored Waif's Band. Now, it seemed, the kid had found himself a partner, and Valentin recognized him.
    The Negro, Charley Johnson, strummed the strings of his curious instrument one time for attention, then began to play, plucking with the fingers of his right hand and sliding the back of a straight razor up the neck to make a raw and sweeping whine. After a few bars, Beansoup started blowing notes on a harmonica, his face pale with panic and his eyes flicking between Charley and the guitar as he struggled to keep pace.
    Johnson began singing in a voice that was sand rough, the banjo vamping in the background and Beansoup's harmonica filling in some of the holes.
Well, it's twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, little star

Well, along come Brady in his 'lectric car

Got a mean look all in his eye

Gonna shoot somebody just to see him die

He been on the job too long
    The song was "Duncan and Brady," a retelling of a bloody altercation between a saloon keeper named Jim Duncan and High Sheriff Louis Brady in 1890 East St. Louis. Valentin had heard the song on the road, more than once, and was now delighted to hear it again.
Duncan, Duncan, Duncan was tending the bar

When along come Brady with his shiny star

Brady said, "Duncan, you're under arrest
"
And Duncan shot a hole right in Brady's chest

He been on the job too long
    Charley did not smile at all. He stared at the people who stopped to listen as if accusing them of the crime described in the song. Beansoup hung back, working his cheeks like a huffing steam engine. Charley sang:
Well, old King Brady was a big fat man

Well, the doctor reached out, grabbed hold of his hand

Felt for his pulse, then the doctor, he said:

"
I believe to my soul King Brady's dead
"
He been on that job too