The Righteous Cut (18 page)

The old man puffed the cigar contentedly. They had planned everything, from the manner of kidnapping Jessica Richards to the time and way Carson would enter the city. Arboneau had known, however, that at some point the plan would become unstable. In the end, violent people trust only violence, and chaos always follows. He had just learned from contacts on the street about the hits on Monaghan and Van Zandt. Only Vic D'Angelo's capture had protected Arboneau himself from the eventuality of Richards' wrath.

Now, reluctantly, he accepted that the plan to keep his enemy alive, to use him as a pawn, was finished. If Carson had double-crossed him, then the half-brothers would become partners again—in death. It was not as satisfying to Arboneau, but at least blood would be answered, finally, with blood. Perhaps he and his surrogate family could survive, if he moved quickly and his luck held.

He left the room and walked through the building to Gabrielle's bedroom. He knocked on the door lightly. After a brief span of seconds, the door opened a crack.

Gabrielle smiled shyly. “Yes, Daddy King?”

“Tell Joey I need him.”

***

Coupé had been hit in the chest, shoulder, and both legs by the police fusillade. Daggett realized that if he didn't go into shock before the ambulance arrived, there was some possibility he might survive. He shouted for a blanket and elevated Coupé's legs with a satchel he kept in the trunk of the squad car. Skeeter knelt beside the wounded man, talking to him in a low voice.

“How you doin'?” he asked.

Coupé's eyelids opened slowly. “Damn. I ain't dead.”

“No, sir. Sergeant Daggett thinks you might live. I told him I'd testify for you, tell the judge you didn't do all them bad things. I'll say it was a mistake.”

Coupé almost smiled but a surge of pain turned it to a grimace. “Fool kid. Lyin' to the judge ain't gonna help.”

“Easter, what was all that 'bout the gal at the cat house? Patience?”

Coupé breathed painfully for a moment. “Don't know her las' name. Just a baby whore I saw las' night. Somebody I wisht I'd met a long time ago. She thinks my name's Frank Brown.” He laughed briefly.

“And you wanna just give her all that money you got stashed? You could use it for lawyers and such.”

“Abe Lincoln hisself couldn't get me off, boy. If I help you and her get a fresh start, maybe things'll go easy for me when I go before Saint Peter.”

Skeeter shook his head. “Man, you are some crazy.”

As Daggett watched Coupé and Skeeter, he heard the sound of a siren approaching. He walked to the curb and stared down the street. Eventually he was rewarded with the sight of an ambulance's blinking red lights. He removed his hat and waved it like a flag until it came to a stop.

“Where is he?” the intern yelled over the dying siren.

“Over there,” Daggett replied. “He's got four slugs in him, so you'd better hurry.”

As the intern rushed past, the driver and an orderly came directly behind with a stretcher. Daggett watched them work over Coupé as he tried to swallow the brassy taste in his mouth. He walked over to his squad car and sat on the running board beside Skeeter Longbaugh.

“You all right, kid?”

Skeeter shook his head. “I never seen nobody get shot. Knowin' him—I dunno, it makes it worse somehow.” He turned his head to look at Daggett. “It was like he was just sick and tired of it all.”

Daggett nodded. “It happens like that sometimes. I'm sorry we had to shoot him. When he rushed us with the gun, there was nothing else to do.”

“Yeah, I know. I could see in his eyes he was gonna do it. I wish—” He put his head in his hands and shivered.

The sound of the ambulance doors slamming made Daggett look up. He watched as the ambulance driver drove up into Coupé's yard so he could turn around. The rear wheels tore long strips in the grass as he hit the accelerator and roared back in the direction of Carrollton Avenue.

“I'm sorry I got to bother you right now, Skeeter, but we're still looking for the Richards girl. Do you know where they've taken her?”

Skeeter shook his head. “Uh-uh. The big Parmalee, Johnny, was drivin' us to the hideout yesterday mornin' when there was an accident and I run off in the confusion. I wasn't thinkin' about nobody but myself. I was afraid Joey Parmalee was gonna kill me first chance he got.”

He had Daggett's attention now. “You're sure about that? Joey Parmalee was the other man?”

“I ain't gonna make no mistake about that, Sergeant. I was standing as close to him as I am to you when he stabbed Butterbean. He was grinnin' like a crazy man.”

