“That's not bad gumshoeing. How long ago was this?”
“About three weeks ago now. It took me a while to find out where he'd gone. After that, I had to do some soul-searching before I made up my mind to come after him. A friend who knew Mr. Alexander was from New Orleans sent me to him, and he told me how to get in touch with you.”
“He sent you to this address?” Marcel felt his mouth pucker with chagrin.
“Well, he told me you ran a boarding house for young women,” she explained. “He described this as the headquarters for your other businesses.”
A chuckle escaped Fred's throat, and he coughed loudly to keep it from growing into a full-blown guffaw. Marcel raised his left eyebrow threateningly at his associate.
“Well, let's forget that for now,” he said. “Do you know anything else about Albert? You have any idea where he might've lived or worked before Brownsville?”
“No. Like I said, he didn't talk much about the past. All I've got that might be of any help is this pair of snapshots I took once.” She reached into her purse and removed a white envelope. From the envelope she shook out two four-by-six photos, which she handed to Marcel.
Marcel saw a sturdily built, light-skinned young man who might've been any age between twenty-five and thirty, with smooth hair, sharp, handsome features, and what some might think was a charming grin. He put them on the desk. “What can you tell me about his appearance that doesn't show in these photos?”
“Well, he's six feet tallâmaybe a teeny bit more. His hair is dark brown and he's got a mole on the back of his neck that's hidden in the hairline. He's terribly smart, too, Mr. Aristide. I've never known anyone who seemed to know so much about so many things.”
Marcel stroked his chin as he looked at her. “I can't promise you anything, but we'll take a stab at it. Where are you staying?”
“Mr. Alexander arranged a room for me at the Metro.”
“Okay, we'll drop you off. If you get tired of hanging around the Metro, just leave word with the deskman where you'll be.”
Her face glowed with gratitude. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Aristide. Mr. Alexander was right. You're ever so kind.”
Fred cleared his throat and walked to the window to escape Marcel's withering look.
“Just leave it to us, Miss Walker. If Albert's in New Orleans, we ought to be able to find him.” He wondered whether that was really true or not, but he liked her smile, and for now, that was sufficient.
***
Jelly Wilde braked her '38 De Soto convertible across the street from Maxwell's Chicken Shack on Derbigny Street. In spite of the corn-pone name, Maxwell's was a rather luxurious place, almost on par with the Sassafrass Lounge across town. It had the tall snow-white columns of Tara and large windows that let vast quantities of light out into the darkening street. She got out of the car, crossed the street, and entered the restaurant.
The place was so packed with diners that the murmur of voices and the tinkle of china all but drowned out the pianist at the far end of the room. She drifted to the bar, enjoying the attention of the diners she passed. She was wearing a royal blue cocktail dress that left one shoulder bare. A heavily boned bodice with a deep
decolletage
invited hungry stares at her dark gold skin.
She reached the bar and eased herself up on an upholstered stool. When she was comfortable, she opened her bag and removed a cigarette case, took a Pall Mall from it, and held it, waiting. A millisecond later, a bartender held a light in front of her. She smiled, accepting it as she looked at the bartender from under her thick lashes. “You're so kind. What's your name, sugar?”
The bartender, a good-looking tan-colored youngster in his early twenties, returned her smile. “Ricardo, ma'am. Can I get you a drink?”
“Scotch and soda, Ricardo. Light on the soda, please.”
“Yes, ma'am.” Ricardo's hands moved in a blur and in about forty-five seconds he slid the drink in front of her on a paper napkin.
“Ummm.” She made a pleased sound in her throat as she tasted it. “You have good hands, Ricardo. Tell me, have you worked here long?”
“Four years, about. It's a good place to work. You get to meet a lot of interesting people.” As he spoke, he looked upon Jelly with unbridled admiration.
“A friend of mineâLuis Martinezâtold me about it.”
Ricardo nodded. “I've met him a few times. He's a friend of the boss, Mr. Maxwell.”
Jelly knew this already, but pretended ignorance. “Well, let me tell you of a problem I have. I have something that belongs to Mr. Martinez that he forgot the last time I saw him. He must not have missed it yet, or perhaps thinks he lost it. I'd like to get in touch with him, that is if he's in town.”
Ricardo's wistful expression told that he'd switch places with Luis Martinez in a second. “Well, ma'am, I haven't spoken to Mr. Martinez, but the boss may have.”
“Why don't you ask him? I'll wait right here.”
That suited Ricardo just fine. He nodded and disappeared down to the end of the bar and went through a door. He returned in about a minute and a half behind an older man with bold, hawkish features.
“I'm Jim Maxwell. I own this place.”
Jelly reached out a hand and let Maxwell take it. “I'm pleased to meet you. This is a very nice place.”
