Pale Shadow (13 page)

He left the edge of the Downtown district and traveled south until he bisected Tchopitoulas Street, then continued southeast until he neared Jackson Avenue. He turned off Tchopitoulas and slowed to a crawl. The neon sign of the B-Sharp Club was visible in the darkness, and just beyond it a car flashed its headlamps twice, and then once more. It was a signal he and Broussard had used in the old days, and he recognized it. He replied with a flash of his own as he cut his wheels into the curbing and killed his engine.

As he got out and walked across the street, he saw the private detective approach him from the opposite direction. Broussard's Panama hat was tipped over his left ear, and his tie was predictably loose at his neck. He was about forty-five years old, a pleasant-looking man with a prizefighter's body beginning to go to seed.

“Man, is this like old times or what?” Broussard greeted him.

“It's like old times, all right. We're sticking out our necks with no money at the end of it. Favorite still inside?”

“Yep. How you want to play it?”

Farrell took off his Borsalino and smoothed his hair before resettling it on his head. “We need to do this with a little finesse. I don't want to touch off a barroom brawl and lose her in the confusion. The smart thing would be to catch her as she leaves and pick her up.”

Broussard nodded. “Manny'll follow her out when she comes and we can catch her between us. Unless she's packing a bigger weapon than what's in her dress, the three of us oughta be enough.” He leered at Farrell.

“You knucklehead. Will you ever grow up?”

Broussard laughed. “Never. Let's take a load off.” He gestured toward his sedan and they went to sit down.

They'd reminisced about scams they'd pulled back in the late '20s and early '30s for nearly an hour when Farrell stretched out a hand. “That's her.” They were out of the car in less time than it takes to breathe.

Jelly paused to fish her keys from her bag, and as she found them she felt their approach. Farrell she recognized, but not the white man with him. She turned to reenter the bar and walked right into the arms of a big brown man wearing a derby hat.

“Don't kick up a fuss, Margaret,” Farrell said. “I'll tie and gag you if you make me.”

She turned to face Farrell, her features blurred with outrage. “If you want a date, call me on the phone. I don't care much for the hard pass.”

“I'm looking for Luis, Margaret. So are you.”

“So? It's a free country.” She worked the keys between her fingers, planning to mark them up if they touched her.

“I'm trying to keep him alive. Compasso wants him killed.”

She snorted. “Says who?”

Farrell shook his head. “Margaret, you're a smart woman, so I won't mince words with you. Everybody knows that Luis pulled some kind of fast one on Compasso and that he brought in a hitter from somewhere. The hitter's been visiting Luis's friends and so far two women close to him have been tortured to death.”

She blinked. “What? What are you talking about?”

“That's right. Luis lived with a woman named Linda Blanc. Somebody tortured her with a hot iron to find out where Luis was. She died of heart failure. Later the killer discovered Wisteria Mullins was Linda's cousin. He went over there and cut slices out of her until he realized she didn't know anything, then he severed her jugular vein and let her bleed out.”

Jelly had gone looking for Martinez for reasons she'd only half-understood at the beginning, but tonight she knew she'd been looking for something of herself, too. It came to her that she'd walked out on a man she couldn't bend, and in penance had bound herself to a man without pity, without feelings of any kind. A wave of sadness washed over Jelly for the woman who had taken her place and died for Luis Martinez. She felt soiled, foolish, and a bit unnecessary.

“What about it, Margaret? You want to let it go until Compasso remembers what good friends you and Luis were? There aren't very many of us left.”

She looked around at the three men, examining their faces. She felt no threat from any of them. Farrell looked tired, but his pale-eyed gaze was steady. “What will you do if you find Luis?” she asked.

“That's up to him,” Farrell replied. “He's in trouble with the cops up to his neck, but he can deal with that when the time comes. The main thing is to make sure he lives long enough to make the decision. Compasso wouldn't kill Luis's friends if he didn't mean to kill Luis, too.”

Once again she examined each man's face for subterfuge. She had confidence in her knowledge of men, and something in her relaxed. “All right. I'll help you.”

“Did the bartender tell you where Luis's hideout is?”

