“That's right, Harley. One who calls himself Albert.”
Harley's muddy eyes slid from side to side beneath his pulled-down hat, his thin lips drawn into a narrow line. “There was an Albert Chenier who was up in Angola 'til maybe ten years or so back.”
Fred's eyes narrowed. “How would you be knowin' that?”
Harley's eyes did their side-to-side again. “Used to run with him. Did some bootleggin', some penny-ante shit.”
Marcel studied Harley's narrow face intently. “How'd he end up in Angola? I don't recall you did any time.”
Harley's thin lips cracked open and he licked them with a long, pale tongue. “Didn't. His luck was bad. We was runnin' a con out in the sticks. He got caught. I didn't.”
“Didn't rat on you, huh?”
Harley shook his head. “They didn't come no squarer than Albert. He kept his lip buttoned and took the fall. They give him seven to ten up there at hard labor, too.”
“So where is he now?”
“Dead.” Harley's gaze was bleak and he shook his head with a weary chagrin. “He was out with a chain gang choppin' cane one day. Got into a beef with another con. Con cut his head damn near off, they tell me.”
“Whew.” Marcel shook his hand as though he'd touched something hot. “That's tough, man. I'm sorry as hell.”
Harley blinked and shook his head. “Yeah, me, too.”
Fred scratched his head. “Couldn't be our man.”
Marcel's eyes were thoughtful, but he shook his head. “No, not at all. Thanks just the same, Harley.”
“Forget it. See y'all around, hear?”
Fred and Marcel walked outside and stood on the gallery of the lounge as a cool evening breeze swept past them from the north. Fred pulled his hat down low over his eyes.
“Funny story Harley told. The only Albert Chenier we've heard about all day long, and he ain't got no more in common with the one we're lookin' for than I got with Pres'dent Roosevelt.”
“Yeah,” Marcel said. “Funny is the word.”
***
Daggett and Andrews were nearing the end of a frustrating day. Their canvas of Linda Blanc's neighborhood had been a bust, and Nick Delgado's sweep of the murder scene picked up nothing useful. They'd spent the afternoon questioning known associates of the dead woman with no more profit. It was now three hours past the end of their normal day watch, and their rumpled clothes were stuck to their sweaty skins.
“What's next on the list, boss?” Andrews asked as he skillfully took the Dodge through evening traffic.
“This is tougher than I expected. I figured an ex-prostitute with her associations might lead us to somebody who'd know more about her business.”
“Somebody taught her somethin' about keeping her business to herself,” the stocky man replied. “Nobody we talked to even knew she was hooked up with Luis Martinez.”
Daggett had no comment to that. He continued to stare into the darkness while he tapped his fingers restlessly on the ledge of the open car window. Finally, he said, “I'm dead beat. Take us to the Fat Man Lounge. I'll call into the office and we can have a beer before we go home.”
“I like your thinkin', boss.” Andrews took Napoleon Avenue up as far as Saint Charles then headed in the direction of Lee Circle. He turned across the streetcar tracks at Clio Street to drive several blocks before bringing the car to a stop in front of the lounge. The two big brown men got out of the car and strolled through the door as they shook the wrinkles out of their pants. It was early yet, and the place contained only a handful of male customers and a couple of bored working girls.
The detectives approached the bar and gave a wave to the big black man busily polishing glasses with a bar towel.
“Evenin', Big Boy,” Daggett said.
“Iz, Sam. Long time no see. What'll it be?”
“Two Dixies,” Daggett said as he eased a hip over a barstool. He and Andrews both leaned their forearms on the bar as they waited for the beer.
As he served them, Big Boy saw the dullness of frustration in their eyes. He spoke to them in a low voice. “Who you guys lookin' for?”
“We don't know for sure,” Daggett replied. “We're workin' the Linda Blanc murder.”
Big Boy's eyes narrowed as he shot quick glances about to check for unwanted listeners. “I knew that gal. She was all right. You ain't got no idea who done it, huh?”
Daggett shook his head. “We don't know a hell of a lot of nothin'. We got some dope that she was hooked up with a guy named Luis Martinez. We think there's a connection.”
Big Boy screwed up his mouth as he considered Daggett's words. He cut his eyes at Andrews, and saw the other detective watching him over the rim of his beer glass. “I told her a couple years ago that he was gonna bring her grief. She just patted my cheek, said she loved the guy and for me not to talk bad about him.” He shook his head. “Crock of bullshit.”
Andrews sipped his beer, paused to lick the foam from his lips. “We want to talk to Martinez some kinda bad, Big Boy. Any idea where he might be?”
Big Boy slowly wiped the bar in front of him as he flicked his eyes about the room. “Been hearin' some funny shit lately.”
