The Righteous Cut (16 page)

But lingering under the contentment, the hatred for Whitman Richards smoldered like a hot coal, always threatening to burst into full, destructive flame. Perhaps, with time, the ember would have cooled enough for him to ignore it, but that was before he had allowed himself to be pulled into this dangerous scheme to ruin his old enemy.

He had resisted at first. He was too old, too sick, too tired, to go to war with such a powerful man. What could possibly be gained by it, he had pleaded with his tormentor? How could he possibly prevail against Richards, who had defeated him so easily years before?

But the tormentor had spoken so reasonably, had argued so eloquently. He recognized now that he had opened the gate for the serpent to slither into his garden, and by so doing he had put himself on a path from which there was no return. Men had died and other men would probably die, because Richards would not give in so easily. He was too proud, too powerful.

Arboneau took a bottle of Four Roses from the desk drawer. He pulled the cork and drank directly from the neck. The part that bothered him the most was that now he had two enemies to contend with. The visit of Wesley Farrell had been like the knell of some distant bell, tolling his finish. He didn't know why Farrell cared about Whitman Richards or his trouble, but the old man was certain that there was more than Farrell had told him. Wesley Farrell wasn't the kind of man to sneak around looking for a chance to kick a man in the ribs. Farrell confronted his enemies, then proceeded to destroy them.

Farrell pretended to be a conscienceless criminal, but it was well known that he had friends everywhere. When people attacked or hurt his friends, Farrell always found out, and always came after the attacker. It chilled Arboneau to think that by setting himself against Richards, he had unwittingly challenged Wesley Farrell.

Now there was nothing to do but kill Farrell, or try to. Arboneau had already put in motion the machinery necessary to accomplish that. He prayed that he had acted soon enough, and that his instrument was up to the task. He nearly had Whitman Richards on the ropes, divested of his power. He had to stay alive long enough for Richards to understand who was taking everything away from him, and why. For that, he had to keep Richards alive, too.

***

Daggett and his men spent hours searching Gerttown with a fine-toothed comb as they looked for some sign of Skeeter Longbaugh. However, their questions drew little but hostility or indifference from the denizens of that neighborhood. Splitting his team up, he sent them out to the very edges of the neighborhood to question the hustlers, vagrants, street people and tavern keepers.

Daggett and Andrews rolled out to Washington Avenue and pounded the pavement on foot, questioning even the Public Service bus drivers who traveled that route. Every question brought a negative response. They were in sight of the big white art deco building that housed the Louziana Lou mayonnaise factory when Andrews spotted a Negro huckster standing behind a mule-drawn cart filled with late harvest fruits and vegetables. “Let's ask the old man.”

“We got nothing to lose.”

The huckster seemed fantastically old to them, his red-brown skin as lined and seamed as a plowed field. His denim overalls were bleached almost white and sported a myriad of different colored patches. He wore a broad-brimmed straw hat that resembled a Mexican sombrero.

“He'p y'all?” he asked. “Got some nice watermelon here, sweet as a young gal's toes.”

“No thank you, uncle,” Daggett said. “We're looking for a young fella that we think passed this way.”

The old man looked at them shrewdly. “Reckon you fellas be cops, huh?”

Daggett smiled. “That's right. But the kid we're looking for is in trouble that could get him killed unless we can find him in time.”

“Dunno, but maybe. I been movin' around the neighborhood fo' a while now. What'd he look like?”

“Young, dark brown. About five-nine and skinny.”

The old man nodded. “Seen a boy like 'at, two, three hours ago.”

“See which way he went?”

“Well, hard to say on that. He were walkin' along when another fella drove up in a car, picked 'im up.”

“Get a look at the car or the man drivin' it?”

“Well, sure. It were an old car, brown. Had Ply-mouth wrote on the hood. Driver looked like a big, husky fella.”

Daggett felt the bottom go out of his hopes.

“Fust time I seed him in this part o' town,” the huckster continued.

Daggett's head snapped around. “Say what?”

“The feller in the brown Ply-mouth. Fust time I seed him over thisaway.”

“So…where do you usually see him?”

“Ever' Wednesday, I drive my wagon Uptown. See him at the end of Spruce Street, where it back up to the sewer woiks. He got him a green shotgun house and a go-rage in a block all by itse'f. Reckon ain't nobody else wanted to build no houses up ag'in the sewer department.”

“No,” Andrews said slowly. “I reckon not.”

The old man was quiet for a moment as he scratched his grizzled head. “Likes strawberries and blackberries.”

