“I'm sorry, Louie. I didn't mean it to sound like that. Or maybe what I meant to say is that what's happened to you has happened to me. When you play with fire, sometimes the people you care about get burned. It's part of the price we pay for being the kind of people we are. I came to get you out from under before Compasso's killer does what he was paid to do.”
Martinez coughed a couple of times to clear the lump in his throat. “I can't just quit, Wes. I can't leave Compasso standin' there after what he did.” He turned his anguished face back to Farrell's, his eyes beseeching. “Don't you see? I gotta finish it.”
“You damned dumbbell. You've already hammered Compasso into the ground. Last night while you were burning Compasso's boat, you shot Detective Matty Paret. He's been in Compasso's pocket ever since he came to town. The cops are gonna ask him some hard questions about what he was doing down on that particular dock on that particular night, and he'll sing his lungs out, if he hasn't already. That's all the police will need to peel Compasso like an onion. If you go forward now and tell what you know, there's a chance for you to come out of this with something. I'll stick by you. I'll get you the best lawyer in town. Sure, you'll serve some time, but you've lived through worse.”
Martinez stared at him bleakly. A greasy sweat lay on his pale skin and his eyes were like those of a dying animal. He reached up with his good hand and rubbed his face, closing his eyes with his fingers and thumbs, strangely like a man closing the eyes of a dead friend. He lay like that for a while before he finally opened them again. “Well,
amigo
, you really know how to cheer up a sick friend, eh? So I'm finished. I guess I always knew it'd have to end like this someday.”
Farrell was tired and sad, but he tried to inject some optimism in the words he chose. “Most of the people we knew in the old days are dead, except for a few who ended up serving long terms in the pen. With good behavior, you'll come out in five or six years and still have something. Money you laid aside, and a few friends to give you a hand. It could have turned out worse.”
Martinez forced a smile. “How the hell did you find me, anyway? I made myself pretty scarce the past few weeks.”
“You can thank several people, including Margaret Wilde. She snooped around until she discovered the whereabouts of that shack you were hiding out in. We must've just missed you last night. She volunteered to stay there and wait to see if you'd return. I came back to town, and a friend told me about Doc Poe's new live-in patient. We need to get out to the shack and give Margaret a lift home.”
“Sweet, sweet Jelly,” Martinez said softly. “I was really gone on that girl once.”
“She's older now, Louie. She wants to see you. That's something else you might have if you use your head.”
At that moment Doc Poe wheeled in an old-fashioned teacart with three plates of eggs and bacon, a plate of buttered toast, and a pot of coffee. “Sorry it took so long, the kitchen help is off today,” he said sarcastically.
“You're a prince, Doc,” Martinez said. “I could eat a wet
burro
, hooves and all.”
Farrell propped Martinez up so he could handle his plate, then picked up a plate and began to shovel the food into his mouth. As the food reached his stomach, some of the bone-deep fatigue began to leave him.
“What do I owe you, Doc?” Martinez asked when they were halfway through their food.
Poe wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and shook his head. “Every now and then I gotta do some charity work, Louie. Just get the hell out of here and don't tell anybody who patched you up. I don't want a steady stream of bums through here lookin' for freebies, you hear?”
“Sure, Doc.
Yo comprende
.”
They finished their breakfasts in silence then Poe got up to clear away the dishes. He returned to check Martinez's bandages and to give him instructions on how to care for the wound, including some morphine for pain. He found a shirt for Martinez and helped him dress. They were on the point of leaving when Poe stopped them.
“You're forgetting something, ain't you, Louie?” In his hand he held the shoulder rig and the Colt .38 Super.
Martinez looked at it for a long moment. “Give it to Farrell.”
Farrell exchanged a look with Martinez, then he took the harness, wrapped the straps around it, and tucked it under his arm. With Poe's help, they made it to the street entrance. Farrell went alone across the street, where he stowed Martinez's gun in the trunk of his car before getting behind the wheel and driving across to where Martinez and the doctor waited. Poe wordlessly helped the wounded man into the passenger seat, then gave them a brief salute before turning his back and disappearing down the alley.
Martinez leaned his head back against the leather upholstery and closed his eyes. “What happened to the cream and red Packard you used to drive?”
Farrell shrugged. “I asked too much of it too many times. It was showing its age. This one's more powerful. I'll open it up once we cross the parish line.”
“Swell. I could stand to kick up some breeze.”
They drove in silence for a while before Martinez spoke again. “How does she look? Margaret, I mean.”
Farrell grinned. “What do you think? The few years since you've seen her didn't do her any harm. She grew up.”
