The Righteous Cut (10 page)

“Fine. My mechanic moved to Los Angeles a while ago. Didn't know of anybody else until I spoke to your nephew.”

“Yeah, he's a good enough kid. Just triflin' and girl crazy is all. Could'a made a decent mechanic outa him if he'd hung around longer. Well, lemme get back, Mr.—”

“Brown, Frank Brown. I'll see you tomorrow then.”

Coupé walked back to his car, then drove out of the neighborhood. Blessey was sharp, but his responses to Coupé's remarks about Skeeter had been too spontaneous. If the kid were there, he'd have been more guarded.

Coupé drove around the edge of the neighborhood, reentering two blocks down from Blessey's compound. From there, he had an unobstructed view of anyone approaching. He took a pair of army surplus binoculars out of the glove compartment and put the gun on the seat behind him. He wanted this over, so why did he dread it so much?

***

Frank Casey hadn't been in the office very long before Nick Delgado appeared. Casey considered the lab man an indispensable member of his team, but the man, himself, was self-effacing to a fault. “Hello, Nick. Got something?”

“A beginning,” the lab man replied. “Jimmy Doughtery and the other men at the shoe repair shop were killed with a Smith & Wesson .32, but the Amsterdam and Callahan killings were both done with the same .22 automatic, same kind of ammunition.”

“A .32's not much gun for a stick-up artist or a hired killer,” Casey mused.

“Smith & Wesson manufactures a target grade .32 with match sights and oversized grips,” Delgado replied. “A different gun, but still a sharpshooter's weapon. Could still be the same shooter. Two of the four guys at Bockman's were shot twice, just like Amsterdam and Callahan.”

Casey fingered his chin. “Amsterdam and Callahan were two of Whit Richards' closest associates. I think they were targeted and stalked by a pro. The massacre at Bockman's is too heavy-handed to be the same man.”

“Maybe,” Nick replied. “I'm checking all the ballistic evidence with other cases to see if we can find a match.”

Casey grunted. “What else?”

“Been working on that tie bar Daggett found. I didn't think it'd be worth much, but I kept playing with it.”

“Uh, huh.”

He put an eight by ten color photo on Casey's desk that brought the small details of the tie bar into sharp relief. “For one thing, this is a very nice piece of goods. It's twenty-four carat gold with diamond chips in the valves. The manufacturer is a firm in Kansas City.”

“Really? Were you able to get in touch with them?”

“Caught them this morning. Apparently these were a special order for a local distributor. The office manager there said that they'd placed them in four different men's stores here, just a handful in each one because they're pricey, about thirty-five bucks apiece.”

“Big money. You get the names of the shops?”

“Sure did. They're all located Downtown.”

“I don't guess you found any prints or anything?”

“Didn't really expect to, chief. The way the thing's been engraved and detailed.”

“Well, that would've been asking for a miracle.”

“There is one thing I did find. It's no immediate help, but it's worth telling your investigators.”

“What's that?”

“Embedded in some of the engraving I found traces of powdered cocaine. The owner probably used the tie bar to spoon cocaine to his nose.”

Casey nodded. “That might be worth something.”

“Let me get back to work on that ballistic evidence. I'll call you when I've got something more.” He excused himself and departed for the lab.

Casey pulled the telephone toward him and dialed an internal number. “Ray, this is Casey. I've got a line on that tie bar Daggett found. We need to send some men Downtown to check a few men's stores.” He gave Snedegar a few details then hung up.

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face. More than a day after the kidnapping and not a single real lead yet. He hoped Farrell was having better luck.

Chapter 9

Daggett and Andrews gave up their search for Skeeter Longbaugh not long after visiting Mabel Evans and drove home. Daggett found his wife, Margurite, awake when he arrived. She was long past the nausea and vomiting stage of her pregnancy, but she sometimes had trouble sleeping because of backache. Daggett shared a cup of mint tea with her, then rubbed her back and legs until she slept.

Daggett had come to cherish these moments. The pregnancy was unexpected, but he was happy about it. Knowing he had a child on the way had somehow mellowed him, made his job seem easier to bear.

