The Righteous Cut (9 page)

Momentarily forgetting the loss, he reached for the missing tie clasp which he had used as a spoon for his coke. As his fingers rubbed the vacant spot on his tie, he felt a sickening dread that he had lost it when he'd killed the Negro earlier that day.

One more failure. One more thing to get Johnny on his ass. He'd go nuts for fear the cops would find it, and through it find them. Joey was less worried about the cops than he was about his brother.

He found himself pacing the floor again, playing with the knife as worry gnawed at his guts. He halted abruptly, turned to the coat and dug the bindle out of his pocket, taking two quick snorts off the point of the knife blade. Within seconds, he was leaning against the wall gasping as the drug bit into the membranes of his nostrils. As his heartbeat gradually slowed, his mood lifted dramatically.

As his confidence began to return, he got to thinking about Jessica Richards. He hadn't had a woman in almost a week. His mouth got wet as he imagined fondling, licking the red-haired girl's long legs. She would be sweet like honey. Sweeter.

He turned and walked up the stairs. The taps on his shoes clicked rhythmically on the risers as he imagined peeling off her brassiere, seeing the smooth, cool flesh tumble out into his waiting hands. The pictures in his mind had the fevered quality of a dream threatening to go bad, but he was too caught up in the sexualized images to pay heed. His senses heightened by the drug, he fancied he could hear her breathing, the whisper of her movements. He unlocked the door, letting it swing open. A trapezoid of light fell into the dark room, casting his shadow on the floor. He started, distracted by the distorted image, disquieted by its size and shape. It was his shadow, but it seemed outsized and grotesque, a large, dominating figure. All day he had faced men bigger and stronger than himself. He thought of the terror he'd seen in the eyes of Jimmy Daughtery, of Butterbean Glasgo. He'd cut them down to size, but there was no end to them. Whatever victory he'd earned by killing them, Carson and Johnny had stolen with their disapproval earlier that night.

Jessica's long bare arm hung off the cot, but the jagged outline of the shadow drew his gaze. He tried to turn away, but the image metamorphosed into the round head and thick shoulders of the Negro he had murdered. His movements seemed to mimic the Negro's defiance, even in death. Joey shot a glance at the sleeping girl, but the desire that had driven him here had ebbed, leaving him with a hollow, useless feeling.

Like a man awaking from a nightmare, he pulled the door shut, locking it with fumbling fingers. The strength in his legs gave way to trembling, and he slid to the floor, biting his knuckles to keep from crying.

***

Whitman Richards lay staring up at the mirrored ceiling of Meredith's bedroom, listening to her breathing as she lay in the crook of his arm. Normally he had no trouble sleeping after making love to her, but he was too keyed up tonight. He kept telling himself that Carson had no chance to keep himself, or Jessica, hidden forever, but there was a nagging doubt that would not let him rest. He recognized that he had been too willing to believe that Pete was dead. A smart man believed only what he had, himself, done.

Pinning Tarkington's murder on Pete was a clever thing to do, but he realized now that killing him would've been smarter. He should have arranged for it to look as though Pete and Tarkington had killed each other.

But be honest, you wanted Pete to know you'd outsmarted him, he told himself. That competitiveness had always been there between you. Pete was always faster, stronger. But you wanted him to spend the rest of his life knowing that you were better.

He gently disengaged himself from Meredith and got out of bed. There was the barest suggestion of winter's chill in the dark apartment, so he pulled on a flannel robe and walked into a living room bathed in silvery light from a pregnant moon.

It took something like this to remind a man that he can push his luck just so far, he thought as he poured a drink. Sure, they'd get Pete, but this incident made him recognize that in spite of his power, his relationships made him terribly vulnerable.

He looked toward the bedroom, and realized that although Jessica would soon be away at college, once he and Merry were married, he'd still have the same vulnerability. He shook his head. The very thought wearied him, made him feel his own sense of mortality. He sipped the scotch, grateful for its fiery trail down his gullet. Moments later, feeling somewhat better, he returned to the bedroom.

