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Introduction
The following work is a fictionalized recounting of many actual historical characters and events. Some of the main characters and particular actions are the products of the author's imagination, in the humble attempt to more dramatically enhance, explain, inform and hopefully entertain the reader regarding the unique events depicted at that time in the history of the amazing city of New Orleans where most of this story takes place.
Although most “gangster stories” have had, as their central venue, either Chicago or New York City, there is another, much more fascinating place, which deserves the attention of those readers interested in such tales. This other place combined the dynamic birthplace of the music representing the Jazz Age mingled with the wide-open debauchery to be found in its unique juke-joints, elegantly famous and, in some cases, infamous sporting houses, smoke-filled speakeasies and gambling dens. The places where most of these events occurred were in the part of that city referred to as the French Quarter and in three of its unique adjacent regions. These three places are also central to this story: they are known as the suburb of Algiers, secondly, a sixteen-block section devoted to prostitution, called Storyville and, most importantly, the Cajun Bayou.
This city's name is pronounced “Nawlins” or “Nawleens” by many of its denizens. During the “Roaring Twenties” there was plenty of bootlegging, mob wars, and political intrigue; enough to rival much of the mayhem of either New York City or The Windy City, but there was so much more. This place combined all the vices of its Northern neighbors but Nawleens also had its own special mix. That consisted of its particularly unique blend of music and exotic foods, along with con-men and fortune seekers and fortune tellers. It contained an eclectic assortment of Creole beauties and intense racial conflicts all mixed together into a gumbo of Southern Gothic romance, family insanity and a touch of Cajun swamp legends. All of that was flavored with an infusion of African-Creole voodoo and even the ghostly memories of the pirate, Jean Laffite, to boot. And, to have omitted the very special way Louisianan politics was conducted and intertwined with all these other things, would have left this tale incomplete. Politics and crime are the twin sisters comprising the central focus of this story.
So, come along and share the tale of two proud and powerful families. One French, headed by Jacques DuLieri, one Italian, led by Silvestro Carollo. These two men worked with and at times fought with the New York mobs and the government of Governor Huey 'Kingfish” Long. They clashed with the KKK, J Edgar Hoover, and especially with each other, for the control of what both families considered their own personal city........ Nawleens.
This tale also includes the spectacular rise to power of a particular and very peculiar Louisiana Governor and later United States Senator. It is the fascinating story of how his life intersected with those of both the Carollo and DuLieri crime families. He was known as The Kingfish. His name was Huey Long and before he was assassinated, he presented a politically existential danger to the incumbency of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. History tells us that whenever Huey Long was in New Orleans, he composed his political attacks on FDR from his favorite hotel. It was called, ironically, The Roosevelt.
This work also attempts to answer a question that has troubled many historians in the past. Why would J. Edgar Hoover, in the middle of the 20th Century, proclaim publicly, “there is no such thing as organized crime in the United States.” Our story contains a possible and shocking answer.
welcome to Nawleens!
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Author’s note to the reader
In order to embellish the colorful language unique to the patois of certain French-Canadian, Cajun and Creole people, the author has chosen to spell phonetically certain words to more fully capture the unique dialog of that place and time. We hope that this does not distract the reader, but instead livens the dynamics of that language as the characters express themselves.
Chapter 1
1928
The cortege left the Labat-Ray funeral home and headed through the French Quarter, in its odd and meandering way, toward the cemetery. Those musicians leading the procession played music that was an eccentric homogenization of Beguine funeral dirges. To quote historical reports, these demonstrations often recounted that: “these mostly Negro communities had evolved these unique methods of saying goodbye to their dead and that these displays sprang from similar rituals, centuries old, preceding their pre-slavery African traditions. The music and the dancing are intended to assist the deceased in finding their way to the Pearly Gates and to celebrate their final release from the bonds of their earthly and sometimes very dangerous lives.”
These unique corteges were usually constituted of two sections and this one was of no exception. The front section was populated by artists, mostly musicians, made up of a brass band, some banjo players and then there was a smattering of a few eccentrically dressed dancers and street performers. The second and more somber section of this procession was allocated to the grieving family members, neighbors and friends of the deceased, all trailing the hearse. If the person was of some social importance, local political figures or business leaders and some members of the press might also be participants in this more sedate collective of the cortege.
The young person being buried at this moment was Andre Prefontaine. He was a remarkably gifted, but essentially unheralded student from Tulane University. Andre was the only African-Creole intern working for Dr. Lorraine Fontenot, a mostly Spanish and French Creole physician who sometimes worked in the chemistry department at that institution.
Since the deceased had made no noticeable mark on society, it was unusual to see, among the varied participants in the procession, the Governor of the State, Huey Long, and with him the President of Crescent City Chemicals. These two dignitaries were soon joined by one of the most colorful and extremely controversial “businessmen” in the French Quarter. He was none other than the infamous, charming entrepreneur and a gentlemanly, but corrupt wheeler-dealer, who was considered quite dangerous by some. His name was Monsieur Jacques DuLieri.
When Dr Fontenot first learned that the governor would be in attendance, she made little of it, since she knew Huey had helped arrange a scholarship for young Andre. The governor had done this because Andre's mother, Hattie, had been and still was his loyal maid for many years. And, when he discovered how well her son had done scholastically in high school, he couldn't resist helping him financially. Huey Long might not have been so generous if he had known that Hattie actually worked a second job. She was placed there to report back to her real employer anything important, that might be helpful to him. His name was Jacques DuLieri who among other curious traits, spoke with a very unusual patois of Cajun slang and bastardized French pronunciations unlike anyone else in the Big Easy. But when he wanted to make a point, he never let his strange dialect stop him and nobody stopped him from getting what he wanted once he set his mind to it. That is why he was referred to as The Godfather of The French Quarter.
As Lorraine noticed Huey was not walking with Andre's mother, but was instead accompanied by Zoltan Phillips, the president of Crescent City Chemicals and Jacques DuLieri, she suddenly realized why the three of them composed this formidable coterie. This was a very clear warning from some very powerful personages. And that less than subtle warning was obviously directed towards herself.
She assumed that she could be the next one to be buried if she continued in her attempts to clean up the Mississippi River. That clean-up would cost an awful lot of company money. Both rage and fear nearly consumed her for an instant, but she held her composure despite the shock of what their seemingly benignly sympathetic appearances really meant.
Earlier that week, when Andre's floating and badly beaten corpse was fished out of the delta, his death came as a shock to everyone except Zoltan Phillips. Even Huey and Jacques had never wanted a warning to Dr. Fontenot to go this far. But an awful lot of money was at stake. “Money talks and dead, nosy niggers float,” came Zoltan's very brief, nasty, racist and private eulogy that he now shared with Huey and Jacques who both chuckled uncomfortably at Zoltan's seemingly self-incriminating remark as they walked toward the burial grounds.