“Thank you, Missâ”
“Green. Ella Green. I'm an old friend of Luis's.”
“Really. I don't remember ever hearing Louie mention you, but I know he gets around a lot.”
“Well, I know him from Miami. This is my first time up here. I remembered him talking about your restaurant, and thought I might find him here.”
“Well, I'm sorry to say he's not. I doubt if he'd be in on this particular night anyhow.”
Jelly's pleasant smile didn't waver. “This night? I don't get you.”
Maxwell's eyes burned in his dark brown face. “If you haven't seen him lately, you wouldn't know he's been with a woman named Linda Blanc for a while. I heard on the radio today that she was killed last night.”
Jelly had been through a lot, and the hardness of those words wasn't quite enough to jar her pleasant expression loose. “I'm terribly sorry. Was she a friend of yours, too?”
“Yes, she was. You'll have to excuse me now. I've got work to do. He bowed his head in a quick gesture then turned on his heel to go.
Jelly inhaled on her cigarette and blew the smoke out in a long stream from between her pursed lips. She turned her head and saw Ricardo staring at her, and recognized the look. She had seen it enough times to be amused by it. “Well, I suppose I should be going. What do I owe you?”
“Nothing, ma'am. Nothing at all.”
“You're very kind. Maybe I'll see you again one day.”
Ricardo beamed at her. “I hope so, Miss Green.”
She returned his smile as she slipped off the barstool and walked toward the entrance.
As she got into the De Soto, she thought about what she'd been told. Maxwell had said Linda Blanc had been killed. He didn't say it was an accident. She put the key into the ignition and started the car. She thought about that for a couple of minutes before she put the car into gear and drove away from the restaurant.
Luis Martinez had been on the dodge for more than a month, visiting people in outlying parishes as he dodged Compasso's men. He'd known at the outset that so long as Compasso had a stockpile of counterfeit bills, there would be no parlay. But it had gone beyond a simple disagreement over money now. Compasso had found the only thing in the world that mattered to him, and had destroyed it. Ownership of the plates and splits held no meaning now.
He elected to go to a dumpy rooming house at Thalia and Magazine Streets because it was the last place anyone would think to look for him. He left the ferry at the foot of Canal, driving southwest toward the lower Garden District. He drove slowly, eyes sticky with fatigue as he fought off successive waves of grief.
It took him a half-hour to reach the neighborhood he sought. He was tempted to park his car at some distance, but he'd switched his Louisiana license plates with those from an Arkansas truck he'd found abandoned along U. S. 90. He decided to trust them a bit longer, leaving the Mercury on the street as he trudged wearily inside with his suitcase.
The atmosphere of the interior was redolent with the odors of cheap perfume, unwashed bodies, and defeat. The lobby furniture dated from Grant's second term, all of it sagging from the combined weight of too many shabby losers.
The front desk was surrounded by a wire cage. In the cage, under a single electric bulb, sat a reedy, sallow man. He looked up from an issue of
Ranch Romances
and eyed Martinez with contemptuous disregard.
Martinez put his suitcase on the floor. “Need a room.”
“Five bucksâin advance.”
Martinez knew he was being grossly overcharged, but he didn't care. He thumbed a five from his wallet and shoved it through the screen. The clerk took it and dropped it into a drawer. He opened the register and held up a pencil. “Name?”
“Palermo. Anselmo Palermo. Address, Hotel Ponce de Leon, St. Petersburg, Florida.”
The clerk dutifully wrote down the information, then reached under the desk and came back out with a threadbare towel and washcloth, a piece of Ivory soap, and a room key. “Upstairs, fourth door on the left. We don't allow no cookin' in the rooms, no women in the rooms, and no drinkin' in the rooms.”
“Is it okay if I sleep in it?”
The clerk snorted contemptuously, slapped the register shut, and went back to his pulp magazine. Martinez hefted his suitcase and trudged up the stairs.
Inside the room, he dumped the suitcase onto the bed, opened it, and removed the bottle of whiskey he'd bought in Gretna and a Colt .38 Super automatic pistol. He put the pistol on the nightstand before removing his coat, necktie, and shoes. Tearing the foil off the neck of the bottle with his teeth, he drew the cork and took a long pull at the bourbon. It felt good going down, but it couldn't dull the pain gnawing at him. That would be with him forever.
He lay down on the lumpy bed and put his forearm over his eyes. He wanted to sleep, but he was scared and angry and sick of running. You brought all this on yourself, you stupid
necio
, he thought.
He took another pull at the bottle, feeling the alcohol begin to numb his body. He wanted to weep for Linda, but he felt like a brittle husk left behind in an autumn field. Maybe it was better this way. If he started weeping, he might not be able to stop.