“But they never told you where they were taking you, or who they were working for?”

Skeeter shook his head mournfully. “I'm sorry, Sergeant. It's my fault, them gettin' the girl, but I don't know any more than I just told you.”

Daggett clapped him lightly on his bent knee as he stood up. “Okay. Just relax until we get ready to go Downtown. They'll have to get an official statement, so they'll ask you to tell the story all over again.”

“You think I could use a telephone when we get there?”

“You want to call the girl who works for Ma Rankin?”

“Yes, sir.”

Daggett smiled. “I'll fix it.” He walked up to the house and met Andrews coming out on the porch. “Find much?”

Andrews shrugged. “If they find anything in there to connect him with any other crime than this one, I'll be surprised. Man ain't hardly got nothin' in there. A few sticks of furniture, a few plates and cups. No radio, no magazines or books. Three pistols and a shotgun and his shaving gear is about it.”

Daggett shook his head. “Let's take the kid Downtown. I've had as much of bein' a cop as I can stand for one day.”

***

The Red Dog Club wasn't a burlesque theater like many of those along Bourbon Street. It had pretensions to being a nightclub with exotic entertainments. Farrell held Georgia's elbow and gently steered her through the lobby into the main floor. A bored-looking man with a pencil-thin mustache gestured with a menu at a table along the far wall.

As they made their way across the floor, the club band played a song full of brass and cymbals while a bottle blonde moved around the stage rhythmically shedding her clothing. Her face had all the expression of an ironing board, but she moved her body with practiced ease, showing off each part in perfect time to the music.

“Christ,” Georgia said. “I didn't know there were still dives this crummy in New Orleans. I'm behind the times.”

“You sure are,” Farrell said as he held her chair. “They keep Canal Street clean for the tourists, but down here it's still just a place to separate the sailors and other suckers from their dough.” He pulled out another chair and sat down.

Farrell watched the stage as the band reached a crescendo. The dancer was down to a g-string and a sequined brassiere, which she ripped free. The crowd whistled and hooted as she flaunted her breasts and made the tassels glued to her nipples twitch and roll.

“A guy could get an idea in this place,” Farrell said.

Georgia snorted. “You were born with that idea, boy.”

Their banter was interrupted by the appearance of the master of ceremonies, a broad-shouldered man in a tuxedo. “All right, ladies and gentlemen, let's hear it for Kitty East, the Sadie Thompson of New Orleans. Yeah!” He clapped ecstatically, encouraging the crowd to make more noise. As the applause died, the MC made a few stale jokes as he led up to his introduction for a dancer called Pearle La Rocca.

As the music started, a redhead with long, tapering legs slid onto the stage. Unlike Kitty East, this girl was an acrobat, throwing her narrow-waisted, high-bosomed body across the stage in a variety of hand-stands, rolls, and cartwheels. Her costume, scanty to begin with, began to fall away. Taut muscles rippled and writhed beneath her tan skin. It was enough to make a regiment of soldiers burn their camp to the ground and ride the officers to Montana.

But Farrell was watching the door. As the tempo of the music quickened, he saw a man enter. Johnny Parmalee had gotten older, but he was still built like a steam shovel. His square, rugged face had a strangely poignant look, as though he had said goodbye to something he once cherished.

“Georgia.” Farrell spoke just loudly enough for her to hear. He turned his head very deliberately in Parmalee's direction. “That's our man in the gray hat.”

“He's a sad-looking man,” she said.

“Maybe he's got reason to be,” Farrell said, thinking of the man's lost hopes for a shot at a title fight, ten years shaking down losers, and a drug addict for a brother.

“What are we going to do?” Georgia asked.

“We have to get him out of here,” Farrell replied. “And we've got to do it without starting a brawl.”

Georgia nodded, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “He wouldn't be inclined to fight if somebody else was in the picture. Like a woman.” She cut her eyes at Farrell. “You remember how I helped you get the drop on that Greek in Algiers Point back in 1923?”

In spite of the tension, Farrell smiled. “We really took that Greek to the cleaners, didn't we, baby?”

The endearment brought a flush of pleasure to Georgia's face. Farrell recalled anew what he had felt for her so long ago, this woman who was the mother of his child. He recognized that even after a separation of eighteen years, they had a bond that was unshakable.

