The thug on the right finally spoke, his accent so thick Miles barely understood him. "Get to the point, Antonio. We don't got all night."
The talker, Antonio, glared at his partner, then turned the glare back to Miles. "Okay, fine. Here's my point, Mr. Miles. Consider this fair warning. You stay out of Storyville, understand? You keep your nose out of whatever business transpires there. You don't do no favors for no whores, you got it?"
Miles frowned, but didn't answer.
Antonio continued, "If you go poking your nose in, it'll get cut right off your face. It's important that you understand that. Mr. Matranga takes care of the District. It's his. That's the way it is."
Miles fingers were tight on his cane.
Antonio stepped up even closer. His breath reeked of garlic. "Do you understand what I'm telling you, old man?"
The cane in Miles's hand shot up between them, jabbing Antonio hard in the chin. His mouth was half-open, and the force of the blow slammed his teeth together so hard the sound of it was like a hand clap.
He staggered back into his partners, and Miles swung the cane like a baseball bat, catching Antonio on the temple with the hard, wooden handle. Antonio dropped to the sidewalk and didn't move.
A passing woman screamed, and in a heartbeat an enormous commotion erupted all up and down the street. The two remaining thugs started toward Miles and Violet, but Violet had the knife in her hand and the thugs stopped, nervous about the look of wild intensity on the woman's face.
From up the street, someone yelled, "You there! Stop! This is the police!"
The thugs glanced at each other, and very quickly turned tail and ran off, leaving Antonio unconscious on the sidewalk.
Miles watched them light out. Once they were around the corner and out of sight, he felt the tightness leave his body, felt the rush of adrenalin subside. He turned to Violet, just as the madness was leaving her eyes and a vague fear was replacing it. He put his arm around her.
Running footsteps approached them, and they turned to face the policeman.
Except it wasn't a policeman. It was Little Cat.
The boy slowed down a few feet from them, that damnable smile spread across his face. He said, "Mr. Miles, sir. Ms. Violet. Glad to see you both well this fine evening."
Miles and Violet smiled back at him, and Violet said, "That's a fine impression of a policeman you do, Little Cat."
Cat said, "Yes, ma'am. I done heard enough of them chasing me in my time, I got the nuances of it down mighty good."
* * *
Ten minutes later, they were back at the club. Miles said, "Violet, Cat. See to things. Make sure we get opened in time. I have some things I need to attend to."
Neither of them asked what he intended to do. Violet only nodded, and Cat started for the lobby to talk to the just-arriving employees.
Miles went upstairs to their set of rooms. He opened the closet, pulled out his old trunk. Inside, he found the Colt wrapped in oil cloth. He checked it thoroughly, took the time to take it apart and clean it. Then, after putting it back together, he loaded it up and held it in his hand.
It had been a few years since he'd felt the cold iron of the old Colt, and it felt good. It felt right.
He put the gun in his pocket, fished around in the trunk some more until he found the spring-loaded wrist mechanism he used for his knife. He yanked up his sleeve, strapped the thing to his forearm, and then set the blade carefully in it. He tested it two or three times, jerking his wrist just right, so that the blade slid out and into his palm.
He grinned. Just like old times.
What would Cash Laramie think if he saw me now? Some crazy old man, about to go do something foolish.
Hell, Cash would probably insist on joining him.
That thought gave Miles strength, and he knew it was the right thing.
He headed downstairs to tell Violet not to wait up for him.
The young whore called Celissa came barreling down the stairs in her nightgown, screeching, "Turn it off! For Christ's sake, turn it off. It's killing me!"
She stormed up to the phonograph machine, grabbed the record disc off and threw it on the floor where it smashed into pieces. The serving girl stared at her wide-eyed, and Celissa pounded her fists into her own temples, sobbing. "My head ... oh God, my head hurts so much, can't you understand? Why must you play that awful music so loudly?"
With that, she turned on her naked heel and ran back upstairs.
