Ozzyâkeep safe until I comeâLuis
He retrieved the cardboard package containing the plates and put the note on top before going inside to the Railroad Express Agency desk. A tired, gray-haired white man wearing steel-rimmed spectacles waited on him.
“Yes, sir. What can we do for you this morning?” he asked in a cigarette-coarsened voice.
“I need to send this to a party downtown.” Martinez laid the box down and pushed it to the man.
The man got out some shipping labels and a pencil. “Where to?”
“Blue Note Pawn Shop, twelve-fifty North Rampart Street. To the attention of Theron Oswald.”
The white man glanced up with a peculiar expression. “That's not too far from here, Mister.”
Martinez grinned. “I'm leaving on a fishing trip and promised to get this to him today. When the fish are bitin', you can't keep 'em waitin', can you?”
The man gave him a tired smile. “Reckon not.” He made out the label, fixed it to the box, then wrapped it securely in masking tape. He charged Martinez a dollar and ten cents, and promised it would be delivered that morning.
Martinez thanked the man and left the depot. Retrieving his Mercury, he backtracked, continuing all the way down Magazine, past Audubon Park, until he met the curve into Leake Avenue. He followed Leake until he reached the Carrollton area. He stopped at a diner and ate two orders of bacon, a stack of buttermilk pancakes with cane syrup, and a pot of hot coffee. He felt almost human afterward.
He gassed up the car at a Sinclair station, then got back on Leake and followed it until he reached the river road that led into Jefferson Parish. Ten miles later, he stopped at a general store and bought a box of food and a flashlight, a portable radio, and batteries for each.
The store's owner had a secondhand Ithaca Featherlight pump shotgun that he was persuaded to part with for fifteen dollars. For another five, the owner sold him two hundred rounds of 12-gauge double-ought buckshot. A hacksaw was added to the pile for an extra twenty-five cents.
With his purchases stowed in the back of the car, Martinez got back on the river road and followed it for twenty-five miles until he came to a dirt road that led to a shanty sitting on pilings out in the river. Martinez could see that the boards he'd nailed across the windows and doors two years ago hadn't been disturbed.
With his tire iron, he removed all the boards, then went inside and threw open all the windows. While the place aired out, Martinez took all of his food and equipment inside and set up housekeeping. An hour later, he had created a headquarters for himself.
His last chore was to break out the hacksaw and shotgun. It took five minutes to cut the barrel off even with the magazine tube, and another three to clean the burrs off with a piece of emery cloth. With that done, he loaded the magazine with five cartridges and added a sixth to the chamber. He took it ashore and walked to within twenty feet of a dead tree trunk with a number of projecting branches. Bringing the shotgun to his hip, he fired all six rounds, snapping a branch with each shot. With the explosions still reverberating, he nodded, satisfied with his work.
He saw from his watch that it was nearly 11:00. There was nothing to do now but wait.
***
Bank President A. J. McCandless's private plane landed at Shushan Field at 9:00 that morning. No one was waiting for him, which was how he'd planned it. He taxied the twin-engine Lockheed Vega to his private hangar at the western end of the field, steering it expertly through the open hangar doors. He cut the engines and made his way through the rear of the silver plane to the cabin door, where his personal mechanic waited. McCandless, a lithe, agile, dark-haired man, jumped nimbly to the concrete and walked past the mechanic with the barest of nods. His steps took him to a private office within the hangar where he closed and locked the door behind him.
Settling himself at the desk, he picked up the telephone receiver and gave the operator a number. It buzzed three times before a man answered.
“It's McCandless. I just flew in.”
“What are you doing back in town already?” the other man asked.
“The Treasury Department is crawling all over my bank. Did you think I was going to remain in Atlanta while that was going on?”
“I suppose not. What now?”
“I'll tell you what now. I've got to be bloody careful. I can't afford for the wrong people to find out too much about me. It could cost me everything.”
“It could cost me too, A. J. I've been backing you up all this time, you know.” A wry tone had appeared in the other man's voice.
McCandless wasn't amused. “
I'm
the one with the most to lose if this thing blows up. See that you don't forget that.”
The amusement left the other man's voice. “Now that you're here, what do you want to do?”
