The Righteous Cut (20 page)

Arboneau shook his head wearily. “I have hated you for many years, Richards. You took away everything that mattered. I sat up nights trying to find ways to get even with you, to hurt you as badly as you hurt me. Now I see what a pitiful wretch you are, I wonder why I bothered.”

Arboneau crooked his finger. “Come here, Richards. Come get what you came for.” He walked around to the rear of the station wagon, lifted the tailgate and stood away.

Richards staggered to the rear of the station wagon, stopped dead as he stared inside. He stood there for a long moment, blinking, not believing. A look of ineffable sadness came over him for the briefest of seconds before he stretched out his hands in a gesture of supplication. “Oh, no,” he said in a small voice. He took a step forward, but the sharp snap of a .22 staggered him. Already dying, he somehow took another step as a second shot cracked. Whitman Richards fell slowly backward into the mist, an arm still extended in that strange, final gesture. Miles away, a Louisville & Nashville engineer sounded his whistle as a slow freight approached Bywater crossing.

***

Carson was drinking coffee in the kitchen of the farmhouse when he heard the car skid to a stop in the back yard. Snapping a .38 from the spring clip under his arm, he rose and threw open the back door. He saw Johnny leap from the car in his haste to get inside.

“What the hell's wrong with you?” Carson demanded.

“We got trouble. I stopped in at the Red Dog Club on my way back here from town. Wes Farrell stuck me up with the help of that girl's mother.”

Carson's mouth tightened. “Farrell? I thought he ran a nightclub.”

“You're a li'l outa touch, Pete. He's got friends on the cops now, and he spends half of his time bird-doggin' for them. But that's not the worst of it. He knows about you, about Richards bein' your brother, and all about Joey and me pullin' the snatch. I gotta figure if he knows all that, the cops know it too, by now.”

“Jesus,” Carson whispered. He was silent for a moment, staring off into the dark barnyard, then he blinked, cut his eyes back to Johnny. “Is he on your tail?”

Johnny licked his lips nervously. “No. At least I don't think so.”

“What the hell does that mean? Snap it up, Johnny. We're standing under the gallows.”

Johnny's mouth worked for a moment, his expression registering confusion. “Something happened back there. We was a block or so off Bourbon on Iberville. Farrell was takin' me to his car, givin' me the third degree. This old station wagon—a Chevy, I think—rolled up on us. The driver cut loose at Farrell.”

A peculiar expression crossed Carson's face. “A Chevy wagon? You get a look at the driver?”

Pete shrugged. “Not a good look. It was dark and there was lead flyin' back and forth pretty good. Mighta been a trick of the light, but it looked like the guy wore specs. Anyhow, Farrell was tradin' lead with the guy, so I got the hell outa there. Farrell might be dead. I saw him go down as I turned to run.”

Pete was no longer listening. He was too busy trying to understand how Farrell knew all about him and his plans. Carson knew the station wagon well enough to recognize the old man's hand in this play, but if Arboneau knew all about Farrell's interference, why hadn't he tipped Carson off? A very prickly and unpleasant idea began to form in Carson's brain, a thought that maybe the old man was playing a different game than he and Carson had agreed upon.

Carson had sensed that all the cards weren't face-up on the table. Arboneau's emissary had spun a pretty tale of how they'd topple Richards and take over his empire, but there had been something seething beneath the clever talk that he hadn't quite gotten. He recognized that his own desire to out-wit his half-brother had blinded him to the pitfalls of partnering up with strangers. He looked up to see Johnny watching him anxiously.

“Pete, Farrell said something else I didn't get,” Johnny said.

“What?”

“He asked if Joey and me had killed Amsterdam and Callahan. I didn't know what he was talkin' about.”

Pete's face froze. “Amsterdam and Callahan? Dead? We weren't supposed to be killing anybody, particularly Whit's top brass. You're tellin' me they're dead?”

Johnny looked confused. “It's what he said.”

Pete understood now. Revenge. That's all it was ever about. Arboneau and his little pal didn't care about Whit's power or money at all. He lifted his eyes to the big man. “Better come inside and get ready to leave. This thing is about to blow up in our faces.”

“What're we gonna do?”

“Leave town. You'd better come with me up to Seattle. I owe you that for getting you into this mess.”

Johnny looked relieved. “That's white of you, Pete. What about the girl?”

“That was my mistake. We'll take her as far as the city limits, then let her go. We'll drive to Baton Rouge, get on a train and head north.”

Johnny nodded. “I need a rod. Farrell took mine.”

“There's a spare in the drawer of the living room table. Get moving, and bring the girl down with you.”

As Johnny moved to obey, Carson fought off a wave of defeat. Whit was going to take this hand after all.