If Zoltan Phillips thought Andre's death would scare Loraine Fontenot, he was right. But, if he thought it would stop her dogged crusade, he could not have been more wrong. Huey and Jacques would soon be even more surprised by the determined, and some would say reckless, Dr. Fontenot.
After the funeral, the furious Lorraine Fontenot went to Jacques DuLieri’s estate where she had heard that he had planned to hold a post-burial wake for the governor’s “faithful” maid's son. Lorraine was intentionally excluded from the guest list, even though she had been Andre's occasional lab-supervisor at Tulane. Lorraine was barred from the front door of Jacques' palatial home. However, other members of the serving staff and friends of Hattie's, let Lorraine in through the back door of the servants' quarters. From there she headed straight for the great room where the memorial trappings were on elaborate display to purportedly help Hattie in her time of grief.
Even before she entered the ballroom, the piano music that filled the air could have come only from the talented fingers of Peter Hightower, the locally famous musician with the professional handle of “Professor Piano Pete”. He acknowledged Dr. Fontenot with a big smile, as she now wended her way through the gathering of the many mourners.
When Lorraine finally spotted Jacques DuLieri with the Governor, she picked up a glass of champagne and headed straight for them. Before Jacques, or any of Huey's security people could stop her, she managed to slap the Frenchman in the face and spit at Huey Long. She almost missed the governor.
“Here governor, this will help with the spittle!” she shouted as she threw the champagne in Huey's face just before security guards dragged her away and escorted her off the property. Lorraine was disappointed that she hadn't been able to spit in Zoltan Phillip's eye as well. She was sure he was the real culprit, as she mumbled to herself while being handcuffed. Attendees of the wake shook their heads in astonishment as the police took the “crazy” doctor off to where they suspected the destination most likely would be…. the pokey.
Lorraine was surprised and a little disappointed that she hadn't been put in jail. She was hoping to be incarcerated so one of the Times Picayune's ambulance chasing reporters just might have gotten wind of her outrageous behavior and subsequent incarceration and made some inquiry as to why the good doctor had acted in such a way that had prompted her incarceration. Lorraine would have been very satisfied with having a golden opportunity to explain her conduct and more importantly to state her suspicions regarding the state of the Mississippi delta and the moral degeneracy of Crescent City Chemicals, Inc.
But instead, the police who were called, simply escorted her to her bicycle, unlocked her manacles and warned her to go home, shut up and not cause any more trouble as she pedaled away from the gangster's lair. Lorraine had an old car, but only used it for medical emergency house-calls and her frequent lab-visits at Tulane. Besides the exercise, she really felt free when she was pedaling through the streets of the Ninth Ward. She would often stop along the way and chat with both children and adults, as she went to and fro from her clinic. She was the heroine to many folks comprising the mostly poor citizens of the Ninth Ward. These were her people and that bicycle was her chariot, and she was their version of Joan of Arc, in a down-home sort of way, for the downtrodden of Nawleens.
Later that evening, Dr. Fontenot received a call from Jacques DuLieri and without a greeting, this is what he said in his broken English, as she answered the phone, “I am sure dat you know dat zee importance of my endowments to Tulane University could be used to have you removed from its faculty.” Lorraine listened silently as Jacques handed the phone to the governor.
“And Miss Troublemaker, I could have the State's Attorney General slap an assault charge on your nigger-lovin’ white ass, if I had a mind to do so. Not too ladylike to spit on your very own governor, don't you know? I could have had you arrested for trespassing and assault. But both Jacques and I understand you are heartbroken over the loss of your able, young assistant as well as are we all,” he lied.
“So, we forgive you,” said Huey chuckling as he handed the phone back to Jacques.
Lorraine Fontenot remained silent for another moment before she exploded with an invective that Jacques would remember for the rest of his life.
“First of all, you gentlemen should know that I have my own medical practice. It is in the Ninth Ward. I am merely a volunteer at Tulane to collect and analyze certain chemical contaminants taken from the delta to determine their health consequences to my patients and, for that matter, all our people including much of the wildlife in the delta. So, you can go fuck your threats to my tenure since none exist!”
There was shocked silence from her vulgar retort on the other end of the phone, so she went on.
“My clinic has been overwhelmed by people sickened from the fish they take from that river.”
There was still no response from the men on the other end of the phone line, so she continued.
“And poor Andre Prefontaine! He worked diligently to harvest specimens and help me with analysis in the lab in order to trace the sources of these chemical pollutants. Poisons really. And, thanks to the hard work of Andre and others, I will soon have all the evidence necessary to prove that Crescent City Chemicals is the primary source of these damnable contaminants!”
Lorraine paused again to let what she had said, hopefully sink in, before she revved up her rant. “I was going to call you both sons of bitches! But you are not even worthy of that name. You are murderers, or at the least, facilitators to homicide and I am going to be able to publish my proof as soon as all the facts have been substantiated, some way, somehow.”
The Kingfish was silent no longer as he barked back at the troublesome crusader. “Now listen here, doctor, when you first took your complaints to my office, I checked with our staff and they explained that if we restricted all those chemical fertilizers and pesticides, you'd put half the damned agriculture in this state clean out of business. I explained to you just what that would do to the economy of our beloved Louisiana. Bankruptcy for many! Higher prices from those farmers who might survive as far as the subsequent prices for food for all your people! Shit, young lady, we might as well shut the lights off in the State House and hang a goin' out of business sign on the door of the Governor's office and all the banks down here! You’re a mighty foolish woman!”
Lorraine took a deep breath and continued. “Now you tell Jacques that we both know that Tulane will not permit me to use their name in my indictment, thanks to their endowment concerns from people the likes of you, Governor Long, and your corrupt pal, Jacques and especially the Crescent City Chemical people. But that will not stop me!”
There was now, sensed by Lorraine, a seemingly lethal silence from the other end of the line, but the determined doctor held forth with her polemical rage. “Now, it may take some newspapers, the State Association of Medical Practitioners, or even the Federal government because, heaven knows, our corrupt governor controls this State. So, it may take some brave souls among the people of the Mississippi delta themselves or even some voodoo curse, or, if there is such a thing.... an honest politician or two, or all those things and more. But you will be found out some day!” She now shouted into the phone. “And that should put an end to Huey Long's political ambitions as well. And once Huey is thrown out of office, there goes your protection, Mr. DuLieri and all your goddamned rackets will be vulnerable to prosecution!”
