The Magicians

The Magicians

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Louis Tridico

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and some of the locations portrayed in this novel are products of the author’s imagination.

The Magicians

Copyright 2018 by Louis Tridico

Duke Street Press

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All rights reserved.

ISBN 13: 978-0-9864293-8-5

To my grandparents

and a strange new world

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

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Author’s Note

About the Author

Chapter 1

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New Orleans, 1921

The Old Storyville District

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Daniel Lacroix stepped out into the alley and took in a deep breath of the evening air. His lungs appreciated the break after an evening spent inside his speakeasy with all manner of smoke from various tobacco-laden products. His wife wouldn’t appreciate the smell on his fine suit, so he’d probably leave it outside when he got home tonight. It wasn’t just the smoke either. The fabric reeked of the distinct aroma of perfume, transferred onto it by the ladies of his fine establishment. As he always did, he had mixed business with pleasure. And he was a man dedicated to understanding all aspects of his work. It was tiring, though, and he expected he would need a break from this. Little did he know that he would indeed be getting a break from these festivities. It would be his last night here in New Orleans' old Storyville District. In fact, it would be his last night on earth.

Lacroix stretched a bit. The evening’s exertions had strained his back, and his knees still felt somewhat weak. Though still relatively young, he was just beginning to establish a paunch, which seemed to work nicely with his close-cropped beard. A man of status in New Orleans.

Rampart Street was still busy at this hour. One would never know the idiocy of Prohibition was already a year old. Men of all ages walked up and down the street. Most were drunk. Sailors from the nearby port were by far the rowdiest. The poor devils hadn’t seen a woman for months, more than likely, and they were some of Lacroix's best customers, if not big spenders. There were also local gentlemen from various walks of life, mostly businessmen and their clientele, their laughter more muted but nonetheless joyous. Some gave Lacroix a passing nod of respect that he also returned. He had no concerns about their discretion. It was understood that things were left unsaid and codes of honor were respected.

The street also had its fill of visitors from other parts of the country, also enjoying the tastes of the city, since such activities in their own towns were more stringently enforced. Lacroix particularly loved to see this crowd in New Orleans. These men represented the capital that his much-beloved city always attracted and upon which it thrived.

Spend away, my friends, he thought.

Lacroix wished for the old days when the Storyville District was in its heyday. The District, as it was known then, was legally set aside by the city fathers in 1898 as a place where prostitution would be legal. The vice had been so rampant in the city, with houses popping up everywhere, even in nicer areas, that it was believed it would be better to control it in a single part of town. And so it had gone for almost 20 years, shut down eventually by the U.S. Department of the Navy in 1917. Seems they didn't want legal prostitution near any of their installations during the Great War. Apparently illegal ones were much preferred. Then had come the pendulum swinging mightily in the other direction when Prohibition outlawed the consumption of alcohol in 1920. And that's when young Daniel Lacroix had seen his opportunity. To bring back liquor and women at his own clubs. He had paid off cops and politicians as well as federal agents to look the other way. It had not been a difficult endeavor. Besides, the people of New Orleans thought the whole experiment of Prohibition to be an intrusion by the federal government on the city's way of life.

Lacroix sighed deeply and turned to his left and walked out of the alley toward Rampart. A noisy taxi turned the corner and came toward him at a leisurely pace, its driver no doubt looking for a fare. Lacroix raised his arm slightly and stepped forward. The driver slowed the taxi and then stopped it with a loud squeak. Lacroix got in.

Where to, sir? the man said.

St. Charles Avenue, if you please, Lacroix said. He gave the man his house address.

Certainly. Sit back, then.

Lacroix noted the man’s slight English accent.

Busy night, the driver said. He looked back at Lacroix and smiled.

Lacroix nodded. If you only knew.

The taxi lurched forward and headed east down Rampart to make the turn back toward the more genteel side of town where Lacroix lived. He patted his overcoat and felt for his wallet. It was safe and secure, and now somewhat fatter than when he had arrived in the former District. He secretly called the area Lacroixville. He preferred that name remain solely in his own mind. He didn't need any publicity.

The night's take had been extraordinary, even after a few well-placed payments to some Prohibition agents. Lacroix smiled, put his head back and closed his eyes. These late-night excursions were taking their toll on him. It was already past 2 a.m. Catching a few winks right now wasn’t a bad idea. The swaying of the cab rocked him to sleep as well as any child’s crib. Crib. He thought of those other cribs in the old District. Those were the cheaper girls housed in a single, shabby room they rented for a few cents a night and charged not much more for their services. Mostly the Negro women.