***

After Skeeter spoke to Mabel and told her everything was all right, he passed up Andrews' offer of a ride to Ma Rankin's house. He caught a bus in front of police headquarters and rode it to Charity Hospital. It took him a little while, but eventually he found where they were keeping Easter Coupé. By introducing himself as Coupé's second cousin, he gained admittance to the Negro gunman's room. He looked for police guards, but soon discovered there were none.

The big man lay on his back, his torso swathed in bandages. His legs lay outside the sheets with casts from the knee to the ankle. Skeeter drew up a chair to the bed.

“Mr. Coupé,” he whispered. “Mr. Coupé, it's Skeeter Longbaugh.”

Coupé stirred, his eyelids flickered. He stared through narrow slits for a moment, then a smile slowly spread across his face. “Hey, man. How the hell you doin'?” He spoke with a slow, thick tongue.

“Fine. How you doin'?”

Coupé grunted. “They say I ain't gonna die—yet. My luck ain't worth a tinker's damn.” He laughed softly.

Skeeter was moved by his courage, and put a hand on the big man's wrist. “I'm sure sorry how this worked out. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Coupé slowly shook his head. “Nothin', boy. Just do like I tell you. Get that money from the train depot and split it with Patience. Tell her it's from Frank Brown. She don't know my real name.”

The germ of an idea began to form in the back of Skeeter's mind. “Mr. Coupé, how much money you think might be in that suitcase?”

Coupé grunted sleepily. “Dunno. Reckon it might be fifteen, eighteen thousand. Maybe more. Hard—to—s-.” He drifted off to sleep before he could complete the thought.

Skeeter remained beside him for at least a quarter hour, thinking. After a while he left the unguarded room and went down to the hospital lobby to use a telephone.

Chapter 18

As Farrell had suspected, R & I had an arrest record for one Gabrielle LaPaglia, age seventeen. Her parole officer listed her address as Arboneau's store in Treme. Farrell and Casey reached the neighborhood a bit before midnight Saturday. Leaving Casey's police cruiser, they ascended the exterior staircase to the second story of the ramshackle building.

Casey looked at his watch as Farrell knocked. “I hope you called this right. Brigid is going to kill me for standing her up.”

Farrell said nothing as he pounded the door insistently. He continued pounding until the noise elicited a response.

“Who's there?” The voice was small, childish, and apprehensive.

“Police, Miss LaPaglia. Open up, please.”

The door opened a crack and a narrow slice of face eyed them. “Police? What do you want with me?”

Casey held up his shield. “We need to talk to you, miss. Open up, please.”

The door opened slowly. Gabrielle stood half-hidden behind it, clutching a worn terry cloth robe to her throat. Her long, red hair hung loose to her shoulders.

Casey shot a glance at Farrell as he walked into the room. Farrell followed, his eyes taking in everything as he shut the door behind them. Gabrielle skirted them like a skittish animal.

“Miss LaPaglia, you work for King Arboneau.”

“Y-yes. He give me a job and a place to live. He's been g-good to m-me.”

Casey gestured for the girl to sit in the room's only chair, then pulled up a stool so he could talk to her at eye level. “Miss, we have good reason to suspect that Mr. Arboneau's behind a kidnapping and several murders.”

Gabrielle's eyes flickered from Casey's up to Farrell's frigid stare. She flinched, cut her eyes back to Casey's. “Daddy King owns the grocery store where I work. I don't know nothin' 'bout any of that.”

Casey cupped his chin in his hand and regarded her kindly. “That won't wash, Miss LaPaglia. We don't know the name of Arboneau's trigger man, but an eyewitness saw him leave the Bella Creole Hotel Wednesday night after the murder of Jack Amsterdam. The killer was described as a young male, slight of build, wearing glasses. He was in the company of a young woman, with long red hair worn loose to her shoulders.”

Gabrielle's jaw was tight and her eyes blinked rapidly. She squirmed in the chair, trying to draw away from the detective's relentless voice.

“We've got another witness who works at the Bella Creole,” Casey continued in his calm voice. “He brought the call girl up to Amsterdam's room in exchange for part of what Amsterdam was to pay her. Since she got out without giving him his cut, he's understandably upset with her. He's in a cell at parish prison and he's identified your mug shot.”

Gabrielle's face began to crumple and tears slipped from the wells of her eyes, running quickly over her pale round cheeks.

Casey knew he had her. “We've compared the fingerprints from your prostitution arrests and they match some of the prints we found on the hotel bed, Gabrielle. Right now you're looking at accessory to murder.”

“I didn't wanna do it, mister, I swear. Daddy King promised me when he took me in I'd never have to lay with nobody again. I didn't even know what they was gonna do until they done it, I swear.” She pounded her knee with the flat of her hand as she sobbed out the confession.

Casey caught the hand and patted it soothingly. “Listen to me, Gabrielle. I believe you didn't kill Amsterdam. We'll work that out later. Right now, I want to know where they're holding a girl named Jessica Richards. She's the daughter of the man I told you about. She was kidnapped to hurt her father, but things are coming unglued now, and I'm afraid for her life, you understand? You help us find Jessica, we'll help you. Hush now, hush.” He gave her his handkerchief and continued to pat her hand.

Casey's patience and calm voice gradually soothed the distraught girl. As the sobs subsided, she developed a case of hiccups that brought embarrassed giggles from her. She pushed her long hair back from her face and looked at Casey shyly. “Heard him talkin' to a man he called Pete day before yesterday,” she said. “There's some men out at an old dairy farm Daddy King owns out on Filmore somewheres. Reckon that's where they'd keep her.” She paused, her thoughts momentarily distracting her from her fear and distress.

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure, but if not, there's another place in Bucktown. He took me and Cal there fishin'.”

“Cal's the kid with the glasses?” Farrell asked.

“Uh, huh. Cal's like me, he ain't got nobody. We been—we been kind of a family, the three of us.”

Casey nodded patiently. “Can you take us to the farm?”

Her face froze as she recognized the implication of what she'd revealed. “You ain't gonna hurt Daddy King and Cal? They're all I got, mister. Please, don't hurt 'em.”

“Get dressed, Gabrielle,” Casey said. “We'll wait right here.”

The girl stepped into a bedroom and partially closed the door. Farrell pushed his Stetson off his forehead, rubbing his face. He saw his father staring at the far wall. “What're you looking at?”

Casey motioned him over and pointed to a framed photograph. “I believe that's Tel Arboneau.”

Gabrielle, now in her street clothes, came up behind them. “Daddy King has pictures of his son all over the house. He misses him somethin' awful. He wanted Tel and his girlfriend to get married and give him lots of grandchildren.” She paused to pull a blue cable-knit cardigan over her blouse. “I hope I can get married one day and give Daddy King all the babies he wants. I so want to make him happy. He's done so much for me.”

Casey turned from the photograph to stare at the girl. She returned his look with an earnest, almost wistful expression. “Nobody can make another person happy, Gabrielle. Happiness is something you have to make for yourself. I hope you will, when this is over. C'mon, we need to get going.”

Farrell remained silent, noticing that a gleam of something that might have been understanding had just appeared in his father's eye. He had stood beside him, seen and heard what Casey had, yet that understanding had eluded him. Casey took Gabrielle by the arm and led her to the door, Farrell following silently behind.

***

As midnight drew near, Jessica heard fewer sounds. She decided the moment to escape had arrived.

In the act of opening the closet door, Jessica heard the harsh sound of the tumblers falling in the bedroom door latch. She leaped away from the closet, turned to find Johnny Parmalee standing in the hall looking at her.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“C'mon, Pete wants you downstairs.”

“Why? Is he going to take me home?”

Johnny Parmalee searched her face, saw the marks of the fight she'd had with his brother. He winced involuntarily. “My brother do that to you?”

Her hand went to her face. “Joey?”

Johnny nodded, unable to hide the chagrin he felt. “I did my best to raise him right, but I guess I did a lousy job.” He held out a hand. “C'mon. Pete's waitin'.”

She felt hope drain away as she left the room. They found Pete slipping into his jacket.

“What are you going to do with me, Uncle Pete?”

Pete put his hat on as he faced her. “There's some kind of trouble brewing, so we're gonna have to leave here.” He placed a small automatic in his hip pocket, obviously trying to keep the worry from his face. “I'll drop you off at the edge of town. It's finished, all of it.”

She was unable to keep the irritation from her voice. “So that's it? You kidnap me, keep me a prisoner for three days, and just like that it's over? What bullshit this is.”

Pete nodded. “I can see why you'd feel that way, Jess. This turned out to be a bad idea, all the way around. You got a right to be sore.”

Jessica had her mouth open to speak when the sound of a powerful automobile engine cut through the night silence. All three people froze for an instant. Johnny spoke first.

“Who the hell is that?”

Carson's expression suddenly went calm and deliberate. “There aren't many people it can be. Bring Jess along.”

Carson led the way into the front room. He pulled the edge of a drape away from a window and peered out. “It's King.” He turned and cut his eyes at Johnny. “It looks like he's got that four-eyed shadow of his and your brother's with him.”

Johnny's face flattened, the skin around his eyes and mouth suddenly pale. “I told him not to show his face around me again. Four-eyes is probably the one who almost got me killed tonight when he made the hit on Farrell.”

Arboneau yelled Carson's name, called for him to come out. Carson looked at Johnny, made a motion with his head. He went to the door and stepped out on the porch. Johnny followed, taking up a position beside him.

