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been devised by the heavy-framed gentleman who now waved off his driver, then watched absently as the Packard chugged away in the quiet morning light. Stepping beneath the colonnade that stretched along two sides of the building as the etched-glass doors of the establishment opened wide, he muttered a good morning to Ned, the old Negro janitor.
    "Coffee's ready, Mr. Tom," the Negro replied, and the King of Storyville passed inside and enjoyed another rush of pride.
    As a premier drinking, dining, and gambling establishment, Anderson's Café and Annex occupied almost half the city block and anchored Basin Street. Anderson had opened it fifteen years before as a modest restaurant, then expanded it by steps until it dominated the District. The decor, from the tiled floor of Italian marble to the brocade on the walls to the chandeliers overhead, had been inspired by the great casinos of the Riviera. The food and drink were the best to be had, and all the games were straight up. There was even a salon for ladies tucked away behind a curtained archway. It was a grand room by any measure.
    Now the proprietor of the address leaned at the end of the long bar to observe the crew going about their chores.
    "You hear 'bout what happened up at Miss Parker's?" Ned said.
    "I did." Anderson eyed the janitor. "Is there anything else going around?"
    "Jes' that they done took the man away," Ned said. "Police is all gone now. It's over with." His white eyebrows arched and he said, "Someone say Miss Parker sent for Mr. St. Cyr, but that he wouldn't—"
    "I know about that," Anderson interrupted gruffly.
    Ned shrugged, stepped behind the bar, and picked up a rag to resume polishing the brass fixtures. Anderson walked slowly down the length of the room to his favored table near the end of the bar.
    He helped himself to a cup of coffee from the urn and settled into his usual chair, facing the door. As the morning passed, he would attend to paperwork, direct his staff, and address the mundane details of his day. Only after his lunch would he make his way upstairs to use the telephone set and doze in his big leather chair. Later in the afternoon, he would greet visitors on more delicate and confidential errands: local politicians, merchants, landlords, certain high-level criminal types, the occasional madam. He'd listen and then dole out advice, orders, and justice. When the sun went down and the streets came alive, he'd be back downstairs to host his most important guests.
    At the very end of this long workday, he might slip away to a private room in one of the better houses to enjoy the attentions of a special young lady. Otherwise, he would call for his car and go home to bed. Lately, that's how most of his nights ended.

    The body of Allan Defoor was placed in a locker in the Parish Prison morgue, along with the other white unfortunates. It was late morning when the police brought the victim's eldest son, who provided a hushed identification before being escorted back out, ashen faced and shaking. The police sergeant on hand informed him that the investigation would likely be closed and the body released to the family by the end of the day.
    The official review was cursory. The coppers made quick rounds to ask about the victim. When these efforts came up empty, they dropped it.
    After Defoor's son hurried home to deliver the sad news, the police went back on duty and the morgue attendants locked the doors, hitched the horses to the hack, and rode to North Peters Street to collect the body of a drowning victim. On the way back, they stopped at their usual place on Perdido Street for an early lunch, leaving the waterlogged corpse outside.
    When they returned to the morgue, they found a police officer waiting. Detective James McKinney had been given part-time leave from street patrol and was eager to cover every detail. If his captain gave the word, he'd talk to the family and friends and see if he could puzzle out how and why the man had been