In the sudden silence of her departure, Gideon Miles frowned. He was sitting in the parlor of Miss Tilly's house, sipping a whiskey and soda and waiting to be seen by the Madame. The serving girl had just put the record on and wound up the machine, and all had been pleasantness and light—until the girl who hated jazz came roaring in like a five-foot-five tidal wave.
The serving girl gathered herself, turned an embarrassed smile at the visitor, said, "I do apologize, Mr. Miles. Celissa is, well ..."
"I've met Celissa already," Miles said. "No need to apologize."
The girl gathered up the bits of broken wax, saying, "Miss Tilly will be along in just a moment, sir. Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?"
"No, that's fine."
She scurried out, and Miles was left alone in the parlor.
He sipped his drink and stared at a piece of broken record underneath the phonograph machine that the serving girl had missed. The parlor was bedecked with gold and pink wallpaper, battered tables, and lamps with frilly shades. It smelled of cigar smoke and flowery perfume.
As a marshal, oh-so-many years ago, he'd known many prostitutes.
Known
both in the Biblical sense and also in the line of his work. He'd come into contact with them on a regular basis. He knew them, understood them, even sympathized with them. And he had some suspicions about what Celissa's headaches portended.
He dwelled on that for a moment before Miss Tilly appeared in the doorway.
"I'm so pleased to see you, Mr. Miles," she said. "Have you reconsidered, sir?"
Miles stood up, bowed slightly. "I have, Miss Tilly. I'd like to speak with you."
"Of course."
She was dressed with more flamboyance than she'd been that afternoon—a rustling silk dress of red and purple, with feathers at the hip and in her hair. A very Edwardian ensemble. It occurred to Miles that brothel madams hadn't changed style in his lifetime.
The girl brought fresh drinks, and Miss Tilly perched on an over-stuffed divan. Miles settled again in the florid-print armchair.
"With your permission, Miss Tilly, I'd like to get right to the point."
"Of course. After all—"
"What interest does Charlie Matranga have in your business?"
Miss Tilly's face turned red, and she stammered, "Charlie Matranga? The gangster? I'm sure I don't—"
Miles cut her off, "Honesty in all transactions, Miss Tilly. That's how you achieve what you desire. Please, don't lie to me, madam."
Miss Tilly lowered her gaze to the carpet for a moment. When she looked at Miles again, her eyes were steely. "Please accept my apologies, Mr. Miles. You're right, of course. It's just that ... the Black Hand, as I'm sure you know, is not anything to be trifled with."
"That is my understanding. But I've not had dealings with them before."
"Oh, you probably have, only you weren't aware of it. You own a nightclub, and therefore require permits and licenses and all matters of legal documentation. And if you own a business in New Orleans, you've had dealings with the Black Hand, in one form or another."
"
Hmph.
"
"How is it you've come to know my relationship to Matranga?"
"A chance meeting on the street."
"I see. Well, sir, Charlie Matranga is ... he's no stranger to me. He's come to my house on numerous occasions in the last three years or so, demanding money for ... protection, I suppose. He's an extortionist. And just about every house in this block pays him. If his people were actually able to protect the girls, then I would consider it money well spent. But, as you know ..."
"The girls aren't feeling particularly safe of late," Miles said.
Miss Tilly nodded. "And in the meantime, Matranga is demanding more from us."
"Is he aware of the murder of your girl Eva-Lynn? Or of any of the victims?"
"I'm sure he is. He must be. But he hasn't raised a hand, so far as I know, to find the murderer."
Miles sat back in his chair, pondering.
Miss Tilly said, "It's in the blood of a gangster, I suppose. They want power, that's all. They want to control other people's lives. In the last year or so, Charlie Matranga has been positioning himself to take over more of the District, and he's pushed hard on all the businesses here. Not just the brothels."
"When was the last time you saw Matranga?"
"It's been well over three months now. But he sends his goons around every couple of weeks. The last time I saw them here was four days ago. Again, demanding more money."
"What did you tell them?"
"I refused this time. If they can't protect us from this vicious axeman, then what good are they?"
Miles nodded thoughtfully. "Have you considered, Miss Tilly, the possibility that this murderer could be working for—"
"For Matranga? Yes, Mr. Miles, I have."