When he and Andrews arrived at the office Friday, they found Detective Merlin Gautier waiting for them with news.

“Even though this Longbaugh kid has no priors, I kept asking people about him,” Gautier explained. “I eventually found somebody who knew him pretty well.”

“How well?”

“The fella's a mechanic, and he knew Longbaugh from working in a garage with him,” Gautier replied. “Nobody else we talked to mentioned that.”

“No. The kid doesn't seem to have many friends.”

Gautier grinned. “Too busy chasin' the skirts, my man. But that's not the good part.”

“So what is?”

“Man said the garage he and Longbaugh worked at belongs to Longbaugh's uncle, a man named Howard Blessey.”

“And?”

“Blessey's a car thief. He went down for a three spot at Parchman in 1919. I pulled his sheet and discovered he's a pretty hard old boy. He's had twenty-seven arrests since then, but never gone to trial. He's believed to have killed several rivals, too.”

“Nice work, Merle. Where's Blessey's garage?”

“On Olive in Gerttown. You get anything last night?”

“We talked to a couple of his girlfriends, but they couldn't or wouldn't help us.”

“The way I figure it,” Gautier said, “the kid's got no place else to turn but his old uncle the car thief.”

Daggett nodded. “Let's take a ride.”

***

Howard Blessey returned to his office and saw his employee still fiddling with the fuel pump, the radio blasting wide open. Blessey noted the telephone receiver standing on end and spoke to the man. “For me?” he shouted.

“Huh?”

Uttering a growl, Blessey reached up and shut the radio off. “The phone. Is it for me, you Goddamn knucklehead?”

“Oh, yessir. Sorry. I plumb forgot.”

“Get outa here before I put a boot in your ass.”

As the man ran out, Blessey grabbed the phone. “Yeah?”

“It's Skeeter, Unca Howard. I got some bad trouble.”

“What kinda trouble?”

“Two white men forced me to help 'em kidnap a white girl yesterday. They killed my friend Butterbean doin' it. I reckon they lookin' for me now. Prob'ly the cops, too.”

“Hell,” the old man growled. “I reckon now you wished you'd stayed here in the grease pit, don't you?”

“Yessir, but that ain't helpin' me just this minute.”

“How far away are you?”

“Down Esplanade. If I catch a bus I might could get there in forty-five minutes.”

“Okay, but be careful. By now the cops know you're related to me, and if they know that, they know I ain't the friendly neighborhood grease monkey. Come in from the east. You can see if anybody's hangin' around before you get here.” The old man paused as something occurred to him. “Tell me, you been talkin' up the garage to anybody lately?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“How about a man named Frank Brown? Deep black skin, hard around the eyes and a bad scar along his jaw.”

Skeeter was silent for a moment. “Don't recollect nobody like that.”

“Get your ass over here. Now.”

The boy hung up without further conversation.

As the old man walked to the office door he saw a black Dodge slow to a stop across the street. Howard made them for Negro cops as soon as the three men got out of the car. He went back into the office as though he hadn't seen them.

He was at his inventory when the door opened. Blessey looked up at a tall, lanky brown man. “Help you, mister?”

The tall man opened his hand, revealing a gold star and crescent shield. “Sergeant Daggett. Are you Mr. Blessey?”

“I am. What can I do for you?”

Daggett led two more men into the office. “This is Detective Andrews and Detective Gautier. We'd like to ask you some questions about your nephew, Skeeter Longbaugh.”

Howard poked out his lip thoughtfully. “Hell, I ain't seen the boy in weeks. He in some kinda trouble?”

“Some kind. A white girl was kidnapped yesterday and a man was murdered. Skeeter hasn't been to work, and he hasn't been home, either. In fact, nobody's seen him.”

Blessey waved a dismissive hand. “Man, you're barkin' up the wrong tree. He ain't got many brains, but he's got enough not to do that.” He laughed in a dry clatter.

Daggett nodded. “Maybe, but the fact that he disappeared looks bad for him. I've got a hunch, though.”