“Okay,” he said. “We've got to play this carefully. Parmalee's not like the Greek. He's spent a third of his life hurting people for money. If we're clumsy, we could end up with a handful of nothing, understand? This guy is the only person I know who can take us to Jessica.”

She sobered immediately. “I'll be careful. I'm smarter than I was with the Greek.” She got up, smoothing her dress. Without a backward glance, she made her way along the edge of the room. Farrell saw the determination in her face, and silently wished her luck. He turned his gaze to where Parmalee stood, and when he looked again for Georgia, she was nowhere in sight.

Chapter 16

“Yes, sweetheart, I'm stuck here for a while longer,” Casey said into his telephone.

“A fine how-do-you-do,” Brigid said. “We're getting married tomorrow and you're stuck at work.”

“Not all night,” Casey said with a comical purr in his voice.

“Honestly,” Brigid said. “I wanted to have a quiet dinner together, our last date, so to speak.”

“Well, if you can wait another hour or so, we can still make it. Don't forget, Antoine's is open late.”

“Antoine's?” Brigid now had a purr in her own voice. “Well, maybe I'll let you off the hook after all. How much longer do you think you'll be?”

Casey consulted his watch. “Well, I might be able to make it there by eight. Why don't you have a piece of cheese and a glass of wine to tide you over.”

“All right. ‘Duffy's Tavern' is on the radio in a few minutes. I'll let that keep me company until you get tired of playing policeman. I love you, Frank.”

“I love you too. Don't drink too much of that sherry or I'll have to arrest you for drunk and disorderly.” They shared a brief laugh before hanging up. Casey began hurriedly going through the reports piled on his desk. He had read half of them when Inspector Matt Grebb knocked.

“It's open,” Casey called. “Hi, Matt. What's up?”

“Sorry to bother you, chief, but we got some new information on the Amsterdam killing.”

Casey sat up quickly. “Give it to me.”

“One of the patrol car guys in the neighborhood of the Amsterdam murder got a piece of gossip a little while ago from a girl who does some trade at the Bella Creole Hotel.”

“Did she see or hear anything useful?”

“She was outside the dump between the time Amsterdam was shot and the time the first patrol car arrived. She claims she saw a girl, a redhead, late teens or early 20s. She was with a young guy, slight of build, come out of the alley beside the hotel.”

“She get much of a look at him?”

“Yeah,” Grebb replied. “She said he looked wrong for the place. Young, slender, in a suit and tie. Wore a dark hat down over his face, but he was wearin' glasses. She saw the light hit them as they reached the mouth of the alley.”

Casey rubbed his chin. “She see which way they went?”

“She claims they walked two blocks up, got into a sedan and drove away. She didn't get the license, but she said there was something funny about them.”

“Funny how?”

Grebb scratched his ear. “They didn't touch or hold hands or nothin'. The girl kept her distance. The man walked stiff, with his hands in his pockets.”

Casey tugged at the corner of his mustache. “Delgado found red hairs on the bed with Amsterdam. That's the hooker, and the man with the glasses must be the shooter.”

“Doesn't sound like anybody local. Maybe somebody Carson brought from out of town.” Grebb paused as he scratched his ear. “Y'know, I been thinking about Richards and this Carson being brothers. I had me a brother. We beat the hell out of each other on a regular basis. Always competing with each other, I guess, tryin' to see who was top man.” He shook his head.

Casey nodded. “If that's what this is all about, the top man will be the one still standing when this is all over.”

***

Jessica knew from her watch that it had to be dark outside by now, but it was difficult to tell just what her chances would be of making it out unseen. There were a lot of footsteps in the house, men talking in loud voices. There was a radio playing somewhere, and a gruff male voice singing along to some tune she didn't recognize.

She lay on the bed with her arms folded behind her neck, willing herself to relax. It would do no good to make a break and get caught. Be patient, she counseled herself. After all, the home you left never really existed.

Thoughts of home led her to thoughts of her parents. She loved both of them, but as she'd gotten older, she'd sensed the tension between the couple, seen the looks that had let her know that there was no love, and sometimes little liking, between them. She'd heard girlfriends sometimes talk about their parents and their fights, about the fathers with “a little something on the side” that kept them from home some evenings. Her own father was a big, virile man, and Jessica had no doubt he had his own “something on the side,” since he and her mother hadn't shared a room in years. She wondered if she could get her mother to talk honestly to her, when things got back to normal.

