Pale Shadow (3 page)

***

At that moment, Luis Martinez was in a Negro tavern on the highway just outside Gretna on the west bank of the Mississippi River. He was beat, having been on the move almost constantly for weeks in order to dodge anyone Compasso might send after him. He missed Linda. There were things he wanted to tell her, but he'd decided to keep them to himself for the meantime. There was no need in upsetting her until he needed to.

Martinez was almost fifty, a sturdily built man a couple of inches under six feet in height. He was a Texan by birth, a mixture of Mexican, Indian, and Negro that they called
mestizo
in old Mexico. His looks were exotic, but even in the Deep South, he managed to go unchallenged into most establishments on either side of the color line.

The tavern, called Handsome Alvin's, was no shabbier than most of the other juke joints in that part of the world. Leaving his dark green Mercury coupé out front, he'd come into the bar and ordered a double bourbon before asking for the phone. With the bourbon in his hand, he went into the booth, dropped his nickel, and asked the operator for Linda's number. A man answered.

“Who's this?” Martinez asked, perplexed. “Is Linda there?”

“Who's calling?” the man asked, ignoring both of Martinez's questions.

“Never mind who I am. Put Linda on the phone.”

“Sorry. She can't come to the telephone. If you'll give me your name and number, I'll—”

Martinez hung up the telephone quickly as an icy ball began to form in the pit of his stomach. He drank the double shot in a single gulp, shivering as it hit bottom. When he had regained his composure, he fed another nickel into the telephone and asked for the number of a friend who owned a pawnshop on Rampart Street. Seconds later a man came on the line.

“Ozzy, it's Luis. Can you talk, man?”

Ozzy's voice was tense, fearful. “Where you at, Louie?”

“Listen, I just tried to call Linda a few minutes ago and a man answered. When I asked for her, he gave me a lot of who-struck-john. Do you know where she is?”

There was a tense moment of silence before Ozzy spoke. “Louie, you sittin' down? I kinda got some bad news.”

“Bad news. Wait a minute—Linda, is she—is she—?”

“Get ready, Louie. It's bad. Somebody killed her last night. The old lady who keeps house for y'all knew I was a friend and called me. She didn't know how to reach you. Louie, you there?”

“Yeah—yeah. I—I'm here.”

“Word is, Compasso set a hitter to lookin' for you, man. I don't know how he found out she was your woman, but I reckon he went there lookin' for you, and when he didn't find you, he tried to make her tell him.”

Martinez's hand was aching from the grip he had around the telephone receiver, and tears had sprung to his eyes. My fault, he thought. All my fault. “Couldn't you of warned her, Ozzy? Jesus, we been friends for years. Why didn't you warn her, or warn me?”

Ozzy's voice was hurt. “By the time it came to me through the grapevine, it was too late.”

Martinez wiped his damp eyes on the sleeve of his coat as he fought to regain his composure. “Jesus, Ozzy, Jesus.”

“Look, you shoulda known he'd hit the roof when you copped the plates. You gotta give 'em back. Just send 'em to him by a messenger or somethin'. It's the only hope you got of stayin' alive.”

“I—I dunno. I gotta think. I'm all broke inside.”

“Don't talk foolish. This man's crazy—he'll kill you as soon as look at you.”

Martinez blinked slowly. “No, I gotta think this through. All's I wanted was my fair share, and Compasso turned his back on me. I gotta think, then I'll call you back.” Without waiting for Ozzy to reply, he hung the receiver back into the cradle. He sat there in a daze for several moments before he realized somebody was tapping at the glass door. He turned and pushed the door open.

“Hey, brutha, you all right in there? If you're tired, go on home, 'stead of fallin' asleep in my phone booth. Come on outa there, now.” The bartender offered a hand and he took it, pulling himself out of the booth.

“Sell me a bottle, will ya? A quart of I. W. Harper, if ya got it.” His voice sounded hollow and desperate in his ears, like it was crying out from a far distance.

The bartender looked at him skeptically. “Promise you'll go straight home?”