“Nothing. Keep your ears open. Be helpful but ignorant if anyone asks you anything.”
“That should be easy. I made it a point to not know very much.”
McCandless stroked his long bony jaw. “All right, then. I'll be in touch with you later.” McCandless hung up the telephone without waiting for a reply, then he strode out into the hangar. The mechanic had just finished putting his bags into the trunk of a pale blue Lincoln Continental. McCandless grunted his thanks, got into the car, and left through the rear of the hanger.
***
Farrell crawled out of his sheets about 9:30, grimacing as he saw the face of his bedroom clock. Coffee was the most immediate thing on his morning agenda.
The act of walking into the kitchen did something toward waking him up, and by the time he drained a pan of hot water over coffee grounds, he began to feel human again. He had transferred coffee and hot milk into a cup and was taking a bite out of a cold dinner roll he found in the refrigerator when the kitchen telephone began to ring. He slowly chewed the roll, hoping whoever it was would give up and let him wake up in peace.
By the time the instrument had emitted a half-dozen rings, it occurred to him that it might be important. He took a sizable gulp of the coffee, then reached up and snatched the receiver from the cradle. “Hello?”
“I knew you were home,” Frank Casey's voice said.
“Hi, Dad. Yeah, I had kind of a late night, and woke up too early. Are you free for dinner tonight?”
“You were over in Gretna last night,” his father said, ignoring his question.
Something in the tone of Casey's voice put Farrell on his guard. “Yeah, as a matter of fact. How'd you know?”
“I'll be there in about twenty minutes. Get yourself together so we can take a ride across the river.”
Casey's words were casual, even polite, but Farrell noticed that he didn't make it a request. He was telling his son that they had to go, and now. “Okay, Dad. Pull into the parking space behind the club. If I'm not there waiting for you, just come on up, the kitchen door'll be open.”
“Okay. See you soon.”
“Right.” Farrell hung up knowing that if Casey wanted to go to Gretna, it had to be about Wisteria Mullins.
***
The early September sun was already growing hot when a gunmetal gray Chrysler sedan turned off Elysian Fields Avenue onto North Villere and parked in front of a neat white and green cottage. A neatly lettered sign hanging from a bracket read “Abraham T. Rodrigue, M.D.”
A good-looking, well-dressed man got out of the car, carefully locked the door, then walked up on the porch and unlocked the door to the cottage. It was already stuffy in there, so he spent several minutes opening the windows and turning on oscillating table fans located in all the rooms. When he had finished, he took off his jacket and hat, and carefully placed them in the closet of the room he used as an office. He heard a noise behind him and twirled quickly.
“Goodness, Dr. Rodrigue, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.” The speaker was a doe-eyed young brown woman.
Rodrigue put a hand to his heart as though to still the pounding there, and a relieved smile came to his face. “It's all right, Phyllis. I didn't hear you.”
“Sorry I didn't get here on time. I planned to get the place cooled off before you arrived, but my little brother woke up with a fever this morning. I waited to see if he needed to come in for a visit.”
“He's all right, then?”
“He's the baby and Mother still treats him that way.”
Rodrigue laughed, nodding. “That's a common failing of older mothers. It passes when the babies grow up.”
Their chat was interrupted by the telephone in the reception room. Phyllis went to get it. Seconds later, the telephone buzzed on Rodrigue's desk. “Yes, Phyllis?”
“A Mr. Huntsville calling. Shall I put him through?”
“Yes, please. He's a patient from my old practice.” He waited for a moment, then the receiver clicked as the call was transferred. “Yes, Mr. Huntsville, how are you?”
“Poorly, Doc. I need some pills, and soon.”
“Well, that's not a problem. Why don't you drop in later this afternoon, and we'll fix you right up.”
“Lemme call you. I'm tied up with something and might not be able to get away. You still live on North Broad?”
“Why don't I drop them off with your friend downtown?” Rodrigue suggested. “You shouldn't wait any longer.”
“Sure. You're
muy bueno
, Doc. See ya now, hear?”
“
Si, companiero. Vaya con Dios.”
Huntsville laughed as he hung up the phone.
He looked up to see Phyllis watching. “Yes, Phyllis?”
