The Righteous Cut (2 page)

Casey backed McKelvey into the wall. “For somebody who didn't have anything to do with the late Mr. Amsterdam's sex life, you seem to have cataloged his habits pretty well.” He turned and glanced over at where Amsterdam's clothes were draped over a chair. A boyish, blonde detective in a maroon corduroy hat was going through them. “Find anything, Mart?”

Mart shook his head. “What you'd expect, Skipper. Wallet's empty, watch and rings are gone.”

Casey shook his head. “Rolled by the girl, probably. Amsterdam must've tried to stop her and the pimp was near enough to stop him, permanently.” He turned and stared at the house dick again, his eyes flat. “Ray, get the bell captain in here. Let's see if he tells a better story.”

Snedegar jerked his chin at Mart and the young detective left silently. McKelvey took the opportunity to slide down the wall away from Casey and Snedegar, his steps hampered by the knocking of his knees. Mart returned a moment later shoving a skinny olive-skinned man in a red jacket ahead of him.

“You Johnny Ferrara?” Casey demanded.

“I'm Ferrara,” the man said sullenly. A sheen of sweat gleamed on his pock-marked face.

“McKelvey says you brought girls up here for Amsterdam. What about it?”

Ferrara shot a glance of exquisite hatred at the house dick before returning his gaze to Casey. “I ain't no pimp.”

Snedegar laughed nastily. “He ain't no pimp either, skipper. Don't that just slay you?”

“Yeah, he's a regular choirboy. Are you saying you didn't bring girls up for Amsterdam?” Casey snapped. “Think hard, because the penalty for perjury is a lot worse than it is for pandering. You want a minute?”

Ferrara's mouth worked as he tried to generate enough spit to loosen his tongue. “Sometimes I'd get a girl for Mr. Amsterdam. Just as a favor, not for money or nothin'.”

Casey smiled humorlessly. “What about tonight?”

Ferrara tossed a quick glance at Snedegar, saw violence staring back at him. “Y-yeah. I found him one. For a favor, like I told you.”

“Who was she?” Casey demanded.

“I—I never seen her before. She looked like his type, you know, so—so I thought he'd like the variety.”

“You never saw her before? Who's her pimp?”

“I didn't get her from no pimp. She was just hangin' around, offered me—” He broke off suddenly as he realized what he was about to say.

Casey put his hand flat against the bell captain's chest, shoving him up against the wall. “You were about to say that she offered you part of what she made. Is that right? I said is that right?”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, that's what she did, all right.”

“What'd she look like?”

He shrugged, not looking at Casey. “Average size, good figure. Long red hair.”

“What color were her eyes? How tall was she? What was she wearing? C'mon, Ferrara, give, or I'll treat you to Christmas dinner at the parish prison.”

“Hell, she was just a chick, you know? Maybe five-five or so. She was wearin' high heels and it might be she was smaller'n that. I didn't look at her eyes or nothin'.”

Casey sighed. “Yeah, I know what you were looking at. Take both of them down to headquarters, Ray. Book them both for pandering, then let 'em spend the rest of the evening with some mug books.”

“Christ's sake, I ain't done nothin',” McKelvey whined.

Snedegar grabbed the house dick, whirled him around by a shoulder and snapped cuffs on his wrists. Mart, taking his cue from his sergeant, did the same to Ferrara. They pushed the protesting men into the hall and down the stairs.

Casey turned as a dark-haired man in spectacles got to his feet across the room. “Get anything, Nick?”

“Something but not much,” Nick Delgado replied. “A couple of red hairs from the bed, and the shell casings. Western long rifle Super Match. A .22 is a pimp's gun, right enough, but that's high-grade target ammo.”

“That's interesting, all right. What about prints?”

“I've dusted the room and found plenty of prints, but we'll have to get the prints of the hotel staff so we can eliminate them from suspicion.”

Casey snorted. “If those two are a sample, we probably can't eliminate any of them.”

Casey heard voices in the hall and turned to find a fleshy, dark-haired man in an expensive overcoat standing in the door. His dark mustache stood out on his pale face like it had been scrawled there with a grease pencil.

“Jack. My God, Jack.” The man rubbed his face, his mouth hanging open. He stared at the body for a long moment, then looked up at Casey as though surprised to find him there. “Who did this?”