There was an even more ominous silence on the other end of the phone, but she knew they were still listening, so she went on. “So, threaten me all you want, you low-life creatures! But I will not allow you two whores to continue very much longer in kowtowing to a company that is killing our people.... slowly in most cases such as with renal failure, neurological disorders and especially, cancers! Or killing them more rapidly as in the case of our dear departed Andre Prefontaine who has just been laid to rest on this most terrible day!” Lorraine paused again for a moment and then finished with a flourish.
“So, I intend to expose Crescent City to the public and appeal to whatever un-bought elements of existing government who will listen to me that may still remain un-tainted in this State.”
Jacques, his patience worn thin, finally exploded, “You hard-headed little do-gooder bitch! Do you realize who in zee hell you are fooling wit? It ain't just the Crescent City company! It's every farmer who uses dem dare fertilizers and zee pesticides. When it rains, some of dat stuff gonna just naturally runs off into zee river. What you think dat you gonna do? Shut down all zee fuckin' agriculture in zee damn state you self-righteous little fool Do you know how many of dem dare people's businesses you gonna be messin' wit? Especially mine!”
Lorraine shouted right back, “I do indeed! And you are mighty powerful critters, but perhaps at least one decent person of influence will hear my story and read my reports and help me do something about the malevolent enterprise that the two of you seem to be so comfortably in bed with! To hell with you both and Crescent City Chemicals especially. That murdering bastard, Zoltan Phillips, may put you two out of business if I can nail his rotten ass to the wall for the murder of my best student!”
After Lorraine slammed down the phone, Huey said to Jacques, “Either Zoltan Phillips has to go, or we got to run this here Lorraine Fontenot clean out of my state. Or maybe the both of them! I don't mind corruption to a point. But murder? If Phillips actually ordered Andre's murder I need to know.”
Jacques answered. “Dis here bizniz is most likely Tony Carollo's work. Of course, he could have been requested to do so and paid for by Zoltan, or maybe dis here Tony, he just did it by his lonesome. He don't like too much zee fact dat dis Andre was messing round wit one of his old girlfriends. A mulatto-Creole girl dat Tony got knocked-up.”
Huey just shook his head at Jacques’ seemingly convoluted and jumbled assumptions.
Jacques poured them both some wine and went on with his suspicions concerning what sounded to Huey to be a Southern-style sanguinary soap-opera and murder-mystery all wrapped up in one as told by a man not remotely constrained by the king's English.
“So, you're pretty sure it was Tony Carollo who did this?” asked The Kingfish.
Jacques continued his conjectures. “Andre's momma told me dat she is beau coup sure.... so dat I believe her. You know Sam Carollo, he don't like dem Negro folks no ways and seems Tony didn't want his fadder to know he was sleeping with a half-darky-gal, so dis here Tony Carollo try to force her to get an abortion which went very beau coupe bad.”
Huey listened with his mouth open, just shaking his head as Jacques continued.
“Somehow, dat dare Dr. Fontenot saved dis girl's life and zee baby's too. Dis pregnant girl, her name is Shante LaRoux and she's half black-Creole, not like is Lorraine. And while dat gal recover at Fontenot's clinic, dat's where Shante meet Andre and tings developed from dare. So, maybe dat is what give Tony Carollo reason to hate Andre. Jealousy! Oldest story in zee book. But lots of times dis here Tony Carollo, he don't seem to need no reason to kill somebody but seems dat he just like to do so.”
Jacques poured himself and Huey another drink as he went on.
“Zee story goes dat Lorraine confront dis crazy Tony and threatened him. Can you imagine such a ting? Dat little doctor-woman threatening crazy Tony Carollo dat she gonna tell his daddy dat he been sleeping with a mulatto gal and Sam, old negro-hatin' Silvestro Carollo, he's gonna be a grandfather of some tar-baby sooner den later!” Jacques stopped to laugh before going on.
Huey saw no reason for Jacques’ amusement as he got more worried while the garbled story unfolded from the Frenchman. “And wit maybe even more pickaninny gonna be joining Silvestro's family in zee future if his son can't keep his pecker in his pocket and keeps on fucking deez here darky kinna ladies, eh?' Jacques laughed again.
Huey still saw nothing funny as the worried governor listened in silence with a growing sense of panic. Then he stood up shaking his fist at nobody in particular as he exclaimed. “So, if everything you've been telling me is even half true, then why do you think Lorraine Fontenot is still alive? asked Huey. “If this Tony character is such a violent and murderous critter, what would have stopped him from putting Dr. Fontenot in the swamp like he probably just did with Andre Prefontain?”
Jacques just chuckled as he explained. “Because, her closest friend is a teacher at dis Shante LaRoux's school. And guess who is dis very close friend to Lorraine Fontenot? Her name is Mary Grace Carollo. Sam's only daughter. Can you believe dat? Tony Carollo's sister is best friends wit Lorraine Fontenot. And zee one ting dat zee Carollos do not do…is kill each other or any of zee family's closest friends. Unless dat friend takes someting from zee Carollo's and in dis here situation Lorraine was just giving Sam a little darky grandchild!” Jacques laughed like hell at the whole idea.
“It's a very small and yet very complicated world down here in New Orleans, I'd say” interjected Huey. “I'm just a simple old country lawyer and we do business different in my part of this state up in Baton Rouge,” he lied.
“Oui,” chuckled Jacques, as he went on explaining these entanglements to the flustered governor.
“So, dis here Mary Grace Carollo, she convinces her daddy to make sure dat Tony leave Lorraine alone. Dis was easy for Sam to do because he hate negros in general and zee thought of his son having babies with deez kind of womens would be a disgrace to what Sam tinks is zee good name of his family. Good name? Ha! Anyways, Lorraine, somehow, gets Sam, to make Tony just pay support for Shante LaRoux’s baby when it comes. And den Dr. Fontenot didn't have to try too hard to get Andre to say dat zee baby is his.”
Jacques refilled Huey's wine glass before he continued. Huey's hand was shaking as Jacques continued.
“Dat all makes Sam Carollo happy and his family's good name is preserved and den, Sam, he make sure his son don't bother his sister's friend, zee ever troublesome doctor, Lorraine Fontenot,”
Jacques stopped to sip some wine and to laugh again, before he exclaimed, “Zee good name of Silvestro Carollo. Dat's a funny damned ting!”
It was now Huey Long's turn to speak, “Well, thank you for that elaborate and rather unique sob story, Jacques, but I couldn't care less about who Tony fucked last year. However, I'm very interested in the sort of folks that Tony may have killed just recently. Because I'm mightily distressed that the reckless Zoltan shithead Phillips hired that dago to kill that young man we buried today and then it ain't too far a reach then to you and maybe even to yours truly!”
Jacques remained silent as he watched the governor's face redden as he repeated his worst fears. “And say somehow that this killing really does connect itself to Crescent City and the investigation is taken over by the federal authorities and then it backs itself all the way up to my goddamn office. Then you and me both could be in for a ton of shit!”