Normal, she thought with a wry smile. What would be normal after this? You've been kidnapped, witnessed a murder, nearly been raped and killed. And now you're lying here with a switchblade knife in your pocket. You were just a babe in the woods two days ago, Jessie Girl.

A knock sounded at the door and she sat up quickly, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Who's there?”

The tumblers fell in the lock and the door opened. To her relief it was Pete Carson with a bag of food in his hands. “Dinner's a little late tonight, but at least the waiter has better manners. Can I come in?”

She shrugged. “It's your house, Uncle Pete.”

He entered the room and pushed the door to, but not completely closed. He put the bag of food on the floor at her feet, then stepped back, leaned a hip against the dresser. “Go ahead, before it gets cold.”

She opened the bag and found a hamburger wrapped in grease-stained butcher's paper and a bottle of Coca-Cola. He stepped over long enough to snap the cap off with an opener on a pocketknife, then resumed his place.

“Thanks.” She unwrapped the burger and took a bite. She was pleased to see that whoever had cooked it at least knew what he was doing. “Good,” she said through the bite.

He nodded, almost smiling. “I'm letting you go soon.”

She tried not to show her surprise. “You are?”

He nodded. “Your old man hasn't got any choice except to give in. I've got you, my men have hit his operations and stolen his money, and he's lost several of his key men. All that's left is for me to show him my ace in the hole. Once I do, he'll know he's licked and give me what I want.”

She swallowed the bite and looked at him strangely. “Which is what?”

Carson grinned. “Money, power. The usual things. He knows now I can take everything that matters to him, that I could grab your whole family if need be.”

She took a sip of the Coke and blotted her lips with a paper napkin. “You say my father's a criminal, like you.”

He nodded. “A lot of what he's got today I helped him steal. We worked pretty well together—for a while.”

“So you're no better than he is.”

Carson's face hardened. “Maybe a little. I've done plenty of bad things, but I never killed anybody and shifted the blame on somebody else. That's what he did to me—killed a man named Tarkington and then put me in the frame.”

She swallowed another bite of burger. “And what did you do to him? You must've done something.”

His easy grin returned. “You're no dummy, are you, sweetheart?” He shrugged. “Maybe I was a little dishonest about some of our money dealings. But he could've called me on that. He didn't have to set me up for the electric chair. I didn't short him that much.”

“You came to hurt him. Did it ever occur to you that anybody else would be affected by your grudge? Every time I look at him from now on, I'll know he's a thief.” Anger rose in her like a sudden fever and her voice coarsened. “I feel like my blood's tainted. My mother—what about her? What was she? A dance-hall girl? A stripper? Or maybe the female half of a badger game?”

Carson saw something so savage in her pale green eyes that he had to look away. “Georgia's life is her own business, kid. You'd have found out about your old man sooner or later. New Orleans is a small town and people like to gossip.” He stepped away from the bureau, a big strong man, still very sure of himself. “Get a good night's sleep.” He turned to go, but paused at the door. “I'm sorry, Jessica. I was only out to hurt Whit.”

“I'll put that under my pillow tonight,” she said bitterly. “Maybe if I'm lucky a fairy will come along and leave me a nice, shiny quarter in its place.”

Carson stood there for a moment, not looking at her. Finally he slipped out and closed the door behind him.

***

Farrell smoked to pass the time while he kept his eyes on Johnny Parmalee. Perhaps ten minutes after she'd left Farrell's table, Georgia appeared at the entrance. She looked the club over with a predatory smile on her lips, her eyes lit with a devastating sparkle. After a short pause, she approached Parmalee with a subtle swagger in her walk. He tried to ignore her, but she was having none of it.

Georgia took the stool beside him and began to engage him in conversation. Farrell gave the big man credit for trying to ignore her. Georgia ordered herself a drink, then got Parmalee to light her cigarette. It proved a useful strategy, because once the ex-boxer got a good look at her face, he was hooked. His neck and shoulders lost their hangdog posture as he let himself be drawn into Georgia's web. Ten minutes and another drink later, Parmalee did just what Farrell expected him to do. He spoke to the bartender, and a moment later the maitre d' arrived to conduct them to a secluded table away from the noise.

