The Righteous Cut (7 page)

Joey slid away from his brother, not looking at him. “Aw, it's around here someplace. I just mislaid it is all.” He made his words casual, and Johnny bought them.

“Okay. Sorry for the tiff. Wanna play some pinochle?”

“No. No thanks, Johnny. Think I'll siddown and listen to the radio for a while.”

“Okay, kid.” Johnny walked away, leaving Joey stroking the place where his tie bar should have been, a nervous sweat beading on his upper lip.

***

It was immediately apparent to Easter Coupé that Skeeter hadn't returned after his escape. His car was still in the shed, and Skeeter's clothing and shaving things were all where they belonged.

Not having eaten since early that morning, Coupé decided to check out the boy's larder in the hopes of locating a snack. The icebox had a pint of milk gone sour, a half-stick of oleomargerine, and two shriveled oranges. In the bread box he found a wrapper with a few slices of white bread remaining. They were stale, but he was too hungry to care.

He continued through the apartment, noticing in the glow of his flashlight just how little the youngster owned. There wasn't enough furniture to entertain any company. Moreover the boy owned neither radio nor phonograph. There were no books, magazines, nor any newspapers. In a bureau, Coupé found an address book with the names and numbers of at least thirty women. Kate had been right about him.

In the drawer of a rickety writing table, Coupé found an invoice from a garage in Gerttown owned by somebody named Blessey. The bill total was $15.00, yet below the sum was scrawled the words “
NO CHARGE
.” Coupé frowned at that. Automotive repair was a thing that people without money either handled themselves or did without in these times. For the equivalent of a week's salary to be so cavalierly dismissed suggested a relationship of some kind.

He looked about the dark rooms, thinking how much they were like his own, empty of past and holding no promise for the future. Once again he felt that strange stab of emotion that had hit him outside of Kate's lounge, but he rolled his shoulders, frowning as though it were a sore muscle as he exited through the back on the way to his car.

***

Pete Carson dialed the Downtown number again and listened to it buzz several times before the owner picked up. “It's Pete. Can you talk?”

“Yeah, I'm alone. I got the word about Bockman and Daughtery and them. Joey Parmalee do that?”

“Yeah,” Carson replied. “The trigger-happy punk. He brought five grand back with him.”

“My boys knocked over a couple of other joints. They brought in about twelve grand between them. We're already better off than when you got off the train.” The man paused for a moment. “I got word of somethin' a li'l while ago, Pete. It's not bad news, but it ain't particularly good neither.”

Carson frowned as he heard the note in the other man's voice. “What is it?”

“Jack Amsterdam got killed in a fleabag last night. They're sayin' a whore done it.”

“Hell. Amsterdam was the lynch pin to Whit's gambling rackets. That's damned bad luck for us.”

“Maybe,” the man said dubiously. “He and Richards had been together from the start. I ain't sure you could've bought him. Scared him, maybe, but no other way.”

“We'll never know,” Carson growled. “Of all the frigging bad luck. Christ.”

“Richards is pullin' the rest of his men back,” the other man said. “Amsterdam gettin' killed woulda thrown him off balance, but he ain't stupid. My guess is that as soon as he got word about Bockman and Daughtery, he started pullin' everything and everybody back inside his hole. His men are gonna be real cautious now.”

Pete grinned into the receiver. “Well, I expected that after we talked on the phone. I know from experience he's no slouch in the brains department.”

“We all know that,” the other man said. “But he never seen the kidnapping comin'. This was the prize sucker punch of all time. How long you think it'll be before he starts to buckle?”

Carson's eyes flickered. “Can't say for sure, but Rico's tough. I know him better than anyone else. We may have to hit him again.”

“Give me the word and I'll send my men out again,” the man said. “I've been waiting for this for a long time.”

“Then you won't mind waiting a little more,” Carson said. “We've got to do this right or not at all.”

“I hear you, Pete. Don't forget how long I've already waited.”

“Sure,” Carson said. He paused for a moment and licked his lips. “You got a message for me yet?”

“No, but I wouldn't worry. You'll get a chance to talk before much longer.”

“Yeah, I guess you're right. Good night.”

“'Night.” The man hung up.

Carson put his receiver back into the cradle. He felt a momentary sense of disquiet that he quickly shrugged off as he went to get some food and coffee.

Chapter 6

Frank Casey sat at the end of a blue-textured sofa in Brigid Longley's Jefferson Avenue apartment. She was lounging contentedly in the crook of his arm while her console radio quietly leaked the music of Xavier's Cugat's Waldorf Astoria Orchestra into her living room.

“You look tired, Frank.”

Casey smiled and hugged her. “You'll get used to it.”

“Oh, no. I've got things in mind for you, mister, and there won't be any room for you being tired.” Before he could reply the phone rang. “Who could that be at this hour?” She rose and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hi, Brigid. How's the happy bride?”

“Wes, I was hoping you'd call. Did you have an easy trip back from Havana?”

“Like a breeze. Is the groom there?”

She looked over at Casey and smiled. “He hasn't moved in yet, but he sure takes up a lot of space. Here he is.” She handed it to Casey, who'd gotten up to join her.

“I was wondering if you'd call tonight,” Casey said. “When did you get in?”

“Before noon today. I tried calling you at the office and they told me you were off on a case.”

“Yeah, it started off with a kidnapping and got worse from there. I think somebody's playing king of the hill with Whit Richards as the target.”

“I think you're right. I heard about Jack Amsterdam.”

Casey was momentarily surprised by his son's knowledge, then shook it off. Farrell was obliquely informing him that he had some interest in the case and might be able to help. “What have you heard so far?”

“Only about the kidnapping from the girl's mother, and about Amsterdam from Little Head Lucas. I suspect there's more, from the way you're talking.”

Casey laughed gently. “Since this afternoon, we've had a bookie joint in the back of a shoe repair shop wiped out, Jimmy Daughtery among the dead, and Butch Callahan assassinated outside Vesey's on Barracks Street. Unless Richards got the word out fast, there are probably a few more dead or missing by now.” Casey paused for a moment. “What's the girl's mother to you?”

“It's kind of a long story, Dad. She and I were together for a while almost twenty years ago. She left me for Richards, and I imagined she was living happily ever after. That's not quite how it turned out. When Richards pushed you guys out of the case, she figured it was some old enemy of his that he couldn't afford to have the cops knowing about.”

“That's my take on it, too. He may have pushed us off the kidnapping, but the killings are keeping us in the game. Besides the dead among Richards' crew, there's also a dead Negro that Daggett's working on.”

“Butterbean Glasgo,” Farrell said.

Casey grinned to himself. His son had only been in town a day and already he was clued in to the entire caper. “There's another Negro custodial worker named Skeeter Longbaugh who's missing. He may just be off on a drunk, but we'll know for sure when we find him. But enough of that. I'm sure glad you're home. It's been lonesome without you.”

Farrell's voice sounded tired and far away. “I've missed you, too, Dad. I meant to come back sooner, but business kept me tied up for months. How are you?”

Casey returned Brigid's impish grin. “I've never been better. Why don't you come to the office tomorrow and we'll have lunch. I want to hear all about Cuba.”

“It's a date. Give Brigid my love.”

“I will. See you tomorrow.”

“'Night, Dad.”

“Good night.” He put the receiver into the cradle. “He sent you his love.”

“That's swell. But why didn't you tell him?” Brigid asked.

He looked blankly at her. “What?”

“Why didn't you tell him that I know he's your son?”

He put his arms around her waist and looked at her with an earnest expression. “There's a reason. I wanted to be looking him in the eye when I told him. I want him to know that what I feel for you has nothing to do with his mother. I don't want him to think that you're some kind of replacement for her. Do you understand?”

She took his face into her hands and looked into his eyes. “Yes. Yes, I do.” She smiled again. “It's time for you to go home.”

He gave her a hangdog look. “Must I?”

She affected an impatient expression. “Well, I guess we could talk about it, but don't get any ideas.”

***

As the day drew to a close, Skeeter began to recognize just how desperate his situation was. The police undoubtedly suspected his complicity in the kidnapping and murder. He was certain, too, that the big white man and his knife-crazy friend were also looking for him.

His best hope for salvation lay with his Uncle Howard Blessey. A semi-retired car thief, Howard was wise in the ways of the underworld. He'd served three years in Parchman Prison and, according to family stories, had also survived several gun battles with rival thieves.

