Madam by Cari Lynn Page A

behind Mary, he rubbed himself against her like a feral cat. She could smell the drink on him, a constant smell these days. Her fingers traced the outline of the remedy bottle in her pocket, and she could hear Miss Eulalie’s voice warning of the gleet’s fleas.
    “Ain’t a good idea, Lobrano.”
    He grunted and pushed Mary onto the cot, onto the clean white blanket where pregnant Charlotte slept. She had tried to warn him, but since he wasn’t willing to listen, Mary stopped resisting and let her body uncoil. She planned how, not a moment after he left, she’d strip the bedclothes and boil them in a kettle of water. Leaning back, she tried to hide the little smile playing on her face—Lobrano deserved exactly what he was about to get.

C HAPTER FIVE
Dauphine Street

T he moonlight began to dim over Venus Alley. It was difficult to tell time here—dusk and dawn didn’t feel much different. There wasn’t the hustle and bustle of early risers carrying out morning chores or hurriedly heading off, freshly scrubbed, to the business district. There was no ritual in the Alley, nothing got closed down and locked up or unlocked and flung open. No signs were taken in and put out. No one washed windows or swept entranceways. Nothing smelled clean here in the morning—nothing smelled clean here anytime. The doors were always open, the noises always the same. The street sweepers didn’t much bother to come around the Alley, and neither did the vendors. Only Sam the Buglin’ Waffle Man would roll his painted wagon by and occasionally pipe out a bugle call and a song, knowing it didn’t matter the hour—a hot waffle was good after a romp, day or night.
The Waffle Man is a fine ol’ man,
Washes his face in a fryin’ pan,
Makes the waffles with his hand,
Ev’one loves the Waffle Man.
    An old woman with matted hair and missing teeth dumped a chamber pot into the gutter, sending a large rat scurrying. Snitch—eyes and ears ever present—took chase, following the rat. He splashed through the murky gutter water, and the rat screeched as Snitch gleefully stomped on its tail. He quickly released, then gave chase again. The game continued until Snitch heard a pounding sound, growing louder and louder. He turned to look up, then froze. There in the distance, becoming clearer by the second, was a horde of mounted policemen and paddy wagons charging up the street.
    “Lawd,” Snitch said aloud. He filled his lungs with as much air as he could suck in, then let out a piercing wail, the Paul Revere of the Alley: “Po-leeece! Listen up, all yous, the police are a’coming!” Then he darted out of sight, taking cover beneath a stairway.
    His warning was of little use. By the time the whores who were not otherwise engaged in compromising positions sauntered to their doorways, the police were already dismounting, pulling batons from their belts, and storming the Alley. They kicked open crib doors as high-pitched screams tore through the street. From doorways and behind corners, partially clothed whores and trouserless johns made mad, frantic dashes in every which direction.
    Secluded in his hiding place, Snitch took it all in. He’d witnessed a lot of strange things on the Alley before, but never had he seen anything like a full-out raid. But why now ? Had someone high and influential contracted the gleet from this place? Or maybe that fat dead body turned out to be some important muckamuck? Or, Snitch thought, excitedly, maybe the president of the United States was coming to New Orleans for a visit and this was an early spring cleaning?
    In the midst of the chaos, Snitch spotted Police Inspector O’Connor. He knew the inspector’s ruddy face well, since he was a frequenter of Anderson’s Saloon, where he’d sit for hours, knocking back whiskeys on the house.
    Referencing a list of some sort, the inspector directed his officers to certain cribs, where their first order of business was to empty them of any whores; next, to barricade