The Cottoncrest Curse (29 page)

No, in those days everything was local, and Louisiana was like no place I had ever seen. Little towns like Des Allemands, where lots of people spoke French although it was originally a German settlement. Tiny stores with hand-lettered signs that sold homemade boudin and andouille sausage. Little boys sitting on their haunches next to the ditches on either side of the road—the road having been carved right through the swamp and marsh and built up, leaving deep ditches on either side where the dirt had been dug to pile up so that the road was a few feet higher than the usual water level—a pole in one hand and a net in the other. No, they weren't fishing. They had tied a raw piece of bacon on the end of the line and were hunting for crawfish.

“It was all mighty strange to a northern city boy like me. But what lay ahead, I knew, was going to be even stranger. And much more dangerous than even the Freedom Rides.”

1893

“Now who could be knocking at this hour! Zig, if I've told you once… this isn't a respectable area. We should have bought that house next to the railway line, right on St. Charles Avenue. But no, you said, this area is less expensive and would be just as nice. Well, less expensive gets you this. Knocks at all hours of the night!”

“Leah, shhh. You want the neighbors should hear you?”

“The neighbors! If we lived in the Vieux Carré, with all those houses with their common walls, then they could hear. Out here in the Garden District who can hear anything from one garden to the next? Besides, all our neighbors are asleep. That's what respectable people do.”

“Enough! You'll wake the children.”

“Who could sleep through this knocking? Go answer the door already. And take a gun. One cannot be too careful.” Leah Haber adjusted her green silk dressing gown as she walked out of the handsome parlor, with its elegant gas lamps flickering a warm glow on pale blue walls that stretched up past the triple crown molding to the sixteen-foot-high stark-white ceiling with its carved plaster reliefs.

As she turned the corner, past the tall Chinese vase filled with fresh flowers, on her way up the wide staircase to the second floor and beyond, up to the third floor where the children slept, Isaac “Zig” Haber could hear her muttering, “Does he want to live where respectable people live? No. He wants to live where he thinks property will appreciate faster. What am I going to do with that man?”

Zig reached into a cabinet and, opening an intricately ornamented oak case, withdrew an expensive revolver. Making sure it was loaded, he approached the broad double doors that opened onto the front veranda. “Who is it?” he said stoutly. Zig Haber was not a man to be trifled with. Not in business. Not in deal making. And certainly not in his home.

“Please, Zig, open the door. I need your help,” a hoarse voice called.

“I don't open the door at this hour for anyone. Go away!” Zig's tone was that of one who was used to getting his way. Since the Italian massacres no one could be too careful. No one, certainly, like Zig Haber, who would always be seen as an immigrant and an outsider by the famously insular French who lived downtown as well as by the brashly proud Catholics and Protestants who populated the uptown Garden District.

“
Siz nito keyn tachlis dorten?
” the voice beyond the door asked.

Zig put down the gun and, unlocking the door, quickly ushered in the young man, who stood shivering on his gallery in the chilly October night air. Jake Gold always began their talks that way. Jake always asked, when he came back from one of his trips to the country, “There's no room for negotiation here?” And of course in their trading there was always room for negotiation.

Hearing the door open and close again quickly, Leah called from the top of the stairs, “Zig! Who is it?”

“It's business, Leah. Go back upstairs.”

Leah murmured under her breath as she turned around to complete her way to the top floor of the house to check on the children, “Business. With him it's always business. Even at this hour of the night!”

“Slow down, Bucky, we've got another full day tomorrow. He's either here already, or he'll be here shortly. He's gonna fall right into our hands, that's for sure. And when he does, remember, you're gonna get all the credit.”

Bucky finished off one final mouthful of beer and put the half-filled pint mug back on the counter, next to the two empty ones he had already drained, next to the tumblers of whiskey he and Tee Ray had raced through a half-hour ago. Tee Ray was right. Bucky was going to get all the credit. That's why Raifer had given him this important task.