Daggett shot his partner a look, saw Andrews looking back at him, teeth showing beneath his dark mustache. “Old timer, next time I see you, we'll do some business. I got a yen for blackberries myself.”

The old man nodded amiably. “That be right fine, mister. Yessir, right fine.” He turned back to his mule and began to lead the animal up toward Washington Avenue.

Daggett and Andrews hoofed it back to where they'd left their squad car and put it in motion. Daggett keyed his microphone and put out the call to his other men. “We've got a possible location for Easter Coupé. We're heading down to the west end of Spruce Street near the Sewerage and Water Board plant. Subject is believed to be living in a green shotgun at the end of the block. Run silent and wait for further instructions.” He put the microphone back into the dash clip and sat back, mopping his face with a handkerchief.

“Iz, I just thought of somethin'.”

“Yeah?”

“He picked the kid up to kill him, right?”

“Probably.”

“Think he's gonna take the kid home to do that? Don't seem to make much sense.”

“No,” Daggett replied flatly. “Let's find Coupé first. We'll cross that other bridge when we get to it.”

Chapter 14

“There he is,” the dark-haired man in the front seat said. “Looks like he ain't got a care in the world.”

“In a minute, he won't,” said the driver. They were sitting across from a commercial building on Howard Avenue where a crap game normally went on all day. Twenty minutes earlier, a tipster had called Vic D'Angelo to say that Fletch Monaghan was there making a killing.

“There he is,” Vic said. He mopped his bald head with a linen handkerchief, then took his .45 from under his arm and worked a cartridge into the breech. “Ready, Riccio?”

“Ready when you are, Vic,” the dark-haired man said quietly. He cocked both hammers of the double-barrel twelve-gauge in his lap.

“Hit the gas, Mike,” the little bald man said.

The car squealed away from the curb, roared up the block. It came to a screaming halt opposite Fletch Monaghan. Monaghan knew instantly that something was wrong, clawed at the revolver on his hip. He had it clear, firing when the .45 and the shotgun belched flame from the side of the car. Buckshot and jacketed slugs caught the gambler broadside and hurled him to the pavement. Mike had the car racing away before the gambler's body hit the ground.

“Where to?” Mike asked as he turned a corner.

“Van Zandt,” the little bald man said quietly. He mopped his head again. “We get him, then we go see Gaudain. I never killed a rich man before. Maybe we'll drink some high-grade scotch before we drop the hammer on him, huh?”

“You're the boss, Vic,” Riccio said as he broke the shotgun and reloaded it.

Behind them, sirens howled like coyotes under a full moon.

***

It took Daggett and Andrews about twenty minutes to get through evening traffic to Spruce Street. At the end of the quiet avenue, butted up against the fence to the Sewerage and Water Board works, was the green shotgun house and garage the huckster had described. A yellow De Soto coupe was parked in front of the house. From their vantage point, they could also see the tail end of a brown Plymouth through the open garage door. The shades on all the windows were drawn, making it impossible to say if anyone was at home.

“What do you think?” Andrews asked.

“If I were Easter Coupé, I couldn't find a better place to live. Too bad for him we ran into the huckster.”

Andrews scratched the back of his neck. “We got enough men to go in after him. There's nowhere for him to run.”

Daggett took the microphone from the clip and keyed it. “All units, this is Inspector 51. We have the suspect's house in view. Two automobiles are present but no people in sight. Close on this position and wait for my signal.”

Andrews quietly unlatched his door and got out of the car. He moved to the rear, where he opened the trunk and removed a Model 12 Winchester. Daggett got out on his side and waited as the other cars rolled quietly up the street and took positions adjacent to him. Several of the uniformed men moved around to the garage and took cover where they could see the back door to the house. Daggett looked across at Gautier and saw the man's narrow face split in a satisfied grin. He glanced back at Daggett and nodded.

Daggett removed the microphone and switched it to the loudspeaker. “Easter Coupé, this is the police. We know you're in there so come out, and bring Longbaugh ahead of you. Show us some empty hands and you won't be hurt.”

Inside the shotgun cottage, Coupé and Skeeter both stared into the front of the house. Coupé remained seated, the bottle of rye still at his feet. Skeeter stared, sweat streaming down his face. “Man, what you gonna do now?”

Coupé laughed grimly. “What you think I'm gonna do?”

“You can't fight 'em. They'll kill you.”