“Was that Spanish I heard you speaking? You speak it beautifully.” She looked at the handsome doctor with a glow of admiration in her eyes.
“Just something I picked up in Texas, Phyllis.”
It took about an hour for Casey and Farrell to make it to the site of the Riverboat Lounge on the outskirts of Gretna. When they arrived, there were five Jefferson Parish Sheriff's Department cars, a car from the Gretna police, and an ambulance parked outside the club.
Casey pulled up between two of the Sheriff's cars and cut the engine. He and Farrell walked toward the front door of the club where a muscular man dressed in the uniform of the Jefferson Parish Sheriff's Department waited. His gimlet eyes examined them with a decidedly unfriendly look.
“Thanks for bringing him over, Casey. I doubt he'd have come just because I asked.”
“He didn't refuse to come, McGee. He admits he visited the club last night.”
“That's swell. Let's go inside and show him what he left here.” He turned on his heel with military precision and led them through the club and up the stairs to the office. As Farrell entered the office, he felt as though he'd been dealt a blow in the chest. What was left of Wisteria Mullins was bound hand and foot to a chair. Like Linda Blanc before her, she had been stripped naked. He saw that she'd been cutâprecise cuts meant to cause a maximum amount of pain. On some of the more sensitive parts of her body, it looked as though skin had been flayed from her. Farrell fought the urge to get sick.
He turned to McGee, saw the man watching him in an appraising manner. “She was alive when I left. Her bouncer, Terry, let me out.”
McGee made a clucking noise with his tongue. “Too bad Terry can't talk to us. He's in a coma from the beating he took. Doc's not sure he'll pull out of it.” He hooked his thumbs inside his Sam Browne belt and moved a bit closer to Farrell. “The cleaning people found both of 'em this morning. When the Gretna police discovered your calling card on her desk, they called me. Seems your reputation ain't all that good in this parish.”
Farrell felt his face growing hot. He and McGee knew each other well, but there was no friendship between them. “Go on, McGee, arrest me. But you'd better have something better than my business card, because even in this hick parish the D. A. won't indict on something that flimsy.”
McGee smiled thinly. “Okay, hot-shot. Then start convincing me. Why were you over here last night?”
Farrell looked at his father and saw Casey nodding at him. “There's no charge against you, Wes, but you'd better tell what you know, and tell it straight.”
Farrell took in a breath and let it out slowly. “I was over here looking for a man named Luis Martinez. His girlfriend was killed in New Orleans two days ago.”
“I recognize the name,” McGee said. “Martinez is a racketeer. Casey says the Feds are looking for him.”
“The Feds?” Farrell looked at his father.
“That's right,” Casey affirmed. “They think he's involved in a counterfeiting racket.”
Light bloomed on in Farrell's mind. That explained the presence of Compasso and a gang of outsiders. “Do you know who Martinez is working for?”
McGee's lip curled. “What're you, Farrell, an apprentice G-Man? You're here to answer questions, not conduct a separate investigation. And while we're on the subject, why are you looking for this Martinez character?”
Farrell cut his eyes at his father and saw nothing there. It seemed clear that neither of them knew of Martinez's connection to Santiago Compasso. “It's a personal matter. I'm trying to get a message to him from a relative in Texas.” He got out his cigarette case and offered it to McGee, who stared at him intently before taking one. Farrell put a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and took out his lighter. He used it on McGee's cigarette before lighting his own. “Here's something for you to think about, Lieutenant. I used to know Martinez pretty well. He's an organizer, a guy who puts things and people together, then sets a plan in motion. He's never the big boss, but he's the kind of guy every big boss wants, a ramrod who can recruit, plan, and execute.”
McGee drew on the cigarette as he listened, not interrupting. It was obvious that Farrell's theory interested him. Casey, too, was listening.
“Wisteria Mullins was the cousin of Linda Blanc, Martinez's woman,” Farrell continued. “This kind of torture is gangland stuff, probably to get information.”
“Unless it's just some psycho,” McGee said.
“Some psycho who deliberately tortured two women connected to Luis? I don't think so. Martinez is in hot water with somebody, and whoever killed these women is scouring the city for him, going to people who know Luis well and trying to force his whereabouts out of them.”