“About what?”
“Martinez is supposed to be connected to a heavy hitterâwhite man.”
Daggett raised his eyes. “This white man got a name?”
“Santiago Compasso.”
Daggett and Andrews exchanged a look and shrugged. “Never heard of him. What's he into?”
“Don't know. And nobody I talked to knows, neither.”
Daggett considered this as he sipped some beer. “A racket nobody knows about. That's new.”
Big Boy reached under the bar and brought out a dish of salted nuts and shoved them between the two detectives. “Supposed to be all out-of-town people that Martinez got for this Compasso. But that ain't the interestin' part.”
Andrews dunked a meaty hand into the bowl of nuts, captured some and transferred them to his waiting mouth. “What is?” he said around the nuts.
“Martinez is in the soup with this Compasso. Word is there's a contract out on Luis. Nobody's seen the guy in a few weeks. Might be he's dead already.”
Andrews swallowed audibly, chasing the nuts with some beer. “Maybe he took the hint and split town.”
Big Boy shook his head. “Uh-uh, brutha. He wouldn't make a permanent disappearance without takin' Linda. They was two beats off the same drum. He had her in a place he thought was safe, but the contract has somebody hungry. He musta sniffed out the house and killed her to let Luis know they wasn't playin' no game.”
Daggett had been silent through most of Big Boy's story, remembering what Paul Ewell had told them about the counterfeiting ring. The name Santiago Compasso was clearly something Ewell's people didn't know.
He picked up his glass and drained the rest of the beer down his throat. “Thanks, Big Boy. We owe you one.”
Big Boy turned up a big pale palm and shook it. “Just do me a favor and don't go spreadin' nothin' with my name tacked on it, okay? I ain't interested in gettin' a reputation as no pigeon, you dig?”
“Okay, brutha,” Andrews said. “We'll be silent as the grave.”
“That ain't funny, Sam.”
“No,” Andrews replied. “It sure ain't.”
By the time Farrell reached the Algiers Point ferry it was nearing 3:00. His was almost the last car to board before deck hands raised the gangway and cast off lines.
Farrell remained in his car as the ferry rumbled and vibrated beneath him. He had been on the prowl at this hour many times, but he recognized an unfamiliar fatigue tonight. His life was so full that he tended to ignore the passage of time, but lately there had been little remindersâfine lines at the corners of his eyes, stray gray hairs among the reddish brown ones on the backs of his hands, an unreadiness to jump out of bed first thing in the morning. It made him think of his father, whose own red hair was graying noticeably these days.
Farrell wondered would he be so quick to venture into the night like this if he and Savanna were married and had children. He did not probe his motives as a rule but on this night, he recognized that he was putting himself in harm's way out of boredom. The priest's visit had set him in motion, but it was the murder of Luis's girlfriend that had heightened Farrell's resolve to find his old friend. He faintly recalled another priest reading from the Bible, “am I my brother's keeper?” but it was too late to ponder that question.
The ferry shuddered and groaned as they approached Algiers Point, slowing until the bow nudged the dock and bounced away. Deck hands hastily made the boat fast then let down the gangway with a clatter. A few minutes later, he drove across to dry land.
This side of the river was almost rural in comparison to the New Orleans side. Most buildings he passed were shuttered and dark, and few cars shared the road with him.
The village of Gretna's Huey P. Long Boulevard was empty of all but shadows. Farrell continued to the eastern edge of the village, driving north to the brink of a bayou.
There was a considerable Negro population on this side of the river, composed mainly of people who fished, crabbed, trapped, or did back-breaking labor in fish canneries, boat yards, or on farms. Roadhouses or juke joints along the rural roads outside Gretna offered such folks the only entertainments they could afford: white lightning, canned beer and the romantic laments of a lowdown bluesman.
However, Negroes who worked in town for white people or had small businesses of their own craved a more genteel kind of enjoyment, and for them there was nothing to equal the opulence of Wisteria's Riverboat Lounge. As Farrell came upon it, he saw the huge neon sign lighting up the area for a hundred yards around. The sign featured a Southern belle in layers of petticoats with an articulated coquette fan at each end. In between them a Mississippi sternwheeler huffed smoke from its stacks. Farrell had heard that even the white people on this side of the river viewed it with a mixture of envy and awe.
Farrell parked at the edge of the lot and got out into the late night air. The sounds of tree frogs seemed to vie with the Dixieland coming from inside the lounge. Something made him pause, and in response he faded into a shadow. He remained there, listening as his eyes made a circuit of the area. He sensed a presence, but it was no more than that. He moved softly, threading a path through the clutter of parked vehicles to the entrance.
