The Righteous Cut (14 page)

“Why didn't you just kill me while I was 'sleep?” Skeeter groaned. “You get some kinda thrill outa seein' a man die?” Skeeter wasn't sure where all those bold words came from, but it was too late to take them back.

The Negro accepted the gibe with equanimity. “No, no thrill. A man named Johnny Parmalee sent me to shut you up, boy. I do those kinda things for money. I done it for a long time, and I found out that if you gonna kill a man, you best be able to look him in the eye while you doin' it.”

“Yeah,” Skeeter replied tartly. “I seen that yesterday when your boy, Joey, stuck his chiv into a brutha. He was looking ole Butterbean in the eye, all right. Now you out here cleanin' this ofay's shit up for him.”

The big Negro's body stiffened. “Killed a brutha, you say? Was it a fair fight?”

“Hell, no. If that skinny li'l cracker hadn't of pulled the knife, Butterbean would of tore his cracker head off for him. Six kids and a wife he had, too.”

The Negro said nothing as he lifted his long, slender gun from his lap. Skeeter braced himself, certain that his last moment had arrived.

“You know who I am, boy?”

Skeeter blinked. “Naw, man. I never seen you before.”

The Negro's shoulders seemed to lift as a sigh left him. “The name Easter Coupé mean anything to you?”

“A righteous badman, they say. A killer born on Easter Sunday. That you?”

The Negro nodded solemnly. “All of that and more. Reckon I done killed fifty men in my time. Some in fights, some just 'cause they deserved it. Some I was paid to do.”

Skeeter was intrigued in spite of his fear. Coupé was a famous man in the world the boy inhabited. “How much they payin' you to kill me, man?”

Coupé laughed mirthlessly. “A thousand semolians, boy, and a promise of easy livin' later on.” He laughed again, causing the hair to stand up on Skeeter's neck. “You got any kin, boy? A woman?”

“Just an uncle. My mama died a few years back. My gal made me leave her 'fore somebody caught up to me. If I'd of married her when I should of, I wouldn't be in this fix.”

Coupé shrugged. “I got no family, no wife, no kids. I got a house, two cars, and five guns.”

In spite of himself, Skeeter was impressed. “Reckon you're a rich man, Mr. Coupé.” He paused, cut his eyes away. “Why don't you go ahead and get it over with?”

Coupé looked at the pistol, bouncing it lightly on his broad palm. “I brung you out here to kill you and put your body in the lake. I done it many a time before this. Done it without thinkin' about it. This…this time is different.”

Skeeter looked into Coupé's face. “Different how?”

Coupé rubbed a thick hand across his mouth. “I—I don't know.” He stood, walked to within a few paces of Skeeter. Looking down with eyes that were wild and white, he brought the pistol level with the boy's head. Muscles bunched along the lines of his jaw as tightly clenched teeth began to show between his heavy lips.

Skeeter stared into the muzzle of the pistol, unable to tremble, weep, or pray. They remained in that tableau for what seemed an eternity before Coupé lowered the gun to his side. It took Skeeter a moment to register the trembling in the man's muscular body.

Without any warning, Coupé let out a hideous cry and threw the pistol out into the lake. Skeeter heard the faint plop of the gun landing in the water, but before he could react, Coupé was at his side, stuffing a handkerchief deep into his mouth. As the boy mumbled an inarticulate cry, Coupé lifted him bodily, placed him in the trunk of the Plymouth, then closed the lid. Inside the dark space, the baffled youngster heard the motor crank, then the sound of marl spurting from beneath the spinning tires.

***

The telephone rang once again in the man's shabby room, and as usual, he let it ring a few times before answering it. “Yeah?”

“It's me,” a soft voice said. It was clear the caller was speaking from a booth, because the sound of street noise came through the line.

“Did you get him?” the man asked.

“No. He moved just as I squeezed the trigger. There was no time to get a second shot.”

The man's hard, rough hand bunched into a fist, quivering for a second. “Where is he now? You were able to follow him, weren't you?”

“Yeah, he didn't see me. He's inside a mansion on Prytania Street, a big place with white columns.”

“Neil Gaudain's house. Can you get a shot from there?”