“We don't know yet, Councilman Richards. He came here to use a prostitute, and it looks like he may have gotten rolled by the girl or her pimp. We can't say for sure until we investigate further.” Casey spoke softly, but without sympathy. Richards owed his position to graft and the dead man was part of that. Amsterdam had brought hundreds of thousands into Richards's political coffers running illegal gambling operations that Richards protected with the power of his office. One dirty hand washing another.

Richards went closer, staring down into Amsterdam's sightless eyes. “Jesus, Jack. Jesus Christ.”

“Sorry to drag you away from home this time of the night, Councilman, but we figured you'd want to know.”

Richards appeared not to hear him. “Twenty years we been together and now you let a fuckin' whore kill you. God damn you, Jack.”

The men with the coroner's ambulance appeared at the door with their stretcher. A look from Casey halted them. He moved to Richards' side and took him gently by the elbow. “They've got to take him to the morgue, Councilman.”

Richards let Casey move him to the side, and watched dumbly while the ambulance men wrapped the corpse in the bed sheets, then moved it to the stretcher. He remained with Casey until the corpse had been carried into the hall, then he followed it with a heavy tread.

Casey stared after him for a moment, then followed everyone down the stairs to the lobby.

Chapter 2

Thursday, December 4th, 1941

As dawn broke over D'Hemecourt Street, Skeeter Longbaugh drove his Model A touring car down the alley to the shed behind the shotgun double where he lived. The young Negro yawned hugely, feeling contented. Three nights out so far this week, each time with a different chick and every time a score. Sometimes his luck amazed him.

He left the car and stumbled through the back yard to his kitchen door. As he bent to insert the skeleton key in the lock, he was briefly surprised to find it already unlocked. Musta forgot when I left last night, he thought. He pushed the door open, shrugging. He didn't have anything worth stealing anyhow.

He passed through the kitchen into his bedroom and stopped so short his feet almost went out from under him. A broad-shouldered white man lounged on his unkempt bed. Hard brown eyes stared out from beneath thick brows ridged with scar tissue.

“About time you got home,” the big man said in a flat baritone. “You know you ain't got nothin' to eat in this dump?”

Skeeter swallowed hard. “Uh, huh. Say, man—who the hell are you and what you doin' in my place?” Skeeter almost jumped at the sound of his own voice. It sounded composed, even unconcerned. It did not reflect the panic he felt at all. He heard a metallic click just behind him and started, jerking his head around. A second white man, smaller, with a narrow face and fine features straddled a chair. His snappy two-toned shoes looked totally out of place in the dingy room, but it was the switchblade knife in his hand that drew Skeeter's eye.

“Curious, ain't you, boy?” the knife man asked. His slit of a mouth resembled something that might have been a smile. Might have been, but wasn't.

“'Fraid you can't go to work just yet, Skeeter,” the larger man said. “See, we got a li'l project in mind. Somethin' that requires you to make it work.”

Skeeter swallowed again, feeling nausea cramp his stomach. “Job? Naw, man, ya see, I gots to get to work right away. Sister Malcolm'll chew up my ass and spit it back at me if I ain't there on time. Y'all just gotta excuse me, okay?” He began backing up toward the kitchen, but the slim, handsome white man got off his chair and blocked his path, the knife blade pointed casually at his guts.

The heavy-set man rose from the bed with an unexpected grace. His size made him more menacing than the other man's knife. “Settle down, boy. I ain't got no mind to hurt you, but you gonna do what I tell you. You don't and I'll beat you stupid, get me?”

Skeeter's eyes protruded from the sockets. “Yeah, boss, yeah. I read you loud and clear. You say the word and I'll
be
the word.” All he could do was play along and hope he'd find some way to get away from this pair.

The heavy-set man grinned in a way that was almost friendly. “Good. You and me are gonna get along just fine, Skeeter. Let's go on out the back door, and let's us be real quiet, awright?”

“Right, boss. Like the grave.” The moment he heard the thoughtless word in his mouth, Skeeter grimaced.

***

Later that morning, City Councilman Whitman Richards smiled genially at the two men sitting across from him. One was about Richards' own age, with a tired face. The other, dark-hired, young, and vital. Neither smiled back at Richards. Another young man stood behind Richards' desk with his arms folded. His lips wore a faintly amused smile that didn't reach the dark, bright eyes that stared from behind the lenses of a pair of steel-rimmed glasses.

“What makes you boys think I'm in any position to help you?” Richards asked.

The older man, Mel Chastain, almost sighed. “Quit kidding us, Richards. Every time the chairman of the Zoning Board opens his mouth, your voice comes out of it. We need a zoning change in order to build our torpedo parts factory and he won't give it to us, as you well know.”