Lacroix didn’t know how long he had dozed, but the abrupt stop of the cab woke him with a start. He shook his head and rubbed his hands down his face.

Home already? he said.

The cab driver looked back and said, Not yet, sir. Trouble ahead, I think.

Lacroix looked out into the street. It was dark, and in a part of the city he didn’t recognize. A warehouse district of sorts, but he couldn’t identify it. The street was devoid of any traffic on foot, car or carriage. What? Where are we?

North side. Had to take a detour around some street fighting among the sailors and locals. A lot of coppers around. Didn’t think you needed that much attention.

Lacroix mumbled under his breath, Certainly.

Don’t like this at all, the driver said.

What is it, man?

Saw something in the shadows. Maybe three or four men, just up ahead. Behind us, too. They were eyeing us.

Lacroix unconsciously touched the wallet in his coat. Are you armed?

The driver shook his head. No, sir.

Then I hope your cab has some speed then.

It does, but not on these narrow streets.

Lacroix craned his head to identify the threat.

Damned Black Hand, that’s who they are, the driver said. Nasty blokes.

Lacroix knew of them. Sicilian thugs who blackmailed and stole, usually from their own people. His sources told him the Black Hand existed on the Mediterranean island for years and had come to New Orleans with all the immigrants the South needed for laborers. The good with the bad. They were loosely organized and preyed on the people in their own neighborhoods, rarely on the upstanding citizenry of the city. The Sicilians were generally scapegoats for much of the crime in New Orleans. They had even been implicated in the murder of the police chief some years back. He knew what they were capable of, especially if it fit their interests.

Shall we make a run for it? Lacroix said.

No, no. Stay in the cab. I have an idea. Hold on.

The driver gripped the wheel, put the cab in gear and punched it. Lacroix was thrown back into his seat. He liked the driver’s plan. No sane man on foot would try to stop a cab at full speed. They would race right past the Sicilians and be on their way.

The driver looked back to make sure Lacroix was still in the cab, and then refocused his attention on the street. They had gone no farther than a block, and Lacroix figured they were already in the clear. But that’s when he saw it. Up ahead, a large wagon pulled out of a side street and stopped in the middle of the narrow thoroughfare. There was no way around it. A classic ambush tactic. Lacroix didn’t have to turn around to know a similar wagon had blocked their retreat. He and the driver were trapped. Again, he reached for his wallet full of the cash. But this time he pulled it out and stuffed it under the seat. If the bastards were in the mood for robbery, they’d get none of his hard-earned rewards from the night. At least he prayed all they wanted was to rob him.

Lacroix could feel his heart racing inside his chest, and a trickle of sweat now leaked down his forehead. There was certainly fear racing through his veins, but on top of that was anger. Tomorrow he would make it his mission to get the police to lock away all of these scum, something the courtlier members of New Orleans society had wanted for years. And where were the damned police? Even in these warehouse areas, surely there should be someone watching out. That’s another thing he’d have to discuss with the current police chief.

The driver saw the wagon ahead and slowed the carriage. Lacroix sat up straighter and steeled himself for the indignity that was sure to come. He’d let the Sicilians know who they were robbing and give them the chance to back off. But there would be only one chance.

Careful, driver, he said. When they come to us, don’t antagonize them. Let me talk.

Not going to give them a chance, the man said. Like I said, I have an idea, but hold on tightly. Ready, set, now!

Again, the violent lurch forward, but this time the cab turned sharply to the right. Lacroix was confused at first. The interchange was still up ahead, blocked by the wagon. Where was the driver going?

Sir, what...? But before Lacroix could finish the question, he saw what the driver saw. A dark alley, barely wide enough for the cab. The driver expertly guided the vehicle into the narrow opening and once again accelerated. An ochre-colored brick wall raced by in a blur just a foot to Lacroix's right. He flinched as the cab hit something, most certainly crates or refuse, but whatever it was, it didn’t slow them down.

In less than a minute, they emerged from the alley onto a street similar to the one they had left. Dark, empty and lined with low warehouses that served the nearby river commerce. The driver turned left but kept his speed up.

Well done, driver! Lacroix said.

Not out of danger yet, the man said. The Black Handers have surely started their pursuit. But I have another play that should lose them.

Lacroix said nothing and thought about the large tip he would give the driver once he was safe at home. The man damned well deserved it.

