"You track this
bastardo
down for me," Matranga had said. "You find him and not involve the buttons, and I'll leave the whores in Storyville to their own devices."
"How do I know you'll do what you say?" Miles had asked, and Matranga had replied, "You don't know me very well, so I'll let that slide. But I'm a man of my word. Not like these young swells coming up now with no integrity. If I say it, it's a bond. Besides, Storyville's more trouble than it's worth these days."
Miles had believed him, saying, "That's a deal, Matranga," and the two men had shook hands on it.
And now Miles stood in front of Giano Carletti's home, gripping his cane, feeling the weight of the Colt in his coat pocket. Little Cat was with him, on Violet's insistence.
"Wait on the corner, Cat," Miles said.
"But Ms. Violet said to—"
"Wait on the corner."
Little Cat shrugged. "She's gonna kill you. And then she's gonna kill me into the bargain."
"Everything will be fine. Just stay alert. I won't be long."
Little Cat grumbled but did as he was told, shoving his hands in his pockets and ambling down to the corner. Miles approached the house. It was a crackerbox on a modest street, made with cheap materials but well-tended. There was a scraggly tree in the yard and a swinging bench on the small porch.
A woman appeared at the screen door before Miles had even set foot on the porch. She peered at him, her features hidden behind the screen, and said in a heavy Italian accent, "Yes? What do you want?"
Miles took off his hat. "Forgive me for bothering you, ma'am. I'm looking for Mr. Carletti."
"For what?"
"I need to speak to him about his cousin, Sal."
"You don't know his cousin. His cousin wasn't friends with any Negroes."
"I didn't say we were friends, ma'am. I take it you've heard about what happened to him?"
"God rest his soul." The woman moved behind the screen, and Miles got a glimpse of dull gray hair and a hard, distrustful face. "What do you have to do with my husband's cousin?"
"Nothing, directly. I'm looking into his death."
"You a policeman? There are no colored policemans."
Miles thought about correcting her, but decided it wasn't important. He said, "I have some information, Mrs. Carletti, that I think your husband should know." He didn't mention that Mr. Carletti already knew. That tidbit wouldn't get him in the door.
"Mr. Carletti is busy. You go away. Leave us—"
A masculine voice from behind her said, "It's fine, Rosa. I'll speak to him."
"But, Giano—"
"Let him in, dear."
Mrs. Carletti reluctantly unlatched the screen door and held it open. Miles said, "Thank you, ma'am," and stepped inside.
* * *
Where Mrs. Carletti was hard and angular, her husband was smooth-faced as a baby with dull, cow eyes. He ushered Miles into a small sitting room, overcrowded with hand-crafted furniture and photographs and paintings on every available inch of wall space. Mrs. Carletti huffed and stormed off to the kitchen without a word. Carletti motioned Miles to the sofa, sat himself in a polished oak arm chair.
"Jimmy killed Sal, didn't he?" Carletti said in a willowy, weak voice with no trace of an accent. "It was Jimmy. And I sent him there. God have mercy on me, but it's my fault Sal is dead."
"Jimmy?" Miles said.
I should've known. I should have realized. He was never right in the head. Back in '17, I ... I suspected. And when Jimmy left for New York, I knew. I just knew."
Miles said, "Mr. Carletti. Who is Jimmy?"
Carletti looked at the floor. "Jimmy Manta. He used to work for me at my shop. My apprentice. He had the makings of a fine carpenter, he really did. But I always knew. I mean, I always had an inkling, I guess you could say, that there was something ... wrong with him."
Tears pooled in the man's eyes, and Miles thought, not without some pity, that Carletti was a very weak man. It wasn't in the tears so much as the posture, the unwillingness to look Miles in the face. Miles had met men like him before. Wyoming was studded with their graves.
But it was a new time now, a new place, where weak men weren't destroyed immediately—they were destroyed inch by inch, murdered slowly by stronger men in an indifferent world. It was a much crueler time now, Miles thought.
He said, "Jimmy Manta worked for you in 1917?"
Carletti nodded. "He worked for me until the end of that year. He started three years before that, when he was only a boy. Fifteen years old. He was an orphan. I mean, that's ... that's what he told me. I assume it's true, but who can say?"
