Read Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) for Free Online Page B

some skills, had replaced his usual ragged shirt and trousers with a suit he'd found somewhere, a bad-fitting ensemble of light brown checks. It was too long and too wide, and his white limbs poked out like stalks. A derby of darker brown was perched atop his ball of a head. Beansoup's face was pale in the winter and splotchy pink in summer. His eyes were lazy blue, and there was a first hint of fuzz on his upper lip. Now fifteen, he worked hard to assume the posture of a rounder without much success; he didn't have the required poised, sullen reserve. He looked like a cartoon drawing or like a child dressed up in his father's old clothes, except that Beansoup wouldn't know his father if he tripped over him. He was a ward of the city, and his home, when he chose to claim one, was St. Mary's Orphanage.
    When he caught up with the detective around the side of the building, he had an Italian roll stuffed with sausage in one dirty hand and a Chero-Cola in the other, both no doubt provided by that kind soul Frank Mangetta. He swallowed the contents of his mouth, took a swig of his cola, and spoke up in his cracking voice.

    "I got a message from Mr. Tom," he piped.
    Valentin grunted with frustration. Almost everyone of means in New Orleans now owned a telephone set these days, and the lawyer Delouche had wasted no time in using his. "What's he want?"
    "He wants you at the Café. Right away." Beansoup went to stuffing his mouth. "What the hell'd you do?" he said, spraying crumbs. "He's hot as a goddamn pistol."

    Valentin found the King of Storyville at his usual table near the end of the bar, talking to Billy Struve, a District gadabout and Anderson's most able spy. He treated the detective to a short glance, said, "Wait in my office," then returned to the whispered discussion.
    Valentin went through the kitchen and into the hallway, then climbed the stairs. Once in the second-floor office, he leaned against the wall and looked over Anderson's desk. Only a single brass lamp, a green felt blotter that was replaced weekly, and an ornate telephone in a walnut box adorned the polished surface. Stacks of papers were laid out on a long library table that was pushed against the opposite wall, so Anderson would take only what he needed to his desk or, more commonly, to his preferred table at the end of the bar downstairs. He loved to work in the midst of the bustle of getting the Café repaired from the previous night and ready for the next. He did all his workaday tasks and entertained those who came to him on more mundane matters downstairs.
    He used his office when the Café was open and when there was serious business to conduct. He greeted the most important visitors and handled his most private communications there. Rumor had it that the desk was also pressed into service during visits from certain young ladies. If it was so, Valentin mused, it would have been when Anderson was a younger man. And a lighter one; sturdy as it was, the desk might not take the weight of two persons if one of them was Tom Anderson.

    As if to underscore that thought, leaden steps at that moment came thumping up the stairwell. Valentin turned around and composed his face into a stolid mask. He knew what was coming.
    Anderson stepped through the door and crossed directly to the desk. He kept Valentin standing as he dropped into his leather chair and folded his hands before him in a stiff bridge. The Creole detective had seen his employer strike that pose a few times, and it was always a bad sign. Anderson now regarded the younger man with his coolest stare.
    "That damned Badel called me," he said. "He was in a state. Because he got a call from this Delouche, the lawyer. Who said you insulted the widow and daughter and then told him you weren't going to continue the investigation."
    "I didn't say I—"
    "Be quiet!" The white man jabbed a thick finger. "You stood right there and heard me promise results. Or at least the courtesy of an effort. That's why I