The cab made another right down a similar street, and Lacroix could make out the masts of ships anchored ahead on the river, even in the dim light. He was getting his bearings now and figured they were east of the city, even farther from his home. Under the circumstances, he didn’t care, as long as they put distance between them and their pursuers.

The driver took them closer to the river and then turned left once again onto either a very narrow dirt street or a very wide alley. In a moment, the car slowed and then stopped. To their right was some kind of large opening in the side of a warehouse. The driver gently drove forward and guided the cab into the dark space.

The cavernous warehouse was dimly lit by lanterns and Lacroix could make out stacks of crates and bales of some unknown goods in the far corners. The warehouse smelled of old grain, wet canvas and oak. Behind him, he heard what sounded like large wooden doors closing and the metal clang and jangle of them being secured with a lock and chains. Who else is here? Lacroix thought.

This should throw the buggers, the driver said.

Excellent, Lacroix said. He craned his head and looked left and right. Who is your friend here?

Just a chap I can always rely on.

Good. How long should we wait here?

The driver hopped out of the cab and brushed off the back of his trousers. Oh, we should wait a few hours for the Black Handers to get bored and go home for the night.

A few hours? Lacroix said. He pulled his watch out.

Best if you hop out and stretch a bit.

Lacroix thought a moment and then sighed deeply. Not the way he wanted the night to end, but it would beat the alternative, which just moments ago seemed to be certain. He opened the small door and got out. He looked around.

Where’s your friend?

Went to fetch some refreshments, the driver said. In fact, he’s waiting for you over there, on the other side of those crates.

Lacroix turned and saw what looked like a small office just on the other side of a stack of large wooden containers. A faint glow emanated from the area.

Very well, he said. Are you joining me?

I’ll wait here and keep an eye out. You go ahead.

Lacroix nodded and walked across the empty expanse of the warehouse. He rounded the corner of the tall stack of crates and then froze in his tracks. What he saw there sent an icy chill through his spine and his jaw went slack.

Dear God, no.

Chapter 2

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New Orleans, Present Day

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Emma Eaton sat on the passenger side of the big Ford pickup and adjusted her shoulder-length, honey-blonde hair in the visor mirror. She really needed to get it cut, but work and a million other excuses kept her out of the stylist’s chair. Still no crow’s feet or bags forming under her pale blue eyes, but those weren’t to be expected in your early thirties. She had been blessed with an olive complexion from some unknown invader to the British Isles, where her ancestors were from. Probably some Roman raping and pillaging in the time of emperor Hadrian. She was pretty good at world history and knew her emperors and kings. In fact, she was pretty good at all history, especially the American South, and in particular, Louisiana history. That was her job, as vice-president of research at the Moran Foundation. She had degrees in both architecture and history, which served her well as she supervised one restoration project after another, from small assignments around the state to very high-profile ones, like the recent restoration of the huge Gladewood Plantation near Baton Rouge.

Your hair’s just going to get messed up out there, Mitch Verret said. He sat in the driver’s seat of the truck, watching Emma primp.

She shot him a sideways glance and smiled. Mitch was her current significant other. That doesn’t sound right, she thought. Current made it sound like she hopped from one man’s arms into another on a regular basis. Mitch had more or less been her guy for a few years now. They had met in college but never dated. It was only later when they had worked together professionally – he as the general contractor on the Gladewood project and she as his client—that they had become closer. It didn’t hurt that he was easy on the eyes, either. Tall, longish dirty-blonde hair and a nice rugged air about him. He looked like a modeling agent’s idea of a construction guy. He was wearing tan cargo shorts and an old U2 concert T-shirt, the former showing off his nice muscular legs and the latter his lean, muscular chest. Damn fine specimen.

I can put it in a pony tail if it gets out of control, she said.

Mitch turned and looked out at the boats docked at the Lake Pontchartrain marina. The bright June day made him squint his eyes. Not the only thing I’m worried will get out of control, he said under his breath.

Heard that, Emma said.

Good.

Relax. It’s just lunch on a boat.

With the Godfather of New Orleans’ biggest organized crime family.

Not true, she said.

Which part?

"None of the parts, Emma said. She reached over and patted his knee. The Accardo family is legit. Has been for a generation or more. Tony runs a corporation now, not a Mafia family. That was his grandfather’s generation, not his."

Right, Mitch said. Still not buying it. Once a duck, always a quacker.

That sounds stupid.

But true.

She leaned over and kissed him. You’re a mess.

Still no idea why he wants to have lunch with you?