He pushed through the doors, pausing just inside to let his eyes adjust to the soft lighting. A Negro in a white dinner jacket saw him enter and strolled unobtrusively toward him. Farrell made him for the bouncer by the width of his shoulders and his loose-limbed, flat-footed saunter. His right hand was clenched, no doubt hiding a roll of nickels, a weapon as effective as brass knuckles.
“Evenin', sir. Can we help you with somethin'? Maybe you're lost.” At least he had a few brains. He was going to try being polite before he threw a punch.
“I came to see Wisteria Mullins,” Farrell replied. “The name's Farrell.”
The bouncer nodded with recognition, but his expression said it didn't bother him. “It's mighty late, sir, and we gonna be closin' up here in less than a half-hour.”
“I won't need very much of her time. It's about her cousin, Linda, and Luis Martinez.”
The man became rigid, and Farrell could sense him considering his next move. Just as suddenly he relaxed, his concern for his boss evident in his expression. “I'll tell her, but I don't know. She's had a real bad day.”
Farrell nodded sympathetically. “I'm not here to cause her any extra grief. I'm just trying to find Luis.”
He considered for a second. “I'll see what she says. Tell the barman I said to give you whatever you want.”
“That's friendly of you. Thanks.” Farrell took off his hat and went to the bar. The bartender came close enough to catch Farrell's order for a rye highball. Farrell had put about half of it away when the bouncer returned.
“She'll talk to you. Follow me.” He led Farrell through a door and up a flight of stairs to the second floor. There was a door open up there, and through the door Farrell saw a willowy woman in a sea green evening gown. A cigarette burned in her right hand, and a tendril of blue smoke floated up past her handsome brown face. “Thanks, Terry. You can go on back to the floor now.” Her voice was like honey seasoned with pepper.
Terry cut his eyes at Farrell. “You sure?”
She smiled indulgently at him. “Mr. Farrell only wants to talk. He don't have to beat women to get what he wants, do you, Mr. Farrell?”
“I never want that much,” Farrell replied.
Wisteria's mouth flew open and a rich, full laugh escaped. Terry, seeing he was outclassed, turned and left.
“Don't mind Terry. He thinks he needs to protect me from people. Buy you a drink?”
“No thanks.” Farrell sat down in an armchair and put his hat on the floor by his feet.
She sat down across from him and crossed her legs. “Terry said you'd come about Linda.”
“I think Luis is in some kind of trouble and what happened to Linda is connected to that. I'm hoping you can tell me where he is so I can help.”
She held her hands in her lap and looked down at them. “I like Luisâalways did. But I knew he was trouble first time I looked at him. He's too slick for his own good.” She was quiet for a long moment, and as she sat there, Farrell saw two tears escape from her eyes and flow soundlessly over the curve of her cheeks.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “People said good things about Linda to me. Have you got any idea where Luis might be?”
Wisteria Mullins' eyes grew hard and her nostrils flared. “If I knew, I'd go after him myself. I want to slap his face and spit in it.” Her mouth gaped suddenly and she began to weep, the sobs like groans of agony. “All his talk about how much he loved my sweet b-baby girl, and now she's lyin' dead over there.” She swiped angrily at the tears blurring her eyes and looked up at him fiercely. “You ever look down on somebody you love 'at's been butchered like some hog?”
Farrell nodded gravely. “Yes.”
She started at the single word then relaxed. “I don't know where he is. I thought he'd call, but maybe he's afraid to.” She shook her head ruefully.
Farrell sat back in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. He saw from his watch that it was now 4:00, and he was no closer to Luis Martinez than when he'd left the Café Tristesse. “If you hear from him, tell him to call me at my club. The number's on this card.” He laid a business card on the table, then picked up his hat and turned to go.
“Mr. Farrell?”
He turned his head and saw her looking at him. “Yeah?”
“I don't know what it means, but it's somethin' I heard Luis say. It went âluck is where you find it, and I always look for mine down by the river.' You know what that means?”
He shook his head. “I remember him saying it, but I thought it was just some trash he was talkin'.”
She nodded. “Maybe so. Thanksâfor what you said.”
“Sure.” He walked through the door and downstairs to the club. Except for Terry, everyone else was gone. The man turned as he heard Farrell's approach.
“How's she holdin' up?” he asked.
“She's hurt, but all hurts get dull with time. She just needs her friends to get her over the rough spots.”
He nodded, his mouth stretched tight. “Yeah. Sorry if I acted impolite with you earlier.”
“Forget it. I'll be on my way now.”