Goddamn. How was it possible for things to be such a fucking mess?
***
As midnight gave way to early morning, Farrell found himself on Rampart Street where the night sky was firmly held at bay by the flickering of countless neon signs. Music leaked from a hundred doorsâmaudlin blues laments, raucous Dixieland, sweet, hot jazz. The center of New Orleans was beating like a healthy heart, and the death of a Negro woman in Gentilly meant little or nothing to the teeming life of Rampart Street.
Farrell moved silently through the crowd, his eyes glowing in that peculiar way from the shadow of his hat brim. Occasionally someone felt the feral quality emanating from him and stepped to the side, hurriedly dragging a companion from Farrell's path. Some recognized him and furtively whispered his name to others.
He paused beneath a red and yellow neon sign in the shape of a top-hatted crawfish leaning negligently against a martini glass, then turned and stepped inside in a single fluid motion. It was late, but the juke joint known as the Happy Crawdad always had a crowd, some of which were dancing to the big Wurlitzer jukebox while others crowded the bar or made cow-eyes at their dates. It was a Negro joint, and always had been, but Farrell had been in there so many times that he'd become an accepted part of the background.
Farrell made his way across the crowded room to a table at the back where a dark-brown giant sat at a table with a chessboard. He was considering a move for the black knight when Farrell pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down.
“Brutha, you're out on the town kinda late tonight, ain't you?” said the man, still fingering his knight.
“I got restless,” Farrell replied. “Who are you playing tonight, Little Head? Capablanca or one of those mad Russians?”
“American. William Ewart Napier.”
“Never heard of him.”
Little Head Lucas looked up with a grin. “You never heard of Capablanca neither, till I told you about him. It's too late for heavy drinkin'. How's about a couple of Mex beers?”
“As long as they give me a lime with it,” Farrell said, making a face.
Little Head Lucas snapped his fingers, caught the attention of one of his waiters, and told him to bring two Dos Equis and a dish of lime wedges. He was back with a loaded tray about two minutes later. Farrell took a long drink, then bit into the lime.
“Ahhh. I'm feeling human again. Thanks, pardner.”
“
Por nada
as they say south of the border. What's up, man?”
Farrell wiped beer foam from his lips with a napkin. “Heard about Linda Blanc?”
The big man nodded. “That kind of news travels fast. I bet even her man knows by now.”
“I'm looking for Luis. You heard anything about him lately?”
Little Head drank about half his beer then sucked the pulp from a lime wedge. As he chewed the pulp, he nodded. “Ain't talked to him, only talked to other folks who talked to him. They say he's movin' 'round a lot, that he's up to his armpits in some racket.”
“Anybody know what kind?”
“Nope.” Little Head picked up the black knight and countered a white pawn that had crept within striking distance of the black king. “But he's mixed up with some ofays, so they say.”
Farrell caught the note in his friend's voice and sat there quietly, listening, letting Little Head Lucas get to it in his own way.
“One of the ofays is Santiago Compasso.”
Farrell nodded. “I've heard of him. He used to be in Miami.”
“Was, but he killed one crooked politician too many and had to leave.”
“So what would Luis Martinez be doing with Compasso? Compasso's a drug smuggler. Luis wouldn't touch that with a ten-foot pole. Besides, he's an organizer, a guy you go to when you've got something complicated you want done.”
Little Head nodded solemnly. “I can't say what Luis was doin' with the man, but Linda could'a only been killed for two reasons.”
Farrell drank some beer, bit into the lime while he thought that over. “To find out where Luis is, or send him a message.”
“Maybe both. If Luis and Compasso done had a fallin' out, Compasso ain't the kind to kiss and make up. He won't stop 'til Luis is a corpse.”
Farrell shook his head. “I can't see Luis getting jammed up like this. It's not like him. When he takes a risk, it's because he's holding good cards.”
Little Head grunted. “Are you tellin' me you never lost a hand when you had good cards? Unless the hand's four aces, there's always somethin' can beat it.” Little Head finished his beer in a single long draught, sucked the juice of another piece of lime, then snapped his fingers at the waiter and motioned for two more beers.
Farrell drummed his fingers lightly on the table. “Whoever Compasso sent after Luis must know quite a bit about him, about where he's likely to go. Linda Blanc was just the first stop.”
“Uh, huh. And that means you, brutha. You and Luis was pretty close. That paints a target on your back.”
Lucas stopped talking when the beer arrived, staring across the table at his friend.
Farrell grew sober as he watched Little Head grab a fresh bottle and drink from it. “I've been trying not to think about that.”
“You're slippin', brutha. To stay alive, you got to hear the jive. Lotta the guys you and Martinez was friendly with in Prohibition days are dead or in jail. How many people could he turn to if somebody was hot on his trail?”