“What're you trying to do, King? What happened to the plan we worked out? Nobody said anything about killing Amsterdam and Callahan. Is that what got Farrell snooping into this? If he knows all about us, probably the cops do, too. The whole operation's blown.”

Arboneau's small black eyes were invisible in the shadowy folds of his face. “You ask me what happened to the plan? That's funny, Carson, after what you've pulled. But it won't work. You see, I got my vengeance. Not quite the way I planned, but I finally have it.”

Carson stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean all debts have been paid. Show him, Cal.”

Cal slid from under the wheel and walked to the rear of the station wagon. Johnny watched his brother. Joey's eyes were lost in shadow, but his insane grin was the tip-off that he was carrying a full load of coke. Johnny felt something inside him collapse as he wrapped his fingers around the butt of his .38.

As Cal opened the rear of the station wagon, something dark and bulky fell into the yard. Joey's jittery laugh sounded as he turned it over with his foot.

Jessica had been standing just behind Pete, staring, feeling the tension swirl around her. Clouds drifted past the moon, letting a dull silver light illuminate Whitman Richards' face. “Daddy!” She flung herself past Carson and Parmalee to where Richards' body lay. Her incoherent screams split the autumn darkness like the wild shriek of a wounded animal. She cradled Richards' head in her lap, her body convulsing with sobs.

As Carson looked down at the remains of his brother, a raging heat crept into his face. “It wasn't enough you had to kill Amsterdam and Callahan, you had to kill him, too? Who the fuck said you could order a hit on my brother?”

Arboneau ignored the raw words as though they were casual remarks about the weather. “You reap what you sow, Pete. I got into this because I believed both of us wanted to even the score with Richards. It was a good act, or maybe I was just too blinded by my own hate to see clearly. It never occurred to me that you'd make a separate peace.”

Carson's mouth fell open. What Arboneau said to him made no sense. “What the hell are you talking about? There's no separate peace. You've been had.” His head jerked in Joey's direction. “Did you get this pipe dream from that rape-fiend hophead? He wouldn't know the truth if it bit him.” As Pete's hand flew to his gun, Cal Russell anticipated him. He fired three times over the back of the station wagon, blasting Carson against the house.

Joey's hand moved in a blur, but his brother was faster. Johnny's gun slammed twice, staggering the younger man. Joey, his eyes hot and savage, aimed deliberately at his brother and fired. Johnny dropped his gun, his left hand flying to his head. He teetered, then fell at Arboneau's feet. Joey's laugh echoed triumphantly until the shock finally reached his brain. He struggled to stand, looked at Arboneau with a puzzled expression as he slid to the ground.

The few seconds of violence had silenced Jessica. She stared wide-eyed from the shelter of Richards' body. Arboneau surveyed the destruction with calm satisfaction as he grabbed Jessica's wrist and snatched her to her feet. It was then that he heard the sirens in the distance. He understood that in spite of his efforts to shield himself from complicity in this mess, everything was coming apart. He turned to the girl, intent on killing her when an idea struck him.

“Cal, we'll use the boat in Bucktown. Hurry.”

Cal's face was pale but he moved decisively. He was under the wheel by the time Arboneau dragged Jessica into the back seat. With a squeal of tires, the station wagon shot away into the night.

When everything was quiet, Pete Carson stirred. As he stared dazedly about at the litter of corpses, he recalled the castle in the sky he'd been building for the past several months. It occurred to him that he'd been suckered in the worst way a man can be. Painfully, he regained his feet, staggered to Richards. “Your kid was right, Whit. I had this all wrong from the start.”

He lifted his head as the sirens grew louder. Russell's slug had broken his collarbone, but had gone all the way through. It hurt, but he could still navigate. He was pressing a handkerchief against his wound when he heard a low moan. He staggered to where Johnny lay and knelt beside him, sliding his hand under the ex-fighter's head. “Johnny, you all right?”

Johnny groaned again, put a hand to the bloody smear on the side of his head. He opened his eyes, blinking until Carson's face came into focus. “J-Joey?”

Carson shook his head.

“Christ. Jesus Christ.” The words were like something ripped from Johnny's soul. “It's all gone now. It's all gone.”

Carson looked over at his own brother's body, saying nothing for a moment, then he put his arm under Johnny's shoulders and lifted the big man to his feet. “C'mon, kid. There's a north-bound freight leaving the Illinois Central yards in an hour, and we're gonna hitch a ride in one of the boxcars.”

In less than a moment, they were inside Johnny's Chrysler heading down a dirt road away from the approaching sirens. Carson cast one last look in the rearview mirror, then turned his eyes forward again. He'd come in with nothing, and he'd leave the same way. Save for the regrets.