Huey took a big gulp of wine and said, “I want to be a United States senator pretty soon and then, if FDR, who’s sure to be president next, falls out of his wheelchair and breaks his goddamn neck? Why then, hell! I could be the president someday and my association with this sort of untidiness cannot get on my resume and stop cold my path to the White House!” shouted Huey. “So, what now. Jacques? What in the hell do we do next?”
“Merde! Dis Huey Long is too goddamn ambitious. He tinks he can become zee President! He could get himself shot by reaching so high. But he's zee only governor I got” Jacques thought to himself.
And then, without hesitating for another instant, he stared Huey in the eye and said “You and I gonna meet Zoltan Phillips in my cottage on Lake Pontchartrain. Tout suite! Right away! It's a very well-guarded and secret piece of property. I had it built zee last time I thought we might have a big war wit deez Italians. In one hour, my boys will pick Zoltan up and you too. I don't even want either of your chauffeurs to know where we go. Dis has to be done very privately. Dare is too much at stake here.... for all zee tree of us. I shall drive just ourselves to my place because dis here is gonna be one helluva parlez vous non Francais and no bullshit neither!”
With Jacques driving, he and his two guests arrived at his secreted lake Ponchartrain twelve-bedroom, eight bathroom “cottage”. The first things to come out of Huey's mouth was, “Blindfolds? You had me and Zoltan blind-folded! What an insult! And then treated like luggage!”
“I can't be too careful, mon amie,” shrugged Jacques as he helped Huey and Zoltan out of the trunk of his Duesenberg limousine. “No one can ever find how to get to dis here place, except me.”
The next thing that Huey said was, “This is some little cottage!”
Zoltan Phillips chose to remain silent as his blind fold was removed. He just proceeded toward the enormous mansion on the lake without ever shaking Jacques' extended hand as his gesture of welcome.
Zoltan, once inside, had to pour himself a drink. There were no servants on the site, on purpose. There never had been any. This was Jacques' war lodge, each bedroom equipped with its own arsenal and nothing more.
After several slugs of booze, Zoltan broke his silence and practically damaged the eardrums of Huey and Jacques as he let loose with an angry tirade, “Goddamn you! You French frog! Who the hell do you think you are pulling a stunt like this? Am I being kidnapped or what?”
Jacques spoke very softly as he said, “You're not being kidnapped my dear Mr. Phillips. You are here to simply help me decide whether I kill you or not. It's as uncomplicated as dat.”
All the blood seemed to drain from the previously flushed face of the business titan as he finally realized who the real CEO was at this meeting. It was the Frenchman holding the gun on him.
Huey was used to Jacques' colorful language over the years, but now, here were things being said and a gun being brandished that made this a very frightening moment for The Kingfish. In all of his nefarious dealings with Jacques, Huey had never heard the man threaten to kill anyone until this moment. And if he did kill Phillips? Huey wanted to be nowhere around when it happened. Yet here he was, just as Jacques had intended.
Chapter 2
(Earlier that year)
The sign read “Female Chiropractic Health Services.... H. Ganz, D.C.” but all the poor folks knew that the old bone manipulator had made most of his money performing abortions in the Ninth Ward for the past thirty years.
Lorraine Fontenot had heard these rumors too, and when she learned that Harry was now a decrepit alcoholic and suffering from what she suspected were early signs of Parkinson’s, she tried to shut him down. It didn't work. Too many gangsters had also availed themselves of Harry's services when they knocked up their girlfriends. This included girlfriends of many of the local politicians and police as well. So, Harry was a valued commodity despite his declining talents and shaky scalpel. A whole lot of poor people who couldn't afford another mouth to feed also availed themselves of Harry's services no matter the risk.
Notwithstanding all the impediments, Lorraine would soon be forced to confront Harry Ganz and attempt to save Shante LaRoux and her baby while dodging the wrath of crazy Tony Carollo.
The whole tragic episode started when Shante had tearfully admitted to Mary Grace that she was pregnant with her brother, Tony’s, child.
Mary Grace and her young assistant had been tidying up the classroom and getting ready to leave when Mary Grace, glancing up from her lesson plan, noticed Shante was no longer with her. She found her shaking and crying in the Coloreds Only bathroom. “What’s going on here, Shante? Are you sick? Is there anything I can do?” she asked with great concern.
At first Shante refused to admit anything, but it all soon poured forth as she explained that Tony was very angry with her for allowing herself to get pregnant. Mary Grace, upon hearing what her brother had said, exclaimed angrily, “Allowed yourself to get pregnant? He really said that? Like he had nothing to do with the matter? Oh my god! What an ignorant, selfish prick my brother is!”
“And he wants me to go get an abortion at that terrible Harry Ganz's place. But I told Tony my whole family is Catholic, and we don't believe in abortion and besides it's against the law. And you know what Tony said to me?” asked Shante.
“I can pretty much guess, but go ahead and tell me,” exclaimed a disgusted Mary Grace.
“He just laughed and then he said, “Catholic? That's funny! I'm as Catholic as the damn pope 'cause we're both Italian! And I ain't givin' no nigger baby the Carollo family's name, so that is that! Yes, mam, that's what your brother said! And then he said we had an appointment with Harry, that butcher who calls himself a chiropractor, tonight and I ain't got nothin' to say in the matter.”
“The hell you don't!” exclaimed Mary Grace, trying to comfort her distraught assistant.
A moment later, Shante became even more upset as she heard a car pull up in front of the school. She ran to a window and saw Tony Carollo getting out and moving toward the door and moving in a hurry. A couple seconds later he was inside and, ignoring his sister, ordered Shante to come with him.
Shante let out a scream and Tony ignored it as he grabbed her by the hair and roughly pulled her outside toward his car. Mary Grace yelled after her brother and his captive, “Stop this, you bastard! Just what do you think you're doing?” Tony opened the back door of his car and shoved Shante inside. Then he turned to answer his sister.
“We're goin' for a little doctor visit. Shante, here, she's got some pussy trouble that we really got to straighten out. So, mind your damn business, you nosy bitch.” Tony laughed as he spat out those words and got in the back seat while ordering his driver to hit the pedal.
Mary Grace did not waste any time watching the car pull away from the school. She was already back inside calling Lorraine Fontenot.
When Lorraine got the news from Mary Grace, she forgot about her bicycle and jumped into her old car, determined to confront Tony Carollo and his “knife man,” Harry Ganz. Mary Grace headed towards Ganz's office too. Both women weren't sure that they could stop the hot-headed Tony, but they were determined to try.