"And he left for New York that year?"
"Yes. Was trying to find his father, he said. And I have to admit, I was relieved. Toward the end, he had become quick tempered. He would get so mad, you know? About nothing. Some grocer over-charged him once and he couldn't talk of anything but getting revenge for the slight. I think ... well, I think that's why all those grocery store owners were killed."
"You think Jimmy did it? You think he was the Axeman?"
"Oh God. I just don't know. But he would get so agitated and angry, and he talked all the time about his father, how he hated the man for abandoning him, and music. Jazz, jazz, jazz, all the time. He was obsessed with it."
The sitting room was close and hot. Miles ran a finger under his collar. "Mr. Carletti. When did Jimmy come back?"
Carletti still wouldn't meet his gaze. "Eight months ago. Eight months and two weeks. I remember because he came to my door the day after my wife left for Italy. She went to visit her family for the winter, and only came home two weeks ago. That's why Jimmy had to leave. My wife wouldn't have stood for him staying here. And he'd gotten worse. I mean, mentally. I think he had the ... well ..."
"You think he had the what?"
Carletti glanced at the doorway, as if to make sure his wife wasn't eavesdropping. "I think he had the syphilis," he whispered.
Miles frowned. "Why do you think that?"
"I knew men who'd had it. I know the signs. My uncle had it. So when Rosa came home, I told him he couldn't stay anymore, Rosa wouldn't like it. So he took his knapsack and his phonograph and records and left."
"Two weeks ago? Is that when he went to stay in your cousin's stockroom?"
The tears in Carletti's eyes spilled over. He held his head in his hands. "Oh, Sal, what have I done?
Mi dispiace tanto, mai cugino, mai la famiglia
..."
Miles gave him a moment to collect himself, then said, "Did he ever find his father in New York?"
"He ... he never said. I don't think so."
"Did he work for you again when he came back?"
It took Carletti a minute to answer, but he finally wiped the tears away and sniffed, "Just for room and board. Business has been bad. I couldn't afford to pay him wages. But when I sent him to Sal, I told him that Sal could pay him a little for helping out in the grocery. Sal, God keep him, was thankful for the help. And I didn't ... I didn't say a word to Sal about my misgivings."
Carletti burst into tears, sobbing into his hands.
His wife appeared in the doorway, face like stone and arms crossed over her small breasts.
"You leave now," she said. "Leave my husband alone. Go away."
Miles nodded. He put on his hat and saw himself out.
Jimmy Manta had been wandering. He'd left Ventucci's grocery by the back door, leaving the axe behind but taking the time to shove his record collection in a burlap sack. He had to leave the phonograph machine. It pained him to do so, but he could always get another.
He'd made his way down to the Garden District, walked for several hours along St. Charles Avenue and Magazine Street. He thought about nothing for a long time before making his way to Audubon Park. He found a dark spot under a giant oak near a lagoon, stretched out there, and fell asleep.
Amazingly, the coppers didn't roust him, and he woke up with the gray dawn edging in. He knew, finally, where he was going. Back to LaHarpe. Back to Mr. Carletti. He would help him. He had to.
He trudged along, the burlap sack slung over his shoulder. His stomach rumbled, but he drowned it out by humming to himself, "There'll Be Some Changes Made" and "Heebie Jeebies" and "Bleeding Hearted Blues."
It was late morning when he made it to Carletti's street.
And stopped.
There was a young Negro standing on the corner opposite, hands in pockets, looking bored and a little surly. The Negro captured his attention because there weren't any on this block, which was mostly German and Italian. But also because Manta had an undeniable fascination with colored boys of that particular type. It was nothing sexual—he was no pervert—but more a vague sense of envy. The jazz Manta loved so dearly came from
this
type. This charmingly insolent sort of Negro.
But he couldn't possibly have any business here, no
good
sort of business anyway.
The killer crossed the street north at the intersection, away from the boy. He walked up half a block, and then positioned himself behind one of the oak trees that lined the street. He peered around the trunk. Just in time to see the front door of the Carletti home swing open and another black man come out.