Coupé studied him, expecting to see fear. It shocked him to see the boy's expression was one of concern for Coupé, himself. “If they don't kill me, I go to jail until I die of old age. It ain't like I lived no upright Christian life. I got plenty black marks against me.”

“But you didn't kill nobody,” Skeeter said. “I can tell 'em you didn't. They'll believe me, man, I know they will. C'mon, untie me and let's go out there to 'em.”

Coupé got up wearily from his seat, reached into his pocket and took out a key ring. “I'm hooked up with the wrong people this time, boy.” He unlocked Skeeter's handcuffs and dropped them. “Time for you to go home.”

Skeeter rose from the chair, rubbing his wrists. “Come out with me, man. You coulda killed me six times and you didn't. You ain't no killer, I'll swear to it.”

Coupé opened the drawer of the end table and took out an envelope. He took Skeeter's right hand and pressed the envelope into it. “Listen to me, we ain't got time for a lot of talk. This here is a claim check for a suitcase at the Southern Railway terminal. You know where it is?”

Skeeter looked at him strangely. “Yeah, but—”

“Shut up and listen. Out to Toni Mereaux's cat house, there's a gal named Patience. I want you to give her half the money in the suitcase and tell her to use it to go back home and buy herself a dress shop or somethin'. Tell her there ain't no future working in a cat house, you hear?”

Too much was happening for Skeeter to even try to understand. He shook his head as though in a daze. “What're you doin', man? What're you talkin' about?”

Coupé caught him by the arm and pulled him into the living room. “Take the other half of the money and go marry that gal you was talkin' about. Have some babies. Take 'em to the country on picnics. Build a house for 'em to live in. Do all the things I never done.” He reached the front door, unlatched it and pushed it open. “I'm sendin' the boy out,” he called in a rough voice. “He ain't done nothin', you hear? I was hired to kill him to shut him up. He's straight, hear me? You got that, copper?”

Daggett stared across the yard. “I hear you. Your word's more than enough to clear him. Come on out with him and we'll go down to the station house.”

“He's comin',” Coupé shouted, giving Skeeter a shove.

Skeeter emerged onto the porch. He paused, looking at all the armed men facing Coupé's house. He turned, stared back at Coupé. “Please, man, come on out. I'll tell 'em I ain't gonna swear out a complaint against you.”

Coupé looked at him sternly. “Everybody's gotta pay the piper, sooner or later, kid. I done plenty of bad shit I didn't get caught for. It was just my turn, and that's okay. I lived every day knowin' this would come, sooner or later. Now go on.” He leveled his .38 at Skeeter and cocked the hammer.

Skeeter backed away slowly, with his hands away from his sides. As he reached the yard, he walked toward Daggett, feeling numb all over. “Man, please don't kill him. He didn't do nothin', I swear.”

Daggett grabbed Skeeter by the shoulder and shoved him down behind the fender. He had his gun in his hand now because he sensed the end was coming. “Coupé, come on out with your hands up. We won't shoot.”

Coupé left the porch at a dead run. He was still running when shots rang out from several directions, cutting his legs out from under him. He fell hard, didn't move.

Daggett watched it unfold like a bad dream. He was screaming for the others to hold their fire, but it seemed to take forever for the shots to stop exploding around him. He was the first to the body, turning the big man over. He found a faint pulse and shouted for an ambulance.

“Why'd he do it?” Skeeter asked in an anguished voice. “Why'd he do it?”

Daggett felt sick to his stomach. He shook his head, not knowing what to say. He saw Coupé's revolver lying near his hand and picked it up by reflex. Thumbing the latch, the cylinder fell open to reveal daylight showing through all six chambers. Slowly, he stood, put the empty revolver into his coat pocket. “Come on, kid.” He caught Skeeter under the arm, led him silently toward the squad car.

***

Richards spent his day dealing with one petitioner after another. He somehow managed to resume his tough, manipulative persona. He got his tribute for every favor he granted, and with those from whom he wanted some concession, he bargained them to a sweaty standstill. Whitman Richards seemed very much in control of his fiefdom.

Rob Langdon efficiently ushered businessmen, city officials, and people of less respectable demeanor into Richards' imposing paneled office. He was part of each meeting, as steely-eyed and ruthless as ever when called upon. The rift between Langdon and Richards over Georgia seemed temporarily forgotten as the two men meshed seamlessly in the pursuit of money and power. Toward the end of the morning Langdon was less in evidence, but that had little impact on the rhythm of Richards' day.