The younger man, Tom Maxwell, snorted derisively. “Let's get to the point. You want something to get the Zoning Board chairman to approve the change, so why don't you spit it out and stop wasting your time and ours?”

Whitman Richards' eyes crinkled as a lazy laugh escaped his mouth. “Kid, you're the man for me. No beating about the bush.” He cocked an eyebrow at Chastain. “This kid's going to make you rich, Mel.” Richards sat up abruptly and leaned forward, his hands clasped on the desk blotter.

“Okay, fellas. You want my help, here's what it'll cost you. Two thousand up front for me, and another five Cees for the Zoning chairman. Cash only. That's for starts.”

Maxwell's jaw got tight and his hands quivered gently. “What's the punch line, Richards? Twenty-five hundred's letting us off cheap.”

Richards grinned again at Mel. “I like this kid. He thinks like me. Okay, I'll want ten percent of your company. It'll be put in the name of a special corporation my associate, Mr. Langdon there, runs for me. He'll handle all the details for you.” He leaned back in his chair again, assuming a comfortable pose. “Once the factory's going good, you won't even miss that ten percent.” He paused for the briefest of seconds. “Take it or leave it, fellas. I'm a busy man.”

Mel looked tired and sad. He turned to his partner. “I guess you've made up your mind already, Tom.”

Maxwell glared at Richards. “Mel, you and I both know that government contract isn't worth the paper it's printed on unless we get the factory built. We're being robbed, but we'll be ruined if we don't give him what he wants.”

Mel sucked a tooth as he looked back at Richards. “I guess you've got a deal.”

“Good,” Richards replied briskly. “See Mr. Langdon first thing in the morning and he'll have the paperwork drawn up for you. You'll have your zoning change by Friday afternoon.”

The two visitors recognized the dismissal and stood up. “Fine. You'll pardon us if we don't shake hands.” He put on his hat and buttoned his jacket. “How do you sleep at night, Richards?”

The city councilman's face hardened and the lazy smile disappeared. “Like a baby, Mel. I dream about money in the bank and sleep like a baby. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got city business to attend to.” He ostentatiously pulled some papers from a basket and began reading them while Robert Langdon herded the two businessmen out of the office.

Langdon paused in the doorway as a pretty young woman with a stylish cap of feathery blonde hair appeared there. “Mr. Richards?”

“Yes, Meredith,” Richards said without looking up.

“Captain Casey from the police is here.”

“Send him in.”

Langdon stood to the side and gestured for the policeman to enter the office. “Have a seat, captain.” Langdon waited until Casey was seated, then took up his former position behind Richards' desk.

Richards looked up as the chief of detectives sat down across from him. “Well, what do you know so far?”

“Not much. The room hadn't been cleaned in months and they've picked up fifty different sets of fingerprints so far, not including Amsterdam's. It'll take time to check them all.”

“A pity they can't pick up fingerprints on skin,” Richards said bitterly. “I'll bet you'd find the broad's all over Jack.”

Casey folded his hands across his stomach. “Yeah, that would be helpful, all right.”

Richards glared at the detective. “What about the house dick and the bell captain? Did you get anything out of them?”

Casey smiled, but it wasn't friendly. “We kept them up all night looking at mug books, but it was no soap. We're holding both of them on a pandering charge to see if their memories improve, but I'm not very optimistic. The girl may be new in town, or maybe just new in that vicinity. We've got Vice Squad detectives combing the area with the girl's description.”

Richards rubbed his face, his frustration evident in his glance. “What about the hotel staff? Could they have done it?”

Casey shook his head. “Doesn't look like it. The janitor is sixty-three years old and has a bad leg. McKelvey's spine is made out of rubber, so he makes a lousy suspect, too. Besides, the desk man and one of the bellhops say he never left the lobby. The bell captain was shooting craps with the other bellhops in the back.”

Richards sagged in his chair. “Great.”

“Tell me something, councilman,” the detective said. “Had Amsterdam said anything to you about having a run-in with somebody, or maybe meeting somebody who had an old beef with him?”

Richards' face got red. “Nuts. Nobody in this town who knew anything would try to jerk the rug out from under Jack Amsterdam. They'd know better.”