“No. I don't see how. There's no place to hide for a long shot, and he'll be on his guard against somebody walkin' up on him.”

“No,” the man replied, his voice full of regret. “He'd kill you sure. Stay with him. He's the only man in town who can upset our plans. Track him if you have to track him all night, but put a bullet in Farrell's brain before you come back here, understand?”

There was a long pause before the caller replied. “Yeah. I understand.”

Chapter 12

Jessica pressed herself against the wall, trying ineffectually to hide herself behind her wrinkled blouse. As she held her breath, the dapper man entered. As before, he carried a brown paper bag. He stopped, gazed slowly about until he found her pressed up against the wall.

“Well, well, well,” he said softly. “I was right. You ain't so little, are you, sugar?” He kicked the door closed with a negligent tap of his two-toned shoe, the sharp edges of his teeth just visible through his slitted lips.

“Please, go away and let me get dressed.” Her voice sounded small and hollow. She somehow knew that even if she'd been dressed, it would have come to this eventually. He was a man who took his frustrations out on women and pretended it was sex. Something had happened to him today or last night and he didn't care anymore.

“Uh-uh, sweetheart,” he said, pulling his tie away from his neck. “Now that I got you partly undressed, I might as well finish the job. Why don't you lie down there and get comfortable, hmmmm? We gonna have us a party.” He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt as he moved in on her.

She didn't bother to answer. Her thoughts were of the closet, and the latch on the inside. She stepped nimbly to the cot and across to the other side, but he was watching for that, darting effortlessly in front of her. She knew she was going to have to fight and she braced for it.

He lunged at her, grabbing her around the waist as he attempted to nuzzle her neck. Jessica resisted him with all her strength, pounding his face with the heel of her hand while she fought to break his hold. His hands were like spiders, violating her in every way imaginable. Each of them was breathing heavily, their struggle wordless but for occasional grunts of pain.

Jessica found that he wasn't much heavier than she. They seemed about evenly matched as they struggled against one another. She jabbed a thumb at his eye, drawing a yell of pain. He retaliated, striking the side of her head.

The blow stunned her but the force of it knocked her out of his grasp. She stood in the center of the room now, gasping for breath, looking for an opening to hurt him. She realized that she would probably lose, but she wanted to hurt him as badly as she could. He made another sudden lunge, but she retaliated, stomping his instep. As he howled, she aimed a kick at his groin, barely missing. He roared, cursing her at the top of his lungs.

“Come on, you sissy,” she taunted him. “A real tough guy, but you're letting a girl wear you out. Come on, you chicken bastard, come on and fight!”

He rushed at her, his rage making him careless. She sidestepped, swinging at his head. Her fist caught him in the ear, knocking him off balance. He fell hard, leaving a clear path to the door. She leaped past him, had the doorknob in her hand when she felt his hand on her ankle. Joey jerked hard, and she fell.

With the breath knocked out of her, she kicked and pulled to escape his clutches, but he was on top, crawling up her body hand over hand. She bore his full weight now. No matter how hard she bucked and writhed, she couldn't throw him off. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps and her vision was clouding over. She was losing.

Fully astride her, he captured her right hand in his left. The anguished sobs racketing from her abused lungs caught in her throat when she saw the knife snap open in his hand. He laughed like a maniac as he raised the knife and brought it down. I'm licked, she thought, her eyes locked on the gleaming blade rushing toward her face.

At the last possible second, a hard brown hand caught Joey Parmalee's wrist and bent it back. As her vision began to clear, she saw that a big, dark-blonde man was dragging Joey clear of her. With a careless swipe of his free hand, the big man sent the knife spinning across the room.

Joey screamed in pain, his feet kicking uselessly. The big man stared at him with savage delight as he smashed his fist into the younger man's face. Joey went limp, but the man hit him again, then struck him a terrific blow in the abdomen. Gradually the man's hideous grin relaxed. He shook Joey experimentally, then threw him out into the hall.

Jessica rose painfully up on her elbow, saw that her step-ins were ripped up one leg and her brassiere was torn half off her chest. She crawled to the side of the bed, trying to cover herself with her arms. She felt something soft against her body, and found the big man covering her with a blanket. As she clutched it to her throat, she stared up at him. “Who—Who are you?”

