No Good Deed 70

It was truly unfortunate that "Miss Fitzpatrick" and I had Ishmael in tow. His behaviour doubtless seemed to himself to be the epitome of gallantry. My lady companion seemed less sure. Scarcely minutes into our journey, he stood in the way of a hansom cab, in an effort to halt its progress, that our lady-friend might cross Canal Street in safety. On recovering from his daze, he caught us up all too quickly. Later, in the manner of a New World Raleigh, he placed his topcoat over a large puddle in the mud of a narrow side street. Having neglected to remove it beforehand, he gave only the briefest of grunts as the object of his affection strode over his person.

In time, we came upon a low-fronted building in a grubby alley off Bourbon Street. There was a discreet sign above the door. “Johns”. I remarked to Eileen that the lack of an apostrophe might be a guide to the quality of the fare. She merely raised an eyebrow and Ishmael cackled, averring that there had been no mistake.

'S'jes' a hoorhouse joke, ya rube!' He added.

I gave him a kick to the rump and indicated that he should wait outside. We had scarce entered the narrow deal door when an imposing negro woman barred any further ingress. Her arms were folded across an enormous bosom, which was clad in an over-decorated linen. This did nothing to divert one's attention from her superstructure which would have graced any ocean-going vessel.

'Cain't come in. Sign's a joke, ever'one knows that.'

I looked at Eileen Fitzpatrick, somewhat mystified. She addressed the behemoth in a most familiar tone,

'Come, Lucasta, he's no John and I, though not a working girl, ask that we may eat here.'

'Miz Fitz? Is that you?'

'Miss Fitz' replied in the affirmative, her voice muffled in the expanse of her acquaintance's bust.

'Cain't letcha, though, Miz Fitz. House rules, you knows 'em.'

'Lucasta, there's the room in the back and this is Railroad business.'

I looked around the room, most of the tables were full. Women, mostly of middle-age, were delivering plates with efficiency and speed. Not one male, save myself, was in the restaurant. The female clientele ranged from the nymph-like to the crone and all bore the paint best suited to nocturnal negotiations. We followed in the wake of Lucasta's considerable stern to the aformentioned back-room. It was dark, snug to the point of confinement. A place for deals and compacts, illicit payments and threats. We sat in unmatched and somewhat unsteady chairs across a baize-covered table. I made an effort to grasp her hand, which she avoided with skill.

'We are alone, Eileen... no, Ellen. Shall we not dispense with artifice?'

'I doubt that you can, Moffat, I doubt that you can.'

I felt this unfair, still since, most likely, neither of us had ever given the other their birth name, though we had first met a decade ago.

'Very well, Eileen it is.'

'Why thank you Mr Northrup,' she smiled, her teeth gleaming in the crepuscular light.

She waited a few moments: her steady gaze, I confess, provoked both ire and interest in equal measure.

'You have not the slightest inkling of any plan, Mr Northrup, have you?'

She laughed, harsh and brittle. I shrugged and joined her in jocular effusion.

Moments later, two bent crones shuffled in bearing mis-matched platters heaped high with rice and the torn flesh of some unidentifiable fowl. I hoped they would return with some bottled liquid capable of stunning my palate before I was obliged to begin eating. My dining companion caught my eye,

'Why Mister Northrup, I had thought such simple fare would have passed your lips shortly after your arrival in the Americas.'

Though her smirk annoyed me greatly, I allowed that at least it made a change from chops.

One of the ancient women returned with a bottle of some age - though perhaps not quality. The mere placing of it on the table between us caused a cloud of dust to fly from the glass. I sneezed in great volume and mass more than than once. From across the table, there came only a light sniff. The old woman departed with the cackle of an agitated brood hen. In the dim light, “Eileen”'s complexion was smoothed to that of the young woman she had been. On the point of asking what had become of Jedediah Maccabi, I demurred. It was not that the man's fate mattered a whit to me: I wished merely for some of the spark that had seemed eternal, when the woman and I had explored the secrets of Gibbous House. 'What's in a name?' What indeed! I wondered which doors would be open in Louisiana to a woman named Jedermann and doubted they would be those open to either a Fitzgerald or a Pardoner. For a moment, I considered telling her I had no inkling of the kind of cabal in which I had become involved. Clearing my throat, I asked her,

'You might tell me, then, what you would do, since I am clearly the game's cod.'

She gave a laugh full of gravel and phlegm:

“Muggins, Moffat, Northrup, so many names and not one your own!'

I took a spoonful of the rice and bird-flesh. We had not been provided with such sophistications as a knife and fork. It has been my experience that silence in the presence of a woman can be most productive. They simply cannot bear the absence of conversation and will fill it with any discourse, however ill-advised. She had barely touched the mound on her plate, this woman whom I recalled had the appetite of a navvy, when she said.

'In fact, Northrup, we have arranged everything. You merely have to be in place at the appropriate time.'

Again, I took refuge in silence, certain that any failure to enquire as to the identity of those she referred to as 'we' would provoke her into far more revelation than any show of curiosity. Laying down my spoon, for the food really was fit only for the meanest dog, I gave her a smile and waited.