Jelly raised an eyebrow. Like many, she had often wondered if Farrell's reputation was justified, and she began to recognize that it just might be. “He claims to know. Claims to have been there with him lots of times.” She offered Farrell a knowing grin. “Of course, he could've been feeding me a line. It's been known to happen.”

A wisp of a smile fluttered briefly across Farrell's stern mouth. “Can you take me there?”

“Now?”

“The sooner the better. We don't know whether or not Compasso's men have been tipped off by anyone else. If I can get Luis somewhere safe, then I can deal with Compasso.”

She nodded. “It's a long drive. You up to it?”

He nodded. “Jake, tell your men I said thanks. I'll settle up with you before the week's out.”

“You don't want us to come with you?” Broussard asked.

Farrell shook his head. “I'd like you along, but Luis is trigger happy. If I show up with a carload, he might shoot first and ask questions later.” He turned to the big Negro. “Good work, Favorite. I'll see you around.”

“Anytime, boss.”

“C'mon, Margaret. We can take my car.” He clapped Broussard on the shoulder, then took Jelly by the elbow and steered her across the street to his Packard. Seconds later, they headed Uptown on Jackson Avenue.

Favorite rubbed his neck as he stared after them. “Is he as good as they say? He's bitin' off a mighty big chew.”

Broussard laughed. “Yeah, he's almost as good as
he
thinks he is. Let's roll. I'm missing my beauty sleep.”

***

It was nearing 1:00 AM when a telephone began to ring in a darkened bedroom. It was a private, unlisted number known only to a handful of people. A man sleeping beside the telephone snapped to consciousness, the way a trained soldier awakens at the first note of reveille, the way he always did when that particular phone sounded. His eyes glittered in the pale moonlight that seeped between the slats of the Venetian blinds over the bedroom window. His hand went unerringly to the receiver, plucking it from its cradle during the second ring.

“Yes, what is it?” His voice was clear and bold, as though he'd been awake the entire night.

“It's Compasso.”

“What is it?”

“Martinez. He's destroyed the hangar and most of the stockpile of counterfeit money. I'm told the police found scraps of it in the ashes and alerted the Treasury people. To keep Martinez from destroying all of it, I have sent the rest of the bills to our contact in Atlanta using the Railway Express Agency, as usual.”

The man was silent, his eyes blinking as he considered the situation. “I see. All our efforts to mask our base of operations have been undermined, haven't they? And we haven't recovered the plates yet.”

“No. But we may be able to get them without your
asesino
.” There was a haughty satisfaction in his voice. He resented Chavez, and resented even more the fact that the hired killer wasn't reporting to him, personally.

The man ignored Compasso's resentment. “How?”

“My woman. She used to be with Martinez. She told me she could find him. Naturally, I did not trust her. Women are rarely trustworthy in my experience.”

The man in the bed almost smiled. He trusted few men, either. “Get to the point, man.”

“I had two men follow her. To see where she went and who she talked to. They followed her tonight to a bar on Jackson Avenue. She talked for a long time to a Negro bartender who is a friend of Martinez's. The bartender gave her instructions on how to find a camp Martinez has upriver in Saint Charles Parish.”

“So that's where he's been hiding. No wonder none of your people could find him in the city. She has communicated the information to you, then?”

“Outside the bar she met Wesley Farrell and some other men. My men did not hear their conversation, but she and Farrell went off together.”

“I see,” the man said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You were right not to trust her. Where are they now?”

“My men also spoke to the bartender. He did not want to repeat his directions, but he was—convinced—to be helpful. Farrell and the woman are being followed upriver now. With luck, Martinez will be at his hideout, and they can bring him—and the woman—to me.”

“What about Farrell? I'm told he's a dangerous man.”

“He is only
one
man. And I made it clear to my men that they dare not fail me.”

The man in the bed suppressed a sigh. Compasso's great drawback as a leader was his belief that men could be scared into doing anything, even committing suicide, in order to escape Compasso's wrath. “I hope you're right. One more setback and I'm pulling out of here.”