Terry let him out into the warm, humid night. Without the neon sign, the brooding darkness of the bayou enveloped the place completely. As Farrell strode across the grassy parking lot to where he'd left his car, his eyes and ears continued to probe the darkness. That indefinable something he'd felt at his arrival was still there, but the surroundings were empty for as far as he could see. Casting a last look around, he got into the car, cranked the engine, and headed in the direction of home.
***
Terry locked the metal grate over the glass front doors before going through the club to turn off the remaining lights. When he reached the kitchen, he noted that the rear service door was slightly ajar, and he grimaced. He'd told the cooks and busboys to be careful about that door. He'd come back one night to find three raccoons there tearing the place apart. He cast a quick look around the kitchen, but detected nothing out of order.
He walked to the door, cursing under his breath. As he reached it, he pushed the door closed and set the deadbolt. It was then that the lights went out. He whirled around. “Who's there? What's the idea, Goddamnit?” He moved in the direction of the nearest light switch, but a noise checked him. His hand went instinctively to the revolver in his hip pocket. “Who's there? I got a gun, fool, so don't be messin' around.” Drawing the gun, he sped to the light switch. As his hand closed over it, something hit him over the temple and he fell to the floor unconscious.
His attacker stood over him for a minute, prodding him with his shoe. Although Terry didn't move or make a sound, the attacker kicked him very precisely in the back of the head. Satisfied, the man made his way through the darkened kitchen, heading for the stairs.
He reached a hall, and saw an open door with light shining through it. “Terry?” a woman's voice called. “Terry, that you, honey?”
The man walked softly to the door, looked through it and saw Wisteria Mullins at a desk, thumbing through some receipts. He moved toward her in a smooth, soundless glide. He was grinning when she looked up, saw his face, and gave a single, ululating scream.
***
A ray of daylight, filtered through the dusty, ragged curtain on the window, dropped across Martinez's face, bringing sweat out on his forehead. He squirmed out of it, turning on his side. The damage was done, however. The movement brought him out of the stupor he'd finally fallen into the night before.
As he gradually came awake, the memory of what had happened elbowed its way to the front of his consciousness, reminding him of the trouble he was in. He forced himself up on his elbows, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. A flash of sharp pain shot through his temples and he grabbed his head, groaning.
A sour belch forced its way up his throat and out between his clenched teeth. He got up and walked unsteadily to the toilet, just making it before he vomited up a mess of bourbon and yellow bile. The retching almost tore the top of his head off, but eventually the pain subsided. He looked at himself in the mirror to see that the face staring back was that of a worn-out
mestizo
, not the sharp operator who had always known the right answer, always been standing somewhere else when the axe fell on someone less lucky.
With shaking fingers, he tore off his wrinkled, sweat-stained clothing then ran cold water in the basin as he stooped painfully over it. He cupped his hands and rubbed his face over and over with the cold water, drinking every other handful, swishing it around in his mouth to cut the scummy taste on his tongue.
He found his toothbrush and can of Pepsodent tooth powder, using them until the foul taste in his mouth diminished. That done, he turned on the hot-water tap until the sink was filled with scalding hot water. With the washcloth and soap he'd gotten from the deskman, he systematically washed himself from head to foot, rinsing with cool water. He found his razor and shaving soap, and very carefully shaved himself. His mustache needed trimming, but he let that go.
When he was clean, he went through his bag and chose a pale blue shirt with a soft collar, fresh underwear and socks and a light gray tropical wool suit.
The soiled clothing he wrapped into a bundle and dumped in the wastebasket. He had no time for laundry. He closed his valise, put on his hat then left the room. The desk wasn't occupied when he reached the lobby, so he dropped the room key on the counter before leaving the building.
He saw from his watch that it was a few minutes past 7:00. Magazine Street was quiet, only a few cars passing through at low speeds and a couple of pedestrians hurrying to work across the street from him. There was a feeling of peacefulness about the neighborhood that made him want to stay and enjoy it, but he knew better. He walked across the street to his Mercury and quickly drove away.
As he drove, he considered his options. If he went to the cops, he could make a deal for his cooperation, but would still serve time in a Federal pen. He'd never been in jail in his life, and knew he couldn't stand to be locked up for years. If he gave the plates back to Compasso, he'd be admitting defeat and submitting to execution. All that was left was to make war.
There were the plates to consider, too. Four blocks of chrome-plated nickel, each representing several months of work by a master engraver. He had them wrapped up and tucked under the spare tire in his trunk. Even if Compasso got to him, Martinez was determined to deny him the plates.
He drove into Downtown and parked in front of the railroad depot at South Rampart and Girod. Even at that early hour, there were enough people for him to comfortably blend in. He rummaged in his glove compartment until he found a small pad of paper and a pencil. He wrote one sentence in neat block letters: