Madam (31 page)

She could barely look him in the face and cast her gaze down as she stepped into his office. She caught his clean scent, like a crisp pine tree. She hoped her own rose scent still lingered, but it was just oil she’d dabbed on, not fancy French perfume that had real staying power.

Anderson closed the door and Mary waited for him to turn the lock. If he locks it, then certainly this is about a trick. But the click of the bolt didn’t come. Anguish clotted in her as she approached two large leather armchairs with bear-claw legs. She slid into the far one, feeling the cool leather against her stockinged thighs. The chair seemed to swallow her, leaving her feet dangling. She imagined what it might be like to curl up in this chair by the fire, holding baby Anna, and the thought momentarily soothed her.

Anderson sat across from her, and she watched his hands cradle the chair’s wing arms. She could tell things about a person by their hands. All the pretty boys, with their long, tapered fingers, made more for china teacups than for wielding an ax. All the farmers, with their square, calloused hands, and the miners, with scars that had stories to tell. Anderson’s hands were more manly than she would have ventured, more muscular than was typical for someone of his wealth, someone with an office this nice and chairs this cozy. But his nails were those of a rich man, clean and shiny. Mary curled her fingers to hide her own dull nails. Though they were scrubbed and filed, they weren’t buffed like Anderson’s, and it felt shameful to be a lady sitting with a man with better nails. She also noticed the jeweled ring on Anderson’s right hand, and the absence of a wedding ring on his left. It would have been the talk of the Underworld had Anderson taken a wife, and for some reason, Mary was reassured to see his bare ring finger.

“You’re probably wondering why I called you here today,” he said.

Her eyes darted about, not sure where to rest.

There was an expectant silence, as if he were waiting for her to speak. Did he want her to confess to her vengeance? Or was she supposed to describe something bawdy—not that she was sure she could even speak like that to him, and here of all places.

“Would you like some water?” he offered, and at this, her nerves calmed. If he was going to shame her or turn her in to the authorities, he wouldn’t draw this out. She nodded and he quickly rose, pouring from a silver pitcher on the hutch. Their hands grazed as he gave her the glass, and the feel of his skin against hers sent a charge through her. But no sooner was he back on the other side of the room, in his own chair.

She took a sip, and then said the only thing that came to mind. “Can’t blame you for wanting your trick aways from the Alley.”

He cocked his head as if perplexed, and she immediately felt stupid for speaking.

Leaning in, Anderson rested his forearms on his thighs. “Miss Deubler—it is
Miss
Deubler, right?”

Mary nodded.

“Please don’t take offense, but I haven’t called you here for a trick.”

Her palms started to sweat. If Anderson spoke Lobrano’s name, she didn’t know what she’d do, didn’t know if she could keep the angry tears back. She commanded herself not to cry in front of Tom Anderson. She was not going to crumple and demean herself. She straightened up her spine. Hold your head high.

“This is a bit of a sensitive nature,” Anderson began.

Mary took a gulp of air, hashing out what she’d say—
a person can’t choose their kin, Mistah Anderson.

“My God, Miss Deubler, you look as if I’m scaring you out of your wits. There’s no reason for you to be frightened of me. I have only your best interests at heart with my proposition for you. I think you’ll find it as interesting as I do.”

Mary’s mouth squeezed into a line. A proposition?

“I’ve been noticing,” Anderson continued, “that you are a woman with an open mind and a high degree of intelligence.” He paused as if waiting for Mary to concur, but she was too busy wondering if he hadn’t summoned the wrong girl. Sure she could read, a rare ability on the Alley, but why would he care about that?

“One decision I commend you for is your willingness to share your crib with a Negro. Those are my folks too, practically raised me, you see. You should hear me play spirituals on a church organ!” He chuckled, but it fell flat as Mary stared blankly at him, her mind clicking away in confusion. “Anyway,” he continued, “you, like a very intelligent person, recognize that people are people, and also that a dollar’s a dollar, business is business. You are a true capitalist.”

Mary had never heard of a capitalist before, and now she was one?

“But you know, of course, that Storyville’s not so open-minded. Colored folk are going to be relegated to Franklin Street, and that just isn’t going to be appetizing to those folks from the North who don’t possess all sorts of crazy notions about one people being better than the other.”

Mary hoped she wasn’t letting on how lost she was—why was Beulah Ripley now a part of this? Heck, she’d been sharing space with Beulah for years, something Lobrano had drummed up when he needed extra cash. Lobrano couldn’t have cared if Beulah had two heads, so long as she could turn a trick and count well enough to know if a john was paying her right. Then again, she supposed Anderson had a point, that not everyone would have been amenable to taking shifts with Beulah, thinking she’d spread vermin or carried disease. Reluctantly, Mary also thought back to the colored john who’d come by her crib with two whole dollars.

“So you’re probably wondering what I’m proposing,” Anderson said, “and I recognize you may already have other plans. But if I can entice you, I think we’d have a nice business opportunity if there were a house in Storyville that welcomed whites and blacks . . . quietly, of course.” He studied her face, looking for some flicker of agreement, but Mary still wasn’t following.

Sure, fine, welcome coloreds, she thought. She wanted to say aloud,
I’ll be left out in the cold, starving, thank you very much.
But she kept that to herself. She chewed on her lower lip, hoping all this would suddenly snap into some kind of sense.