Mary Grace arrived a couple of minutes after Lorraine. By the time she reached Harry's “butcher shop” she could see Tony's car and driver sitting out front. Lorraine's car was nearby. There was no sign of Shante, Tony, or Lorraine, so Mary Grace rushed up the stairs where she found Lorraine pounding on Harry's door. The shouting that came from inside Harry's office seemed to not be directed at both women’s insistent hammering on his door. Instead it was the voice of Tony Carollo screaming at Harry Ganz.
Inside the office, Harry could hardly stand up because he was so drunk. Tony was slapping him in the face as if that would magically sober up the old chiropractic abortionist. Shante, previously huddled in the corner, and hearing the pounding and recognizing the voices of her friends, saw Tony occupying himself with slapping around Harry and raced to the door, unlocked it and fell sobbing, into the arms of Lorraine and Mary Grace.
This distracted Tony from his assault on Harry and he turned and followed Shante into the hallway.
Tony, knowing the answer to his question, asked it anyway, in an attempt to intimidate the women. “What the hell do you two broads think you're doin' here?”
“Stopping your dumb ass from killing your own child, you moron!” shouted his sister.
“And just maybe killing Shante if Harry Ganz works on her!” added Lorraine.
“Well!” exclaimed Tony. “That would sure solve all my problems, now wouldn't it doc?” as he smirked.
“You are an insufferable reprobate!” exclaimed Lorraine.
Tony, not sure what reprobate meant, but sure it was an insult, just resorted to his style of problem solving. Angry at the two women and their attempted interference, he pulled out his pistol and waved it about as he said, “Fuck this shit, I'm gonna solve this problem really easy! I'm gonna shoot the whole lot of you bitches and that old useless asshole inside there, too.” shouted Tony as he half-turned and pointed his gun in Harry Ganz's direction. He was bluffing but he was sure that he needed to intimidate these women.
That is when Lorraine Fontenot kicked Tony in the groin so hard the pain caused him to pass out momentarily, dropping his gun in the process which Lorraine retrieved.
Mary Grace smiling at her supine brother for a second, grabbed Shante and steered her quickly toward the stairs with Lorraine following closely behind.
When the three women came running out of the building towards their cars, Tony's half-sleepy bodyguard/chauffeur ran up the stairs to see what's what was happening to his boss.
“What do we do now?” screamed a panicked Shante. “When that crazy man recovers, he'll kill us all!” she wailed.
“There's only one place to go,” said Mary Grace. “Get in my car, Shante! And Lorraine, you follow us as fast as you can drive that piece of crap of yours.”
“The two cars sped off as Tony was regaining consciousness. He staggered to his feet, with his bodyguard's help, and went back into Harry's office. He sat down gingerly and took out a cigarette and lit it just before he reached for his gun which was now in Lorraine's possession. The very resourceful hoodlum asked to borrow his bodyguard’s pistol and promptly shot Harry Ganz in the face.
“Well,” he said, “that takes care of one useless fucker. Three more bitches to go!”
The women parked their cars behind the big house so that Tony wouldn't notice them when he got there. It would be quite a while before her brother arrived, as his sister figured it. He would most likely go to Lorraine's clinic and her home first, then to Shante's place and Mary Grace's school, but he would eventually come to them. After all, this is where he lived.
Hours later, when Tony finally arrived home, he stormed into the house, still angry and frustrated by his not yet finding the women he had planned to make think he was going to shoot at least some of them. Of course, he really wouldn't shoot his sister, but the other two? They were as good as dead.
And, now, there all three of them sat, chatting and laughing with Silvestro, “Sam,” Carollo. Tony just stared for a moment, frozen with surprise and cursing himself for still living at home with mom and especially......dad.
“Come over here, sonny,” commanded Sam Carollo, “we got lots to talk about.”
For a brief second Tony thought about killing all four of these people rather than face the music he was going to be hearing from dear old dad. The sociopathic hood started to reach for his missing gun, which Lorraine had already given to Sam.
That was when two of Sam's enforcers grabbed Tony, patted him down for any knives or other guns, and then led him into the living room where his father's ferocious glare was boring a hole through what was left of Tony Carollo's quickly dissolving macho-man self-image. The two men steered Tony towards a seat right next to his father and Tony flinched at the idea he was so close to Silvestro Carollo's fists.
Lorraine Fontenot explained to Sam and Tony that she could arrange putting the child up for an adoption but that the Carollo's would have to supply a stipend of support for Tony's offspring.
That was good enough for Sam and in that house, Silvestro Carollo's house, it didn't matter what Tony thought of this or any other deal. The women left the Carollo mansion and Sam Carollo's fists explained to his son the error of his ways.
Many months later and back in her Ninth Ward clinic, Lorraine Fontenot was busily working on a pattern she had taken from her late father, Laurant's, diary. Lorraine's father, in his youth, had been a riverboat gambler. His rather substantial earnings in that unusual profession paid for her medical education. On one dramatic occasion a high-stakes card game went bad. Laurant was threatened by another player who accused him of cheating. It was later determined that Laurant's accuser had been mistaken in more ways than one.
Before his heavily armed accuser could fire his pistol, the apparently unarmed Laurant Fontenot shot the man through the eye with a derringer that he had up his sleeve. According to other players at the table, the pistol seemed to materialize instantly, almost magically.
The secret to that happening was due to a clever design her father had concocted. It was the design Lorraine Fontenot now copied from her father's diary. It consisted of a spring activated mechanism sewn into a holster-like sleeve. If she was going to again face Jacques someday, it would not be with another glass of champagne in her hand. But first she would have to do something she would have never considered doing; to acquire a double-barreled derringer. However, circumstances had changed and so had Lorraine Fontenot.
This lethal instrument was the sort of weapon frowned upon by most of polite society anywhere in Louisiana, especially for a respectable female doctor. Except for street walkers, gamblers and others of some disreputable character, the derringer was an instrument of disdain. However, the fact that a derringer had once assisted John Wilkes Booth in putting an end to Abraham Lincoln did not further sully the reputation of this weapon, because this was the South after all.
The better classes of society would be scandalized if a woman of Dr. Fontenot’s standing was discovered to be the possessor of a weapon of such nefarious repute. But it would not be polite society into which Lorraine anticipated having an encounter requiring such weaponry.
Lorraine was pretty sure she knew where to start looking for that special derringer. That would be through the “good offices” of Professor Piano Pete. As a very proficient pianist, Pete's career was made by playing ragtime, blues and eventually Jazz mostly in the “best” whorehouses in Storyville.
There artists, like Jelly Roll Morton, had taught him some techniques that Pete would use to make his livelihood. But it wasn't Pete's prolific mastery of the piano's keyboard that was his true vocation in life. He was a Creole of Caribbean heritage; mostly African, with some Portuguese, Spanish and French in his family bloodline. No other ethnic group is more poly racial as that of the Creoles. Their complexions ranged from nearly lily-white, like Dr. Lorraine Fontenot, to “paper-bag-tan” the likes of the late Andre Prefontaine, all the way through to the much darker skinned shade that defined the countenance of someone such as Piano Pete.