He'd tried phoning Howard several times, but each time a mechanic had said the old man was out on the road. It was now past eight o'clock, and Skeeter was tired, hungry, and emotionally spent. If he didn't find a place to hide soon, he would surely be picked up by the police.

With desperation chipping away at his nerves, he left the corner bar where he'd been killing time and walked out into the gathering twilight. Entering City Park near the Delgado Trades School, he eventually reached the Carrollton Avenue park entrance. He crossed the broad avenue at the equestrian statue of General Beauregard and made his way over the Bayou St. John bridge to Esplanade Avenue.

It was fully dark when he turned into Mystery Street. At the end of the street, he walked around to the kitchen door of a big frame house. He knocked gently as he smelled the aroma of ham frying through the screen.

A pretty brown-skinned woman turned. Peering at his silhouette, she held a ten-inch butcher knife in her hand. “Who's there?”

“Mabel, it's Skeeter,” he hissed.

She pushed open the screen and looked down at him. “What in the world you doin', boy? Come on in here quick, now.” She stood aside and held the door for him. When she saw his face she knew there was trouble.

“What in God's name you done now, Skeeter? You look like death warmed over.”

Skeeter's limbs suddenly felt all loose and rubbery. He slumped into a kitchen chair and began to tremble uncontrollably. Recognizing emotional exhaustion when she saw it, Mabel reached quickly into the cupboard for a bottle of Early Times and filled a tumbler to the rim. She gave it to him, her eyes widening as he drank it down in a single draught.

“Skeeter? Skeeter, you listenin' to me? Answer me, boy.” She grabbed his shoulder and shook it roughly.

“I'm listenin', I'm listenin'. Please, quit, Mabel.”

“Then tell me what's wrong. The truth.”

“The truth ain't gonna make neither of us feel no better, Mabel. Two white men forced me to help them kidnap this rich white girl who goes to school where I work, and they killed Butterbean doin' it. I managed to run off.”

Mabel's mouth hardened into a stern line. “So now you got cops and kidnappers both lookin' for you. Jesus wept.” She put the bottle on the table and sat down across from him.

“Listen,” Skeeter said in a hoarse voice. “If I can get to my Unca Howard, he'll know what to do, but I can't find him. I need someplace to stay so I can try again in the mornin'. Can I stay here?”

“I reckon, but I'll have to tell Ma Rankin that the cops are looking for you. Now how about somethin' to eat? You look like a half-starved dog.”

Relief flooded through Skeeter but he felt weaker than ever. “That—that'd be swell, Mabel. I ain't had nothin' but a cup of coffee since early this mornin'.”

“You smell like you had plenty beer, though.” She shook her head as she turned to the stove. In a moment she'd dished up a platter of fried ham, succotash, stewed tomatoes and cornbread. She put it in front of him along with a pitcher of sweet tea. Skeeter grabbed a fork and knife and went through the platter in about seven minutes. Mabel refilled the platter and he quickly worked his way though that one. After he'd mopped his plate with a piece of cornbread, she gave him a bowl full of blackberry cobbler with cream and a cup of chicory coffee before sitting down again.

She regarded him for a moment as she sipped her own coffee. “Boy, you need to do somethin' about your life, know that?”

He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Huh?”

“For over a year you've showed up here about twice a week. You eat everything in sight and then we go up to my room and fuck. The next mornin' you leave and I don't see you until the next time you got an itch to scratch. I ain't sayin' it's all your fault. If it wasn't convenient for me, I'd of kicked your ass out into the street long before now.”

He looked at her, dumbfounded.

“Now you're in some kinda shit,” she continued, staring into her cup, “and I'm guessin' the white gal these men done kidnapped is somebody else you go sponge off'n and fuck while you ain't here with me.”

“No, that—”

“Shut up, Skeeter. You got to act like a man is what I'm sayin'. I'd of married you three times by now if you'd of had sense enough to ask, but you don't never think about doin' nothin' responsible. Why do you suppose that is?”

Skeeter shrugged, finding it hard to meet Mabel's eyes.