“I'm your Uncle Pete, Jessica.”

“Uncle—Pete?”

He nodded. “I guess your daddy never mentioned me. Here, let's get you up on the bed.”

***

“Mr. Blessey, we know that Skeeter came in here. You're not doing yourself any good by staying clammed up.”

The old car thief looked defiantly up into Daggett's angry face. “Way I sees it, I'm doin' myself plenty of good. You can't very well haul me in for harborin' a fugitive if there ain't no fugitive here, now can you?”

Gautier's narrow face had grown as sharp as an arrowhead. He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. “Iz, leave him in here with me and Sam for about ten minutes. The old bastard'll shit words all over the floor when we get through with him.”

“Knock it off,” Daggett snapped. He started to walk out to the car, but on an impulse, he decided to give the old man one last try.

The old man sat with his arms folded, glaring obdurately at Gautier and Andrews. Daggett waved the other two back and confronted Blessey.

“Mr. Blessey, do you care what happens to Skeeter?”

It wasn't the kind of question the old man expected. He considered it, wondering if it were a trick. “I reckon so. He's all the kin I got.”

“Then I want you to think about something. If he was an unwilling accomplice of the men who kidnapped that white girl, they're looking for him, and I think you know what'll happen when they find him.”

The old man remained silent.

Daggett's face was like a thundercloud. “You don't give a damn as long as you keep your own ass out of the crack, do you?”

The old man's face twisted this way and that as he wrestled with himself. It was completely against his grain to trust a cop, but he recognized the continuing danger to Skeeter. He looked up at Daggett again, his eyes clear. “Was a man here earlier, callin' hisself Frank Brown. Claimed Skeeter sent him here to get his car worked on. I thought somethin' about him weren't quite right.”

“Uh, huh. I'm listening. What did he look like?”

“Big fella, huge. His face looked like somebody carved it out of a block of coal with a dull chisel. Maybe six-four. Weighed two hundred and fifty pounds if he weighed an ounce. Had this bad scar runnin' along his jawbone here.” He dragged his thumb along the right side of his jaw.

Andrews and Gautier looked at each other sharply. “Boss, I don't know but one man looks like that. His name's Easter Coupé,” Andrews said.

Daggett's shoulders slumped. He figured Skeeter for a dead man already. “Gautier, get on the radio and get a descriptions of Longbaugh and Coupé out on the air. Sam, call the squad room and ask them to dig up anything on Coupé that they can find on file. Maybe we'll get lucky.” As the two detectives moved to obey, Daggett turned his unfriendly gaze back on the old car thief.

“Mr. Blessey, for two cents I'd handcuff your ankles, hang you upside down from that door and beat your ribs in. There's not a person at headquarters who'd shed a goddamned tear if I did. I'm not gonna take you in because I can't pin anything on you, but I'll tell you this. If Skeeter winds up dead, you'll have to take the blame. There's nothing the law can do to you that'll be any worse than that.”

He grabbed the old man's bib-front and dragged him to his feet. “But if I so much as catch you spittin' on the sidewalk after this, I'm gonna throw your miserable old ass in jail and fix it so you rot in there, you understand?”

The old man didn't like it, but he took it. “I hear you plenty good.”

Daggett glared at him for a moment, then pushed him away with a growl of disgust. He turned and left the old man standing in the office alone.

***

“He's plenty slick, Whit,” the short bald man said. “We done checked every fleabag hotel, every roomin' house, hell, we even been to see real estate leasing agents. We found he checked into the General Wilkerson night before last, but he checked out again next mornin'.” He scratched the fringe of unkempt brown hair that grew beneath the pink dome of his head. “It's like tryin' to track a ghost.”

Richards paced up and down the length of his office, rubbing the back of his neck. He'd lost two more men and fifteen thousand in cash in a Carson raid on a gambling den he owned near the Jefferson Parish line. With Amsterdam dead, his gambling operation was spinning into a shambles. “Somebody's hiding him, I know it. I just don't know who.”

Vic shrugged nonchalantly. “So mebbe we oughta go shake a few people up. We might get lucky.”

“Are you out of your mind? Don't we have enough enemies already?” He shook his head vigorously.

