door."
He smiled. "Well, you
are
that, all right. What say you and me forget all these bills and go upstairs and—"
"Gideon Miles, get your mind proper on your work, you lewd old man."
She sashayed away, swinging her supple hips just like a girl half her age. Miles watched her walk past the booths and the dance floor and the small stage, into the back rooms. After she was gone, he turned his attention back to the paperwork, the smile on his face fading.
This
, he thought,
is not what I had in mind.
He and Violet had opened the VioMiles Club eight months earlier, after settling in New Orleans. They'd spent the previous three years, after Miles got back from France, travelling from West to East and back again, enjoying their new-found leisure and freedom. But there comes a time, Violet said, when a pair of old fogies have to settle down and plant roots.
So that was what they did. Miles bought the old building on Royal Street, not far from Rue St. Louis, and turned it into New Orleans' latest jazz club.
Which was all well-and-good, Miles thought. Except for the goddamn bills and invoices and what-not. As a younger man, he didn't know how he'd spend his old age, but he certainly hadn't counted on filling out forms and writing checks all damn day.
He'd been a U.S. Marshal once, back in the old days, out in what was then called the Wyoming Territory, one of the very first black men ever to hold that distinction. As far as he knew, there had only been one other black man with the Marshals, even now in this new, so-called liberated age.
But being a Negro didn't hinder him in his work. He'd spent years tracking down bad men and bringing them to justice. It was a job he was good at, and by the time he retired, in 1910, he'd brought in more outlaws than just about anyone else on the job, with the possible exception of his good friends Cash Laramie and Bass Reeves.
After retirement, he and Violet got hitched after a courtship that went on for decades. He did some freelance work for the Marshal Service when he felt like it, and in 1914, with the Great War raging in Europe, he went to France and worked in intelligence until the conflict was over. They treated Negroes differently over there, and he almost stayed. But Violet was homesick, and so back to the States they came.
Now here he was, in New Orleans. A club owner.
He was sitting there, pondering all of this, when a voice at his shoulder said, "Heya, Mr. Miles. Hope I ain't disturbing you, sir."
It was Little Cat Borre, the Creole kid Miles had hired two months ago to help out around the place. About eighteen years old, Little Cat was lithe and good-looking and already a hit with the ladies who came to the VioMiles. Miles had to admit the kid was loaded with charm.
But at the moment, Miles wasn't in the mood for Little Cat's easy smile. He said, "What?"
"There's some ladies in the foyer wants to see you, Mr. Miles, sir."
"Cat, we aren't open right now. And can't you see I'm busy here?"
"Busy staring off into the distance, looks like," Cat said, grinning. Miles started to reprimand the kid for being mouthy, but stopped himself. Little Cat was right, after all.
He sighed, said, "What ladies? What do they want?"
"I don't rightly know, sir. But they's ... um ... not ladies from high society, I can tell ya that much. They come over from the District." Cat wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Miles frowned. "Prostitutes? Is that what you're saying? Go tell them we don't need their services here. It's not that sort of club."
"I don't think that's why they here, Mr. Miles, sir."
Miles said, "Oh, for Christ's ... okay, bring them in."
Little Cat nodded and ambled off back to the foyer, and Miles stood up and stretched.
What the hell
, he thought. It was a good excuse to get away from the mind-numbing paperwork, anyway.
The two ladies Cat ushered in weren't dressed like prostitutes, but no one would mistake them for upper crust New Orleans society. They wore drab dresses
He smiled. "Well, you
are
that, all right. What say you and me forget all these bills and go upstairs and—"
"Gideon Miles, get your mind proper on your work, you lewd old man."
She sashayed away, swinging her supple hips just like a girl half her age. Miles watched her walk past the booths and the dance floor and the small stage, into the back rooms. After she was gone, he turned his attention back to the paperwork, the smile on his face fading.
This
, he thought,
is not what I had in mind.
He and Violet had opened the VioMiles Club eight months earlier, after settling in New Orleans. They'd spent the previous three years, after Miles got back from France, travelling from West to East and back again, enjoying their new-found leisure and freedom. But there comes a time, Violet said, when a pair of old fogies have to settle down and plant roots.
So that was what they did. Miles bought the old building on Royal Street, not far from Rue St. Louis, and turned it into New Orleans' latest jazz club.
Which was all well-and-good, Miles thought. Except for the goddamn bills and invoices and what-not. As a younger man, he didn't know how he'd spend his old age, but he certainly hadn't counted on filling out forms and writing checks all damn day.
He'd been a U.S. Marshal once, back in the old days, out in what was then called the Wyoming Territory, one of the very first black men ever to hold that distinction. As far as he knew, there had only been one other black man with the Marshals, even now in this new, so-called liberated age.
But being a Negro didn't hinder him in his work. He'd spent years tracking down bad men and bringing them to justice. It was a job he was good at, and by the time he retired, in 1910, he'd brought in more outlaws than just about anyone else on the job, with the possible exception of his good friends Cash Laramie and Bass Reeves.
After retirement, he and Violet got hitched after a courtship that went on for decades. He did some freelance work for the Marshal Service when he felt like it, and in 1914, with the Great War raging in Europe, he went to France and worked in intelligence until the conflict was over. They treated Negroes differently over there, and he almost stayed. But Violet was homesick, and so back to the States they came.
Now here he was, in New Orleans. A club owner.
He was sitting there, pondering all of this, when a voice at his shoulder said, "Heya, Mr. Miles. Hope I ain't disturbing you, sir."
It was Little Cat Borre, the Creole kid Miles had hired two months ago to help out around the place. About eighteen years old, Little Cat was lithe and good-looking and already a hit with the ladies who came to the VioMiles. Miles had to admit the kid was loaded with charm.
But at the moment, Miles wasn't in the mood for Little Cat's easy smile. He said, "What?"
"There's some ladies in the foyer wants to see you, Mr. Miles, sir."
"Cat, we aren't open right now. And can't you see I'm busy here?"
"Busy staring off into the distance, looks like," Cat said, grinning. Miles started to reprimand the kid for being mouthy, but stopped himself. Little Cat was right, after all.
He sighed, said, "What ladies? What do they want?"
"I don't rightly know, sir. But they's ... um ... not ladies from high society, I can tell ya that much. They come over from the District." Cat wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Miles frowned. "Prostitutes? Is that what you're saying? Go tell them we don't need their services here. It's not that sort of club."
"I don't think that's why they here, Mr. Miles, sir."
Miles said, "Oh, for Christ's ... okay, bring them in."
Little Cat nodded and ambled off back to the foyer, and Miles stood up and stretched.
What the hell
, he thought. It was a good excuse to get away from the mind-numbing paperwork, anyway.
The two ladies Cat ushered in weren't dressed like prostitutes, but no one would mistake them for upper crust New Orleans society. They wore drab dresses
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