Lucy’s father had lingered back in Tupelo, Mississippi, to sell off the few possessions that remained after they’d been evicted from their home. Tupelo had nothing for them but memories they all wanted to forget. Her father was supposed to join them within a week, but Lucy had said her goodbyes before leaving Tupelo. She’d seen it in his eyes—he’d had no plans to meet up with them. After a month of waiting, her mother had finally given up and admitted to Lucy that she’d been right.
Vivien Bluff, the owner of Bluff Salon, was a strange woman and a self-proclaimed psychic reader, who had several regular customers and the occasional tourist. Her office was separated from the salon by nothing more than a long bead drape hanging from the ceiling. Vivien sat at the table with an empty chair across from her and flipped through tarot cards most of the day.
Keeping the salon clean was Lucy’s job, along with fetching cold drinks from the vending machine or cups of coffee for customers.
While sweeping up, Lucy frequently found herself drawn to the hair clippings that dropped to the floor. Maybe it was their color or their texture that called out to her, but something about them was intriguing. She kept the floor clean but saved some red, blond, and jet-black hair in a bag. Why? She didn’t know.
After a few weeks, Lucy caught on to specific repetitive interactions that customers had with the salon as well as with Vivien. The French Quarter of New Orleans was home to many quirky people who kept odd hours. The salon wasn’t a nine-to-five type business. Club dancers made hair appointments at nine at night, so they could leave and go straight to work. Men working the doors at clubs and bars wanted their hair cut after work—and the clubs closed at five in the morning. Vivien didn’t turn any appointments down. Lucy and Wanda soon learned why the job came with living quarters above the salon. They were open practically twenty-four hours a day, six days a week.
Lucy studied Vivien’s psychic readings. Her clients blurted out their fears behind the bead drape like the area was soundproofed. They mostly told her their worries, and Vivien read their cards, saying what could happen if they continued on their current paths. Her pronouncements weren’t anything the clients didn’t already know; they just wanted to hear it from someone else. Vivien was nothing more than a twenty-dollar-an-hour psychologist, calculatedly playing on their emotions and behavior from the minute they walked into the salon.
The night callers were men, mostly middle-aged, well-dressed and well-groomed. Vivien sat with them and talked while they sipped on Hennessy cognac, something she offered her preferred clients. It was always the same routine. A few minutes at the table, then she gave the cue by rising with her glass. Her night caller responded by standing and leaving an envelope on the table. Then, with a drink in hand, he followed Vivien to a door she held open.
Lucy watched each night from her perch on the top step of the stairway. The men smiled and gave Vivien a kiss on the cheek before walking into one of the bedrooms. Vivien returned to the table, picked up the envelope, and continued sipping her cognac.
Lucy’s ears focused on the whispers coming from the bedroom. It was always a woman’s voice she heard. Then silence would come over the bedroom. All that Lucy could hear from downstairs was Vivien lighting up another cigarette. Then a woman’s faint sensual moaning would come from the bedroom. The sound would grow louder and more forceful—then it would be suddenly muted. Almost holding her breath, Lucy would wait until the act was completed and the door from the bedroom leading out to the alleyway was closed gently. Almost simultaneously, another well-dressed man would walk through the Royal Street front door, take a seat with Vivien, and be offered cognac in a fancy glass.
Not all the visitors were gentlemen. There were scary ones too, and Lucy would hide in the rear room pretending to keep busy when they came calling. Every Wednesday afternoon, a man showed up like clockwork. Dressed in his traditional gang colors and draped in gold chains, he was an intimidating sight. Lucy noticed one odd thing about him: a hummingbird tattoo on his thumb.
Whenever the man arrived, Vivien would summon a bold look for the salon workers and present the man with a smile. She’d hand over one hundred dollars wrapped in a sheet of the morning newspaper. He’d take it from her as he roamed his hands over her body. He was a street thug with no respect toward anyone, much less a woman, the type of man Lucy had grown to hate as a teenager preyed upon by men. Behavior she’d hoped was limited to Tupelo, though that was obviously wishful thinking.
The way Vivien explained things, the exchange was the cost of doing business, and a small amount for the protection of her girls and night callers. She identified the man as Felipe Cruz. He would sometimes make his rounds with Felipe, Jr., securing his teenage son as next in line to lead the Cornerview Gang. It was a criminal cycle that had been in place for decades, and Felipe was making sure the family business would continue. Protection from the police for Vivien’s after-hours business came with a price.
The same protection Felipe offered all the business owners in the area. The bartender who cut his whiskey with sugar water. The nightclub owner allowing his provocatively dressed ladies to join customers for drinks, charging the customer twice the price for drinks and the lady’s company. Serving to the lady what looked like booze but was nothing more than overpriced iced tea in a cocktail glass, better known as B drinking. But the most popular con by nightclub owners was taking an empty bottle of top-shelf whiskey and replacing it with rotgut. Most