Vic crossed his legs, folded his hands peacefully in his lap. “Look, Whit. I know you're a respectable city councilman and all, and you prob'ly don't wanna dent that nice glossy picture you sold the suckers, but you gotta get wise to yourself. Jack's dead. Butch is dead. So far eight of our men is dead, and by my count we lost thirty, forty thousand bucks in two days. Experience tells me that while they're bleedin' us white, they're lookin' for a chance to send us to the same party they sent Jack and Butch to. I'm your man, always was and always will be, but I ain't sittin' still to get shot so's you can pretend you didn't get where you are by stealin'. Am I gettin' through to you yet?”

Richards stopped pacing to stare at the little bald man. He looked like Elmer Fudd, until you noticed the bulge of the .45 under his jacket. “All right, all right. I'm so worried about Jess that I'm losin' my mind.”

“Don't give me that crap, Whit. All you're worried about anymore is that li'l blonde quail out there. You gotta be nuts, a man your age. Christ.” He shook his head. “Get your head outa your ass, Whit. I know three, maybe five people who might just have the balls to back Pete up. I go hit them, and your problem goes away like heartburn after a Bromo.”

“What people?”

Vic stood up, shaking his head. “Cut it out. You know what people. Even you only got so many enemies that can really hurt you.” He turned and walked to the office door. “I'll call you in a little while.” He opened the door and left the office.

Richards watched the door close, blinking uncertainly. In all the years they'd been together, Vic D'Angelo had always taken his lead. Richards was torn between anger at Vic's temerity and relief that someone was going to do something that needed doing. Without Jack and Butch he felt crippled. He sat down heavily in an armchair.

There was a brief rap at the door just before it opened and Rob Langdon entered. The slender young man frowned as he looked at his boss. “Whit—Whit? Look at me, Whit.”

Richards looked up slowly. “What is it?”

Langdon ran his fingers through his hair, his mouth brittle with impatience. “Tell me what you want to do. We've got people lined up to see you on city business and others who want you for other reasons. The hall's full of sheriff's deputies and they frisk everybody who comes in. This is chaos. If we can't do business, people will start to lose confidence. You and I both know that can't happen. What do you want to do, for the love of Christ?”

“Who's out there? The real business, not those flannel mouths working for the city.”

“Bandini and Lupo need help with that paving contract. Braden down at Public Works is giving them the run-around. Then there's Art DeLuca. You promised him exclusive franchise on that excursion boat business. He says that was supposed to be cleared up a week ago, but the Secretary of State's people won't talk to him. Besides him there's—”

Richards waved dismissively at his assistant. “That's enough. Jesus H. Christ.”

Langdon's dark eyes held a look bordering on contempt. “Whit, I know how you feel, but you're a power in this town. You got a lot of people depending on you, and hell to pay if you don't deliver. We've got people we need to pay off, and we can't pay them off until we get paid off.”

“All right. Fuck! You're a bigger nag than a wife. Send in Bandini and Lupo.”

Langdon half-turned, paused. “Georgia's going out of her mind. Can't you do anything to make her feel better?”

Richards heard something in Langdon's voice, looked up sharply, his eyes with a cruel glint in them. “Working on you a little bit is she, Rob? Georgia's a gal who gets what she wants, so beware of her. Especially since she's taken you into her bed. Oh, yeah, I knew. How do you think I got where I am in this town, you little shit? You want to tell her something, then tell her that the half-brother I framed and double-crossed eleven years ago has come back from the dead. Tell her to stop worrying about Jess because he came back to hurt me.
Me
. Tell her the next time you share a quiet moment together. Now get out and send in Bandini and Lupo.”

Langdon suppressed a shudder as he walked very carefully and quietly to the door, pausing as he put his hand on the knob. “You knew, but you said nothing. Why?”

“Maybe I just wanted to see if you'd try to double-cross me for her. Either she isn't as good as she used to be or you've got more spine than I thought. But nobody pulls the wool over my eyes, boy. Nobody.”

Langdon opened the door and stepped through it. As he closed the door, Whitman Richards stood up from his chair, his pale face flushed and his dark eyes full of hot lights. He was still standing there when Bandini and Lupo entered.