Not a clue, Emma said. Look, we went to school together. Had a couple of dates. He’s happily married now with kids. Maybe he read about some of my exploits. I haven’t exactly been low profile for the last few years. Maybe he just wants to catch up.

On his boat? In the middle of Lake Pontchartrain?

Sounds nice to me.

Whatever.

Emma glanced at her watch. Okay, time to head out there. She turned around. Look, there’s a restaurant and bar over there. Go hang out and I’ll call you when we’re getting ready to dock.

Sure. I’ll have a beer while you go sleep with the fishes.

Emma rolled her eyes.

He started to whistle the theme from The Godfather.

You’re just cracking yourself up, aren't you? she said. She gave him a gentle slap on the arm and got out of the truck. The summer air smelled of salt water and fish. Maybe a little whiff of chemicals from some faraway plant near the river. She took one more glance at herself in the outside mirror. She adjusted her white Capri pants and smoothed out the sleeveless blue shirt she’d bought for the occasion. That and a new pair of sandals rounded out her nautical look. Emma waved at Mitch through the passenger-side window. He pointed two of his fingers toward his eyes and then at her. I’ll be watching.

Emma shook her head and gave him a single-finger response and a big smile. She walked across the parking lot of the Southern Yacht Club and headed for the pier. Tony Accardo had mentioned the kind of boat she would be looking for, but she couldn’t remember it. But she did remember the name: The Lily Marie. Sounded nice, anyway. A fifty-something man wearing white pants, a short-sleeved white shirt with gold epaulets and a white cap waited at the pier. He smiled when she walked up.

Miss Eaton? Carl Goodman. I’ll be taking you out today.

She shook his hand. Carl had a tanned, thin face and an easy smile. He looked like he spent most of his life on the open water. He led the way down the floating pier. Emma passed all manner of sailboats and yachts, each one more impressive than the next. Some boats were still, while others were occupied by owners and their families getting ready for an outing in the shallow, 25-mile wide Lake Pontchartrain, which was really a huge bay that emptied into the Gulf through a narrow pass at the Rigolets. Except in 2005, when Lake Pontchartrain emptied into New Orleans for one dreadful day during Hurricane Katrina.

Here we are, Goodman said.

Emma had been so busy eyeing all the boats around her that she didn’t notice the huge boat tied up at the end of the pier. She looked up at the sleek white yacht and her jaw dropped.

It’s a Princess Livernano, Goodman said. Ninety-five feet. Twin engines. She cruises at 18 knots, but I can get close to 28 if I have to. Five staterooms. Three decks. Fun.

Wow, was all Emma could say. Can this thing launch fighter jets?

Goodman laughed. Not yet. But we’re looking at getting a couple of high-end drones to play with. Come aboard. Mr. Accardo is waiting for you.

Goodman led her aboard, up some stairs and onto the bridge. It looked like the flight deck of the space shuttle. Two leather captain’s chairs sat in front of the high-tech control panel. On the other side was a small table with wrap-around bench seating. A trim man about Emma’s age stood with his back to them, reading something. He wore white linen pants, a white linen shirt and matching white canvas deck shoes. The brilliant white of his clothes contrasted his tanned skin.

Sir? Goodman said.

The man seemed a bit startled and turned quickly, so entranced was he with whatever he was reading.

Oh, sorry, he said. Looking at these charts. He held up some nautical charts in one hand. Every summer, the sand bars all over the lake change.

Emma gave him a big smile. If anything, he was more handsome now than he was in college. He had big brown eyes and dark Mediterranean features that belied his Sicilian ancestry. Thick, wavy black hair gave him an almost boyish look. His smile was as dazzling as she had remembered. Settle down, girl, she thought to herself.

You always did your homework, Tony, Emma said.

Better when you helped, Emma.

There was that awkward moment when she started to hold out her hand to shake his, but he took a step toward her and gave her a polite hug. Nothing aggressive.

Good to see you, she said. You look great. Crap, why did I say that?

And you look incredible.

Well, it’s only been 10 years, Emma said. Not that much hail damage.

Ha! he said and laughed heartily. Still have that wicked sense of humor, I see.

Trying.

Tony turned to Goodman. Carl, we ready to roll?

Absolutely. I’ll get Brian to cast off.

"Come on, Emma, I’ll give you a quick tour of The Lily Marie," Tony said. He led her back to the stern.

Okay, this is the mid deck. You saw the bridge. Back here is the kitchen – uh, galley – still getting my sailor’s lingo down.

