Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) Read Online Free PDF Page A

city. He tried to imagine someone going after the New Orleans saloons. Finally, there was a sad story about an argument between two friends over a coveted space at one of New Orleans' markets turning into a fight that left one of them dead on the floor.

    There was no doubt about it, these were unruly days almost everywhere, and all up and down the economic ladder.
    It was quiet here, though, and within a few minutes, aromas were wafting off the big cast-iron stove in back. Frank emerged from the kitchen, carrying a plate heaped with sausage and eggs. At the first whiff of sage and black pepper, Valentin's stomach started to churn. There was superb food all around the city; indeed, New Orleans was world famous for its cuisine. And yet no downtown restaurant could serve a peasant Italian dish to match Frank Mangetta's. Valentin sometimes wondered if the real reason he had come back to the city was that he missed the cooking.
    Frank, born Franco Mangetta outside Siracusa, was as round as one of his waxed provolones and had a florid face adorned with a broad swoop of a waxed mustache and topped by a broader swoop of oiled black hair. He had known Valentin's father in the old country, and had remained a friend the detective could count on. When he was small, Valentin called him "Zi' Franco"—Uncle Frank—and he had memories of sweets dropped secretly into his hand during Saturday-afternoon visits to the store.
    Later Mangetta had witnessed the terrible tragedies the family endured. Valentin went away after that happened, and when he came back, the Sicilian had taken a paternal interest. He had been dubious about the young man's foray into police work and guessed correctly that he was more interested in finding out about those responsible for his father's death and about the fate of his mother than in law enforcement. His career was mercifully short, and when it was over, he went to work for Tom Anderson. That had been almost ten years ago.

    After two difficult cases in three years, Valentin had disappeared from the city and the Sicilian wondered if he'd ever see him again. At one point there was a penny postcard from Kansas City, but that was all. When Valentin finally did come back, Frank was glad to offer him a place to lay his head and some good Italian meals,
come una famiglia,
as he put it. It made him feel better to have the young man whom he considered a godson under his roof.

    They had a morning ritual. Once Frank brought breakfast to the table, he would fetch himself a cup of coffee and then sit down for a chat. The proprietor would have preferred to carry it out in his native tongue, however Valentin had lost far too much to converse with any ease—just as almost all of the French that his Creole mother spoke had deserted him years ago.
    The detective now put his paper aside and let out a sigh of pleasure as he turned his attention to his meal. Mangetta tended to some business in the store, then reappeared, coffee cup in hand.
    The two of them talked about this and that, and eventually Valentin got around to his latest bit of news. "I'm going to be doing a little job for Mr. Anderson," he said.
    "Yeah? What kind of a job?"
    Valentin took a sip of his coffee. "An investigation." He told him about Alderman Badel, Mr. John Benedict, and Rampart Street.
    Mangetta listened, wrinkling his thick nose in finicky disgust. "Why you want to work for them people?" he said. "There ain't enough trouble around here?"
    Valentin understood;
them people
referred to the Americans. "I'm just doing a favor for Anderson," he said, explaining that it was a simple matter, a rich man paying for his depravity with his life. He would be finished with it in no time.

    He felt himself stuttering over the explanation. Frank eyed him, frowning. Before he could say what was on his mind, though, one of the clerks called out from the grocery about a case of cannellini filled with dented cans. He got to his feet with a grunt of annoyance.
    "
Mang',
"