“What kind?”

“Your nephew hasn't got a black mark against him and everybody speaks well of him. It could be he was forced to help the kidnappers.” Daggett pushed his hat back off his forehead and gave the old man a sympathetic look. “The only way we can clear him is to find the criminals.”

Blessey shook his head tiredly. “Man, this gettin' to be a tough ole world when a boy can't mind his business without a bunch of ofays draggin' him into their shit.”

“Who said anything about white men?”

Blessey lifted his head and saw Daggett staring at him. “Sorry, I thought you did. Makes sense, though—these folks kidnapped a white gal. Our kind would know better'n to do somethin' as crazy as that.”

“Do him a favor and get him to turn himself in.”

Blessey nodded solemnly. “If I hear from the boy, I'll talk to him, Sergeant. You can take that to the bank.”

Daggett rested a foot on the seat of an empty chair, stared down at the old car thief. “Mr. Blessey, I believe in being fair. We know you got a record, and there are people at headquarters who think you're still in the hot car racket. If I find out you've been hiding Skeeter, I'll send you back to prison. That's something
you
can take to the bank. Let's go, fellas. We're through here.”

Blessey maintained a straight face through Daggett's threat, and he watched silently as the detectives filed out of the office. When their car pulled away, the old man spat in the waste basket. “You're just as slick as glass, ain't you, Mr. Nee-Grow Detective? Shit.” He went to the door and shouted into the garage bays. “Lonnie. C'mere a minute.”

A skinny brown man in grease-stained overalls and cap came at a lope. “What'd the cops want, Howard?”

Blessey grinned at him affectionately. “You can sure smell one, can't you, Lonnie? Skeeter's knee-deep in shit. We got to get him outa town tonight. Get that Oldsmobile ready and fill up the tank. You're takin him to Houston.”

Lonnie nodded wisely. “He can get lost but good there in the Fifth Ward. I'll get right to it.”

“Good. Keep your eyes open, too. People liable to be snoopin' around here, if they ain't already.”

“Cops?”

“Cops and worse, boy. Lots worse.”

***

“Take us to that sweet shop over on Telemachus,” Daggett said.

Andrews turned the wheel at Pine Street and took them past Xavier University to Dixon Street. “What now?”

Daggett already had the microphone off the dashboard clip. “Inspector 51 to Dispatch.”

“Dispatch. Go ahead Fifty-one.”

“Have Officer Park meet us at Shallowhorne's Sweet Shop on South Telemachus Street immediately, over.”

“Park to Shallowhorne's on South Telemachus, wilco.”

Daggett replaced the microphone and turned to look at Gautier. “Merle, I want you and Eddie to take a plant on Blessey's place. My gut tells me the kid's not there yet, but the old man's too cool about it. That tells me he already knows the whole story. If the boy comes close enough for you to grab him, bring him downtown. If you see him enter the garage from the other direction, call for backup. I'll get more cars in here and we'll box him in.”

“Sounds simple enough,” Gautier said.

Daggett grunted. “If it is, I'll buy you a steak.”

***

Whit Richards left Meredith's apartment before sunup, driving back to his Coliseum Street home, where he showered, shaved and changed into fresh clothing. He was back in his study when he heard the dulled whirring of the private telephone in his desk drawer. Unlocking it quickly, he brought it out and spoke into it. “Hello?”

“Morning, Rico,” Pete Carson said.

“Don't call me that, you damn louse. Where's my kid?”

“Now, now, Whit. Let's not get our bowels in an uproar before breakfast. Very bad for the digestion.”

“Goddamn you, what the hell do you want so badly that you've got to kidnap a helpless kid? If you want a piece of me, tell me where to meet you and we'll settle it like men.”

Carson laughed. “That's good, coming from you. You decide to kill Old Man Tarkington, then you set me up to take the fall for it. Now you've had a good long run without me here to get a share of it. There's no such thing as a free ride, Rico. You got to pay the fare.”

Richards felt his neck swell and tore open his collar. “What do you want?”