Casey nodded, fingering his chin, and McGee frowned thoughtfully as he drew on the cigarette again, his eyes focused somewhere beyond Farrell. Casey finally spoke.
“Since you know him so well, that could mean you, Wes.”
Farrell nodded slowly. “If it's true, the best thing I can do is keep looking for Martinez until I find him.”
McGee crushed the butt of his cigarette in an ashtray and looked up at Farrell. “And we just sit around waiting for the killer to strike again? Nuts.”
Farrell moved closer to McGee, looking him straight in the eye. “Listen, McGee, if I'm standing under the headsman's axe, too, there's no better man to find Martinez than me. If I find him, I'll give him to you. It may be the only way to keep him from getting killed.”
McGee could not quite believe Farrell, but there was doubt in his eyes. He looked at Casey questioningly.
Casey tugged thoughtfully at his earlobe. “I think he's talking straight, McGee. He's never lied to me, and he's figured things out that the entire Detective Bureau couldn't see through. My suggestion is leave him free to move around. What have you got to lose?”
The deputy looked at Farrell again, his arms folded across his broad chest. “Okay, Farrell. Casey's word is good enough for me. I want the guy who did this, you understand? Her being a Negro, maybe it looks like something we'd shove into the wastebasket and forget, but that's not the way I do things. Anybody gets killed in my parish, white, black, or Indian, somebody pays for it.”
Casey grinned. “Get in line. We want the guy, too.”
“We'll dope that out when the time comes. You can go, Farrell, so long as Casey's responsible for you.”
“Swell. I'll keep in touch.” Farrell took off his hat and smoothed his hair under it. “Can you get me back across the river, Frank?”
“I brought you here, so I guess so. So long, McGee.” He turned and Farrell followed him out of the club.
When they were back in Casey's squad car and on their way back to the Algiers Point Ferry, Casey glanced over at his son. “Okay, now that we're alone, why don't you tell me what you didn't tell McGee?”
Farrell tipped his hat onto the back of his head and leaned his elbow on the open window ledge. “All I've got is a rumor that Martinez is working for Santiago Compasso.”
“Who's he?”
“He's from Argentina originally,” Farrell replied. “He moved into Miami in 1927 and cut himself a slice of the booze racket there. In time he controlled about a third of what came in and went back out. They ran him out of south Florida a couple of years ago, and he operated mainly between Mobile and Pensacola for a while. His operation was mostly narcotics, illegal gambling, and prostitution. Last night I discovered he'd sneaked into New Orleans and set up shop with Martinez.”
“So you think this counterfeiting ring is Compasso's?”
“The evidence leans that way, but what I know about Compasso makes me wonder. Compasso got everything he ever had with a gun. He's tough and he doesn't scare. But counterfeiting is a different game. It requires subtlety, planning and patience, all things Compasso's short on.”
“But you said Martinez was the organizer, the man who puts the people together with the plan. Maybe Compasso's using him for the brains and subtlety.”
Farrell frowned and shook his head. “I wonder. Successful counterfeiting requires a steady hand over a long haul. Luis could put the gang together and get it started, but he'd never hang around long enough to see it through. And Compasso wouldn't be able to run it by himself.”
Casey grunted. “So who's the guiding hand? And why is he calling attention to himself with all this killing?”
Farrell shook his head again. “Something's off the rails. The killing has Compasso's name written all over it, but there's somebody above him. Somebody who's probably very worried about his operation falling apart.”
“You going to tell the Treasury boys what you know?”
“Give me twenty-four hours, Dad. If I tell Ewell, the first thing he'll to do is put surveillance on Compasso and a tap on his phone. I want him free, because he's clumsy and impatient. He'll make a mistake soon.”
Casey sighed. Farrell's way went against his instincts, but he trusted his son enough to go along with him. “What will you do in the meantime?”
Farrell shrugged. “I'll go around making a nuisance of myself. Sooner or later, somebody will get careless or reckless, and I'll be there. But Luis is the key. If I can find him, I'll find out what this is all about.”
***
“Damn,” Fred grumbled. “I reckon we drove a hundred miles and walked another fifty in the last two days.”