Miles shook his head, smiling. "And that's the real reason you haven't gone to the police with this, isn't it? You believe they wouldn't help you against the Black Hand."
Miss Tilly licked her lips, blinking rapidly. "Well ..." she said. "They wouldn't. That's true."
"But you have no compunction against involving me in this business."
"It's not like that, Mr. Miles. This axeman—"
"Axeman, you said."
"Yes?"
"I understand that this isn't the first time an ... axeman ... has plagued New Orleans."
"Sadly, that's true. It wasn't long ago the so-called Axeman terrorized this city. It was before you came here, Mr. Miles, but I'm sure you've heard all about it."
"A bit. I was in Europe at the time."
"He operated in the Italian district, as I recall. Just three or four years ago."
"He was never captured. Is that correct?"
"Yes. Do you ... do you think it's the same man?"
The thought seemed to alarm Miss Tilly. Miles said, "I have no idea. But it's a very real possibility, isn't it? Maybe our killer isn't working for Matranga after all."
He set his glass on the end table next to him and stood up.
"Very well," he said. "I'm still not sure what I can do to help you, Miss Tilly, but I'll look into the matter."
The madam stood as well, quickly, with her hands clasped in front of her ample bosom. "I thank you so much, Mr. Miles. I am desperate. I couldn't bear to see any of the other girls being harmed."
"In the meantime," Miles said. "I'd suggest you get your girl Celissa to a doctor."
"What? Whatever for?"
"I'm quite certain she's suffering from a venereal disease. Good night."
He left before Miss Tilly could say anything further.
On Thursday morning, Miles took a walk to the 8th District police station on Royal Street and asked the desk sergeant who was in charge of the prostitute homicides in Storyville.
The sergeant eyed him with open hostility. "Watch your tone with me, boyo. I won't have a colored man being haughty with me, I don't care how well-heeled he is."
Miles, whose tone had been conversational, cocked his head and let a cold smile play across his face. He said, "Then you're in the wrong city ... boyo."
The sergeant jumped to his feet, knocking over his desk blotter as he came around the desk with fists clenched. Miles shifted his stance very slightly, ready to meet the attack. He hadn't planned on brawling with any police officers this morning, but if there was one thing sixty-plus years as a black man had taught him, it was that the need to defend oneself was ever present.
But this time there was no need. A strong voice boomed across the lobby, "Carlyle! Put a lid on it, sergeant!"
The sergeant halted, and a middle-aged man in an immaculate uniform stepped out of the shift captain's office.
"Don't you know who this is?" the captain said, stepping forward. "You're talking to Gideon Miles."
"I don't know no Gideon Miles," the sergeant said.
"Mr. Miles is a former United States Marshal, a twice-decorated war hero, and one of New Orleans most prominent citizens."
The sergeant's face turned purple with anger. "I don't care if he's Warren G. Harding. I won't have—"
"And he's quite capable of beating you to a fine pulp, sergeant. And I would feel obligated to let him. Keep. A. Civil. Tongue."
Miles smiled at the sergeant. After a moment, the copper lost his bluster and, grumbling, sat back down.
The captain turned to Miles. "How can I help you, sir?"
* * *
There was no single detective assigned to the case, much to Miles's annoyance. The police were taking great pains to keep the murders out of the spotlight, lest a connection was drawn to the old Axeman murders and another citywide panic followed.
But the captain allowed him to look through the files they had and didn't even ask why. Minor celebrity had its perks.
There wasn't much. Three dead prostitutes, all of them found in the brothels they worked in, murdered with an axe. At one scene, the murder weapon was found in a nearby alley. In another—the last, young Eva-Lynn—two witnesses had seen a big, muscular man in a wool coat leaving the scene by a window. They didn't get a good look at his face.
Sketches of all three victims had been made. Miles sorted through them. All were young and pretty, and appeared to be Creole. There was a startling sameness about their faces, a sameness that Miles recognized.
The police had zero leads, and Miles hadn't fared much better.
But he left the station with the beginnings of an idea about the killer. Just a vague one, but it was a start.
* * *