Martinez's face felt frozen, but he managed a tight smile. “Ain't got no home, but I'll find a room somewhere. Here's five for the bottle—you keep the change.”

The Negro scratched his bristly scalp then he nodded, leading Martinez back to the bar. He handed an unopened bottle of bourbon across to Martinez. “I don't wanna hear 'bout you wrappin' your car around no light pole, you hear?”

“Yeah. Thanks, pal.” Martinez took the bottle then walked back out to his car. Linda had been with him when he'd bought the Mercury. That had been a big day for them. Linda and Louie out on the town, raisin' hell, livin' big, makin' sweet love. Now all that was gone, and it was his fault. He should've known Compasso would send someone who'd do what it took to find him. There was nothing to do but stay alive long enough to make it right. He got into the new Mercury then drove toward the ferry slip in Algiers.

***

In a darkened room across the river, a man sat in the shadows as he stared out the window at the masthead lights of a freighter making its way downstream toward the mouth of the Mississippi. He had much on his mind today. He had put a very complicated plan into effect and had gradually watched it come to fruition. Now all was in jeopardy because of one man's arrogance.

As he stared at the lights passing in front of him, the telephone rang. He reached across the desk for the receiver. “Yes.” His voice was deep, assured, the voice of a man who had control of things.

“It's Dixie Ray Chavez, sir.”

“Good evening. Have you any news?”

“Nothing concrete. I found Martinez's woman. It took a bit of lookin'. He had her in a house leased under a phony name.”

The man smiled. “I won't ask how you located her. I know you have your ways.”

“Yes, sir. It was solid gold, but there's a hitch. Either she didn't know where Martinez and the plates are, or she was just too tough. She had the misfortune to die while I was conversing with her.”

The man said nothing for a moment. “That's a bit of a setback, wouldn't you say?”

“Some, but not a big one. Martinez has three friends in New Orleans. I'm bettin' he'll go to one of 'em for help, sooner or later.”

“I see. Who are the friends?”

“There's a fence named Theron Oswald who does some business with Compasso. He runs a pawnshop down on Rampart. He's a low-down, yellow, lyin' skunk, but he and Martinez been friends for years.”

“That's one. Who's number two?”

“Ever hear of a fella named Wes Farrell? He's a gambler, owns a nightclub on Basin with a French name I can't never remember.”

The man thought for a moment. “The Café Tristesse. It means the sad café. A peculiar name for a place of merriment. Yes, I have heard of him. He was involved in a rather spectacular fracas in St. Bernard last year.”

“He's the one. If Martinez gets crowded too hard by the other people Compasso's got after him, my money says he'll go to Farrell.”

“And number three?”

Dixie Ray laughed. “I'm backin' this one as a long shot. It's Miss Jelly Wilde, Compasso's li'l friend.”

The man's eyes narrowed. “Why would she help Martinez?”

“You ever watched her with Compasso?”

“No, not really. Nor would I think you have. You're a man of the shadows, not cocktail parties.”

“That's true, but a few times I've visited Spanish and watched her where she couldn't see me. She hates that boy's guts and he's too dumb to see it. I found out the other day that she was Martinez's li'l friend a few years back. Could be she might decide to lend him a hand. Women are funny, man. They'll love your ears off one day and slit your throat the next.”

The man in the office cleared his throat. “I'll have to take your word for that. How will you watch these three people? There's only one of you.”

“Have faith, pardner. I'll find a way.” He hung up without waiting for a comment.

The man looked out the window and saw that the ship had passed. Time was also passing, and with each moment he felt opportunity slipping past. He needed a miracle. It seemed absurd that so much was riding on a person with the unlikely name of Dixie Ray Chavez.

Chapter 2

The bells at Holy Ghost Catholic Church were chiming midnight when Wesley Farrell crossed the threshold of a bordello two blocks off Louisiana Avenue on Annunciation. In the parlor, two teenaged brownskin whores were perched on the laps of two tipsy longshoremen, honey talking them, promising them a trip around the world in the cute little rooms upstairs.