Meredith was still breathing deeply and regularly, her face in her pillow. He dropped his robe across the foot of the bed, then crawled in beside her. The feel of Merry's warm, taut, youthful flesh against his relaxed him instantly. He stared up at the mirrored ceiling, comforted by the certainty of a reflected image that he could not see.

***

Coupé lay in Patience's bed until midnight, then he eased out and dressed himself. Patience lay on her stomach, her bottom shining up at him from the tangle of sheets. He pulled the spread up over her, then knelt beside the bed.

“Patience. Patience, I got to go now.”

“Uhmmm,” she said, opening one eye. “'kay.”

“Here's ten for your boss and ten for you. I'll try to get back out here before long.”

She smiled dreamily at him, then closed her eye and went back to sleep.

In the busy downstairs parlor, the piano player was doing some interesting things with some of the old standards, but Coupé had no time to stay and listen. He got into his De Soto and headed back in the direction of town. He turned on the radio, something he rarely did, and listened to a succession of white chicks croon love songs that were unfamiliar to him. The lyrics were all about a world of which he knew nothing, but which intrigued him. It made no sense, but it added to the sense of disquiet he'd felt since the beginning of this job.

He got home around one and went inside. The house seemed unnaturally quiet after the company of the car radio, but he owned no radio for his house. He sat down on a tattered love seat that represented a third of his living room furniture. He looked at the telephone on the small end table for two or three minutes before he lifted the receiver and asked the operator for a number. It rang several times before a man answered.

“Yeah?”

“Johnny, it's Easter.”

“Hey, man.” Johnny spoke in a low voice, as though he were not alone. “What the hell you doin' callin' this time of the night? You found Longbaugh?”

“Been at it all day. I got a pretty good lead tonight, but I can't do nothin' with it until mornin'.” He paused, not quite sure of what he wanted to say. “This kid you want taken care of. What you know about him?”

“Not much,” Johnny replied. “He's a janitor at the Sacred Heart. He lives alone, a real tail hound. Why?”

“Just wonderin'. Tryin' to understand him.”

“Understand him?” Johnny was mildly incredulous. “Man, he's just a job, a target.” Johnny paused, lowered his voice. “Listen, I'm working for a guy named Pete Carson. He's here to jerk the rug out from under a heavy hitter. He does that, I get my own action, and you come in for a piece. That's what this is about. The kid's just somethin' in the road. You run over it and forget it, see?”

Coupé listened, his unwinking eyes focused on the blank wall in front of him. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I see. Sorry I called so late.”

“Forget it,” Johnny said. “Lemme know if I can help you out, okay?”

“Okay. 'Night, Johnny.”

“See you, Easter.” Parmalee broke the connection.

Coupé slowly put the receiver back into the cradle. He got up and walked through the dark to the room where his bed was. When he got there, he lay down in his street clothes and went immediately to sleep.

Chapter 8

Friday dawn was just breaking when a telephone began to ring in a dark bedroom. It took seven rings before the rough, thick-fingered hand snaked out from beneath a blanket to pull the receiver from the cradle. The man coughed several times and hawked up some phlegm before he spoke into the receiver. “Yeah?”

A soft, muffled voice spoke. “You sound like you're dying. You want me to call back after you're finished?”

“Do you know what time it is?” the man asked in a weary voice.

“I call when I can. What's the next move?”

“The next move's up to Richards,” the man in the bedroom said. “Our men have hit him pretty hard since yesterday. He's out several men and about twenty grand. Carson's idea is to weaken him enough so he knuckles under.”

“Knuckles under?” the voice on the phone said. “Is that all you want? You think knuckling under is going to pay us back after what we lost?”

“We ain't never gonna get back what he took, but we can bleed Richards white if we play this right.”

