Casey nodded. “I don't blame them. I'm getting so I can't stand to read the newspaper or listen to the war news on the radio. There's trouble coming, Paul. We're big, but we're gonna get hurt.”
Ewell nodded. “I've got a son in college. I hate to think of him going to war.” He paused until the silence between them became too heavy. “You figured out all the connections in this mess?”
“After they operated on Chavez, he admitted that Grossmann had hired him to come to town and track down Luis Martinez. He used a drug to disguise himself as a Negro and trussed himself up in a brace to pretend he was a cripple. He said it all made him invisible. If he hadn't had so many bases to cover, things might've worked out better for Grossmann.”
“What do you mean?”
“Chavez was trying to keep an eye on both Farrell and Oswald, and he was managing it pretty well. But when Marston Leake virtually figured out the counterfeiting conspiracy in front of Grossmann, Grossmann panicked and pulled Chavez in long enough to kill Leake. He didn't know Leake had already sent that letter to you just before his death. Once we spilled the beans to McCandless and ordered the interrogation of senior bank officals, Grossmann decided to cut his losses and make a run for it. If Compasso hadn't grabbed him, they all might've gotten away, and Chavez might actually have been able to recover the plates.” He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “I thought McCandless was in it up to his neck until he admitted his trips to Atlanta were to spend time with a mistress.” He laughed. “I'd love to hear what his wife had to say when that all came out.”
“And now everybody else is dead or in jailâexcept Chavez and Grossmann,” Ewell said sourly. “Grossmann we can't touch, and Chavez is paralyzed from the chest down so he'll escape the death penalty. Hell of a note.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a carload of FBI agents, crisply dressed young men with dark suits and serious expressions. Their leader took out his shield and identification card and held it so Casey and Ewell could see it.
“Special Agent Mark Deane. Are you Captain Casey and Special Agent Ewell?”
Casey and Ewell took out their own identification and held them for Deane. “That's us. We've got your man over there.” Casey jerked a thumb at the fat man and his three plainclothes baby sitters. “Do you know what they're going to do with him when you get him to Washington?”
Deane shook his head. “Hush-hush. I could tell you if I knew, but I don't. Since he's got diplomatic credentials, they have to turn him over to his ambassadorâaccording to the law. After all, we're supposed to be on good terms with the Germans.” Deane almost smiled.
“That's what I figured. Pardon me if I don't give three cheers. Let's get this over with.” He turned and led Ewell and the FBI agent to the wounded German. Grossmann looked up, mildly curious.
“Is it time for us to go, gentlemen?”
“If it were up to me, you'd be taking a much shorter trip, Mr. Grossmann, if that's your real name. When the doctor examined you prior to surgery, he discovered you weren't Jewish. This is FBI Agent Deane. You're his problem as of now.”
“Well, I'm ready to go. I'm rather homesick, if you must know the truth.”
Deane handed Casey some documents, which Casey signed with Deane's fountain pen. When it was over, Casey nodded to his plainclothes contingent and they withdrew so the FBI agents could take Grossmann in charge. As they got ready to leave for the special private car on the outgoing eastbound train, Casey asked Deane for a moment to speak to Grossmann.
The agents withdrew a few feet, and Casey squatted down so he could speak confidentially to the German. “I've got a message for you from Wesley Farrell, Grossmann. He said if you ever come back, he'll find you and leave your bones in the swamp. Take him at his word, because the law won't help you again. Not in New Orleans.” Casey nodded to the FBI agents, then stood as they wheeled Grossmann to the train. The German cast one last look back at Casey before he disappeared from view.
“What did you say to him?” Ewell asked. “He looks like he swallowed a bad oyster.”
“I told him to have a safe trip and to come back and see us some time.”
***
Marcel found Farrell packing suitcases in his bedroom when he came calling that afternoon. Marcel noticed that his cousin seemed tired and withdrawn since the death of Luis Martinez.
“You look like you're going somewhere.”
“I got a wire from Savanna. She found a place in Havana she wants me to look over before we sign the purchase agreement.”
“You lucky dog. I want to go there one day.”
Farrell smiled. “Your day is coming. By the way, I told Harry that you're running the show while I'm away. I think you're ready for it.”
Marcel felt pleased, but a bit hesitant. “Harry's okay with that?”
“Harry and I have been together for a long time. I talked it over with him, and he's okay with it. Let him run the bar the way he wants, and he'll be a happy man.”
Marcel went out to the living room and built a couple of rye highballs and had them ready when Farrell came out of the bedroom with his suitcases. He took one of the drinks and toasted Marcel. “To you, kid. As of now, you're all grown up. You did good in the last few weeks.”
“Thanks, Wes. I'm still shaking from that fight, though.” He looked about awkwardly, obviously trying to find the words to say something that was weighing on his mind. “Wes, about Luis Martinez, I wanted to tell youâ”
Farrell walked to the window. “Shut up,” he said in a soft voice. “Just shut up a minute and listen. Luis made his choice a long time ago.” He turned around to face Marcel, his expression hidden by the light coming through the window behind him. “We all have to make a choice, sooner or later. I did, and so did you. There's only one choice, really, Marcel. Never forget that.”
There was a finality, certainty in those words that buoyed Marcel even though they were borne on a voice that sounded old, even diminished. He decided to change the subject. “I heard you gave Margaret Wilde a job.”
Farrell seemed glad for the distraction. “That's right. She needed something to keep her mind off things, so I bought Wisteria's Riverboat Lounge from the estate. Margaret's going to run it for us. She's got a ready-made clientele, so we all ought to make money off of it.”
Marcel finished his drink and put the glass on the table. “What about you? Are you going to be okay?”
Farrell shook his head. “I don't know. I looked up to him once. He was like an older brother to me. I could have ended up like him without too much trouble.”
Marcel looked back over his own short life. He knew he'd be in jail, or dead, if not for Farrell so his cousin's words had a strong resonance for him. “But you didn't. You're not like him, no matter what you might think. If you don't know that by now, ask some of the people you've helped. Ask me, for Christ's sake.”
Farrell smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. “Almost time for me to go. Say, what became of the cute little girl from Brownsville?”
“She's still around. She took a job working for Dr. Sampson over at the university. She likes it around here for some reason.”
Farrell laughed softly as he put on his jacket and hat and picked up one of his suitcases. “Looks like my cab is here. Walk me downstairs, will you?”
Marcel picked up the other suitcase as he followed his cousin. They paused on the sidewalk while the cabbie put the bags into the trunk. Farrell offered his hand to his cousin.
“Take good care of things, kid. I'll see you when I see you.”
Marcel took his hand and squeezed it gently. “You'll be back. We've got a lot more business to take care of, and I can't do it alone.”
Farrell nodded, gave him a smile, then got into the cab. Marcel watched it until it disappeared down the street. When it was gone, he cast a glance up at the distinctive neon sign of the Café Tristesse before he squared his shoulders and walked back inside. There was a lot of business to take care of.
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