A short, bespectacled Negro in a collarless shirt and vest stepped out from behind a partition and confronted Farrell. Farrell smiled at him. “Howdy, Oliver. Is Miss Carolina around?”

Oliver pretended to peer owlishly at Farrell. The thick lenses he wore were window glass. It was a trick to make rambunctious visitors take a poke at him. In reality, he was an ex-featherweight boxer who'd retired from the ring with only two technical knockouts against him. At forty-six, he still punched like a mule-kick, and when that wasn't enough, the sap and .38 Owl's Head revolver hidden in his vest always tipped the balance.

“Evenin', Mist' Farrell. Miss Carolina's in her private room. Follow me.” He turned and led Farrell through a couple of big rooms to the one Carolina used as a combination office and sitting room. When Oliver announced him, Carolina was sitting beside her pride and joy, a deluxe console model RCA Victor radio. As she fiddled with the tuning knob, Farrell heard a crackle of static, then the voice of an announcer at KFFA in Helena, Arkansas announced a live number by Pinetop Perkins.

“Sit down, honey,” Carolina said without looking up. “I wanna hear Pinetop sing his new song.”

Farrell put his hat on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa. When the last notes of the blues singer's lament faded, Carolina turned her attention to Farrell.

“Baby, you ain't been by here in one hell of a long time. Where you been at?” She took a Chesterfield from Farrell's proffered case, tucked it between her cushiony red lips then leaned over to get his light.

“I'm looking for Luis Martinez, Carolina. You heard from him lately?” He took a cigarette for himself and settled back on the sofa.

Carolina squinted at him. “Funny you should mention that name. He was hooked up with a gal used to work for me—name of Linda Blanc. Somebody kilt her last night.”

Farrell blinked, rubbed his thumb along the side of his chin. “Killed how?”

“Way I heard it, somebody burnt her with a hot iron 'til her heart give out.” The woman took another drag, shaking her shiny black curls at such cruelty.

“Anybody know why?”

Carolina wrinkled her snub nose. “Not that I know of, but things from a past you already forgot can sneak up and lay you out, baby.”

“Uh, huh. What about Luis? Does he know?”

She shrugged. “Dunno. Luis's been up to somethin' the past year or so. He's in and outa town all the time. People in Memphis, Montgomery, Miami, they tell me Luis comes and goes through them places. Never for very long, but people see him, then they don't see him no more.”

“That have anything to do with the death of his girlfriend?”

Again Carolina shrugged. “I hope not. He's gonna be tore up enough as it is.”

Farrell nodded. Twice Savanna had been hurt on his account, and he well remembered what that had done to him. “If he's in trouble, it might be he could use a friend. Do you know anybody in the city who's seen or talked to him in the recent past?”

Carolina sucked on her cigarette while her eyes rolled thoughtfully. “You know Theron Oswald?”

“He's a fence—hot jewelry, gold coins—”

“And any other damn thing you can bring him. He's runnin' that old pawnshop 'crost from the Metro Hotel on Rampart. Him and Luis are tight.”

“Thanks, Carolina. I'll give him a try tomorrow.”

She gave him an appraising look. “Luis is in bad trouble. You gonna get him out?”

“Ask me when I know what the trouble is.”

***

At that moment, a fat man named Max Grossmann was midway through a late-night snack of sirloin steak, baked potato with sour cream and chives, and a mountain of mushrooms and onion rings lightly fried in butter. He ate with vigor, pausing his knife-and-fork work to gulp Lowenbrau beer from a large crystal tankard.

As he ate, he read the evening
States-Item
, studying all of the news from the war in Europe and in the Far East. Grossmann was vice-president in charge of international investments at the First National Bank of New Orleans and was passionately interested in anything affecting the dollar value of different currencies. He had finished his snack and was considering a slice of Black Forest chocolate cake when his houseboy entered his dining room.

“Pardon me, Mist' Grossmann. There's a man on the telephone askin' to speak to you.”