“Listen.” The caller's voice grew harsh. “I waited for you. I waited for you to get your scheme together because you promised we'd make this right, once and for all. Okay, Carson's here now. Let's use the girl to finish it.”

“Stop talkin' crazy,” the man protested. “You can't wreck this now. There's too much at stake.”

“Don't tell me what's at stake. I've waited as long as you have. I put myself on the line to get Carson down here to help us.”

The man rubbed his face tiredly as he stared out into the darkness of his room. “Carson's been askin' to talk to you. He seems pretty anxious. Maybe you better call him or somethin'.”

“Later. We've got business to take care of first.”

The man was quiet for a moment. “What happened up in Seattle? What did you promise him to come down here?”

Low, sibilant laughter came through the receiver. “Use your imagination. But be careful. Imagination can be a dangerous thing. Ask Jack Amsterdam.”

The man stiffened in his bed. “Jack Amsterdam? You're not sayin' that you—”

“He and Richards were together in it all, don't forget that. Now he's out of the picture, along with his pal, Callahan. Richards'll have to fight us on his own, now.”

“Jesus Christ! Pete didn't want those guys hit. He wanted them alive, to bargain with. If he finds out—”

“Then you'd better not tell him.” The caller abruptly broke the connection, leaving the thick-fingered man feeling a chill that his blankets couldn't stave off.

***

Savanna had Farrell up by 6:00 Friday morning and made him poached eggs and coffee. The night's sleep had done him good. He felt none of his earlier misgivings.

Farrell drove back to his place, where he showered, shaved, and changed into fresh clothes. On his way out, he walked into the office and unlocked the desk. It took only a moment for him to slip his razor, a Luger automatic, and a couple of spare clips into his clothing before he left.

Cutting across Downtown, he took the bridge across Bayou St. John to Wisner, and drove north to Robert E. Lee Boulevard. Cool air from the north had shrouded the swampy ground along the road in fog, from which long-billed egrets occasionally made ghostly exits.

Farrell turned onto Beauregard, following it until he reached Oriole. A friend had once told him Kurt Van Zandt played nine holes of golf out here every morning.

Leaving the car, he walked through a stand of pines to a grassy knoll where he halted. Farrell heard the murmur of men's voices gradually increase in volume until a party of four became visible. Two carried heavy bags full of golf clubs while another pair walked ahead of them. One was blonde and fair-skinned, his upper body thick and soft. He did most of the talking while his golf partner, a man Farrell knew as Lenny Raskowitz, nodded occasionally. Farrell let them get close before stepping out of the trees.

A muffled word from one of the caddies cut off the flow of the blonde man's words and he stopped short. As Farrell drew closer, he noticed that Van Zandt's eyes were like those of a reptile, watchful and still.

“Van Zandt, I'm Wes Farrell. Can I talk to you?”

Van Zandt hesitated, then spoke in a blustering voice. “You take chances, mister. Where'd you come from?”

“I parked my car on the street and walked through the woods. I heard you played golf every morning.”

Van Zandt studied Farrell's face, measuring him. “I saw you once, a long time ago.”

Farrell nodded. “I remember. I saw you first.”

The recollection seemed to make Van Zandt uneasy. He shifted his feet. “What do you want?”

“I came to talk to you about Whit Richards.”

Van Zandt shrugged elaborately. “What about him?”

“Somebody's making some king-sized trouble for him.”

Van Zandt's mouth cracked, revealing two rows of large white teeth. “So what?”

“Maybe I'm glad,” Farrell said. “Maybe I want to congratulate the guy who's making the trouble. Maybe even help him make some more so I can get back what the louse took from me.” Farrell spoke in a flat, bitter voice.

“Well, well, this is a revelation,” Van Zandt said. “So Richards even took a bite out of the great Wes Farrell.”

“I'm nothing special. If we were to form a club of the people Richards has cheated and stolen from, they'd overflow the Blue Room at the Roosevelt. Thing is, I've got my own bone to pick. It'd be simple for you to let me put my foot on Richards' neck while you've got him down.”