Compasso's voice was silky. “In my country, one does not desert his
companieros
in time of trouble,
amigo
. If we pull out, we pull out together,
entiende
?”

The man continued to rub the bridge of his nose, and when he made no reply, Compasso gently broke the connection, leaving the man to stare up into the darkness above his bed.

Chapter 11

Frank Casey had been routed out of bed in the small hours of the morning with the news that Detective Matt Paret had been taken to Charity Hospital with two bullets in him. Another man might've grumbled at being awakened, but the shooting of a cop was something he moved on. He reached the emergency room at 3:00 and was met by Sergeant Ray Snedegar.

“Tell me what you got, Ray.” The two had worked together for fifteen years, and enjoyed an easy informality.

“Arson near the Third District Ferry slip, boss,” the hatchet-faced detective said. “Fishing trawler set on fire. Nobody knows why Paret was there.”

“He regained consciousness yet?”

“No, but he ought to soon. The wounds weren't serious enough to put him in a coma. They dug two jacketed slugs out of him, either .38 auto or 9 millimeter. Paret must've either crawled off the boat or was carried off by the man who shot him. There's a blood trail leading from the gangplank to the dock.”

Casey nodded. “What was Paret working on?”

Snedegar shook his head. “Nothing that would've taken him to the commercial wharves. He's part of the pawnshop detail, which is about as complicated an investigation as he could handle, his squad commander said.” He shook his head again. “Paret's not a deep thinker, skipper. I can't think of a major case he's cracked.”

Casey frowned. “You've heard the same rumors I have.”

Snedegar's face grew a worried look. “The clothes he wears, you can't help thinkin' it, but nobody's ever caught him with his hands dirty.”

“Which means he must be a lot smarter than we've given him credit for. Who's the owner of the boat?”

“The Captain of the Port says Pete McMasters.”

Casey's head snapped up. “You recognize that name?”

“No.”

“McMasters was one of Big Tony Romero's men. He went underground after the Feds sent Romero to Leavenworth. That boat's been used for something besides hauling fish. Get McMasters and turn the wrecking crew loose on him. Paret wasn't shot over a pawnshop item or a load of codfish.”

“On my way, boss. You gonna stick it out here?”

“I'll be the first face Paret sees when he wakes up. I'll be at the station once I've talked to him.”

“See you there.” Snedegar departed, leaving Casey to walk to the nursing station.

An attractive nurse with prematurely gray hair looked up at Casey with a tired smile. “Hi, Frank.”

“Hello, Julie. Still working the graveyard shift, eh?”

Her smile brightened. “One good thing about it, when I ask for a vacation, they give it to me, no questions asked. You here about the wounded detective?”

“Yeah. What can you tell me? Can I see him?”

She checked a clipboard. “Post-op report is pretty encouraging. A bullet broke two ribs and punctured his right lung, and a second bullet smashed his right shoulder. He's hurt, but he'll recover.”

“Can I see him?”

She cocked a skeptical eyebrow. “I don't know what good he'll be, but c'mon. I'll take you to him.”

She got up from her desk and led Casey down a hall and into a small room. Paret lay on a bed with an oxygen tent over his head and upper body. Whole blood was being fed into his left arm and saline solution was going into his right. His face looked flaccid and pale. Casey winked at Julie, then pulled up a chair and drew it close to Paret's bed. He took a cold pipe from his coat pocket, placed the stem between his teeth, then sat back to wait.

Forty minutes had gone by when a low moan reached Casey's waiting ears. He sat up, his attention glued to Paret's face as the man returned to consciousness, licking his dry lips, grimacing as the pain hit him.

“Paret. Matt Paret. Can you hear me?”

Paret groaned again, and with an effort, he raised his eyelids. “Cap—Captain Casey? Where'm I?”

“You're at Charity Hospital. Who shot you, Paret?”

“Wha—?”

“You heard me, Paret. Who shot you?”

“Dunno. Dark. Hard to see.”

Casey was on his feet now, watching the wounded man's face. “What took you to the docks last night?”

Paret was almost completely awake now, and his face froze as the import of the question hit him. “What?”

“Why were you there, Paret? You're on the pawnshop detail. Since when does that take you to the waterfront?”