“But Tee Ray,” Bucky asked though the haze of inebriation that was descending over him, “do we really have to start so early tomorrow mornin'? After all, we've been at this four days already. We've been to each of the five Jew churches twice. We've been to most of the Jew stores in town. We done passed out flyers and made it clear that ain't no one should be harboring the peddler and, if they hear about him at all, they've got to let us know. We've been to the Orleans Parish Sheriff's Office, the City of New Orleans Police Department, City Hall, the Cotton Exchange, the Board of Trade, and even the Fire Department. Ain't it time to have some fun yet?”

Tee Ray's face broke into a malicious grin. “Plenty of time for fun when we've caught him, you know that, Bucky. I'll make sure you're gonna have so much fun you ain't never gonna want to stop.”

Bucky knew exactly what Tee Ray meant. Bucky could hardly wait. Tee Ray was going to take him into Faubourg Tremé. Before coming to New Orleans, Bucky hadn't known what a Faubourg was, but now, along with
port
and
starboard,
he had added new words to his vocabulary.
Faubourg,
he now knew to his satisfaction, was just a French word for neighborhood. New Orleans was full of strange words. Like
banquette
for sidewalk. Heck, it weren't that hard to be in the big city. It was easy to learn what you had to learn.

But what Bucky really wanted to learn about, firsthand, was Faubourg Tremé. Tee Ray had promised him. Once they caught the Jew Peddler, Tee Ray was going to take him down to one of them fine fast houses in Faubourg Tremé where they got all the good music and all the liquor you can drink and all them girls who dance with you in their silks and some who dance with you without anything on at all and then take you upstairs where you…

Bucky couldn't wait. A whole night spent like that. And Tee Ray promised him he could have two gals at one time if he wanted. Who could dream of such a thing? Bucky hadn't even thought of it before, but now that was all he could think about.

“Come on, Bucky, leave the rest of the beer. Tomorrow, first thing, we're going to see Isaac Haber.”

“Just another Jew,” Bucky complained as he started to pick up the mug again.

Tee Ray grabbed the mug from his hand. “Don't you listen to nothin'?” Tee Ray snapped. “Didn't you hear what they said at the Board of Trade today?”

Bucky was hurt. Why was Tee Ray doubting him? “Sure I heard. Jews like to trade with anyone, but Jews stick together. I ain't surprised. We knew that all the time. It's just like you tell the Knights. Jews get to do special deals, but only among themselves. Secret deals, along with their secret language.”

Bucky's hurt feelings now started to turn to anger, fueled by the flush from the liquor. “Heard all of it. Remembered all of it. And I also remember who Raifer put in charge. It's me. You're here to help me, Tee Ray. You remember that, hear? I'm the one with the badge. I get to decide what we do and don't do. So don't go tellin' me what was said at the Board of Trade.”

Tee Ray softened his approach. Being stern with Bucky wasn't going to get him where he needed to be. Tee Ray needed Bucky's full cooperation, and Bucky needed to think it was his own idea, not Tee Ray's.

Taking the still half-filled mug, Tee Ray led Bucky to the end of the bar, away from the crowd, and said encouragingly, “That's right, Bucky. No question about it. But I need your help. Maybe I wasn't makin' myself clear. What I need for you to tell me, 'cause I don't remember so well, is exactly what they told us at the Board of Trade this afternoon. You're the one with the good memory. It all kind of slips away from me.”

Bucky pulled himself erect. Tee Ray was right. Tee Ray needed him to remember. That's why Bucky was there. To be in control. To make sure Tee Ray didn't make any mistakes.

Bucky squinted and looked at the ceiling, trying to recall the conversation. “Well, as I said, I remember it all. I handed out the flyers and talked about how the Jew Peddler and them darkies, Marcus and Sally and Jenny, were all stealing stuff from Cottoncrest after the Colonel Judge died unexpectedly—I was good, wasn't I, in not mentioning how the Colonel Judge done died? Raifer had said not to say.”

“You done real good, Bucky. Go on, what happened next? I'm a little hazy.”

“Then, as I recollect, they got real interested because they don't want no Jew stealin' from no one. And then they said that they don't know no peddler named Jake, but they asked what he peddled. And I done told them. He was always wantin', even more than money for his things, skins and hides in exchange. He always was trying to sell or trade a cartload of needles and thread and bolts of fabric and pots and pans and other such stuff. And knives. Real fancy knives.”