But, no matter the ratios of the ethnicity of these varied Creole peoples, all these many mixes still defined a person as being indisputably a Creole. And it was said that Professor Piano Pete Hightower seemed to have connections, of one sort or another, with more of them than anybody else in all Nawleens. It was one of Pete's acquaintances who had access to that double-barreled derringer that Dr. Lorraine Fontenot was most interested in procuring.
So, Lorraine wrapped up her new re-creation of her daddy's holster device and got on her bicycle and rode over to a place called Mammy Jammers, a blues and jazz joint, which was in the Ninth Ward and not too far from her clinic. As she peddled toward the club where Pete was the headliner, she wondered about this Professor Piano Pete and how he had earned both his musical and other, more nefarious, reputations.
Chapter 3
Peter Hightower
In the early Spring of 1907, a young black man by the name of Peter Hightower stood on the porch of one of the more elegant of the some three hundred “cribs” and whorehouses in the sixteen-block section of Nawleens called Storyville.
This exceptional and popular establishment was run by Minnie Danton, a high-yellow Creole, but the place was owned by an anonymous state legislator. Ten years later this establishment would be purchased by a certain mysterious new-comer to this suburb of New Orleans. His name sounded like Jack Dullery or something like that. Word had it that he was pure-bred Frenchman who owned a couple restaurants and some gaming houses in the French Quarter.
Eventually, when the madam came to the door, Pete asked to speak to Jelly Roll Morton. Minnie asked him what Pete wanted to see Jelly Roll about. Pete said, “I think there be some things we could teach each other about just how to tickle them ivories.” The madam was amused by the presumption of this young man, neatly dressed but draped in rather threadbare garments.
Jelly Roll Morton was already starting to make himself a local Blues legend and his reputation in New Orleans would soon pave the way to taking him and his musical works clear across the nation. She turned around from Pete and slammed the door. Pete decided he wasn't leaving, so he just sat down and hoped she would pass on his apparently impertinent comment to the great Morton himself.
Jelly Roll Morton
Ferdinand Joseph LaMothe was a Creole of color but rather light-skinned. Before he named himself Jelly Roll, LaMothe had been touring in various minstrel shows and ragtime bands since he was fourteen years old. Now he was working as a part-time pimp and full-time piano player in the infamous sporting-house whose porch was now being occupied by a very determined Peter Hightower. In his spare time, LaMothe was working on what would soon become the iconic Jelly Roll Blues. That tune and others to follow a few years later, would eventually make him internationally famous in the world of jazz; a world he had helped to create.
Jelly Roll had changed his last name from LaMothe to Morton when his church-going grandmother found out he was entertaining in a house of ill-repute. Ferdinand changed his first name to Jelly Roll because many African Americans at the time, used that term when they talked about a woman's genitals. So, working in the business revolving around commercialized vaginas, it seemed an appropriate nickname that caught on with the unknowing white audiences that would later flock to his performances from Kansas City, to Memphis, to Chicago and New York City. That would all come soon enough, but now there was a stranger sitting on his porch who suggested he might teach Jelly Roll how to better play the piano. Morton chuckled at the thought and just had to see the uppity critter who had made such a claim.
Pete didn't have to wait too long for the arrogant and street-tough pimp and piano-playing genius to come to the front door.
Jelly Roll was half pissed-off and half amused by Pete's remark about teaching him anything about how to play the piano. As he eyed Peter Hightower up and down, he was not impressed and thought to himself, “I am gonna have to show this cocky critter a thing or two.”
He invited Pete inside so he could put him in his place by dazzling this young upstart. Some say that although Jazz wasn't given birth on the day that Pete walked into Jelly Roll's life, it was certainly more than baptized and sanctified during their further collaborations. Pete got hired and his reputation started to blossom.
As the years passed by while Pete entertained the whorehouse customers waiting to be serviced, he eventually learned that new owner mistakenly referred to as Jack Dullery was a certain Jacques DuLieri, a man not to be trifled with.
Jacques DuLieri
The name DuLieri almost became part of a list of ex-underworld characters, many of whom went broke or ended up in early graves because of too much expansion or greedy over-reach.
It could have happened to Jacques as well, but thanks to the Volstead Act, Prohibition saved him from bankruptcy and instead skyrocketed both his fame and his fortune. This was also, in no small part, due to the fact that Jacques' many French relatives, who had originally migrated from France to Canada in the 1760s headed south and set up their crafts in the bayous of Louisiana. Their primary skills were in the making of wines and hard liquors. These folks who used to call themselves Arcadians when still in Canada, now called themselves Cajuns and Louisiana had never seen the likes of them.
All their high quality and reasonably priced liquor supplied Jacques' restaurants, gambling dens, whorehouses and opium dens plus many of his Italian “competitor's” establishments as well. Then Prohibition hit and the drinking never stopped, and the prices of the hooch never stopped going up either. Jacques' profits went up too. Way up.
These profits gave Jacques plenty of money to buy all the police and political protection he thought he would ever need. At least it was that way until 1928 when the New York mob became aware of all the profits from booze and other enterprises flourishing in The Big Easy. The bosses of the Yankee Mafia started licking their chops and making their moves.
It is an ironic historical fact that the mafia was established in New Orleans a good thirty years before it gained prominence in New York City. As a matter of fact, the first major mafia prosecution took place in 1886 and the Sicilian and Italian defendants were hauled out of jail by an angry mob who hanged them in front of the New Orleans City Hall.
Eventually, the Mafia gained preeminence in the Big Apple and The Windy City of Chicago and The Big Easy, Nawleens itself, was of no major interest to the Five Families until Prohibition made a lot of money there and the Crescent City seemed to be easy pickings,
But Jacques would have something to say about that and it wouldn't be all just talk.
Joseph Ubre
As that innovative artform called Jazz evolved, Jelly Roll, using his skills in self-promotion, took his own genius and combined it in no small measure with the techniques he and Pete shared with each other. Those unique sounds seemed to transmit an almost primal reverberation. The exciting refrains, emanating from his fingertips seemed to seep into the very soul of his adoring fans, whose demands for his music would soon send him on his way to be a national sensation.
On the other hand, Pete, although having an equal love for that music, was torn by his real passion in life which was social justice for the African-Creole community. So, Jelly Roll eventually took off to entertain around the nation, but Pete stuck close to home, primarily because of Jim Crow.
The Jim Crow Laws in Louisiana were not formalized federal legal statutes which could have been challenged by the Supreme Court even in those decades well before Lyndon Johnson signed the Equal Rights and Voting Rights Acts.
