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Authors: Midnight on Julia Street
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financial section picked up the story. Then the big stations around here and the newspapers couldn’t ignore it any longer,” he said with a hard, angry edge to his voice. “But, like I said, WJAZ’s an upstart outfit.”
“I wonder if Zamora could also use a crackerjack cameraman and sound technician?”
“Manny and Virgil? I can personally assure you that they’d be mighty grateful for your recommendation.”
“How do you know?”
“Virgil told me how to get hold of you when I called him this morning.”
“You’re a friend of Virgil’s?” she asked, astonished.
“Sugar…” he repeated the endearment that Corlis sensed was merely meant to sound ironic. “In some significant ways, New Orleans is a very small town. Everybody knows everybody else—you know what I mean?”
“ Now I do,” she replied ruefully, recalling that she had been fired by the janitor at WWEZ-TV.
“During the media hullabaloo about the Good Times megamall controversy, I got pretty friendly with most of the TV crews that covered the story. So I know firsthand that Virgil is a very good guy.”
“And now he’s out of a job just before Christmas,” she said, a bleak expression on her face.
“I’ll give Andy Zamora a call when I get back home this morning,” King assured her as he headed down the hallway, Corlis and Cagney trailing in his wake. “Tell him to expect your call, okay? And Manny and Virgil’s, too.”
“On a Sunday?” she asked, touched. He must really have a lot of respect for Virgil and Manny.
“Sure, why not?” Grinning over his shoulder, he added, “I’ll tell him he’d better hustle to get a shot at hiring such a dynamite package deal.”
When King arrived at her front door, he turned around without warning, prompting Corlis to back away and inadvertently step on Cagney’s paw. The indignant animal emitted a yowl and ran into her bedroom.
“Oh, gosh! Sorry, Cag! Oh… do you think I hurt him?” she asked, distressed.
“He’s got plenty of padding,” King assured her as they watched the cat scamper under the bed. “See? He’s not even limping.” Then he peered more closely through her bedroom door at the massive four-poster dominating the room. “Well, I’ll be…”
“What?” she asked, watching him take note of the bed’s yellow brocade canopy that spilled down from a top brace decorated with a carved mahogany wooden crest.
“Did you buy this bed in New Orleans?”
“Yes. I probably paid too much for it, but I just couldn’t resist. When I sleep in it, I feel like the princess and the pea.”
“I have one exactly like it in my apartment,” he pronounced.
“You’re kidding?”
“No, I’m not,” he said, advancing a step inside the room.
“Where’d you get yours? From your mother’s side of your family or the Duvallons?” she asked, suddenly recalling the scene in which someone named André Duvallon burst into the apartment on Royal Street where a corpse lay cold in its coffin.
“Neither,” King replied. “My godfather gave it to me on my twenty-first birthday. Mine was made on his family’s plantation, upriver, way back when.” He angled his head in the direction of Corlis’s bed. “This one probably was crafted by the same slave cabinetmaker that mine was—either at the Marchand plantation or on one of the places owned by a collateral cousin—and the two were handed down to succeeding generations through different family lines. Nineteenth century, right?”
Corlis nodded. “Well, whoever inherited this one must have fallen on dark days, because it was sold at auction in the French Quarter a couple of months ago.”
“It’s got the exact same carvings that mine does,” King marveled, peering at it closely. “Lafayette Marchand had no son to give it to, so I was the lucky guy.”
“Didn’t he have a daughter?” Corlis demanded.
“He never married.”
“Oh. Well, it was nice of him to give you such a beautiful piece of his family’s
“I wonder if Zamora could also use a crackerjack cameraman and sound technician?”
“Manny and Virgil? I can personally assure you that they’d be mighty grateful for your recommendation.”
“How do you know?”
“Virgil told me how to get hold of you when I called him this morning.”
“You’re a friend of Virgil’s?” she asked, astonished.
“Sugar…” he repeated the endearment that Corlis sensed was merely meant to sound ironic. “In some significant ways, New Orleans is a very small town. Everybody knows everybody else—you know what I mean?”
“ Now I do,” she replied ruefully, recalling that she had been fired by the janitor at WWEZ-TV.
“During the media hullabaloo about the Good Times megamall controversy, I got pretty friendly with most of the TV crews that covered the story. So I know firsthand that Virgil is a very good guy.”
“And now he’s out of a job just before Christmas,” she said, a bleak expression on her face.
“I’ll give Andy Zamora a call when I get back home this morning,” King assured her as he headed down the hallway, Corlis and Cagney trailing in his wake. “Tell him to expect your call, okay? And Manny and Virgil’s, too.”
“On a Sunday?” she asked, touched. He must really have a lot of respect for Virgil and Manny.
“Sure, why not?” Grinning over his shoulder, he added, “I’ll tell him he’d better hustle to get a shot at hiring such a dynamite package deal.”
When King arrived at her front door, he turned around without warning, prompting Corlis to back away and inadvertently step on Cagney’s paw. The indignant animal emitted a yowl and ran into her bedroom.
“Oh, gosh! Sorry, Cag! Oh… do you think I hurt him?” she asked, distressed.
“He’s got plenty of padding,” King assured her as they watched the cat scamper under the bed. “See? He’s not even limping.” Then he peered more closely through her bedroom door at the massive four-poster dominating the room. “Well, I’ll be…”
“What?” she asked, watching him take note of the bed’s yellow brocade canopy that spilled down from a top brace decorated with a carved mahogany wooden crest.
“Did you buy this bed in New Orleans?”
“Yes. I probably paid too much for it, but I just couldn’t resist. When I sleep in it, I feel like the princess and the pea.”
“I have one exactly like it in my apartment,” he pronounced.
“You’re kidding?”
“No, I’m not,” he said, advancing a step inside the room.
“Where’d you get yours? From your mother’s side of your family or the Duvallons?” she asked, suddenly recalling the scene in which someone named André Duvallon burst into the apartment on Royal Street where a corpse lay cold in its coffin.
“Neither,” King replied. “My godfather gave it to me on my twenty-first birthday. Mine was made on his family’s plantation, upriver, way back when.” He angled his head in the direction of Corlis’s bed. “This one probably was crafted by the same slave cabinetmaker that mine was—either at the Marchand plantation or on one of the places owned by a collateral cousin—and the two were handed down to succeeding generations through different family lines. Nineteenth century, right?”
Corlis nodded. “Well, whoever inherited this one must have fallen on dark days, because it was sold at auction in the French Quarter a couple of months ago.”
“It’s got the exact same carvings that mine does,” King marveled, peering at it closely. “Lafayette Marchand had no son to give it to, so I was the lucky guy.”
“Didn’t he have a daughter?” Corlis demanded.
“He never married.”
“Oh. Well, it was nice of him to give you such a beautiful piece of his family’s
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