Bucky's eyes lit up as he uttered these last few words.

“That was it, wasn't it? I remember now. It was my sayin' fancy knives that got them talkin'. Fancy knives to sell. Skins to trade. They done said that while there was lots of pelt traders, there was one Jew place that bought pelts and shipped them upriver to New York, and it also would purchase a supply of fancy knives from time to time. And that was Isaac Haber & Co. Hell, Tee Ray, don't you think we got to see them folks?”

Tee Ray patted Bucky on the back, handing Bucky the mug of beer for him to polish off. “I got to hand it to you, Bucky. You sure know this law business. You keep this up, Raifer gonna have to look out that he don't become your deputy.”

As he drank the rest of the beer, Bucky wore a broad, proud smile.

“You know I'm glad to have you, but it's not safe. Sooner or later they're going to come here asking questions.”

Even at this late hour, Louis Martinet was dressed immaculately, his high starched collar in place, his string bowtie perfectly knotted, his suit vest buttoned, his shoes polished, his mustache perfectly trimmed and waxed. He had shut the windows of the small library and had lowered the gas lamp until it barely illuminated the room with a yellowish glow.

Like a caboose on a train, the library was the last room in Louis's law office, a narrow building no more than fifteen feet wide but running forty feet in length. Shotgun buildings were what they were called in New Orleans, because there was not enough width for a hallway. One room opened into another, the doors directly aligned, so that, it was said, you could fire a shotgun through the front door and the pellets would pass through all the rooms and exit through the rear door without scratching the woodwork.

“It's not a matter of whether you did anything wrong. I know you didn't. I know this is just another way to enslave you, to force you back to Cottoncrest. I assume you hadn't been paid in some time.”

“Not for months,” Jenny replied. “The Colonel Judge was so upset about everything, and it kept getting worse and worse. It was like Rebecca and the Colonel Judge had become hermits. Hermits from the world and from each other. Rebecca retreated to her room. The Colonel Judge couldn't stand being with her and couldn't stand being without her. He almost lived in his study. No, none of us had been paid. Of course, Marcus and Sally and the others expected, at most, room and board and their wages at the end of every planting season, but I was supposed to get paid every month. Not that I was going to complain, not with Rebecca needing me even more than Little Miss.”

“You could, of course, bring a lawsuit. You know that, under the Civil Code, those who live in the house who haven't been paid can bring a suit to seize and sell the entire plantation and use the sales proceeds to pay your wages. It's a preferred debt, a privilege under the Civil Code.”

“Sure,” Jenny said, her voice tinged with irony, “they'll just let a Negro bring a lawsuit to seize the plantation. That's all Tee Ray will need to hear. The Knights will come swooping down with a lynching rope in hand.”

“You don't want to take advantage of your rights? Jenny, do you know what it took to add that clause to the 1870 Civil Code over the objection of the white planters and the rich classes? Do you know how P.B.S. Pinchback and C. C. Antoine fought with the Reconstructionists to make sure that this law was enacted? Do you realize how Pinch-back and Antoine suffered for pushing this proposal? They stood up for our rights. Your rights and mine. Jenny, if we don't stand up for our rights today, no one else will. If we don't, Pinchback and Antoine, the first two Negro governors of this state, will be the last two Negro governors as well. We have to use the law as a sword. We're going to cut a swath through the fields of hate and slice open the swollen belly of the wounded beast of prejudice.”

“It's all well and good for you to talk about the law, Louis. What good has it done you? You've lost the passenger car case, and now things are worse than ever.”

“Worse than ever, and yet there is still hope. Hope because everyone now knows what's at stake. Hope because I believe the U.S. Supreme Court will do what the Louisiana Supreme Court refused to do. We must keep up the pressure to vindicate our rights at every turn. Here…”

Louis reached behind him and pulled a stack of papers off the shelf. He rifled through them and smoothed out five pages. Even in the dim light, Jenny could see he was reading from the printed slip opinion of a court decision.