“Thanks. I do appreciate it.”
On their way out the door, Kirby Troost asked, “But who’s going to keep us out of trouble?”
“I didn’t know you understood his signing.”
“I’m picking it up as we go. It’s one-part Native, what they use between two tribes—and one part deaf-man’s hands, and one part something that’s just between you two. But it’s not so hard to figure out, once you get a few of the phrases down.”
Cly said, “It’s worth your time to learn it, I suppose—if you plan to spend any time with us.”
The walk to the Garden Court was only a few blocks, ten minutes of ducking beneath balconies, dodging the tickles of hanging plants, staying out of the path of the rolling-crawlers, and ignoring the insistent last calls of every tavern and pub house in the Quarter.
Troost hesitated in front of a sign advertising in no uncertain terms the availability of women and alcohol both, but Cly ushered him past it. The engineer complained, “It isn’t right—imposing a curfew on a place like this. This is a town made to stay up all night and toast the sunrise.”
“That’s one of the things it’s made for, but not the only thing.”
“I’m still right.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t,” the captain said. “I don’t know why Texas has done it, but I’m sure there was a good reason.”
Troost’s eyes didn’t believe him.
Cly sighed. “Whatever their reasoning, it doesn’t matter to why we’re here. And I’m frankly glad for it right now, because I don’t want to spend more time in the Garden than I have to.”
“You’re a madman.”
“I’m … happily attached.”
“So you agree with me.”
Cly escaped answering with a pointing jab of his long index finger at a swinging sign. “Look, that’s it.”
“Just like you remember?”
“The paint’s new.” He hesitated, standing still on the sidewalk and making two small, dark-skinned boys walk around him. “Otherwise, it looks pretty much the same.”
“You’re stalling. But we came all this way, and here we are. Let’s get inside and take a look around.” Troost set off down the walkway.
Cly surged forward and caught up to Troost with only a few long strides—just in time to open the door and propel himself inside it first. Kirby couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or amused, but settled for amused and followed the captain into the plush, pretty lobby.
The carpets were red and maroon, laced with a buttercream trim, and the curtains were thick but colored to match. All the visible wood was dark with polish, age, and imported glamour. A long couch with a back curved like a sea serpent was pressed against the far wall, and a matching love seat was propped for cuddling inside the door to the right. Two plush solitary chairs that should’ve held one body apiece were spaced between the larger pieces of furniture, but in the nearest chair were two lovely colored women on the lap of a white-haired Texian—identifiable as such by a fluffy mustache that might have been made of a dove’s wings … and then by his accent, when he exclaimed, “Newcomers, girls.” Then to Cly and Troost, he said, “Y’all come on inside and make yourselves comfortable. Hazel or Ruthie will be downstairs in a minute.”
The women on the Texian’s lap smiled in welcome, but he showed no interest in letting them leave, so they stayed.
“Thank you, sir, I do believe I’ll do exactly that,” Kirby Troost declared, taking off his hat and making himself comfortable on the love seat. Cly was less certain. Partly for the sake of comfort, given his size—and partly because he’d rather not be crushed up against the engineer in such an intimate setting—he retreated to the couch and folded himself awkwardly, looking and feeling like a grown man sitting inside a dollhouse.
The captain asked the Texian, “You said Hazel and Ruthie. Is … is Josephine still here?”
“Miss Early? Oh, sure. She’s the woman in charge, but she’s not around—not right this moment. I believe she’s out with a family emergency of some sort,” he said vaguely. “Ruthie went with her, but she came back last night. Anyway, for what it’s worth to you, I don’t think Miss Early takes customers too often anymore.”
“No? I mean, no—that’s not … that’s not why I ask. She’s invited me here, to hire me for a job.”
“What sort of job?”
“I’m not too rightly sure yet. But I’ve finally made it to town, and I mean to ask her about it.”
The fluffy-faced Texian nodded and said, “Perhaps Hazel or Ruthie can help you out. They’re real competent girls themselves, and so’s Marylin. They’re the ones she usually leaves running the business while she’s out.”
“Good to know. Thank you, sir.”
A slender mixed-race woman who was more white than anything else chose this moment to descend the staircase and enter the lobby, a vision in pink taffeta and ivory lace, with her hair tufted up and fastened with elaborate combs. “Mr. Calais,” she said to the Texian, “you surely do look comfortable, sir.”