The first rent in the fabric of a productive afternoon came at two when Sheriff Tim Marrero called.

“What is it, Tim? I've got somebody coming in pretty soon now so I can't talk very long.”

The sheriff hesitated. “Whit, this may be nothing at all, but I thought I'd better call. Seems like your wife, she, uh, she slipped out the back of your house. Neither of my men knew she was gone until just a little while ago. Naturally, they called me pronto, but—”

“What the hell you mean, ‘she slipped out the back'? You mean to tell me you assigned such a pair of fucking meatheads that neither of them thought to check the back of the house once in a while? You're kidding me, right?”

The sheriff sighed audibly. “I—I'm sorry, Whit. We questioned the cook, and all she knows is Georgia left about mid-morning and swore her to secrecy. Bessie Mae said she hasn't called in. Should I put her license out on the air?”

Richards' face was stiff with rage as he ran his fingers recklessly through his hair. “Sure, Tim, put it out on the air so the city police will know how bad you fucked up. God damn it to hell.” He fell silent for a moment as he tried to gather his wits. As his anger cooled, he began to think straight again. “Look, Georgia probably went somewhere she didn't want me to know about. Chances are, since she sneaked out on your men, nobody else noticed her either. She'll come home when she's through with whatever it is she went out for. Are your men still at the house?”

“Yeah, and I sent two more over there.”

“Then tell some of them to park their asses in the back yard. I want to know the minute she returns, you hear me?”

“Yeah, sure, Whit. I—I'm sorry as hell—”

“You're goddamned right you are. If anything happens to her, I'll roast you over a slow fire.” He slammed the telephone down into the cradle, sat there drumming his fingers on the desk as he waited for his temper to cool. Finally he got up and strode to the reception area. He found it empty but for Catherine Landau.

“Where's Meredith?” he asked.

The older secretary looked up from a brief she was typing and peered at him over the rims of her spectacles. “She asked to go home. She wasn't feeling well.”

Richards frowned. “Not feeling well?”

Catherine slowly turned her head back to the brief she was typing. “No. She, ah, she said she'd been experiencing spells of, uh, nausea for the past week or ten days. She thinks she, ah, might be coming down with…with something.” She paused to push her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “She, uh, asked me not to mention it to you, but—but it seems to be getting, uh, worse.”

As Catherine's conversation dribbled to an abrupt conclusion, she quickly resumed her work, her fingers flying over the keys as she concentrated rather pointedly on the document she was typing. Richards stood there watching her when it finally hit him: Merry was pregnant. He felt himself go cold all over. Christ almighty, he'd thought she was taking precautions against that.

He turned and walked quietly back to his office, where he closed the door and sank into a chair. This was just the evidence of infidelity Georgia needed to take him to court and ream him out. He groaned aloud. He grabbed the receiver to his internal phone and jerkily dialed the two digits of Rob Langdon's office. It rang twice but it was Catherine who answered. “Are you trying to reach Mr. Langdon? He got a call earlier and left.”

Richards blinked uncertainly. “A call? Who from?”

“He didn't say, just that it was urgent he take care of something.”

“Oh. Certainly. No matter.” He quietly put the receiver back into the cradle and leaned back in his chair feeling tired and off balance. He had only a moment to indulge the feeling before a knock sounded at the door. It opened before he could tell whoever it was to go away.

Frank Casey and Guthrie stood there. Casey led the way into the office without giving the councilman time to say anything. Guthrie shut the door behind them.

“What the hell do you want?” Richards demanded. “I told you to keep your nose out of my business.”

“I'm sorry to tell you, councilman, but the evidence suggests that your business is now my business.”

“I'm warning you, Casey—”

“Put a sock in it,” Casey interrupted. “You're pretty slick, Richards, but even the slickest crook finally steps in the wrong patch.”

“I'll have your badge, you sonofabitch.”

“Not so fast, councilman,” the red-haired detective replied in a calm, even tone. “What you want or don't want is immaterial at this stage. We're here in conjunction with what I'm sure will be a far-reaching investigation into civic corruption and murder.”

Richards' face flushed bright red. His hands bunched into fists as he shot to his feet. “God damn you, I'll have the sheriff send deputies to throw you out on your asses.”

“No,” Casey said mildly. “You won't. There's a half-dozen uniformed officers stationed outside with orders to stop anyone who tries to come in here.” He paused, took off his hat. “Those officers are men Sheriff Marrero fired after you bought the election for him. They have a certain distaste for sheriff's uniforms, if you get my drift.”