“Shame on me,” Anderson said, flashing his smile, “I’ve been doing all the talking. Can I get you something real to drink? Is it too early for a whiskey? Is it ever too early for a whiskey?”

“Oh, thank you, but no.” Mary said softly.

He raised himself from his chair and moved to hover near her. She breathed in his clean scent again.

“So, you’re keeping me in such suspense,” he said. “Do tell me what you think of my idea.”

Mary blanched. “Uh, well. To be honest with you, Mistah Anderson, I don’t know what your idea has to do with me.”

He chuckled. “You are a sharp gal. See, the notion I had is that you can run a house, a regular bordello, and no one around here will be the wiser that the coloreds can come there too. It’ll just be our little secret.”

Mary felt a rising heat again. She gulped down the water.
Holy Mary Magdalene, are my ears playing tricks on me, or did Mistah Tom Anderson just propose I run a bordello?
Her head grew light. The room began to turn very bright, then very white.

“Miss Deubler, are you all right? Miss . . . ?”

Anderson popped his head out the door. “Tater, we’re gonna need some smelling salts in here.”

C
HAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“M
iss Addie, I smell your cookin’ all the way up the banquette!” exclaimed Little Louie as he hauled a bucket of coal into the Countess’s kitchen.

Addie paused from the mound of dough she’d been kneading to give the boy a motherly nod. His face was smudged with coal dust, but rarely was he without his wide, bright grin.

“Sit yourself on down,” Addie said. “Here’s some
cubie yon
and dirty rice for you.” She scooped some fish stew from a cast iron pot simmering over the fire and set the bowl on the table. Louie climbed up into the chair and dug into the stew as if it were to be snatched away at any moment. Addie observed the ravenous child, and as soon as he’d filled his mouth a few times she added another ladleful to his helping.

“So how Mayann be?” she asked.

Louie shrugged.

“You tell her I been askin’ after her,” Addie said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Louie answered between mouthfuls. “Will tell her next time she come ’round.”

Yep, just as Addie had suspected: Louie’s mother had run off again.

“I’ll pack some
lagniappe
for you, and for your sister and grandmama, too.”

“You’re very kind, Miss Addie,” Louie said.

Addie didn’t know what came over her, but the boy’s words moved her to tears. She didn’t show him, of course, just dabbed at her eyes with her apron, then got back to the dough. “Well, land sakes, Little Louie, I ain’t never seen anyone eat so fast. Slow yourself down, that bowl ain’t goin’ nowhere!”

“When I’m done, want me to bring the coal upstairs?” Louie asked.

“Naw, the Countess is up there with some muckety-mucks. Think it’s important talk, so don’t want them to hear no racket.” She sighed. “Things are changin’ ’round these parts. City ain’t never gonna be the same.”

The muckety-mucks upstairs were Anderson, Flabacher, and the Countess, holding court in the library. The topic of conversation: the promotion of Storyville. Lulu was poised on her chaise longue, her long gold cigarette holder dangling from her gloved fingers. Anderson and Flabacher sat on opposite sides of the room from each other, both sucking on fat cigars. Smoke clouds lingered in the room despite the French doors that opened onto a veranda, sheer curtains swaying in the gentle breeze of the evening.

“Mistah Flabacher had the brilliant notion of printing a bulletin describing my elegant château,” Lulu said, “and putting it right in men’s hands as they get off the train.”

Anderson studied Flabacher. What an obsequious blowhard, he thought. How could Lulu be wasting time with this bag of hot air? But he smiled politely. “They raise ’em bright in Chicago,” he said, tapping his forefinger to his head.

Flabacher smiled back with feigned modesty.

“Here’s another idea,” Anderson said, tilting back his head and blowing a perfect smoke ring. “We could do an entire directory. A booklet describing all the new bordellos and their lovely madams.”

Flabacher was quick to pipe up. “While an interesting notion, Mr. Anderson, clearly, the Countess’s place is too regal to simply be lumped with all the other houses.”

“Tom, since when am I so ordinary to you?” Lulu said with a playful pout.

“There’s not an ordinary inch on you, my dear,” Anderson replied. “Don’t be misunderstanding me, your château will have the first and best listing. You can include a professional likeness of this house even. Thing is, we can sell advertisements in our own directory. Local merchants will pay to advertise, knowing their wares will appear right under the nose of every man stepping from that train. We can get our own promotion and turn a profit on our little directory, all at the same time.”

Lulu cocked an eyebrow. “I knew there was something I liked about you, Tom Anderson,” she said.

Flabacher, however, was slightly confused by the idea. “So, let me get this straight. . . . You’re proposing advertisements in our advertisement?”

“
Voilà
, free publicity!” Lulu exclaimed. “And with a little on the side
pour vous
, Tom. And a little on the side
pour moi
.”

Flabacher gave a slow nod as comprehension began to settle in.

“Our booklet needs to have the perfect enticing introduction to Storyville,” Lulu continued. “Mistah Flabacher, you’ll find writing materials in the desk there. Could you notate this, please?”

Flabacher shuffled to the desk as Lulu began composing aloud: “To know the right from the wrong . . . to be sure of yourself . . . go through this little book and read it carefully. And then when you visit Storyville, you will know the best places—”

Anderson cut in, “To spend your time and money, as only the very best homes are advertised.” Flabacher’s hand was flying as he tried to keep up with the two of them—back in Chicago, he had girls to do this for him.