Casey uncrossed his legs and bent forward, staring intently at the city councilman. “Then why is he dead? I've been a cop for a long time and I've seen a lot of killing. A whore, caught in the act of rolling a customer, might slash the john with a knife or a razor, anything to slow him up while she made a getaway. But this is different. Amsterdam was killed by a pair of .22 target rounds to the head. A nice, clean kill.”

“Fuck.” Richards' voice was flat and cold, his body rigid in his chair.

Casey stared at him without an ounce of friendliness in his demeanor. “The trouble with this case is that you and I both know your office is nothing more than a machine to help you make money through graft and extortion. There are probably two hundred people within the city limits with a motive to kill Amsterdam—or you, for that matter. We both also know that you've got to keep your mouth shut because any information that would lead to the arrest of the killer would probably put you right beside him in Parish Prison.”

Richards regarded Casey with a contemptuous sneer. “Don't think I won't remember this, Casey. I don't have to take any puke from you or any other cop. With one call to the mayor I could get you reassigned to some district on the West Bank where you spend all your time in a rowboat.”

Casey got to his feet and put his hat on. “I guess you could, at that. We'll eventually get the woman. We'd find her quicker with a little cooperation, but we'll find her. Thanks for your time.” He turned and left the office.

“He seems to think that the killer is somebody we've put the squeeze on,” Langdon said when they were alone.

Richards gave his associate an ironic look. “I wonder why he thought that?” He sighed, then laughed and shook his head. “Jack had no sense about women. The chances are it was just what it looked like. She fucked his brains out and while he was half-asleep, she tried to make off with his goods. It was just his rotten luck he woke up too soon. We'd be in here laughin' about it right now. Instead…” He left the thought unfinished.

Langdon looked at his watch. “You're due in council chambers in about twenty minutes.”

“Yeah. I got a thing to work out with Councilman Burkhart before the session starts. Take care of things until I get back.”

“Sure, Whit. I'm sorry about Jack. You and he go back a long way.”

Richards put on his hat as he went into the outer office. Meredith Baker, the junior secretary, looked at him worriedly, brushing his hand with hers as he drew near. He paused to look at her, letting a soft expression briefly cross his face before he turned to go.

Langon paused between the two secretaries' desks until Richards had departed.

“Is there any news, Mr. Langdon?” Catherine Landau, the older senior secretary, asked.

“Nothing, I'm afraid.” He ran thin nervous fingers through his fine brown hair, his dark eyes flickering rapidly behind his spectacles. “You'd better cancel all of Councilman Richards' appointments for the rest of the day. If you get any calls from newspapermen, tell them nothing, you understand? Nothing.” He nodded reassuringly at Meredith as she sat down at her desk, then went to his own office and closed the door.

***

At eleven o'clock that same morning, a twin-engine amphibian with private markings touched down at the hydroplane base near the New Orleans Lakefront Airport. It taxied slowly to the docks where a closed Cadillac limousine waited. After the hands made the large plane fast to the dock, the hatch to the passenger compartment opened. A wide-shouldered man with pale gold skin disembarked alongside a tall, elegantly dressed woman. The woman, her face hidden by a veiled hat, placed a gloved hand in the man's and allowed him to help her over the gangway. A barrel-chested Negro helped them into the limousine and placed their luggage in the trunk. Within a minute they were driving in the direction of the city.

“It's still pretty warm here,” Savanna Beaulieu observed as she removed the veiled hat and placed it on the seat beside her. “Maybe we'll have a mild winter this year.” She took out a compact and inspected the makeup on her dark brown face. The rose-colored face powder accentuated her high cheekbones.

“That would be all right with me,” Wesley Farrell replied. “I've spent so much time in Cuba my blood's thinned out.” He took Savanna's hand, leaned over, and kissed her on the mouth. “Welcome home, baby.”

Savanna's gloved hand touched his face lightly. “I didn't think I'd miss it so much, but I'm glad to be back.”

They drove in companionable silence down Canal Boulevard, reacquainting themselves with the sights of the city. Twenty minutes later the limousine pulled into the small parking lot behind the Café Tristesse. The Negro helped them get their bags out of the trunk of the car and up the iron stairs to Farrell's apartment before leaving them.

As Savanna went to freshen up, Farrell took the opportunity to make some calls. Finding his father absent from police headquarters, he called his cousin, Marcel Aristide.

“How much money do we have in the bank, kid?”

“Hey, Wes! I thought you wouldn't be here until tomorrow. Captain Casey's wedding is taking place on Sunday, right?”

“Yeah. We decided to come back a little early. How's the pretty girl from Brownsville?”