“I—I dunno, Mabel. I'm sure sorry if—”

“Shut up, Skeeter. Don't be tellin' me how sorry you are, 'cause you don't know what it is to be sorry. If these men catch you, you'll be six kinds of sorry, but then it'll be too late. Now get on. You know where my room is, so be quiet. I don't want any of Ma Rankin's customers bein' disturbed by your clumsy-ass foolishness. Go on, now.”

Skeeter felt wounded and confused by Mabel's tirade. She'd never talked like this before, and it shocked him to hear her criticism. He walked up the back stairs to Mabel's room, wishing he could think of something intelligent to say. The sudden recognition of a missed opportunity stabbed him like an old maid's hatpin. He undressed and lay down, falling into an exhausted sleep.

***

Farrell visited several places that evening that housed illegal gambling operations before a card shark, Uther Kalbfischer, told him where to find Fletch Monaghan. It was approaching ten-thirty when he pulled up in front of Ledet's Bar across from Holy Name of Jesus Church on LaSalle.

Ledet's had a Mexican bouncer named Maldonado who Farrell knew from Prohibition times. Twice they had fought, and twice Farrell had licked him. It was Maldonado's glory and his curse that no matter how many fights he lost, he was always ready to fight again. He stood near the entrance as Farrell entered, immediately recognizing his old nemesis.

“What you want, Farrell?”

Farrell shoved his hands into his pockets in the hope of disarming the Mexican. He looked at him with an air of boredom. “No trouble. I just want to talk to Monaghan.”

Maldonado's eyes made a slow examination of Farrell's person, his dark mustache twitching occasionally from an upper lip that wanted to sneer. When he saw no tell-tale bulges in Farrell's clothes, he moved his head to the right. “He's at that table in the corner. He ain't makin' no trouble, and neither are you, see? I got two other men here, and you can't take all three of us,
comprende
?”

Farrell somehow managed to keep the annoyance he felt from his face. “I said I only wanted to talk to him. If I wanted trouble, you'd know it already.”

Maldonado carefully inspected those words for a challenge. “Go on over there, then. But if he don't want to talk to you, you drift,
sabe
?”

“
Si, senor. Gracias
.” Farrell made a slight detour around the bouncer and threaded his way through the crowd of drinkers to the table in the corner. As he drew near it, Monaghan lifted his narrow, handsome face from the game of solitaire laid out before him. His hat was tipped to the back of his skull, allowing a lock of curly black hair to dribble over his left eye.

“Hello, Fletch. Long time, no see.”

“The name of this game is solitaire, Farrell. Be a good fella and dust.”

Farrell ignored the rebuff, pulled up a chair and sat down across from the gambler. “Been here long?”

Monaghan's dark eyes flashed on either side of his long, thin nose. “You and me got nothin' to talk about.”

“How about Whit Richards?”

The gambler's eyes flattened for a brief second, then shifted back down to his cards. “How about him? Did he fall down an open manhole? Or maybe did a bus flatten him like a Derry pancake?”

Farrell smiled. “You're trying to convince me that you don't know two of his top men have been murdered in the last two days? Or maybe nobody told you about his kidnapped daughter? That's funny, Fletch. I'm gonna bust a gut laughing in a minute.” He put his elbows on the table and leaned toward the gambler. The frigid gleam of his gray eyes stabbed out at Monaghan.

“I don't give a damn about you bustin' a gut, bhoyo. If ya don't get your face outa mine, I'll bust somethin' else for ya, by Christ.”

Farrell didn't move, nor did his expression change. “I don't know why you'd want to. I know what Richards did. It happens he's pulled a thing or two on me. If you're behind all his bad luck, I'd like to shake your hand. I might even ask your permission to kick his ribs in.”

Monaghan held Farrell's gaze, then his thin lips twisted into something suggesting a grin. “I forget you're an Irishman, too, Farrell. The Irish have that well-known sense of humor. Okay, you've amused me. Get lost and let me play with me cards in peace.”

Farrell had played Monaghan more than once, and knew how impenetrable the man's poker face could be. He was giving nothing away tonight, either. “You could use a friend, Fletch, if you're bucking Richards. Jack Amsterdam and Butch Callahan might be out of the running, but he's still got Vic D'Angelo playing on his team, and for such a funny little fat man, D'Angelo's good.”