The Righteous Cut (11 page)

The butcher leaned a hairy forearm on the counter top. “What'll it be, mister? Got some fresh pork chops, some Gulf shrimp if you're interested.” He showed Farrell a smile full of yellow teeth and insincerity.

“I want to talk to the King.”

The butcher's face flattened. “You said which? What king you talkin' about, mister?”

Farrell saw a flicker in the butcher's eyes and knew the cashier with the knife must be closing in. “I didn't come to make trouble. I just want to talk to Arboneau. Tell him Wesley Farrell's down here. He'll recognize the name.” As he spoke, Farrell pivoted on his right foot, surprising the cashier. The narrow blade in the boy's hand was waist high, his thumb poised on the ricasso for a quick thrust.

“Stay where you are,” the butcher said. He turned to the startled looking girl. “Gabrielle, call upstairs to the boss and ask him what he wants to do.”

As Gabrielle moved to do the butcher's bidding, the boy found himself facing Farrell's icy gaze. He blinked nervously, his knife hand wavered. He was used to handling kids, rubes, and drunks. Slowly, he lowered the knife.

Farrell nodded slowly. “That may be the first smart move you've made this week. Now fold that thing up before your hand does something your brain didn't intend.”

The boy folded the long thin blade into its handle and slid it into his hip pocket, then backed away until his rump bumped into the checkout counter. Behind him, Farrell heard the girl speak softly to the butcher.

Farrell turned at the butcher's approach, saw him stop abruptly a few feet away. “The King said you can come up, but you've got to stand for a frisk. He don't 'low no guns up there.” The butcher stepped closer, holding his hands out.

Farrell's gun appeared like cards from a magician's sleeve, stopping the butcher dead in his tracks. “You won't put your hands on me.” He ejected the magazine from it, then proffered the empty Luger to the butcher, who took it gingerly, eyeing Farrell warily.

“Take the stairs,” the butcher said hoarsely.

“Thanks.” On the other side of a swinging door, he mounted a dusty staircase to the second floor. At the head of the stairs, he heard telephones ringing and the murmur of men taking bets. He saw an open door on the left and stepped through it.

A fat, white-haired old man and a reedy, bespectacled youth sat at a large desk counting money into bundles that they bound with rubber bands. They looked up as Farrell's shadow fell across the desk. The old man stared through beady black eyes set deeply on either side of a prominent nose. “What do you want, Farrell?”

Farrell straddled a chair. “How long have you operated out of this dump?”

Arboneau glowered, but his eyes were cloudy with regret. “A long while now. What's it to you?”

“Nothing. Just remembering the old days.”

“The old days are gone. What do you want, Farrell? You didn't come in here just to goad me.”

“How's to talk without the audience?” Farrell said, jerking his chin at the teenage boy who still busied himself counting money. He appeared unaware of Farrell.

“Don't worry, he's deaf as a post. Hell of a bookkeeper, though. Great concentration. Speak your piece.”

“Whit Richards.”

Arboneau's eyes became hooded as he leaned back in his chair. “What about him?”

Farrell smiled. “You need to work on your poker face, King. You don't seem surprised.”

“I hear about him all the time. What of it?”

“So somebody snatched his kid, as if you didn't know. There's an interesting symmetry in that.”

“Cemetery? What're you talkin' about?”

“No, symmetry. It's when things are in balance with each other. Richards had your son killed, now his kid's missing. Interesting, huh?”

Arboneau stood up, his face suddenly pale. “What the hell you tryin' to pull?”

“Sit down, King. We're not through talking yet. And tell four-eyes there to put both of his hands on the table. For a deaf man, he seems awfully nervous. If he twitches one more time, I'm liable to cut his arm off.”

The youngster's head jerked up, his eyes wide behind the thick lenses. When he saw Farrell's eyes on him, he slowly placed his hands flat on the surface.

Arboneau grimaced at the boy. “Wait outside, Cal.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. He got up and left the room.

“You were always too quick to shoot from the hip, King. Richards is no friend of mine. Maybe I'd like to take a whack at him while he's on his knees.”

“That's nothin' to do with me, Farrell. I own this part of town and it's been good to me. Richards don't want no part of it, and that suits me fine.”

“Wait until somebody else wants to buy it,” Farrell said dryly. “The zoning board chairman'll be over here and the next thing you know, you'll be sitting on the levee in your skivvies. You're talking like a man who's gone soft.”

“Maybe I have. I ain't young no more, and I ain't got nobody to help me do better.” His lined face was sullen.

“Don't kid me, old man. You use this dump for a front while you make book, peddle dope, and run whores who aren't old enough to vote. Thanks to that, you own most of this neighborhood and everything in it.”