Martinez grunted. “Funny. Funny world.” He closed his eyes again, and drifted off to sleep. Farrell briefly envied him as he turned his attention to the road.
They made good time, and in about an hour and a half they were back at the pair of ruts that led down to Martinez's fish camp. Farrell honked the horn, snapping Martinez out of his nap.
“What the hellâ?”
“Sorry,” Farrell said. “I was just announcing our arrival to Margaret.” He got out of the car and called out to her as he walked to the shack. As he got near the shack, he realized something was wrong. The cabin door was ajar, and one of Margaret's shoes lay just outside. Farrell kicked the door open and leaped through the opening. The cot was turned over on its side, and Margaret's other shoe lay nearby. Just under the cot he saw the little Colt revolver he'd left with her. He picked it up and broke the cylinderâit hadn't been fired.
He shot glances about the room, and finally saw what he was meant to see. He walked to the rude table and saw a rusty butcher knife pinning a scrap of paper to the top. He worked the knife out of the paper and picked it up. There were just a few words scratched on it:
The plates for the girlâI'll call you tonight
Farrell was still staring at the note when Martinez staggered into the room.
“What's happened? Where is she?” His eyes were large and startled, like those of a man waking up in a strange country where he doesn't know the language.
“Compasso's man. He found the place after I left. He's got Margaret and says he'll trade her for the plates.” Farrell's pale eyes were like something from a nightmare. “Where are the plates, Luis?”
“IâI hid 'em. I didn't want to have 'em on me in case I got unlucky.” He ran his fingers through his lank hair. “I can get them easy enough. They're back in town.” He stared at Farrell as comprehension dawned. “This guy. He's the one killed Linda and Wisteria?”
Farrell nodded. “We'd better get back to town. I want to be there when he calls.” He shoved the note into his pocket, then got Martinez under the arm and helped him back out to the car. He slid under the wheel and wrenched it savagely, tearing long trails in the grass and weeds as he gunned the car back out to the road.
***
Marta Walker was finishing up a late breakfast in the Metro dining room as she thought about the strange turns her life had taken. She had come here on a mission, and now that the mission was almost fulfilled, she wondered how she could go home again. She had found New Orleans an exciting place to be, and Marcel Aristide's company had made clear that she could never be satisfied with Brownsville again.
She had signed the check and was preparing to go up to her room to read the paper when something she saw out the dining room window arrested her. She walked closer to the glass and stared across the street. A well-dressed young man was walking along the street with a familiar lilt to his stride. There was, too, something very familiar about the jaunty angle at which he wore his snap-brim hat. As she stood there, she became convinced that the man was Wilbur Lee Payne, alias Albert Chenier.
She rushed to the hotel entrance and walked out under the sidewalk awning in time to see Payne go into the pawnshop across the street with a small parcel under his arm. She remained under the awning, watching the pawnshop, wondering what she should do next. If she went to call Marcel, Payne would surely be gone by the time he got there. She could walk across the street and confront Payne, but what she had learned about her old boyfriend had left her feeling leery of that prospect. She elected to wait.
Payne was in the pawnshop for more than ten minutes, but her patience was rewarded. He emerged and continued north on Rampart Street. He was no longer carrying the small parcel, and had both hands in his trouser pockets as he ambled along. Fortunately for Marta, he seemed in no hurry, allowing her to follow him from across the street.
Payne continued until Rampart merged with St. Claude. This proved to be an even busier part of town, and was a bit rougher to her small-town eyes. The people were not dressed quite as well, and it seemed to her that some of the men eyed her rather too boldly. It made her uncomfortable, but she was determined to find out where Payne was going.
About ten blocks from where they'd started, Payne suddenly quickened his pace and merged with a group of shoppers and other pedestrians. She lost sight of him almost immediately. She quickened her own steps and dodged traffic as she crossed the street. She reached the place where she'd last seen him and continued to the corner, where she ruefully concluded that he'd given her the slip.
Feeling rather chagrined, she turned and headed back toward the hotel. She would tell Marcel what she had seen, and perhaps he could do something with the information. Perhaps the owner of the pawnshop could tell them something. She was imagining what Marcel might say or do when something hard jammed into her back and a hand grabbed her elbow.
“Don't make any sudden moves, darling,” Wilbur Lee Payne said. “This gun would make a terrible noise and you would be very, very dead. Just keep on walking, like we're on one of those little outings we had in Brownsville.”
“Let me go,” she said in what she hoped was a firm voice. “You're in a lot of trouble over what you've done.”