“Can't think. Pain—real bad pain in—”

“Don't try to bullshit me, Detective. I know just how badly hurt you are, and you're actually in pretty good shape. You're going to live, and if you don't answer my questions, I'll let Internal Affairs put you through the meat grinder. There are too many questions about you, Detective Paret. There have been ever since Joe Dante was the big noise in this town. If you want to help yourself, you'd better open up, get me?”

Paret was already pale, but as Casey spoke, his flesh blanched to the color of milk. “I—I got a tip.”

“A tip about what?”

“About Luis Martinez.” Paret's eyes were sunken in his face, but Casey could see the fear in them.

Casey looked down at the wounded detective, fixing the man's eyes with a cold stare. “You got a tip about Martinez, but you didn't contact your squad commander, or Inspector Grebb? You made a decision to go somewhere in the middle of the night, with no backup, to try to arrest a known armed felon?” Casey's teeth were bared under his red mustache. “Your boss thinks you're pretty dumb, Paret, but I believe you've got more brains than that.”

Paret licked his dry lips. His left hand lay exposed on the sheet, twitching nervously. “I—I wanted to make a major case. Sure, it was stupid, but—”

“Cut it out, Paret. Let me tell you my theory. Luis Martinez has declared war on Santiago Compasso. Yesterday he burned up a building full of counterfeit money and killed three men. Now if I'm to believe you at all, Martinez burned that boat and he burned it for one reason—it belonged to Compasso, too. The skipper is an ex-rum runner named McMasters. Right now they're frying him under a hot light at headquarters. I've got ten bucks that says he'll name Compasso as the real owner of the boat.”

“I dunno what you're talkin' about.”

“Sure you do. Nobody else on this case knows the boat belongs to Compasso. The only reason you'd have been there is that you already knew it was Compasso's boat, and you doped it out that Martinez would strike there next.” Casey laughed bitterly. “You've had everybody thinking you were dead weight all these years, Paret. It was a good act. Too bad you're nothing but a cheap crook.”

“You got no right to say that. I got shot tryin' to make an arrest and you're givin' me the third degree.”

Casey shook his head, his eyes gleaming malevolently. “You know what happens to cops when they get to Angola, Paret? I sent Murphy Culloz there five years ago and they had to put him in solitary to keep him alive. He got out last May, but they tell me he's still lookin' over his shoulder. Culloz was a saint compared to you. You'll be up there until you've got a gray beard hanging to your knees, if somebody doesn't shank you first.”

Paret's eyes were large and sick, his mouth working as though he was about to vomit. “
Awright, awright!
Stop it awready. I worked for Compasso. I gave him information, did favors for him. Nothin' big, Captain, I swear.”

“Nothing big. Tell me that when they send you upstate to work in the cane fields. Now what about Martinez?”

“Like you said. I made a guess he'd hit the boat. I tried to take him alive so I could get the plates back. Thought he'd play ball, but he threw a gasoline bomb at me. I fired. Hit him, I think, but he fired back, got me. I don't know nothin' after that until I wake up here.”

“Plates? What are you talking about?”

Paret looked even more diminished than before. He shook his head. “Martinez and Compasso fell out over a split. Martinez got his hands on the engravings and took off. We been tearin' the town apart tryin' to find him.”

“So that's why the two women were killed? Martinez stole the plates and shut the operation down? What's the killer's name, Paret?”

“I dunno, Captain. Compasso brought him from outa town last month. I never seen him. Don't even know his name.”

“I'll bet.” Casey turned away from the wounded man. There was nothing about discovering a dirty cop to make a man feel good. “All right, Paret. You can consider yourself under arrest. I'll have some men put on the door for your own protection and I'll have a stenographer come in later to take your statement. I suspect it'll take quite a while.” He left the room without looking back.

He asked a uniformed officer in the hall to take up a position at Paret's door, then he went to find a pay phone. It was going to be a long day, but some arrests would make him feel better about it.

