Out of the Easy(3)

“I have to get to the bookshop,” I said. “I’m late for work.”

“Sheesh, what would ol’ man Marlowe do without you? You spoonin’ him applesauce these days? I hear he’s just about dead.”

“He’s very much alive, Frankie. He’s just . . . retired.” I shot him a look.

“Ooh, defensive. You got something goin’ with Marlowe?”

“Frankie!” What a horrible thought. Charlie Marlowe was not only ancient, he was like family.

“Or maybe you got a thing for his son, is that it? You got eyes on looping with Junior so you can inherit that dusty book nook you love so well?” He elbowed me, laughing.

I stopped walking. “Can I help you with something, Frankie?”

He pulled me onward, his voice low. “Actually, yeah. Can you tell Willie that word on my side is that Cincinnati’s comin’ down?”

A chill ran beneath the surface of my skin. I tried to keep my step steady. “Cincinnati?”

“Can you let her know, Josie?”

“I won’t see Willie till morning, you know that,” I said.

“You still not going near the place after dark? Such a smart one, you are. Well, give her word Cincinnati’s around. She’ll want to know.”

“I hope I don’t forget,” I said, opening my palm.

“Oooh. Beggar woman!”

“Businesswoman,” I corrected him. “Remember, Willie doesn’t like surprises.”

“No, she don’t,” he said, digging in his pocket. “What do you do with all this bank, Josie? Be a lot easier if you just lifted your skirt.”

“The only reason I’d lift my skirt is to pull out my pistol and plug you in the head.”

My money was none of Frankie’s business. I was getting out of New Orleans. My plan included bus fare and cash reserves to cover a full year of living expenses, enough time to get me on my feet. A business book I read in the shop said that it was always best to have at least twelve months’ savings. Once I had the money, I’d decide where to go.

“All right, all right,” he said. “You know I’m only joking.”

“Why don’t you just buy a book from me at the shop, Frankie?”

“You know I don’t like to read, Yankee girl. Don’t think anyone likes to read as much as you do. What you got under your arm this time?”

“E. M. Forster.”

“Never heard of it.” He grabbed my hand and dropped some coins in my palm. “There, now don’t forget to tell her. I won’t get paid if you forget.”

“You know when he’ll hit town or where he’s holing up?” I asked.

“Nah. Not yet. For all I know, he’s already here.” Frankie twitched and looked over his shoulder. “See ya, kid.”

I grabbed my skirt and quickened my pace toward the bookshop. It had been two years since the incident. Cincinnati hadn’t been back in the Quarter, and no one missed him. He claimed he worked on the fringes for Carlos Marcello, the godfather of the New Orleans mafia. No one believed him, but no one outright challenged him on it, either. Cincinnati proudly wore expensive suits—suits that didn’t quite fit him. It was rumored that his clothes were stolen from corpses, people he had killed for Carlos Marcello. Cokie said it was bad mojo to wear a dead man’s suit.

Carlos Marcello ran the syndicate and owned land just outside Orleans Parish. Talk amongst the locals was that Marcello stocked his swamps with alligators and dumped his dead bodies there. A postman once told Cokie that he saw shoes floating on top of the filmy swamp. Willie knew Carlos Marcello. She sent girls out to his Town and Country Motel when the heat was on the house on Conti. That’s where Mother met Cincinnati.

Cincinnati had a thing for Mother. He brought her expensive gifts and claimed she looked just like Jane Russell from the Hollywood magazines. I guess that meant I looked like Jane Russell, too, but maybe Jane Russell without makeup, nice clothes, or styled hair. Our brown eyes were set a bit far apart, and we had high foreheads, a mess of dark hair, and lips that always looked pouty.

Mother was crazy about Cincinnati, even once claimed they were in love. Sometimes Mother was embarrassingly stupid. It was bad enough she turned tricks with a criminal like Cincinnati, but in love with him? Pathetic. Willie hated Cincinnati. I despised him.

I cut through the skinny street near the jeweler, dodging a man peeing against the wall. I used E. M. Forster to wave the smell of moldy oak away from my face as I stepped quickly across the wet flagstones. If the Quarter smelled this bad in cool weather, it would reek this spring and be simply rancid by summer. I made my way up Toulouse toward Royal and heard Blind Otis singing the blues, stamping his foot and sliding a dull butter knife across his steel strings.

Bar and restaurant owners stood on ladders, decorating their doors and windows for the night’s festivities. At midnight, 1950 would finally arrive. A fizz of excitement perked through the streets. People were anxious to put the decade, and the war, behind them. A pair of lovers cut in front of me to chase a taxi while a small man in ragged clothing stood up against a building saying “hallelujah” over and over again.

Last time Cincinnati was in town, he got drunk and beat Mother. Willie kicked down the door and shot at him, grazing his leg. I drove Mother to the hospital in Cokie’s cab. After he sobered up, Cincinnati actually had the guts to come to the hospital. I threw hot coffee on him and told him I’d called the cops. He left town limping, but not without promising to come back.