Van Zandt handed his club to one of his henchmen. Farrell noticed as the man took it that he had his right hand out of sight behind his hip. He watched Farrell without subtlety, his stare baleful. Van Zandt began to walk again and he beckoned Farrell to fall in beside him. Lenny Raskowitz faded wordlessly behind with the two caddies, but he, too, was watchful and tense.

“You're taking a lot for granted,” Van Zandt said. “What makes you think I kidnapped Richards' daughter?”

“Who said anything about kidnapping?” Farrell replied, smiling. “There's been nothing in the news about that.”

Van Zandt grinned. “This is a small town, Farrell. I knew about the kidnapping almost as soon as the cops. I also know they haven't a clue as to who pulled the snatch.”

“That mean you do?”

“If I did, I'd be a real sap to tell you. Kidnapping's a Federal beef, or haven't you heard?”

“Nuts. Richards threw the cops off the case. So far as I know, the Feds aren't involved. That tells me Richards knows the kidnapper and is giving him a clear path.”

Van Zandt shot him a sudden surprised glance. “Well, good luck to whoever it is. I hope they grind him flat.”

Farrell made a careless gesture with his hand. “Well, it's too bad. I'd have given you an even split of whatever I could squeeze out of him. Sure you don't know anything?”

Van Zandt snorted. “I don't need to prove anything to you. Sure, Richards jerked the rug out from under me once, but I got back what I lost and more. I'm out of the rackets now. With the war coming on, I can make a lot of money, strictly legit, you get me? Now get off my land or I'll have you thrown off.”

Farrell didn't move, but he paid attention to the trio of men standing just past Van Zandt's right shoulder. “Don't get too tough with me, Van Zandt. I remember that time we saw each other just as well as you do. You came to kill me, but you saw me and ran like a rabbit.”

Van Zandt swallowed, his eyes suddenly damp, blinking.

“Yeah, you remember it, too,” Farrell continued. “Common sense would dictate that a man like you should stay a hundred miles from a plot like this, but he hurt you once, and I think you're just small enough to want to knife him in the back. See you later, Van. Be careful, hear?”

When Van Zandt failed to reply, Farrell walked to the copse of trees and faded into it. Five minutes later he was headed back to the city.

***

Early that morning Skeeter was awakened by Mabel's touch as she gently made love to him. It seemed to him that her kisses were more ardent this time, her touch a bit more urgent. Her dark nipples seem to burn his bare chest as she clutched him to her. They made love three times before Mabel collapsed against him. He tried to speak, but, with her face hidden in the side of his neck, she pressed her fingers gently against his mouth.

After a while, she got out of the bed and went to the washbasin. She silently bathed herself from head to foot, then drew on fresh undergarments and a clean house dress. She paused at the door, speaking softly over her shoulder. “Get yourself together and I'll make you breakfast.” Before he could reply, she opened the door and slipped through it.

Melancholy settled over him as he lay there. He remembered what Mabel had said last night, feeling unhappy in a way he didn't recognize.

After a wash, he dressed and walked quietly downstairs. As he sat down, he noticed that Mabel did not turn from her work at the stove. A few minutes passed before she brought over a plate heaped with flapjacks and bacon, poured him a cup of coffee then went back to her work. After he poured sulfurated cane syrup all over his cakes and bacon he ate steadily, occasionally pausing to look at Mabel's back. When he was finished, he pushed his plate away.

“That was mighty fine, Mabel. I sure do thank you.”

“You need to get goin' now.”

As she turned to look at him, he saw the tracks of tears on her cheeks. “What's wrong, Mabel?”

“Skeeter, you're a sweet boy, but a boy's all you are. It might be all you'll ever be. One thing I know, if you're gonna grow up, grow up now. You need to start actin' like a man, today, you hear?”