***

Farrell took Jackson Avenue north until he reached Claiborne Avenue, then turned west on U. S. 90. Jelly, resting her long bare arm on the open window ledge, was silent as they slipped through the dark streets, occasionally casting a quick glance at Farrell's expressionless face. It made her feel strange to be with him this way. He had been gracious to her when she and Luis had been together, something that clashed wildly with the reputation he had. A different woman might have been afraid.

“You wouldn't have a cigarette, would you?” she asked. “I ran out at the bar and forgot to buy more.”

Farrell brought out his hammered silver cigarette case and popped the lid open. “Light one for me, too, will you?”

Without thinking, she put two in her mouth and set fire to them. It was only after she took one from her mouth to hand to him that she realized she'd presumed an intimacy with him that she wouldn't even have dared with Compasso.

He took the cigarette from her and stuck it in the corner of his mouth without hesitation. “Thanks.” He drew on it, letting the smoke feather out of his nose.

She smoked in silence for a mile or two, then words rose to her lips. “You're a funny kind of guy, Farrell.”

“Yeah. I'm taking over
The Pepsodent Hour
the next time Bob Hope takes a vacation.”

“Don't treat me like I'm just some dumb twist, okay? You're sticking your neck out with the cops for a Negro. I don't get why you're doing it. What's your angle? Some of the rake-off from the scam Spanish is running? Or do you just want to stick a thumb in his eye, too?”

He cut his pale eyes at her and she felt the chill as they fell on her. “I'm trying to help Luis stay alive, and you, too. Compasso won't like you going against him.”

That bothered her, and she sat back quickly, blinking to keep fearful tears back. It was only now that she began to feel frightened. Farrell must have felt the spike of fear rising in her, for he spoke in a soothing voice.

“Don't worry, Margaret. Compasso will be out of business this time tomorrow. The cops are wise to him and pretty soon they'll have enough to put him away for a hundred years. He won't be around to bother you.”

His quiet assurance calmed her, and her boldness returned. “That's what I don't get. Why should you care what a colored woman thinks, or whether or not a colored man lives or dies?” She waved a dismissive hand in the air between them. “Oh, I know all about the stories they tell about the great white hope, Wes Farrell, who reaches down to help all the poor, helpless niggers in distress.” She paused, inhaled an impatient drag of smoke, using it to keep the quaver out of her voice. “White people don't help us unless there's an angle, so what's yours, Farrell?”

Her frankness surprised him, as tired as he was. Men never asked him why he did the things he did. It was always the women who tried to understand, who wanted an explanation for why he behaved in ways that were inexplicable in a white man.

“I could ask you that, Margaret. You've got it made with Compasso. You've been with him a couple of years now, but you're blowing all that up to help Luis. I was always Luis's friend, but you walked out on him a long time ago.”

She deliberately ignored his question. “You're probably the only man in town who still calls me Margaret. That's what I'm talking about. I hate being called ‘Jelly,' and for some reason you bothered to know that without me saying a word. That's what I don't get. A white man caring about a colored girl's Goddamned little feelings without wanting something back for it.”

Farrell laughed softly. “Jelly's a pretty dumb nickname. Maybe I just feel sorry for you.”

She gave him a hard stare, but decided to finally answer his question. “The reason I'm helping Luis is that I gave him a raw deal once. I hooked up with Santiago because—well, I guess it was because I knew from the beginning he was no good. When you're with somebody like that, you can ignore almost everything he says or does because you know he doesn't care and you don't care either. So when the day comes, you can walk away and not feel two cents worth of regret about it.”

“And that's what you're doing tonight.”

“Yeah.”

“But you're doing it for Luis, too. You still care about something, Margaret.”

She turned her head, tried to think of something to say in reply. When she couldn't, she turned her eyes back to the road and remained silent.

Jelly had told Farrell enough of the bartender's directions that he was able to figure a shorter route. Traveling west, he reached the village of Harahan, turning south to intersect the river road. Before long, they began to see the landmarks—the general store belonging to a man named Joe LaGrange, the burnt remains of an antebellum plantation house, and finally the two ancient oaks whose giant limbs swayed just inches from the ground around it.

“Otis said it was less than a mile from here,” Jelly said. “Somewhere on the left.”