“Couldn’t be happier, Miss Quantrill!” he assured her, though when he reached for his scotch, it was barely beyond his fingertips. The girl upon his right knee retrieved it for him and leaned so that he could squeeze her close and take a swallow at the same time. “And these men here, they’re looking for Josephine.”
Kirby and Cly both came to their feet, and Troost announced, “He’s looking for Josephine. I’m just looking.”
She gave them both a demure smile that showed no teeth. To Troost, she said, “You’ll be the easiest to assist. My name is Marylin, and I’ll be happy to make any arrangements you require. But as for you, sir,” she told the captain, “Miss Early isn’t here right now.”
“That’s what your friend said. Any chance you know when she’ll be back?”
Before Marylin could answer, a second woman slipped up behind her. The dark-haired beauty was wearing maroon that bordered on brown, and every inch of her shimmered. Kirby Troost’s eyes went wide, and he opened his mouth. Then he closed it.
She swished forward, taking in Troost’s gaze and discarding it in favor of catching Cly’s. Unabashedly she appraised him from head to foot, and when she felt she’d seen everything she needed, she declared, “Je suis Ruthie Doniker, and I manage the house for Miss Early while she is out. Are you Captain Cly?”
“Yes … yes, ma’am. I am. Josephine sent for me.”
“Oui, I know. For a while, she thought you would not come.”
He hunkered, even though the ceiling accommodated his height. “I do apologize—I tried to reply to her telegram sooner, but I had a hard time getting hold of the taps until a few days ago.”
“Your message reached us, but she was called away suddenly. She has left instructions. Could you come upstairs with me, monsieur?”
Marylin gave Ruthie a look Cly couldn’t decipher, but he thought it might mean, Trust me. And she turned with more swishing to ascend the stairs.
“You won’t be needing me, will you?” Troost asked with optimism dripping from every word.
“I don’t guess so.”
So the captain left him there, in the company of Marylin Quantrill, the Texian Mr. Calais, and the two women on his lap who were spoken for; Cly followed the stunning, slim-bodied woman up the stairs while trying to neither knock his head nor stare too hard at the swaying bustle that covered her backside.
By way of making conversation he asked, “Does she—does Josephine, I mean—still keep an office up here?”
“She does, oui, monsieur. And that is where we are going.” Ruthie paused on the stairs and looked back at him, appraising him afresh, though the captain didn’t know why. She turned and continued upward, added, “Madame said that she knew you, a long time ago.”
“That’s right.”
“She said you are a very good pilot.”
“I don’t get any complaints.”
“She said you were the tall man, and I should know you that way.”
“Many men are tall.”
“She said that in any room, filled with any group of men, you were the tall one.”
As she said this, he swung his head to avoid an old wall sconce that had not yet been fitted for gas, but still held a candle that had melted down to a thumb-sized nub.
On the third floor, the stairs emptied into a walkway, just as Cly remembered, and he followed Ruthie to Josephine’s office. The office was not quite the same as the last time he’d seen it, but he would’ve recognized her touch anywhere. New curtains, in burgundy instead of green. Two new chairs—no, two old chairs with new striped upholstery. And the desk she’d inherited from someplace or another, half as big as a bed and ornately carved at the corners—where cherubs held harps and the wings of angels curved gently downward to the lion’s-paw feet.
Gaudy, she’d called it once. But she’d never replaced it.
Behind this desk sat an attractive colored woman with a curvy body and kind eyes. She wore a beautiful blue dress in some high style that hadn’t yet made it to the West Coast, and when she gracefully rose to meet Andan Cly, the tiny bells sewn into her sleeves made a delicate tinkling sound. Ruthie introduced them by declaring, “Captain Cly, Hazel Bushrod.” And in French she said, “Hazel, this is the airman Josephine sent for.”
Hazel ducked her head in a discreet bow, and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m sorry Miss Early isn’t here right now, but I hope I can help you all the same.”
“Miss … Bushrod? Is that right?”
“Yes, and no, I didn’t make it up or acquire it on the job,” she said, the kindness in her eyes hardening briefly into something else. “It was my father’s name, and now it’s mine. And if you have anything further you’d like to say—”