“Well, sweetheart, for that to happen, someone would have to tell on me, and I've got too much invested here to let you blow it up. Here, let's get into this car. And don't think you can yell or get away before I shoot you, dear.” He opened the car and pushed her inside. He closed the door firmly, then walked around to the driver's side with his hand in his right coat pocket. He slid under the wheel, stepped on the starter, then eased out into traffic.
“Albert, you're making a mistake,” she said, trying to remain calm. “People here know me, and they're looking for you. They know about your real name and your prison record. It's only a matter of time until they find you.”
Payne nodded his handsome head. “I always knew you were a smart girl, Marta. If I'd detected a spark of larceny in your little heart, we could have had a wonderful relationship together. As it is, well, I'm going to have to put you where you can't do any mischief.”
She felt all the courage begin to drain out of her as he spoke. For the first time, she realized that the gentle, courtly facade he affected was just an act. He was a ruthless and cold-blooded man underneath. If she didn't get away from him, anything might happen. She weighed the possibilities: she could scream, but probably no one would hear, or if they did the car was moving too fast for anyone to get the license number. She could try fighting him, but he was much stronger. With a sinking heart, she realized her only option was to jump out of the moving car. Her hand inched toward the door handle as she waited. When he next slowed for a turn that would be her opportunity.
He came to a corner and downshifted, and as the engine whined, she jerked the handle. It came open as she threw her weight to the side. She was halfway out of the car when his hand jerked her back. She cried out, tried to pull away, but a heavy weight fell on the base of her neck. A dark, oily pool opened beneath her and sucked her down.
Margaret Wilde came back to consciousness in a room that was more shadow than light. Her vision was blurred, but she couldn't raise her hands to rub her eyes. It took her a moment to realize she was bound hand and foot. The small movements caused her head to feel as though it would split down the middle. A muffled gasp came from her throat, and she ground her teeth together until the waves of pain began to subside.
Gradually, she recalled having driven with Wesley Farrell to Luis Martinez's fishing camp. She had insisted on waiting there for Luis while Farrell returned to town to continue the search. Once alone, fatigue quickly overwhelmed the tension that had kept her going for so many hours, and she'd fallen asleep on an old army cot.
Something had happened after that, but she was unsure exactly what had transpired. She'd heard a noise, and imagined it was in a dream. Had she stirred, or had that been her imagination? There had been a bright light and a moment of sharp pain inside her skull before she'd plummeted back down into unconsciousness.
Fully awake now, she understood that Farrell's fear had come true. Compasso's men had found the fish camp, too, and finding her defenseless, had knocked her unconscious.
As her vision cleared, she could fathom that she was no longer at the shack. The heat and odors that had made the shack so sultry and ripe were gone. This place was cool, dim, and musty. Not much light was getting in here. It was almost totally dark. Waitâwas somethingâ? No, it couldn't be. There it was againâmovement of some kind. A man, but in the shadows, where only a vague shape was discernible.
“Welcome back to the living, for the time being, my sweet Jelly.” Santiago Compasso stepped out of the shadows. “I did not mention that I was having you followed, did I?”
She licked her lips, and with an effort, forced words through her dry throat. “What are you doin', Spanish?”
He laughed, a full-throated laugh of triumph and cruelty. His cold blue eyes had harsh points of light in them and his wedge-shaped face seemed more demonic than ever. “What am I doing? I am going to grind Luis Martinez to powder, and I am using you to do it.” He roamed about the room, his movements like those of a fierce cat. “I can bear the fact that you are a lying, treacherous slut, but I will not tolerate you treating me like a fool. Did you think I did not see you hating me with your eyes whenever we were in the room together? Did you?” He reached down, grabbed her by the shoulders, and pulled her off the bed until they were nose to nose. “Yes, you thought I was a fool. You thought I didn't see the little glimmerings of excitement in your eyes when you realized I had hired Luis Martinez and that he had betrayed me. Oh yes,
chica
. I saw.” He opened his hands and she fell backward, striking her head on the wall as she bounced on the mattress.
A sickening hatred clotted her throat, but somehow she managed to keep the words from rising to her tongue. She knew him. She knew he would beat her insensible at the least provocation. “What are you going to do with me?”
A lock of yellow hair had fallen out of his widow's peak over his forehead, and perspiration gleamed on his pale skin. “I am going to get my engravings back, and I am going to kill Luis Martinez. I'm going to keep you alive just so long as you help me do that. By now, he and his friend, Farrell, will know that I have you, but they won't know where I am. Thanks to Martinez, the police know of us, and we had to abandon the house in the city. Believe me when I tell you that no one knows where you are,
gelatina dulce
.”