These horrendous and immoral standards were State or local ordinances that gave whites, after Reconstruction, the “right'” to keep the blacks as second-class citizens through much of the South. But Jim Crow ordinances went much further than just inhibiting Negros from voting.
Jim Crow was the stage-name of a white musician by the name of Thomas D. Rice, who, in black-face, played a character called Jumpin' Jim Crow in a minstrel show. He started his routine as far back as 1832 and by 1892 it had become a euphemism for The Black Codes Laws. These were laws that turned many black laborers into very low-paid workers who were given what was barely a subsistence stipend; thus, turning much of these laborers into veritable “wage slaves.”
These Jim Crow Laws were even more far reaching in their unfairness than just crappy pay and no voting rights. It also allowed the states to force segregation in public transportation, schools, hospitals, restaurants, public parks, etc. etc. etc. And as far as inter-racial sex? That could be an excuse for hanging Negros. That's just the way things were down in the land of cotton where old times were not forgotten or forgiven.
Those circumstances were what Joseph Ubre was dedicated to destroying or die in the attempt. Piano Pete Hightower cautioned against too much “uppityness,” but it did not dissuade Joseph from his quest no matter how Quixotic it may have seemed at the time. Don Quixote would have been proud, but Don Quixote was just a fictional character and what Ubre was dealing with was real life. A very dangerous life, indeed.
Pete tried to support those efforts, but at a discrete distance, for as long as Ubre agreed not to expose his endgame by engaging in any overtly disturbing public pronouncements or demonstrations.
Joseph Ubre was not alone in his objectives and he modeled his strategies along the lines of his Haitian great-grandfather's national hero, Toussaint L'Ouverture, the general who defeated Napoleon's army in Haiti in 1803. Actually, most of the victory over the French was due to Haitian mosquitoes, but that did not distract Joseph Ubre's admiration for those rebels and their legendary leader.
Joseph was considered, by some, as just another crazy old darkie, but he was not a stupid one. He did not wish to raise an army or lead an insurrection. He had read what had happened to Nat Turner and knew of the outcomes of well-intended white’s ventures like John Brown's fatal attack at Harper's Ferry. That tragic misadventure had led to the death of Dangerfield Newby and other blacks fighting for freedom. The fiasco at Harper's Ferry only led to the utter destruction of most of them during that fight. Others met their fate, sooner rather than later like John Brown himself just swinging' on the gallows and, thought Joseph to himself, “his body lies a molding' in the grave while his soul keeps marching' blah, blah, blah !”
Joseph Ubre absorbed these lessons well. Nor did Joseph forget that even Toussaint L'Ouverture was eventually captured, taken back to France, and starved to death by order of Napoleon himself. So, Joseph forced himself to be a quiet, almost shadowy figure, but a very determined member of a movement that would not fully blossom until the 1960's with the advent of people like Martin Luther King, Eldridge Clever and Malcom X.
Slowly but surely, from around 1908 and for the next two decades, Joseph set up his underground networks of resistance. By the Spring of 1928, Joseph started recruiting like-minded more militant members and began the process of accumulating a substantial arsenal of weapons, just in case any white crackers decided that Ubre and his comrades should be put out of business....... KKK style. And the Klan in those days was a very potent adversary indeed.
The little jazz joint in the Negro Ward, where Piano Pete also entertained, had a mixed audience of whites and blacks and Creoles of all sorts. These sorts of joints were also popular in New York City's Harlem where they were referred to as black and tan clubs. This club's official name was Mammy Jammer's Blues Club, but after closing hours, the place was the secret recruitment center for Joseph Ubre's unofficial militia in waiting. And this was the very dangerous world into which Lorraine Fontenot was now headed.
When the light-skinned “white lady” was spotted approaching the stage door entrance to the club on her bicycle, a rather large and intimidating black lookout stepped in front of her path.
“You lost, lady.” the large man said, making it a statement of fact, not a question.
“I am not lost unless Peter Hightower is not here present,” came Lorraine's firm response as she leaned her bicycle against the wall of the club.
The big black bouncer just laughed and told her to wait a moment as he eyed her up and down before he motioned to have her follow him inside. As she trailed behind the large fellow and they entered further into the inner sanctum of Mammy Jammer's, the plaintive sounds of piano blues music grew louder as they approached Professor Piano Pete's domain. Pete greeted Lorraine with a huge smile and great deference as he signaled for the bouncer to make himself scarce.
Pete started to get up from the piano stool, but Lorraine begged him to please continue the hauntingly exciting refrains that her arrival had interrupted. The “professor” was only too happy to accommodate her request because he loved what he could do with his hands, but more importantly it gave him a few moments to try and figure out what in the hell this crazy white lady was doing in this place at 4:00 in the morning.
“Then again,” Pete thought to himself, “Ain't no crazier than me workin' the keys at four o'clock in the mornin' neither. Difference is though, I belongs here” he opined as he puzzled over her presence.
As soon as Pete's finger hit the last key, Lorraine applauded and then got right to the point, “I need the help of a certain Joseph Ubre, with whom, I am told, you are quite familiar.”
Pete's smile disappeared and his kindly black face took on a hint of fearfulness as he lied, “Ain't never heard of no Joseph Ubre. Only Ubre's I know live down in Vacherie and ain't none of them by the name of Joseph.”
“I most certainly doubt that, professor. Dear me. How could I have been so misinformed? And by your own sweet mother no less?” came Lorraine's taunting rejoinder.
“Well, you know, Dr. Fontenot, old folks, they get kinda mixed up sometimes. And my poor ole momma ain't no exception, I’ze afraid,” came Pete's bullshit.
“How long has my family known yours, Peter Hightower?” asked Lorraine with a smile.
“Hell if I know, Doc. I 'spect it be long as I kin remember.” muttered Pete sheepishly.
“That's right Peter. A hell of a long time for sure. And you know what your momma always said about her son, Peter? She said he was the best damn piano player in Nawleens and the worst damn liar in the whole Hightower family. Now didn't she?” said Lorraine with an even bigger smile and a wink.
Professor Pete let out an embarrassed laugh and then said. “Wait right here and let's just see if I can fetch up this here Joseph Ubre fella.”
Pete went down into the basement of the club and told Joseph that he had a visitor. Joseph was not happy that anybody outside his tightly knit circle knew where he did his recruitment business. But after Pete explained that Lorraine's family had been close friends of his own for generations, Joseph reluctantly granted her an audience.
When Lorraine Fontenot met Joseph Ubre, she thought he reminded her of the great painter, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. He was not a dwarf, but like Lautrec, he had an adult sized torso with child-sized legs. However, Ubre's sizable reputation in the Nawleens' black underground far exceeded his physically limited stature.