Arboneau shrugged. “Make up your mind. Either I'm washed up or I'm a tycoon. You can't have it both ways.”

Farrell laughed cynically. “You know, I've conducted an unofficial poll. Nobody in the city has more reasons to hate Richards than you do, and you're one of the few who's got the brains to test him.” He leaned forward, crowding the white-haired man. “But you haven't got the guts to do this by yourself. Who's working the string, Arboneau?”

Arboneau's face grew red and his hands bunched into fists. “I don't know what you're talkin' about. Sure, Richards hurt me plenty. It's taken years to build myself up again. Y'think I'm gonna risk losin' it again? Do you?”

“Not even to pay him back for your son?”

Arboneau raised a fist, then turned jerkily away, letting his arm fall slowly to his side. “God damn you,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “Tel was all I had. Ain't it enough that he's dead without you comin' over here to rub it in? Tel had a big mouth. I told him. I told him more than once not to shoot it off about Richards.” He turned back to Farrell, his dark eyes blazing, brimming with unshed tears. “All these years later, and still I feel like my heart's been torn out by the roots. No.” He shook his head wearily. “I'm tired and I'm sick. Richards is too big for me, Farrell. He proved it twice.” He turned away, his face pinched by something that might have been shame.

Farrell stared at the fat man's back, feeling the defeat and grief come off Arboneau in waves. Was it real or was the old fox slipping him a load of hay? “Okay, King. You're as innocent as a newborn babe and you're yellow clear through. If that's what you're selling, I guess I'll have to buy it. Sorry I bothered you.” When Arboneau didn't reply, Farrell turned very deliberately before walking through the door. In the hall, he found Gabrielle in a huddle with Cal. She had a protective arm about him, a hand stroking his face as she spoke to him in a low voice. Neither looked at or spoke to Farrell as he passed.

Returning to the ground floor, he retrieved his gun from the nervous butcher before walking to the car. As he turned the ignition and fed the Packard gas, he fought a sense of frustration. He was no closer to finding Jessica Richards than when he'd begun.

As he drove back toward Canal Street, he noticed on the dashboard clock that it was nearly noon. He turned in the direction of police headquarters to meet his father for lunch, wondering if he had any better news.

Chapter 10

Farrell arrived at his father's office to find him talking on the telephone. With a quick grin, he gestured for his son to enter as he concluded his conversation.

“Cuba agrees with you, son,” he said as he placed the receiver back in the cradle. “You're losing that gambler's pallor.” He came around the desk to throw his arms around Farrell. They slapped backs affectionately.

Farrell took Casey by the shoulders and looked at him critically. “I think you're getting younger, Dad.”

“Well, I feel younger anyway. It's been so busy around here that I can't quite believe the wedding's in two days. It was great of you to come back to stand up with me.”

Farrell laughed. “You needed a best man, didn't you?”

“Sit down,” Casey said. “We can go grab a bite as soon as White shows up to look after the office. Want to hit that little dump on Poydras and have some étouffé?”

“Great. What's the latest on the Richards case?”

Casey gave a rueful grin. “Confusion. The Amsterdam and Callahan murders were professional hits with a pro's weapon. A .22 High Standard automatic. The bookie joint was something else entirely.”

“How so?”

“It looks as though it was a heist. Snedegar believes it was the last stop on Jimmy Daughtery's route, and the killer knew that. He took the money, then shot all of the witnesses. This one seems to fancy himself a sharpshooter, too. According to Delgado he used a .32 Smith & Wesson target revolver.”

Farrell plucked idly at a hair growing on the back of his hand. “I've never known a hit man to vary his weapon. The target gun angle must be a coincidence. Besides, the crimes are completely different. Amsterdam and Callahan were two of Richards' closest confidants. The kidnapping of Jessica Richards has to be connected to those murders.”

Casey frowned, nodded slowly. “That would mean the killer's boss wants to isolate Richards from his best brains. Once he weakens Richards enough—bingo.”

Farrell rubbed his chin. “Before I left town, it was Callahan, Amsterdam, and Vic D'Angelo calling the shots in Richards' organization.” Farrell paused to tug thoughtfully at his earlobe. “I'd hate to be Vic D'Angelo today.”

“You know it,” Casey replied. “You pick up anything in your travels?”

Farrell sat down and put his hat on the corner of Casey's desk. “I'm not sure. I've been making the rounds of Richards's known enemies. Fletch Monaghan dummied up, claimed to know nothing about any of it. Kurt Van Zandt said he didn't know anything, either. He was nervous enough to be lying, but maybe he's just scared I'd think he'd plot against Richards. He's got a yellow streak a mile wide.”

Casey raised an eyebrow as he clasped his hands over his stomach. “Who else have you talked to?”