“Well, Whit, I guess you can say that I want it all, including you. See, I don't want you dead. You're no good to me that way. I need your contacts in the government to make sure our little family enterprise keeps us nice and fat. Then there are all those legitimate businesses you're in, the businesses you bought into with the money we stole together. I'm going to be your silent partner from here on out.”

“Sure, come on down and take the office next to mine,” Richards sneered. “We'll have a rare time, you bastard.”

“It won't be quite like that, Whit. But I'll be around, and I'll have men watching Georgia, and Jessica, and that cute little doll you've got on the side. Yes, I know about her, too. I could reach out and take her just like I took Jessica, so you'd better start thinking about how we're going to work together, brother of mine.”

“Brother,” he said in a raw voice. “We had the same mother, but don't dare call me your brother.”

Carson's voice thickened to a growl, his words hot. “Suit yourself, Whit, but if you won't play ball, then we'll just see how many of your womenfolk have to bleed.”

As the enormity of Carson's plan hit him, Richards felt his legs go rubbery. He sank into his desk chair, all but numb. “Y-you leave Merry alone. Leave her alone or I'll—”

“You'll do nothing. I'll give you until tomorrow night to think it over. If you don't come across, I'll have my men hit a few more of your money factories. Once you understand that you can't lick me, we'll talk again.”

“You sonofa—” Before Richards could complete the curse the connection was broken. He tapped the cradle to get the dial tone and quickly dialed Meredith's number. It buzzed three times before she answered. “Merry, it's Whit. Don't talk, just listen. The man who kidnapped Jess has just threatened—well, it doesn't matter what he said. You need to be careful, understand? I'll send Rob to get you for work and take you home, at least until this is cleared up. I don't want you going anywhere by yourself, do you hear?”

“Why, yes, Whit. Of course. This man, this Pete Carson. He's trying to use me against you, isn't he?”

“Yes, sweetheart, I'm afraid he is. But he isn't going to get the chance. Make sure your door is double-bolted and don't answer it until you know it's Rob. I'm calling him now to give him instructions.”

“Darling, I'm frightened. Don't let him hurt you.” She spoke earnestly, seemingly without concern for herself.

“He won't. I—I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you, too, Whit. Don't let him beat us.”

“No. He won't.” He broke the connection, then he got up and left the study. He found Georgia standing in the hall, her eyes like flint.

“Taking care of business, Whit?” Her voice was harsh, guttural, her words layered with contempt.

He stared at her coldly. “Stay in the house, Georgia. I'm going to ask the sheriff to station some deputies outside to make sure nobody tries to come in.”

“Why how thoughtful. You actually care whether or not somebody kidnaps or kills me?” She began to laugh. She kept laughing as Richards pushed past her toward the stairs.

***

The ground fog had burned away as Farrell headed back to the city. He lit a cigarette, remembering the old days when he and King Arboneau had been the bitterest of rivals. Farrell knew that “The King” would remember, too.

Farrell turned off Canal to Derbigny Street and slowed to a crawl. He took the left at Conti Street and pulled to the curb across the street from a corner market. The store, Farrell knew, was a front for a bookmaking operation upstairs. He knew, as well, that Arboneau's men sold gange and heroin from the candy counter inside. Kids Arboneau hooked on dope, he then put out to whore or steal. That was just penny ante crime, though. Arboneau controlled all the gambling and narcotics in this part of town, and a vast network of prostitutes. Many were older women who were nearly played out, but the King found plenty of suckers to lie down with them and pay for the privilege.

He crossed the quiet street to the market, pausing to drop his cigarette on the pavement. Casting a quick look around, he entered the store. Inside, he found three dusty aisles of canned food, bread, and packaged goods. A beefy white man in a blood-stained butcher's coat looked up from slicing a rack of pork ribs, shooting a quick glance at the boy who lounged near a cash register cleaning his fingernails with a watermelon knife. As he moved deeper into the store, Farrell noticed a pretty, fair-skinned girl with her hair tucked up into a net. She looked up with a wary expression from the pan of potato salad she was making. As Farrell's eyes met hers, she looked quickly away.