“Yeah, Mabel. Mabel, I—I love you.”

“I know. Now go on, and don't be comin' back.”

Skeeter's face fell. “You—you don't mean that, honey. You couldn't.”

She took a dishtowel and pressed it up to her face, shaking her head. “Please, just go. Try not to let them kill you. Go someplace else, while you got the time, but just go.” She began to weep quietly into the dishtowel, turning her back on him again.

Skeeter wanted to comfort her, but he turned away and walked out. Today he seemed to have no future.

He didn't know Jessica Richards except to speak to, yet he felt as much a victim as the girl. There should be something he could do to get his life back, but the dull weight of misfortune hindered his thinking.

He pulled his cap out of his pocket and put it on as he walked to Esplanade Avenue. A bus honked as he crossed the avenue without paying attention to its approach.

When he reached the vicinity of the old U. S. Mint, he made a beeline to a telephone booth. A few seconds later, he listened to the buzz of the line at Howard's garage.

“Blessey's,” a voice said.

“Mornin'. Is Howard there today?”

“He is, but he's talkin' to a fella. You wanna wait?”

“Yeah, reckon I better.”

***

Easter Coupé woke at daylight. His plan was to reach Howard Blessey at opening time. If Skeeter was there, he knew he'd smell him.

He dressed in a dull black business suit and a black narrow brimmed Dobbs hat. From his bureau he removed a shoebox, from which he took a .22 automatic pistol with a silencer. He checked the magazine, replaced it in the box, and left the house. Instead of taking the De Soto, he went to the rear of the house and entered a small garage where he kept an old brown Plymouth.

Leaving his neighborhood at six, he stopped at a diner for ham and eggs and coffee before continuing on. Alone with his thoughts, he found them invaded with images of Patience and the bare little apartment where Skeeter Longbaugh lived. He irritably shook the images from him as he left the counter.

Like many who haunted the Negro underworld, Coupé was intimate with Gerttown, a place where every kind of vice found haven and sustenance. Coupé didn't know Blessey, but if things ran true to form, the man was probably a thief, quick to smell a phony line.

He entered Gerttown from Fig Street at the edge of Notre Dame Seminary. As he made the turn into Olive he saw that Blessey's outfit occupied most of the block. A high metal fence surrounded a salvage yard, a two-bay sheet metal garage, and a faded blue shotgun cottage. Coupé could hear the sounds of hammer on metal, the hiss of a welding torch, and the noise of a radio.

Parking the Plymouth across the street, he walked to the nearest bay and squatted until he could see hands wrestling with the cover of a universal joint. “Hey, 'scuze me, man. Mr. Blessey around?”

A pair of eyes rose above the edge of the grease pit. “Over there.” He jerked a thumb.

“Thanks.” Coupé got up and walked until he saw an open door. He found an old man at a desk making notations on an inventory sheet while another Negro sat propped against the wall playing with a fuel pump. On a wall shelf, a dusty Philco radio blared. Coupé had to shout several times before the old man looked up. Blessey started to speak, then got up and beckoned Coupé outside.

“Goddamned racket,” he growled as he tugged at his bristly gray mustache. “One a these days I'm 'onna throw that damn radio out the door. What you want, mister?”

“Lookin' to get a tune-up 'fore I leave town. Young fella I talked to said y'all did fine work.”

The old man looked at him sharply. “Young fella?”

“Yeah, had a funny name. Skipper, Scooter—no, Skeeter. That's it, Skeeter.”

The old man snorted. “My nephew. Used to work with me here but he didn't like gettin' grease on his hands. Said the gals didn't like it.”

“Well, he seemed to know somethin' about cars. I been havin' this knockin' noise when I get her above thirty-five. He said a good tune-up would set her right as rain.”

The old man cast a glance across the street. “That your Plymouth? I reckon I can look at 'er t'morra.” He tossed a look back at the work bays, then scratched the back of his neck. “Should have it ready for you before noon.”