Her eyes burned with the rage she felt for him, and for herself. She had tried to make amends to a man she had wronged, and now she was contributing to his death. “I'll see you dead, you son of a bitch.”
Her words had a peculiar effect on him. He seemed to enjoy her insult. He smiled, pulling his belt from his pants, and doubled it, swinging it from his hand like a dandy's cane. He moved toward her with excruciating slowness until he was even with the bed. Then his face changed, and he lashed her with the belt, again, and again, and again until she slid back into a dark place where fear and pain didn't exist.
***
Marcel Aristide tried several times that morning to reach Marta Walker, each time meeting with failure. Arthur Bordelon had taken the day off, and the assistant desk manager seemed to know nothing about the young woman. On his last try, Marcel hung up the telephone with the distinct sense that something was wrong. Fred Gonzolvo came into the office and saw the expression of trouble on his face.
“I know that look, li'l brutha. What's up?”
Marcel looked up into Fred's dark brown face. “Marta's missing from the hotel. Has been all day.”
“Thought Arthur was gonna look after her.”
“Arthur took the day off. His assistant hasn't paid any attention to Marta. She was seen in the dining room for breakfast before 9:00 AM, but not since.”
Fred ran a thumb over the edge of his broad jaw, his eyes thoughtful. “Think she went lookin' for Payne alone?”
“I'm afraid she might've found him.” He picked up the telephone receiver and asked the operator for a number in Carrollton. After two rings a man with a heavy bass voice answered. “Yo, this is Mickey.”
“It's Marcel. I need you and five other men pronto.”
“Okay. Then what?”
“I want you to get them down to Rampart Street in the vicinity of the Metro Hotel, then fan out. We're looking for a girl about twenty-two years old. Five feet seven, weight about one-ten. Honey-gold skin, wavy shoulder-length light brown hair. Her name's Marta Walker and we need to find her.”
“Damn, this sounds like trouble, li'l brutha.
“I hope it isn't, but I'm going on that assumption. You man your phone. Tell your men to call in every hour with a report on where they've been, and what they picked up. I'll call you for a report at a quarter past.”
“What if we find her?”
“Bring her to Soraparu Street and watch over her until I show up. Fred and I are gonna go out and look, too.”
“You're the boss, boss.” Mickey hung up.
Marcel put his receiver back on the hook and turned to see Fred slipping his arms through the straps of his shoulder harness. He drew his worn old .38 Colt, checked the loads and holstered it. He got his coat from the tree and looked at Marcel with a curious smile.
“If we goin' to a party, boss, we want to be in our party clothes, don't we?”
Marcel hated guns. They reminded him of a time when he'd been a criminal, and of people he'd shot at with every intention of killing. He was proud of carrying himself in such a way that he didn't need a gun. But this was different, and he knew it. He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a small mahogany case. When he lifted the lid, a nickel-plated .38 Colt Detective Special with ivory grips gleamed in a bed of green felt. It was a gift from Farrell. He took it from the case, loaded it, and slipped it into his coat pocket along with a small leather pouch containing six extra cartridges.
He stood up and got his hat. “I'm ready now.”
It took them about twenty minutes to reach the Metro, and another ten for Marcel to interrogate a pair of waitresses he knew. From them he was able to glean that Marta had left the hotel dining room about ten minutes past nine that morning. One had seen her under the awning, staring across the street at the pawnshop, but hadn't seen her go in. Marcel thanked them and met Fred in the lobby.
“I talked to the shoeshine men and some bellhops, but none of them seen anything,” Fred reported.
Marcel scratched his neck and stared across the street at the pawnshop. “Couple of gals in the dining room said they saw Marta staring across the street at the pawnshop.”
“They see her go in?”
“No,” Marcel replied, “but that doesn't mean she didn't. Marta's a smart girl. If she was looking over there, she must've seen something. Let's take a stroll.”
The two young men left the hotel and crossed the street to the pawnshop. Marcel didn't know the pawnbroker, but thanks to underworld gossip, he knew that Theron Oswald was a fence. He spoke a few words to Fred and was acknowledged by a nod as they entered the shop.
At the tinkling of the bell, Oswald looked up from a ledger he was writing in. It was plain from his glance that he didn't know them. “Help you gents?”
Fred grinned broadly. “Hey, man. I'm lookin' to go huntin' this fall and I wondered if you had any shotguns.”
“Got a few,” Oswald replied. “Got a real nice Remington pump, got a couple L. C. Smith double barrels, and I think I got a Savage.”
“Sounds like good stuff all around,” Fred said. “Lemme see the Remington, okay?”
“Sure.” Oswald cast a look at Marcel. “I'll be with you in a minute, mister.”