“So far, only King Arboneau. Richards rooked him out of thousands in property, and was behind the death of Arboneau's son. He claims to be afraid of Richards, but I felt hate coming off him like stink from a garbage pail.”

Casey stared at Farrell, concentrating on every word. “Tell me more about the wife. Why did she come to you?”

“She had several reasons,” Farrell replied. “The biggest was that with the police thrown off the case, there was no one looking for her daughter. Then there's her belief that one of Whit's former associates is behind it.”

“And?” Casey held Farrell's gaze.

“She knew me when my scruples were a lot more flexible than they are now. She figures I can't be scared off—or pushed off the search.”

“You could have told her no.”

Farrell looked away. “I should have, but for some reason I couldn't.” He paused. “Before she married Richards, she was my girlfriend. She left me for him.” He paused again, smiling ruefully. “None of that makes it any of my business. I'll butt out now, if you say so.”

Casey snorted. “Not this time. I've kept the case alive by investigating the murders, but I want to find that girl a lot more than I want to jail a bunch of hoods for killing each other.” He opened a file folder on his desk and took out Jessica Richards' photograph. “She's a good-looking girl. Mature for her age.” He glanced up at Farrell, frowning. “If she were mine, I'd have a hard time playing this so close to the vest.”

Farrell grunted. “Richards is a pretty hard boy. Maybe he is worried, in his own way.” He folded his arms. “I don't like this. I don't have a single decent lead.”

“Don't be so impatient. You've already picked up information we didn't have. If you get any more hunches, play them. You're working for me, as of now.”

Farrell let a grin steal over his face. “Do I get a tin badge, too?”

Casey blew a raspberry at him. “Not on your life. Who's left on your list of enemies?”

“I'm going to see Neil Gaudain. He's the nephew of old man Tarkington. Richards cheated him out of a sugar refinery years ago.”

“And used the proceeds to help Sheriff Tim Marerro win his first election. I just got word that Marerro's detailed a squad of deputies to guard Mrs. Richards and his staff.” Casey snorted. “With Marerro in his pocket, Richards has all the police protection he wants without worrying about them snooping into things he doesn't want looked at.”

Farrell raised an eyebrow. “You know, even if Gaudain or any of these others I've talked to are involved in this scheme, there's still got to be somebody running the show. But who is he? Where did he come from?”

“That's a good question,” Casey replied. “Whoever he is, he couldn't just show up with a new gang. Everybody in town would know about it in a matter of a few days.”

“No. But he must be somebody strong enough that he could form an alliance with some locals.”

Casey leaned his forearms on the surface of his desk. “Aside from the forensic evidence, we've only got one decent clue. The Negro custodian who was killed during the kidnapping dragged a very fancy tie clasp off the killer's shirt. We've learned that only a few Downtown stores sold it. I've been waiting for one of my men to call in with something.”

“Maybe we'd better skip that lunch,” Farrell suggested.

“My boy, one thing you need to know about police work is that it's essential to eat whenever and wherever you can.” Casey keyed his intercom. “White. Are you there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do me a favor, go across the street to the delicatessen and get us sandwiches and some coffee.”

“Will do, Captain.”

Casey leaned back and put his feet up on the desk. “Well, kiddo. How do you like police work so far?”

Thinking of the étouffé they were missing, Farrell said, “I'm glad I'm a civilian.”

***

The loose bracket on Jessica's bed proved to be a flat piece of metal about seven inches in length, tapering to a rounded point. It was a dubious proposition as a weapon, but as a tool it presented a number of possibilities.

Before going to sleep, she'd noticed a flat panel, about two feet square, near the floor of her closet. As the bed bracket came free in her hand, she found herself wondering if the panel might lead to an avenue of escape.

When she woke in the darkness, the panel was her first conscious thought. Seeing that light from the hall no longer seeped in from under the door, she got up, dressed, and turned on the closet light. She found that the panel was simply a piece of plywood, nailed to the wainscoting.

Retrieving the bracket, she inserted the rounded point into a crack between panel and wall, and gently exerted pressure. Little by little, the panel moved. The nails were rather short, and they came free noiselessly. She worked doggedly until she had pried all but one side free.

The sound of a key rattling in the lock gave her just enough warning to close the closet door, get back to the bed and pick up the movie magazine before the door swung open.

This time it was a dapper young man with narrow, fox-like features. His pale blue eyes slid along the contours of her body with undisguised lust. “Hello, babycakes.”

Feeling that she could not ignore his presence, she spoke warily. “Good morning.”

Like the big man the day before, this man carried a paper sack in his hand. A smear of grease discolored the brown paper on one side. He put it on the floor beside her feet, then stared down at her.

“Do—do you have any idea how long I'll be here?” she asked, forcing herself to remain still, maintaining a vocal tone that was flat and without emotion.

“Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“I might just decide to keep you here for a while. You are one juicy little broad, you know that?”

Her skin felt as though ants were crawling on it. She sensed that a wrong answer, a nervous laugh could spell disaster. “No. I—I didn't. Is that why I was…brought here?”

His right hand fell into his trouser pocket and reappeared with something in it. His thumb moved and six inches of chromed steel seemed to explode from within his fist. He grinned, his pale blue eyes lost in a deep squint that gave his face a rapacious, inhuman cast. As the grin slipped from his face, she noticed for the first time that his pupils were so small as to be non-existent. She had read that certain narcotics would produce that effect. She gripped the edge of the bed as she fought off panic.

“No, sweetheart. You're here because your old man is a cheap, four-flushing crook. You're here to make him pay. Sweet, ain't it?” He closed the knife, almost immediately snapping the blade back open. He repeated this, over and over as he leered at her.

A hot rush of anger drove the dizziness out of her. “Don't you dare talk about my father!”

Without warning he grabbed her by the front of her blouse and snatched her to her feet, bringing her face to within a few inches of his. “No? And what'll you do, you little bitch?” He threw his other arm around her waist, dragging her close to him. “You gonna tell somebody? You gonna scream or cry? I own you, and when I feel like it, I'm gonna show you how things are, get me?” He let go of her blouse and ran his hand slowly over her breasts and down her body, kneading her buttocks with his fingers. The heat radiating from his body sickened her.

Lying just beneath the revulsion and fear, however, she found rage festering. She wished she had the dull piece of steel in her hand. She wanted to hurt him.

When she didn't respond to his taunts, he shoved her abruptly away from him. As she fell, the look of cruel amusement came back into his eyes before he left the room. When she heard the key turn in the lock, she dropped her face into her hands and shuddered.

But her rage was still there, growing stronger beneath the terror. Recognizing it as a weapon, she surrendered to the anger, letting it overwhelm the fear. Stiffening her spine, she climbed to her feet and went to the food. She consumed the contents greedily, not caring what they were. She needed all her strength to escape and this was the fuel.

***

Skeeter caught the Esplanade bus within minutes of speaking to his uncle. Finding it nearly empty, he quickly moved to the colored section at the rear. As the bus passed Mystery Street, Skeeter stared, wondering what Mabel was doing. He remembered again her touch against his body, her lips on his, the sight of her tears.

Skeeter had seldom thought much beyond what he might do to entertain himself. Not having had a real home since his mother died, his life in the street had begun as an antidote to loss. After years of juke joints and unfamiliar bedrooms, he'd forgotten there was any other way to live. He'd sometimes sensed unspoken longings in Mabel, but had been too wrapped up in his own pleasure to ask about them.

Now he had the cops after him, a pair of men who wanted to kill him, and Mabel didn't want him around anymore. He recognized with a sense of wonder that those misfortunes carried an equal weight. Staying alive and out of jail didn't mean quite so much if Mabel was lost to him.

He got off the bus at City Park and transferred to a Carrollton bus. This one had more people on it, forcing him to stand back in the colored section with the domestics, gardeners, and other working stiffs. He imagined what it would be like to share their sense of purpose, to enjoy the knowledge that he had a home waiting at the end of the day.

At Howard and Carrollton, he left the bus and headed past the campus of Xavier University to Gerttown. He studied each street as he moved from block to block, paying particular attention to parked cars. Finally reaching Olive Street, he paused. There was plenty of activity within Howard's compound, but little happening on the street. Only a few cars were nearby, all of which appeared to be unoccupied. Holding his breath, he made a beeline for the office, walking steadily but without haste. Once through the door, he paused to peer back out at the street.

“You made good time,” Howard said behind him. “See anybody as you come in?”

“Nary a soul. I cut through Xavier and come down Pine. Made a roundabout to throw anybody off. Soon as I saw the street was clear I come on over.”

“Good,” Howard said, putting a grease-stained hand on his shoulder. “I had Lonnie get a car ready and some of the other boys been watchin'. Cops ain't come back, and so far as I know, Frank Brown ain't, neither.”

“This is the worst day of my life,” he said shakily.

Howard reached inside his overalls and pulled out a long-barreled .38 Colt revolver. “You ain't lived very long yet, Skeeter.” He laughed as he spun the revolver on his trigger finger. “Things can always be worse than they is.”

Skeeter sank down in one of the office chairs. “I don't need nothin' worse, Unca Howard. I just want to get out from under this mess and get my life back.”

“You'll be all right when you get to Houston,” Howard said, sliding his gun back out of sight. “I got friends in the Fifth Ward who'll help you get on your feet. Change your name and nobody'll ever find you.”