Lost River Read Free Page A

find himself standing in the middle of the living room, staring at nothing at all.
    "What's that?" he called back.
    "Said the man's bringin' the car around. He'll be out front in a minute." It was rude for a servant to be yelling like that, but he couldn't scold her, because ... well, just because.
    Instead, he muttered, "All right, then," and spent a moment fumbling to find a place to set his cup. On his way out the door, he decided that he was going to seek out a doctor who could prescribe a tonic for what ailed him, and sooner rather than later.

    Justine had been drowsily aware of the knock on the door before the break of dawn and Valentin rising to see what it was about. She heard him mutter something she couldn't catch. The door closed and he was back in the bedroom.
    "Who was it?"
    Sounding gruff, he told her it was a girl who had been sent by a Storyville madam named Parker. He lay down, curled into her, and in the next moment lifted her nightdress. He came on her hard, rougher than usual, though she wasn't about to complain. They rattled the bed frame for a little while, and then it was over and she dropped back to a brief, sweet slumber that was interrupted by tossing and turning that ended when he got up again.
    She came awake to the rich scent of coffee and chicory. The sun, slanting through the window, was the color of pale butter behind curtains that undulated in the breeze. She lay back to savor the moment, spreading languid arms and legs and thinking about how their lives had changed, welcome after her career as a prized Basin Street sporting girl and his as a detective in the employ of Tom Anderson, "the King of Storyville."
    Three years before, he had investigated a string of murders of well-to-do citizens that included some of the richest men in New Orleans. Though he lingered for another year or so afterward, the cast seemed to have taken something out of him. So he walked away, leaving Tom Anderson and his scarlet battalions to get along without his special services. He surprised Justine by showing up on Miss Antonia's gallery to humbly request that she come with him to the rooms he had taken over the import business on Spain Street, not far from the river. She considered his offer for a little less than a minute before stepping back inside to pack her things.
    She cut all the strings to her past, save for the posing she did for a class of student artists. She was happy and at least once a day stopped to utter a small prayer that it would last.
    Valentin appeared with a cup of coffee, one of the little things he did for her. She sipped and watched him dress. Like her, he was of mixed blood, though his was an odder gumbo. She could detect his Sicilian father in the olive cast of his skin, the Mediterranean curve of his nose, and his slender peasant body; and his Creole mother in his gray eyes, curly hair, and African lips and cheekbones. Depending on the way the light struck him, he could appear to be anything from Negro to dago to white or any selection in between.
    For years, and without trying, he had passed. Those who knew the truth either kept it to themselves or didn't care, because he was so good at what he did and because he had been Tom Anderson's man. Though every now and then she noticed in those eyes a hint of a longing for his former life, he had stayed put, and she was grateful.

    William Brown lay on a bed in a rented room in a house on the corner of Bolivar Street, watching the dust drift in a swath of thin morning sunlight that poured in through the window. A door slammed, echoing along the hallway, startling him. He didn't know exactly how long he had been lying there, transfixed by the drifting, sparkling particles. His shirt and trousers were damp in the stuffy room, and he sat up, feeling a sticky sheen on his skin and the mild buzz of a headache. His mouth was dry.
    When he swung his thin legs off the bed, he noticed dark spots splattered on his trousers above the knees and more