A Ripe Republic, Opening Scene

This is the opening scene from A Ripe Republic, a historical fiction narrative based on actual people and events. It takes place in New Orleans on December 24, 1910. 

May Evans’ House was either an allegory of loss or the city’s finest whorehouse. Soon after her husband died unexpectedly, Mrs. Evans liquidated his dull farm-equipment business in the Marigny and used the proceeds to establish a more congenial enterprise in Storyville. The house was once the town residence of a Livingston Parish cotton family whose name no one remembered. The family sold it for a pittance after their cotton had all burned away during the war. Mrs. Evans also was now long gone, but her name endured as a celebrated byword for the city’s commerce in vice and iniquity.

Lee climbed the house’s half-dozen brick steps in two bounds, coming to stand at a heavy door coated generously in burgundy oil paint to fill in the gouges in the millwork. The entrance was framed by a pair of gas lights that flickered and flitted inside filigreed brass domes wrapped in holly. Lee took a last furtive glance down Basin Street, where a pair of men in full-length overcoats stood as if standing were their life’s purpose. “Better be a back door to this place,” he said through his teeth.

The door knocker was a statuette of Venus, beneath which lay a tableau of ancient nobility lounging on pillows as they were fed grapes and fanned by attendants. Lee snorted when he lifted the knocker to find that the scene was in fact an orgy. “Hell of a world,” he said, rubbing at the grey stubble on his chin. Restraining an impulse to crack wise at the men down the block, he scraped the mud off his boots and used Venus to deliver two sharp raps on the door. 

The door opened immediately. “Mr. Christmas! Good of you to join us this fine evening! And, uh, a Merry Christmas to you as well.” It was Guy Molony, tall, young, head like a cue ball, and eager to impress through a tight smile.

Lee touched his hat with reflexive courtesy, taking in the surroundings, and deciding to leave his hat on. “That’s General Christmas, son. And ain’t a damn thing merry about this fine evening.”

Guy blushed. “All right then. Well come on in. Homer, take the General’s coat and see to it he has something to drink.”

“Yes, sir,” Homer responded. He was a heavyset jet-black man in a three-piece tuxedo with bloodshot eyes on a hangdog, impassive face.

Guy pushed past Lee and Homer. Before closing the door, Guy stared long and hard at the men down the block.

Lee laid a gentle hand on Guy’s shoulder, causing a twitch, and said, “If them Secret Service boys was gonna pay a visit, they would of paid it by now. Far as those fellas know, we just setting in here carrying on like anyone else coming through those doors. Nothing gon-transpire anyway until we get away from this place.” His entire future depended on getting out of May Evans’, but saying so would only make matters worse.

“Correct. Of course. It goes without saying.” Guy turned on a heel, leading Lee out of the foyer and into the famed comforts on offer in the parlor. The room was paved in oriental rugs, two- and three-deep in places. On all sides and at odd angles were plush overstuffed Chesterfield sofas, with end tables covered in empty bottles and overflowing ashtrays. A plump redhead with a blue and a brown eye met Lee’s gaze, beckoning for him to sit with a siren’s guile. Lee took a step toward her.

Guy loomed behind Lee. “Sir, General, with all due respect, it’s hardly the time to pay a social call.”

Lee stopped where he was and turned around. “You may be right about that, kid. But I ain't got to like it.” He took a dramatic bow, “I am of course, at your service.”

A den adjoined the parlor behind dark wood double doors. The walls inside were burled maple adorned with oil portraits of dead aristocrats between 10-foot-high bookshelves stacked with worm-eaten volumes. A desk the size of a rowboat traversed the room, behind which General Manuel Bonilla sat in a rumpled suit and a grave deadpan presence, looking small against his oversized surroundings. He stood up with purpose, tugging his vest straight. There was exhaustion in his eyes. It was no small thing to overthrow a government with New York and Washington nipping at your heels.

“General Christmas, Señor Molony, and me, all in the same room,” Manuel said with good English and a rare smile. “Have a seat, have a seat. Brandy? Gin?” Guy signaled no. After a moment Lee muttered, “Brandy'll do, General.”

Bonilla pulled a triplet of cigars from a valise draped over a chair next to the bar. Lee signaled yes, noticing the slightest tremor in the general’s hand. After a moment's hesitation, Guy said, “What the hell. It's not every night a fellow finds hisself in such esteemed company.” Bonilla struck a thick wooden match against the desk blotter and offered its flame to Guy before turning to Lee, who had already lit his own. 

“Gentlemen,” Bonilla began. “In this moment we mark the true beginning of our operation. The Benefactor waits in Mississippi with all we need. We fight together, we win together, we—”

Lee interrupted. “Right now we drink together. Drink and see about losing them Secret Service boys, who ain’t much of a secret. Now Captain Molony, get yourself a glass, double-time. You look like you need a little medicine.” He stood with a wide stance and his hands clasped behind his back with a practiced military bearing, drawing on his cigar as he carefully observed Guy pour a finger of bourbon, as if this action were their way out.

Manuel offered a toast. “To the good men of the Secret Service, sent by the United States on behalf of United Fruit, Minor Keith, and all the others who have what will be ours. We know you are but an instrument of greater wills, and we wish you well on this holy night.”

Glasses clinked, and Lee added, “Now, how do we get them gone?”