“At this hour? Who is it?”

“He wouldn't say, sir. Said it was important, though.”

Cocking an eyebrow, Grossmann silently left the table for his study. He moved with a grace unusual in such an ungainly body. He closed the door to the study then went to the desk to pick up the receiver. “Hello?”

“If you recognize my voice, don't speak my name,” a voice said into his ear. “The line might be tapped.”

“I do recognize your voice. Why all the secrecy?”

“Are you aware that Treasury men have been all over the bank in the past couple of days?”

Grossmann pursed his lips. “Well, even in a bank as discreet as ours, rumors will make their way through the corridors. What brought them to us?”

“Counterfeit money.”

Grossmann's chins quivered. “Did they find any?”

“No, but there was no reason they should.”

Grossmann raised an eyebrow. “So why did they come?”

“They're going everywhere. Every bank in the city got the treatment. According to them, they haven't found a single bill in the city.”

Grossmann sat down and cupped his large chin in his fleshy palm. “Well, I would think we have nothing to worry about then. We run a clean bank and take every precaution.”

The other man was silent for a long moment. “They won't leave us alone, I'm afraid. Now that they've found money in the banks to the east of us, they'll be watching everyone like a hawk.”

Grossmann settled his rump in the chair. “I think you worry too much. No one can point a finger at us or say anything against us.”

“Don't ever let yourself become too complacent, my friend,” the voice said. “Things have been pretty grim in this country for the past eleven years—nearly twenty if you count Prohibition. Don't get the idea that because we haven't got Nazis smashing the windows of Jewish storekeepers that it's been roses and moonlight, Max. A lot of money was made and a lot of it has blood on it. And bankers haven't always had clean hands.”

Grossmann's eyes narrowed at that grim pronouncement, but he kept his tone light. “My, but you're in a mood tonight. Sometimes you think too much. If the Treasury people had anything against us, they'd have shut the doors and locked them by now. Go home, take a sleeping draught, and get into bed.”

“You go to sleep, Max. I'll have all the time I need to sleep when I'm dead. I think I'll stay awake and worry some more. Someone needs to.” Grossmann heard a metallic click as the other man hung up his receiver. After a moment, Grossmann put his own back into the cradle.

He continued to sit there for several minutes, his face slack as he thought back over the conversation. Finally he yawned, stretched and walked into the hall, calling down to the houseboy that he was through for the night and could go to bed. Grossmann trudged wearily to his own room and climbed into bed. He lay there in the dark, his eyes shining for ten or fifteen minutes before he closed them and drifted immediately into sleep.

***

Earlier that evening Marcel Aristide sat in his office at the back of a small, quiet bordello at the river end of Soraparu Street that he ran for his cousin, Wesley Farrell. For once, however, he wasn't working. He had his coat off and his sleeves rolled up, his feet propped comfortably on the edge of the desk. The radio was on, and Charlie Christian was soloing on “I'm Confessin'.” Music was Marcel's passion, and not even his cousin knew that his unrealized ambition was to be the boy singer with a swing band. He knew the lyrics to hundreds of love songs.

The song had just concluded when the door opened and a stocky, dark-brown negro named Fred Gonzalvo stuck his head inside. “Hey, boss. You busy?”

“Do I look busy?”

Fred grinned. “Just because you don't look busy don't mean you ain't. Don't forget, I know how much goes on inside your skull when you're sittin' quiet.”

Marcel sat up and put his feet on the floor. “For once, you've caught me loafing. What's up?”

Gonzalvo eased through the door and shut it behind him. For once, his broad face had a serious expression. “Got a young sistuh out here. Says her name is Marta Walker. She's as cute as lace pants, boss.”

Marcel shrugged. “What does she want?”