“And talked to about a thousand Cheniers,” Marcel added. “You'd think one of them would have a relative named Albert, even if he was dead.”
It was late afternoon, and both men were tired and hungry. Fred got an idea.
“Ya know, we covered New Orleans, but it might be this Chenier's from out in the sticks 'round here. Maybe he only tells people he's from New Orleans, 'cause it's easier than sayin' he's from Jefferson Parish or St. Bernard Parish. Nobody outside the state ever heard a' them places, but everybody knows New Orleans, man. They know us in Siberia.”
Marcel chucked softly. “Yeah, âthe city that care forgot.' I met a girl from up in Ohio once who was disappointed to find out we don't hold Mardi Gras every few weeks.” Both men laughed aloud at that, then Marcel made a suggestion. “Let's head out to Avery's joint over in Jeff Parish. We're not too far from there now.”
“Yeah, and he'll have some crab gumbo on the stove.”
“Always thinking of your stomach. Yeah, I'm hungry, too. Let's go.”
About twenty minutes later, they crossed the parish line on Jefferson Highway, and another ten minutes later, they were driving down a marl road that ran north of the highway. Soon they saw the low, squat building where Avery and his partner, an ex-bank robber named Ernie Le Doux, operated their honky-tonk. The hot sun was just beginning to fall, but already the French doors were folded back all along the gallery and people could be seen gathering around the openings. Fred parked his Chevrolet Straight-8 between a pair of aging jalopies, then the two young men walked through the grass to one of the open doors.
Inside, a bluesman who went by the name of Charlie Boy White lazed in a ladderback chair plucking chords out of his battered Gibson while a few men and women idled nearby with their Mason jars of beer, some of them already snapping their fingers and rolling their hips to the music. Avery leaned against the wall behind the bar beside Ernie Le Doux, each of them watching the crowd for trouble. Every juke joint has its share of trouble, but they were both rough men. It was a rare visitor who was dumb enough to cut up in their place more than once.
“Evenin', fellas,” Marcel said, touching two fingers to the brim of his Stetson.
“Hey, li'l brutha,” Le Doux rumbled. “How's it hangin', Fred?”
“Ain't seen you fellas out here in a while,” Avery said. “Makin' too much money to come out and spend any?”
“You know how it is. Every year I seem to have more business than the year before, and less time to kick up my heels. You got any crab gumbo for a couple of hungry men?”
“Pull up a stool,” Avery said. “I'll dish some up. Give these boys a beer, Ernie.”
Marcel and Fred each pulled up stool to the bar and eased a hip over it as Le Doux drew two beers. Marcel took off his hat, placed it on the bar beside him, and ran his fingers through his light brown curls. A moment later, Avery returned with a tray bearing two thick china bowls full of fragrant stew, a dish of soda crackers, and spoons.
“Lawd have mercy,” Fred said. “Y'all sure make a fine gumbo. Let me at it.”
As Fred tore into his food, Marcel tasted his in a more leisurely fashion. After a couple of bites, he said, “Tell me, you boys know any Cheniers?”
Le Doux laughed. “That's like askin' how many Smiths we know. Which one?”
“The one I'm looking for is Albert.”
Both Le Doux and Avery scratched their chins as they looked quizzically at each other.
“I recollect an Alfred, but he's about seventy years old,” Avery said.
“The fellow I'm after can't be more than thirty or thirty-five. Take a look at these.” He reached inside his jacket for Marta's snapshots and laid them on the bar.
The two older men put their elbows on the bar as they intently studied the shapshots.
“Chenier, you said.” Avery stepped back and rubbed the back of his neck with a meaty palm. “He don't even look like none of the Cheniers I know of.”
Marcel shifted his gaze to Ernie Le Doux, who had straightened up, his left eyebrow raised dubiously. “It ain't a very good picture, but if it's who I think it is, his name ain't Albert nor Chenier.”
Marcel felt a ripple of electricity dance its way up his spine. “Who is it, then?”
“When I was in the stir, back in 1926, there was a seventeen-year-old kid in there, shared the cell with a man I knew. Kid was in there for some kind of conâI forget whichâbut he looked like this fella one hell of a lot.”
“What was his name?”