Farrell shook his head. “I heard that he was friends with Theron Oswald. But you're right, there aren't many left from the old days he could go to.”
“I might know somebody that the killer might not know. Somebody who was close to Linda.”
Farrell cocked an eyebrow, his attention riveted on the big man. “I'm listening.”
“A woman named Wisteria Mullins. She runs a place across the river called Wisteria's Riverboat Lounge.”
“Uh, huh.”
“She's Linda's first cousin. Grew up together in St. Francisville. They was more like sisters than cousins. Wisteria'd know where Luis might hole up, if anybody would.”
Farrell felt himself become restless. He took a drink from the fresh beer. “The longer Luis is out there, the sooner he's gonna run out of places to hide.”
“You gonna drift across the river, maybe?”
Farrell got up from the table. “That's me you see on the boat. I'll check you later.”
“Walk soft, my friend.”
“Always.” Farrell laid a hand on Little Head Lucas's broad shoulder, gave it a squeeze as he walked to the door.
***
After they dropped Marta Walker at the Metro Hotel and asked manager Arthur Bordelon to look after her, Marcel and Fred began to make the rounds of places where information could be had. Eventually they made it across town to Mama Lester's Homestyle Bar and Grill. Although it was barely into the evening, there was a crowd inside, playing the games hustlers play when they don't have jobs. For once, bartender Harvey Prado was hard at work rather than jiving some chick.
“What's goin' on, Harvey?” Marcel asked.
Harvey looked up from his inventory sheet. “Evenin', Mr. Aristide, Fred. Get y'all a beer or somethin'?”
“Thanks anyway, Harvey. We're looking for somebody.”
Harvey shrugged. “Only just got busy. Who y'all lookin' for?”
“Guy named Smoker Cauvin. He wears dark glasses.”
“Yeah, he's here someplaceâ” Harvey quickly scanned the room. “Thereâover by the juke box.”
“What's he drinkin'?”
“Four Roses with Pabst Blue Ribbon chasers.”
“Let us get over there, then bring him another round. Anything for you, Fred?”
“Pabst sits right in my stomach.”
“Two extra Pabsts, Harvey. Give us a minute.” Marcel drifted from the bar, Fred shambling in his wake.
Smoker Cauvin might have seen them coming. It was hard to tell with the dark glasses. He was smoking, as usual, his expressionless face wreathed in blue smoke.
“Takin' the day off, Smoker?” Marcel asked.
“A person in my position never takes the day off, man. Even if I ain't workin', I'm thinkin' about work, thinkin' about what I gotta do to get more bread in my pocket. Time is money, you dig?”
“Uh, huh.” Marcel pulled up a chair, and Fred pulled up another, turning it around and straddling it. He studied Smoker Cauvin, saying nothing.
The beers and shot of Four Roses suddenly arrived on a tray and there was no talk while Harvey doled out the drinks. After he left, Smoker raised the shot of whiskey to his mouth and downed it. “Mighty kind of you, brutha. Now what you want, anyhow?”
“You're related to the Cheniers, aren't you?”
Smoker picked up his beer and drank a swallow as he looked in Fred's direction. “You lookin' to turn this moose loose on some of my relatives, Marcel?”
“Uh-uh. No strong-arm stuff. Just want to talk. To a certain Chenier.”
“They ain't but about two hundred of the fuckahs 'round here. Which certain one you have in mind?”
“Albert. He's been living in Texas, if that helps you.”
Smoker drank some beer, his brow furrowed above the rims of the dark glasses. “Albert Chenier. Can't say that I've heard tell of him. Might be one or two I ain't met.”
“Could you ask the ones you know if they've got a cousin or a brother by that name in from Texas?”
“Might be I could. Like I say, time is money, Marcel.”
Marcel took out a roll of bills, peeled off a five, and slid it across the table. The man's hand captured and stowed it with remarkable economy of motion.
“I'll get started on it tonight. You still operatin' outa that cathouse on Soraparu Street?”
“Yeah, but if I'm not there, somebody'll take a message.”
“I'll be back with you, brutha. And thanks for the drink. Liquor does wonders for my thought processes.”
“Any time at all.” Marcel got up and Fred followed.
They drifted through the crowd, nodding occasionally to a familiar face, taking note of newer ones they didn't recognize. Fred eased up to his elbow and spoke into his ear. “You think that spook's gonna do you any good?”
Marcel shrugged. “When you're lookin' for somebody, you just keep movin'. You buy a drink here, lay a finif down there. It's an investment. Sooner or later it pays off. If not directly, then sometime down the line.”
They had nearly reached the door when a man they knew approached them.
“Hey, Aristide. They tellin' me you need a Chenier.”