“No hurry,” Marcel said. “I'm just lookin' around.”
Oswald went to a rack at the far end of the shop where he hauled out a ring of keys, and began going through them for the one that would open the rack padlock.
As Oswald's attention was focused on the rack, Marcel's eyes made a quick circuit of the room, looking for what, he didn't know. It seemed a perfectly ordinary pawnshop with the requisite glass cases of old watches, diamond rings, pistols, and other paraphernalia that people hock for eating money. He was about convinced there was nothing there when he spotted a small white paper sack on the edge of the counter where Oswald's ledger lay. It reminded Marcel of the kinds of paper sacks pharmacies use to bag customer purchases. He slid toward it, listening to Oswald mutter as his ring of keys slipped from his fingers to the floor.
With the sound of the keys jangling in the background, Marcel spread the sack open and looked inside. There was a bottle of pills with the name of the drug typed on a label bearing the name and address of a doctor. Marcel made a mental note of each before gently pinching the bag closed and moving soundlessly to a case full of ladies' watches.
“This here Remington pump is like brand new,” Oswald told Fred. “It sells for $42.95 in the Sears Roebuck catalog, but I'm lettin' it go for $33.75. Here, see how it feels.” He handed the shotgun across to Fred, who threw it to his shoulder and worked the slide.
“Bang,” Fred said as he depressed the trigger. “What you think about this, man? Could we blast some duck dinners outa the sky with this iron?”
Marcel was thinking about the drug in the bag. It was called trioxalen, and for some reason, he remembered reading about that drug somewhere. “What? I was day-dreaming.”
“The gun, man. I was askin' if you thought it'd be good for huntin' some ducks. Duck season starts in just a coupla months. We could bag some for Thanksgivin' dinner.”
“You're the outdoorsman, Freddie. If you think it will, give the man some money.”
Fred practiced throwing the gun to his shoulder a few times, making shooting noises with his mouth while Marcel drifted closer to the man.
“Say, mister. My girlfriend said she might come in here to look at a diamond ringâwhich she hopes I'll buy for her.” He leered good-naturedly at Oswald. “She didn't happen to come in this morning, did she? Tall, good-lookin' girl with dark honey-gold skin and long light-brown hair?”
Oswald grinned. “Reckon not, friend. If she had, I'd probably remember a gal like that. Sure it was this shop?”
Marcel shrugged. “I thought so, but you know how women can be with their directions. Could well've been someplace else. You got some nice stuff here, though. Might be I'll bring her in here to take a look. Man wants to buy the right ring when he buys one, you know?”
Oswald nodded seriously. “No lie, man. You got to keep a gal happy to make her stay around.”
“You ready, Fred?” Marcel asked.
Fred looked at the shotgun longingly. “Dunno, man. This is one fine piece of iron.” He shot a look at Oswald. “How's about I give you ten bucks to hold it until tomorrow? That be all right?”
Oswald showed all of his teeth in a big grin. “Sure. Lemme write you out a receipt, brutha.” He got out a pad of printed receipt blanks and quickly wrote some information on it. “What name?”
“Fred Gonzalvo. Here's your ten bucks, man.”
Oswald took the money and handed Fred the receipt. “See you tomorrow, my friend.”
“Right.” Fred flashed a grin before following Marcel out of the store. He didn't speak again until they'd walked a half block up Rampart. “Well? I seen you pokin' around in there. You find somethin'?”
Marcel frowned. “Something, but I don't know what. He had a prescription lying on the counter and it had the name of a doctor I didn't recognize on it.”
“You told me that Payne could be posin' as a doctor,” Fred replied.
“Yeah. If Marta saw Payne go in that shop, that may be why she was staring at it. He might've dropped off the prescription to Oswald and left, with her following.”
Fred scratched the back of his neck. “That's a hell of a lot of supposin', li'l brutha.”
Marcel cast a glance back at the store. “Yeah, don't remind me. I'm grasping at straws, Goddamn it. I should've moved her someplace where I could keep a better eye on her.”
Fred listened silently. He knew from experience that no one was harder on Marcel than Marcel, himself. He dropped a comforting hand on his partner's shoulder and squeezed it lightly.
Marcel looked up at the larger man and grinned. “What the hell are you gonna do with that shotgun? You've never been hunting in your life.”
Fred shrugged elaborately. “Maybe I wanta give it a try. I might be good at it. What we gonna do now?”
“I'm going to call Mickey to see if any of his boys have called in with news, then I'm going to call a cop who was looking something up for me.”
“Let's hit the Oleander Café. I can eat somethin' while you're doin' your callin'.”