Fred made a face and scratched his bristly scalp. “Well, she wouldn't say, 'zactly. She said she'd heard that you helped people in trouble, and she's got trouble she needs help with. She ain't no hustler. Nice girl with manners, and cute as—”

“Yeah, I know, as lace pants.” Marcel was torn between a laugh and a sigh. He'd gradually gained a stature in the community that clashed oddly with his relative youth. People who knew of his association with Farrell were already talking about him in the same hushed tones they used for his cousin. More than once, Marcel had entered a Negro juke joint or a gambling hall and discovered that people had paused to watch for what he might do. It was a persona he hadn't wanted, but had gradually accepted, along with the trouble it sometimes brought.

“Bring her in, Fred. And hang around afterwards, okay?”

Gonzalvo grinned and nodded appreciatively. He opened the door and went out, giving Marcel time to turn off the radio and roll down his shirtsleeves. As he was straightening his tie, the door opened and a woman of about twenty-two came in ahead of Fred. She was tall, maybe five-seven, with a lean, high-breasted figure and velvety skin the color of dark honey. She wore her light-brown hair loose to her shoulders and looked at him with large, deep black eyes. As he took her in, he had the insane urge to race around the room on all fours while he barked the lyrics to “Jingle Bells.”

“Boss, this is Miss Marta Walker. This here's Mr. Aristide, Miss Walker.”

Marcel cleared his throat. “Have a seat, Miss Walker.” He gestured to a chair and held it while she sat. He then pulled the swivel chair away from the desk and sat down facing her. “Fred said you had trouble. You care to tell me about it?”

“It's very nice of you to see me,” she said in a hesitant voice. “I'm not from around here.”

“Uh, huh. Your accent sounds like it might have a little Texas in it.”

“Why—why, yes. Brownsville, Texas. A gentleman there said when I got here that I should look you up.”

Marcel rubbed his chin reflectively. “The only man I know in that neck of the woods is a lawyer named Herbert Alexander.”

She nodded eagerly. “Yes, that's the man. After I told him my story, he mentioned his acquaintance with you. He told me some of the things you've done for others.”

Marcel tried not to frown. He'd lent Herbert Alexander the money he needed to set up a practice in Brownsville after getting him out of some trouble with a local loan shark. He hoped that this little Texas belle didn't have the same kind of trouble. There wasn't much profit to be had in scaring off loan sharks.

“What did Herb think I could help you with, Miss?”

She dropped her eyes and her complexion deepened as blood came into her face. “I know I'm going to look like an awful little fool but—but I had to know.”

“Know what?”

She looked up at him again. “There was a man.”

“Uh, huh.”

“I had some feelings for him. I—I thought he was returning them. Then—”

Marcel laced his fingers together over his flat stomach. “Then he ducked out on you?”

“Y-yes.” She sniffed a couple of times, but she managed not to cry. “We weren't engaged or anything. But I thought things were going in that direction.”

“So what's his name?”

She looked back up at him, trying to keep her composure. “Albert Chenier. He told me he was from a New Orleans Creole family.”

“Chenier's a fairly common name in these parts. What else did he tell you about his family?”

“He said his father died when he was seventeen, and his mother passed away before that. Being an orphan seemed to make him sad, because he didn't talk about them very much.”

“I know how he feels.” Marcel's mother had died when he was very young, and his grief-stricken father had drunk himself to death. “What will you do if you find him, Miss Walker? Did he make any promises to you? Did he take anything from you when he left?”

She looked at her clasped hands. “It would be a lot easier if he had.” She looked back up at him with that same determined expression. “I just want to know why he ran off without saying anything. I want to know if it was something I said or did. I—I really thought he cared for me.”

Marcel's business self urged him to tell her to go back to Brownsville, but the romantic in him wanted to dry her tears and help her forget the faithless Albert. “Ummm, what makes you think that Albert came here?”

“You'll think I'm a terrible snoop.”

“No, really. If we're going to find him, we've got to know for sure where he went.”

“Well, I went to the bus station and the railroad station in Brownsville and asked around. I found out that he'd bought a one-way train ticket to Houston with a connection on the Sunset Limited to New Orleans. I had a photograph of Albert and the ticket agent remembered selling him the ticket.”