“So, you've come to see the big man?” came Joseph's self-deprecating remark.
“Not, really,” countered Lorraine. “I came here to get this here big man to whom I am addressing to help me get a little gun.”
Ubre laughed and Dr. Lorraine Fontenot felt she might be on her way to making a new friend.
After sharing a coffee with Joseph and Pete, Lorraine took a cloth bundle from her bag and laid it out on the table that Joseph used for his desk. Both men studied the cloth and the device attached, as she said, “My father designed this strap-holster and this spring mechanism in order to conceal a special double-barreled derringer. It saved his life once. The gun was lost somewhere along the way. I need another one that may be able to save mine.”
“Why do you need a double-barreled one?” asked Ubre.
“I want the first shot to warn the person. If he doesn't get the message, the second shot won't miss. And the handle of the weapon needs special molding to fit the spring action in my daddy's device.”
Both men exchanged glances of surprise and a bit of uneasiness at Lorraine’s casual sounding answer, even though her heart was pounding in her chest.
Ubre remained silent for a few moments as he mulled over her request and then spoke. “I suppose you won't tell me who it is that has angered you or perhaps has frightened you to the point of needing such a hidden weapon. A weapon that most ladies of your breeding would never think of procuring, eh? And Pete tells me you are a doctor, so what's a doctor doin' thinkin' about shootin' somebody?”
“Haven't you ever heard of Doc Holiday?” joked Lorraine.
“He was a dentist. So, stop fuckin' around. Who is it you plan to shoot?” insisted Ubre.
“Nobody. I just want to make him think I'm willing to do so,” came Lorraine's honest answer.
“You still ain't told me who this here nobody person is you are trying to make a point with,” asked Joseph.
Lorraine's answer stunned her interrogator. “His name is Jacques DuLieri.”
Joseph looked at Pete and Pete looked back at him and then they both looked dumbfounded at Lorraine as Joseph exclaimed, “Goddamn, Pete! Didn't you tell this honky that Jacques owns Mammy Jammers?”
Lorraine was unshaken by this revelation. She simply shrugged her shoulder's and said, “So what? I heard talk in the neighborhood that the old scoundrel bought this place. And, I'll bet you he has no idea that a troublemaker such as yourself is hanging around the basement of one of his many properties. And, as far as I'm concerned, he will never find that out. We are all operating in one of the dens of that old devil of a kingpin but, if you get me that derringer, I will have my protection, when he invites me into his throne room. And, I imagine that invitation is coming tout suite!”
Joseph Ubre laughed as he exclaimed, “Ç’est formidable! Mon Cher! What a warrior you are! You crazy blond thing!”
After Lorraine left, Joseph called his brother, Thierry, who was the best gunsmith in Nawleens. It would be Thierry's task to mold the handle to accommodate the spring action device in the holster Lorraine had left with Joseph.
If there are such things as ghosts, then the specter of that riverboat gambler, Laurent Fontenot, might well have been smiling down at his intrepid daughter.
Chapter 4
Dangerous Liaisons
Twenty-nine-year-old William Faulkner's phone rang at his home in Oxford, Mississippi. It was the voice of his former lover and still good friend, Lorraine Fontenot. He had met her in 1925 when he had worked part-time for the New Orleans Times Picayune in order to support himself while writing his first novel. He had greatly enjoyed his time while in Nawleens and Lorraine was a mighty big reason for his fond memories. So, he was happy to hear her voice for a few sentences; at least before she asked him the question that would shake him to his core.
“Would you please come and help me, Willy, though it may be at the risk of both our lives?”
At first, Faulkner, who was a man of many words, suddenly had none. Her question had his mind spinning for a few seconds as he thought about how to respond.
Lorraine waited a moment longer for Faulkner's reply and then pleaded again, “I need you to help me with your old boss at the newspaper. Cary Bynum was your editor and he's the Picayune's operations manager and now runs the whole shebang. You always said he was the most honest newspaper man you'd ever met. Fiercely so. And uncorrupted by the politicians and other unseemly members of those among the business cabals who I would consider unsavory. Bynum's the sort of man that can help me expose a great sin perpetrated on the health of all the citizens who depend on the waters of the Mississippi for their food and drink. Which is just about every darn one of us in the delta.”
Faulkner finally spoke. “I am not an overly noble son of the South prepared to rescue just any ordinary damsel in distress, but you are far from ordinary. So, I could use a break from all this writing. And it seems you have asked me to join you in a very noble cause, no matter the risks at hand. How could I refuse such a brave and beautiful creature as yourself? So, I'll see you as soon as I can get there.”
After he hung up the phone, Faulkner realized he might have made a terrible mistake with his gallant commitment. “But,” he thought to himself, “if it gets too daunting, the trains run back to Mississippi on the same tracks that are going to take me to New Orleans. It may be a dangerous bit of business, but I cannot think of anyone worthier of risking my life for than that brave, amazing and indomitable force of nature, Lorraine Fontenot.”
Faulkner checked the train schedules and then, as he once again second guessed his recent commitment, put some crushed ice in a large glass, poured himself a substantial amount of bourbon, added a tablespoon of sugar with some mint sprigs to finish the creation called The Mint Julep. Then he thought some more about the risks again and then made another Julep and by the time he consumed that one, the risks he was possibly heading towards seemed substantially less intimidating, at least for a spell.
Joseph Ubre called Dr. Fontenot's clinic and left a message that her “package” was ready for pick- up. As soon as the message got to her, she mounted her bicycle and peddled over to Mammy Jammers.
“How much do I owe you, Joseph?” she asked as she handled the weapon admiringly.
“Nothin' if I can watch you shoot Jacques DuLieri. Otherwise it's seventy-five dollars,” came the half-kidding answer.
Lorraine laughed as she handed him the money and shaking her head replied, “Remember what I said? This thing is just to let him think I'm not afraid of him. Though I must admit that I am. And if I'm very lucky and he sees what else I must show him, I might have a partner instead of an adversary.”
Joseph gave her a dirty little smile as he asked, “Partner you say? You think showin' him your jelly roll gonna make that old devil turn in his horns and pitchfork?” he laughed.
Lorraine scoffed as she rebuked him, “I'm talking about showing him my river samples and the lab reports that do not have anything to do with my personal private lady parts! All you men are the same. Shame on you, Joseph Ubre.” And then they both started to laugh like hell.
When Lorraine got back to her house, she immediately grabbed her special pouch holster and fitted the spring mechanism around the specially crafted handle of the derringer. Then she draped it over her shoulder and put on a blouse with puffed sleeves. For the next couple of hours, she practiced using her father's invention and Thierry Ubre's gun until she was satisfied with her prowess. She could hardly wait to show off her skills to Billy Faulkner who was to be arriving later that day.
…