The Cottoncrest Curse: A Novel

Chapter 70

242 1893 Chapter 70 “The minute I saw the Freimer blade, I knew that Zig must have sent you here. No one in New Orleans—that is, no one who’s not working for me—has such a blade. I know that Zig only wholesales them to one other person. The Jew Peddler who told him about the Freimers in the first place.” Antonio Micelli, in his red vest, was sitting with Jake at a table in a dimly lit corner of the room where Antonio could see everything but few people could see him. The band was playing again. Coso was back behind the bar. Lulu was back upstairs with a new customer. Betsy was dancing with a man at the bar, the top of her dress still around her waist. Other girls in various stages of undress were dancing with each other, whiling away these late after-midnight hours until the dawn came and they could finally go off duty. Jake and Antonio had already reached a deal. Jake had offered $35 for sanctuary for up to two weeks. Antonio had countered at $200. They had settled for $75, which Jake had just paid. “You knew,” Jake asked, “that I told Zig about the Freimers?” Even in the dim light, Jake could see Antonio’s broad smile and white teeth as Antonio said, with satisfaction, “Information is something valuable, is it not?” Jake marveled at how Antonio had known that it was Jake who had convinced Zig to import Freimers from Germany. Jake had seen them while he had worked on the docks in Hamburg, after he left Russia and before he came to America, and Jake knew that no American knife could match the keen edge and precision of a Freimer. Jake took a small sip of the whiskey in his tumbler. “A Freimer is my protection. I’m just glad you recognized the one I carried. Your double- 243 barreled shotgun, however,” Jake said, pointing to the weapon that was propped on the side of Antonio’s chair, “seems protection enough.” “Protection? You can never have too much protection.” Antonio rolled up the sleeves of his blue-and-white stripped shirt, revealing long red scars on both arms. “You see these? I have them on my back as well. Lucky to escape the massacres with just these. But they’re so ugly, I have to keep them covered all the time.” “My people have a saying,” said Jake. “The ugliest life is better than the nicest death.” Jake silently thought it sounded better in Yiddish. Der miesteh leben iz besser fun shesten toit. “No death is nice,” Antonio declared, raising the mug of coffee to his lips. His work was more important than drinking liquor. He had to keep a clear head at all times. “You know about the massacre? No. I can see it in your eyes. You have been out of the city too long. Three months ago two Italians were accused of murdering Hennessy, a policeman. They didn’t do it. We expected them to hang, nonetheless. What would a New Orleans jury do but to agree with the police and convict Italians of murdering an Irishman. But a miracle. The jury found them not guilty.” Antonio paused, scanning the room, watching the customers. Satis- fied, he poured more whiskey into Jake’s tumbler. “Tears of joy, however, turned to tears for which there was no consolation . The Irish and the Americans in the city became furious. They stormed the police station and killed the two men who had been acquitted . A few days later a boat landed with eighteen hundred Sicilians coming to this country for a better life. They knew nothing of what had happened. How could they know? But the Irish and Americans swarmed the docks, and they massacred fifteen hundred men, women, and children. Do you know what that means? Babies were flung into the harbor to drown. Women were beaten to death, their bodies so badly mangled that we couldn’t identify many of them. The men were shot time and again. It was only by the barest that those of us who had gone down to the dock to greet the arrival were able to save ourselves and a few of the passengers.” Antonio paused a moment, refastening his shirtsleeves and covering his scars. 244 “Our best efforts were not enough. My sister, her three...