Emma thought he had it right the first time. It looked nicer than her own kitchen. Hardwood floors. Black granite tops. All the latest appliances, and more cabinets and storage than anyone would ever need. A plump, middle-aged black woman was cooking something on the stove. Whatever it was smelled delicious to Emma.

Leta, this is my friend, Emma.

The woman turned and smiled, wiped her hands on a towel and shook Emma’s hand. Welcome aboard, Emma. Hope you’re hungry.

Well, if I wasn’t before, I am now. What is that?

It’s a surprise, the woman said. She looked at Tony. 20 minutes. It was an order, not a question.

Yes ma’am, he said. He turned to Emma. And back this way is the main living and dining area.

It was a large open area, with thick beige carpet and polished teak walls and accents. Large windows ran the length of the space with spectacular views. To the right was a huge dining room table with eight chairs. Fresh roses were arranged in a crystal vase in the center. Two place settings of fine china were already arranged, no doubt for their lunch.

And over here is the living room. Plenty of seating to watch the world go by, or maybe to just watch the game. He smiled and gestured toward a 60-inch flat-screen TV that sat on a large console. A large sectional sofa, covered in multi-colored pillows, surrounded a square coffee table. Two over-stuffed swivel chairs sat on the other end, in front of big glass doors that led outside.

Tony, this is amazing, Emma said, and meant it. She had never been on a yacht before. There was a large framed picture sitting next to the TV. This your family? she said.

Yep. That’s Vanessa, my wife. And our kids. Anthony junior is six. Grace is four. And that little guy is Joseph. Just hit his first birthday.

Cute, Emma said. Vanessa was beyond cute. She was a stunning brunette who looked like a fashion model. Emma unconsciously ran her hand through her hair. A mirror would have come in handy at the moment.

Met Vanessa a year after college, just before I went to grad school. She’s just awesome, especially with the kids. He looked back the way they had come. This way, I want to show you the lower deck.

Tony led her back toward the bridge and down some stairs. All the staterooms are down here. Let’s start forward.

They walked down a few stairs to a large bedroom. It was wider at the entrance and then angled somewhat forward to reflect the bow of the yacht. Four oval-shaped portholes, two on each side, offered nice views port and starboard. The room was well appointed, with a huge king-size bed dominating the spacious room. Bath over here, he said.

Emma peeked in and was stunned how nice the bath was. Walk-in shower, wood everywhere, granite countertops and travertine marble on the floor.

Nicer than my first house, Tony said. Let’s go back this way. He showed her a small room with two single beds, another tiny room with two bunk beds, another small bedroom with a queen-size bed and then the master suite that was amidships. It had a king-size bed, big-screen TV, and a master bath that had a giant tub, a walk-in shower and his-and-her sinks. "More beds in the stern, on the other side of the engine room.

No sooner than he said engine room when Emma heard the low rumble of the ship coming to life.

Let’s get up top and enjoy the ride out, Tony said.

So how many can this thing sleep? Emma said.

Uh, let me see, he said, and began adding in his head. Fourteen, I think.

Tony led her to the open top deck that had its own bar, tables, bench seating and lounging areas. Beautiful, was all Emma could say.

They watched as Goodman expertly maneuvered the big boat out of the marina and toward open water. A light breeze had cleared away the haze and allowed them to see for miles.

We picked a perfect day, Tony said.

You picked a perfect day, Emma thought. So why?

Once they cleared the marina, Emma heard the pitch of the motors increase, as did their speed, and in minutes the big yacht was slicing through the water. They spent a few minutes making small talk, until a young man in his mid-twenties, dressed like Captain Goodman, appeared with a tray and two drinks.

Thanks, Brian, Tony said. He handed one to Emma and took the other one. It’s a mango-and-strawberry-with-club-soda thing they make, he said. No alcohol, but really refreshing.

Emma took a sip and agreed. Mmm. Nice.

Leta said lunch is ready, Brian said.

They all headed down to the dining room, where Leta was already waiting. Tony pulled a chair out for Emma and then sat across from her. They both looked expectantly at Leta.

She smiled and said. "First, we’ll have crab ravigote. It’s like a cold seafood salad with a little tart dressing I made. Simple but delicious."

That sounds great, Emma said.

Then I’ll bring y’all some shrimp étouffée with some fresh French bread I got down in the Quarter this morning.

Man, I’m hungry, Tony said. Leta, that just sounds like heaven on a plate. Or bowl.

It is, she said and winked at Emma.

Emma watched as the woman disappeared into the kitchen, and with Brian’s help, returned and served the meal. The food was like something out of one of New Orleans top restaurants,