Farrell saw them seated, then gave Georgia time to distract Parmalee further. When he judged the leg-breaker sufficiently enthralled, Farrell drew his gun, camouflaging it with his hat as he got to his feet.

Judging by the hoots and whistles from the crowd, the stripper onstage was giving them their money's worth, thus ensuring that no one paid any attention to Farrell's progress. Georgia, wearing all of her clothing, by now had Parmalee's rapt attention. Farrell reflected that Parmalee had somehow gotten past the questions of why a classy dame like her was in such a crummy dive, and why she had chosen him as her paramour. Farrell almost felt sorry for him.

As he approached from Parmalee's rear, he noted that Georgia had captured his right hand in hers, and was seductively rubbing her thumb over his scarred knuckles. She held his gaze, her smile full of promises. The ex-boxer didn't notice Farrell's presence until the bronze-skinned man stood at his elbow. Parmalee turned his head, saw the muzzle of the Luger just visible under the brim of his hat.

“Don't do anything stupid, Johnny. Just go on acting like the luckiest man in the world.”

Parmalee stared into the bore of the gun, then raised his eyes to Farrell's. “You're Wes Farrell, ain't you?”

“Uh, huh.”

“What's your beef? I ain't done nothin' to you.”

“No, but you kidnapped this woman's daughter, and we want her back, now.”

“Hey, you're—”

“Save it, Johnny. I know you're hooked up with Pete Carson and somebody else. I also know you're doing all you can to overthrow Whit Richards and take over his action. I know your brother killed the custodian at Sacred Heart. I know just about all of it except where the girl is. Take us to her and I'll tell the cops you cooperated.”

Johnny pulled his hand from Georgia's, his expression bitter at her betrayal. “Thanks, loads. Kidnapping's a Federal beef. I'll get twenty to life, if I'm lucky.”

“Things are tough all over, Johnny. The snatch racket's as dirty as they come, and you know it. You're no schoolboy. Now get this. You're going to stand up very slowly, both hands on the table. You wearing a gun?”

Parmalee's mouth tightened. “My hip pocket.”

“I'll take it as you stand up. You walk ahead of me, slowly, like a guy without a care in the world. Try to run and I'll shoot both legs out from under you.”

“You're holding all the cards—for now,” Johnny replied in a dull voice. He put his hands on the table, pushing himself erect, pausing as Farrell relieved him of his .38.

Farrell backed up a step, covering Parmalee. “Georgia, when we start walking, you fall in behind. We'll put him in my car and take him to police headquarters.”

“Okay, Wes,” she said. She was fine. Her voice was firm and steady as she stood up.

Farrell's pale stare captured Parmalee's eyes and held them. His face had edges that would cut paper, and his bronze skin glowed with dark blood. Even if he hadn't known Farrell's reputation, Parmalee recognized that his life was dangling over Hell by a thread. He put on his hat and started slowly across the room. Farrell followed, with Georgia on his heels. Their procession had all the gravity of a funeral march, but the audience was too mesmerized by the ecdysial antics of Betty Lou Bussey, “the Bourbon Street Tiger Lily,” to pay the somber party the slightest heed.

They reached the sidewalk without incident, but Bourbon Street was a seething mass of giddy nightclubbers. Farrell dashed any hopes Parmalee had of an easy escape by hooking his left arm through Johnny's right, jamming the muzzle of his gun into the ex-boxer's ribs.

“That way,” Farrell indicated with a sharp jerk of his chin. Parmalee could do nothing but comply.

It was slow going, but they reached the corner of Iberville without incident. Farrell nudged Parmalee around the corner, sending him in a northwest direction. Free of the crowds, Farrell let the big man loose as he slid his gun into his coat pocket.

“We're parked two blocks up, Johnny. Let's get this over with.”

“Give me a break, Farrell. I'll tell you where the girl is. You don't need me to get her. Pete never meant to harm her. He's there alone. He'll have to give her to you.”

“You rotten bastard,” Georgia hissed. “Is she all right? If she isn't, I'll flay the skin off you.”

“Keep it moving,” Farrell interrupted. “You can talk and walk at the same time. This was all a stunt to make Carson rich, isn't it?”

“Yeah,” Johnny replied bitterly. “Nothin' else. My brother and me, we was hired to snatch the girl and then knock over enough of Richards's operations to make him think he had a gang war on his hands.”