This one was much older, maybe in his sixties, but still fit and powerful-looking. He wore a good suit, if not a little muted and modest. Right away, there was something about him that made the killer anxious.
The old man walked with the speed and assurance of someone half his age, swinging a hickory cane, up the street to the younger Negro waiting there. The young man came to attention and the two of them conferred for a moment. Then they started southeast, toward St. Bernard Avenue.
The killer followed at a distance, sweating. His heart pounded double time with fear. The old man. He was bad news. The killer knew it in his gut.
They stopped at St. Bernard and hailed a passing taxi cab. The killer hurried as the taxi drove off, and was lucky enough to snag another one. He only had a few coins in his pocket, could scarcely afford a taxi, but it was vitally important to know where the old man was going, where he was from, what he wanted.
He told the driver to follow, and the next few minutes were spent in mounting terror as they took left and right and left again, and the killer imagined all sorts of disastrous scenarios.
The first taxi turned onto Rue St. Louis, and at the intersection with Royal Street let the old man and the young swell off in front of a club called the VioMiles.
The killer knew the place. He'd been there once before, right after he'd come back to New Orleans. It was a fairly new place for well-heeled types who didn't have to worry about coppers not letting them booze it up. And they always had live bands playing hot jazz.
And it all came clear to him as he got out of his taxi at the opposite corner. He knew who the old man was. The
Times-Picayune
had done a sensational piece on him not long ago.
The owner of the VioMiles.
The semi-famous Negro U.S. Marshal.
Gideon Miles.
The killer's heart fluttered but he breathed deeply and concentrated on calming himself. "
The stars that shine above
," he sang under his breath. "
Will light our way to love ... ah you rule this world with me, I'm the Sheik of Araby ...
"
He had the advantage here. He knew who his enemy was. Not the coppers, not the Black Hand, not anyone but Gideon goddamn Miles.
By 12:30, the VioMiles was hopping. In a remarkably short period of time, the club had become one of the premier destinations in the Quarter, attracting top talent to the stage, and by proxy club-goers with taste and money to burn. Gideon Miles had never intended the club to be for the elite types, black or white, but he wasn't complaining.
Kid Ory's Band was playing for the fourth weekend in a row, back temporarily from a spell in Los Angeles, and featuring a young trumpet player called Armstrong. The dance floor was packed with couples dancing in ways that boggled Miles's mind. Thirty years earlier, he'd seen people arrested for less provocative things.
Cigar smoke hung thick in the air, along with the tang of fine booze, raucous laughter, popping champagne corks. All to the syncopated beat of Kid Ory's laconic drummer.
Violet was in the kitchen, overseeing the wait staff. Little Cat's duties as concierge kept him jumping between the packed foyer, the dining area and the hall. And Miles watched it all from the second floor balcony, hidden from most angles by heavy red drapes.
He smoked his pipe and thought about this strange new world he'd somehow managed to survive into. Hell, not only survive, but thrive. He was well off now, very nearly wealthy, even. He remembered days on the trail, living rough, thinking one day he'd leave it all behind and enjoy the Good Life.
And here the Good Life was, right in front of him. Everything he and Vi had worked for, everything they'd dreamed of.
So why wasn't he enjoying it?
He had to admit it—the last couple of days, on the trail again, tracking down a vicious murderer, he felt more alive and focused than he'd felt in a very long time.
Trouble was just in his blood.
Imagining what Violet would say if he told her any of that made him smile. Best keep that one under his hat, he thought.
Near the bar, Little Cat was waving, trying to get his attention. The young man gestured toward the other end of the bar. Miles scanned the patrons there, spotted a prominent city councilman with a sizeable group of hangers-on.
Miles sighed. The councilman would want to bend his ear a bit, flaunt his connection to the famous lawman-turned-club owner, and Miles would have to smile and endure his company, at least for a few minutes.
He headed downstairs.
* * *
Jimmy Manta waited in the alley behind the VioMiles.
Two busboys came out to smoke. One of them was fat, wearing a white frock that would fit him well enough. But he held back, watching from the shadows behind a cluster of garbage cans. He didn't want to risk two at once.