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certain gentleman who was making claims of European royalty, and the other contained a bank check for his monthly retainer of seventy-five dollars.
    He signed for the check, thanked the dour-faced clerk, and went outside to catch a car back into town.

    It didn't take long for the word about the dead man on Miss Parker's floor to make its way along Basin Street. Though the madams down the line uttered shock over the incident, each one also let out a sigh of private relief that it wasn't her parlor where Defoor had come to rest, and even more privately wished that if he had died on Basin Street, the curse would have landed on French Emma Johnson. Let the evil witch explain
that
away.
    Honore Jacob, the landlord of the property, made an appearance and a proper fuss. Red-faced and flustered, he sweated his way up the gallery steps to demand to know what the hell was going on.
A dead man on the floor? Who was he? Which one of your good-for-nothing whores shot him?
All Miss Parker could do was shrug. The exasperated landlord left, shaking his head in bewilderment.
    Other than that, the odd happenstance was brushed aside. Corpses were a fact of Storyville life. Usually, it was some poor fellow whose heart couldn't take the strain. Women were murdered by lovers, and vice versa, sometimes with such tragic drama that local musicians wasted no time in turning the incidents into song. Suicides were not uncommon among the ranks of the sporting women. So the death of Allan Defoor raised few eyebrows.
    Antonia Gonzales was not so complacent. Sitting at her kitchen table, sipping a lukewarm cup of coffee, and gazing out at the back garden, she thought the other madams were a little too eager to shove the strange incident out of sight. There was something wrong about it.
    Not so long ago, she could have gone upstairs, tapped on Justine Mancarre's door, and, finding Mr. Valentin there, asked him to look into it. And he would have solved the problem just that directly. That was why Tom Anderson had kept him on, in spite of their regular quarrels and the detective's mixed blood. St. Cyr had been good for Anderson and for the District. And yet the King of Storyville had let him walk away.

    Two blocks down on the corner of Iberville Street, a white Packard Victoria pulled to the curb. Tom Anderson opened the passenger side door, put a foot on the running board, and clambered down with a soft grunt of discomfort. The springs of the automobile replied with a mocking squeak of relief.
    Standing on the banquette, he surveyed the world he had created. Even with his ills, the mere sight was a balm. The mansions that fronted the street were the showcases, with ornately furnished downstairs rooms for relaxation before and after the more lurid diversions of the upper floors. These houses employed the finest of the sporting women, known for their beauty, amorous skills, and wit. Some well-traveled gentlemen claimed that they ranked with the courtesans of the high-class bordellos of Europe.
    That was the main line. To the north lay Franklin, then Liberty, Marais, and Villere, and each avenue was a step down a slope that ended in the nightmare alleys of Robertson and Claiborne. When it came to fornication, Storyville offered something for every pocketbook and taste.
    Though quiet at this early hour, around noon the District would come to life, yawning and stretching like a harlot worn out by too many rough nights, and yet ready for service. The daytime hours were businesslike, as men of modest means were ushered in, sated, and sent back out the door, an assembly line of quick and cold joy.
    Later, though, when the sun went down, Storyville would apply its paint and perfume and turn on its lights to become a fantasy world dedicated to pleasures of the body. Men drank, caroused, drank some more, listened to the professors at the pianos, caroused once again. Finally, they went home, leaving piles of gold behind.
    It was all part of the grand machine that had