The Righteous Cut (12 page)

“I reckon.”

“You don't sound too glad about it. Houston's a hell of a town, lots of opportunity for a smart kid like you. I know two, three bruthas over there with garages where you can make good money. Give you a month and you'll be livin' high, wide, and handsome with a new life.”

“Guess I ain't got used to givin' up this life yet. Or some people…”

“Whoever she is, forget her,” the old man said bluntly. “There's enough tail in Houston to keep a battleship fulla sailors happy.” Howard put his hand on his nephew's shoulder again and spoke in a softer voice. “Boy, when white folk decide they want somethin' of ours, all we can do is fight, if we can, or run if we can't. This shit has ‘gang' wrote all over it. You can't fight no white gang—none of us can. So you run, and stay alive.”

Skeeter was too tired and dejected to argue with his uncle. “Reckon you're right. What time we leavin'?”

“After dark. Six o'clock, maybe.” He went around to his desk and opened a drawer. “Here. You gonna need some money to get started, and you might feel better with this in your pocket.” He handed Skeeter a roll of bills and a .41 Colt Army Special with the barrel cut to two inches and the butt wrapped in brown tape. “I burnt the serial number off with acid and the tape won't take your prints. If you have to use it, throw it in the first storm drain you come to.”

Skeeter put the bills and revolver into his pockets. “Thanks, Unca Howard. I know you're goin' out on a limb.”

Blessey waved a dismissive hand. “You're the only kin I got. C'mon up to the house. You can lay up there, have somethin' to eat before it's time to go.”

“Yeah. I might could sleep a little.” He followed his uncle through a breezeway toward the faded blue cottage.

***

Easter Coupé sat quietly inside the old Plymouth, stoically chewing a wad of gum as he watched the street. He continued to catch his mind wandering. He found that nothing about this job really made sense to him anymore. Sure, he killed people for money, but usually they were people who needed killin'. Skeeter Longbaugh was just a dumb kid. Killin' him was too much like going out of your way to step on a baby bird that had fallen from the nest.

It came to him that Skeeter and Patience had much in common. They were both young colored kids, neither had all the good sense they needed to get along, and circumstances had forced each of them into a seamy, dangerous existence. He shook his head violently to clear away those thoughts. How could he possibly confuse Patience with Skeeter?

He trained field glasses up the street and forced himself to watch patiently. Patience was a virtue. He had a lot of patience. Impatience was a liability.

Then it happened so fast he nearly missed it, the swift passage of a slender man across the deserted street. As Coupé focused the glasses on the man's face, he saw that his quarry had arrived.

The boy stepped quickly through the office door and out of sight into the gloomy interior. Coupé took a deep breath and put the binoculars down on the seat beside him. The moment of truth had arrived. What had seemed abundantly clear two days before was now a hopeless muddle in his mind. His instincts, honed by years on the street and in prison, told him to go in with his silenced .22 and take care of business. He'd done it before, many times, but this time was different. He felt a desperate urge to go sit in Kate's cool, dim bar and let her rub her thumb across his scarred knuckles again while he listened to the purr of her voice.

***

“Is that him?” Eddie Park asked, pointing at the figure walking quickly across the street ahead of them.

Merlin Gautier's lean jaw stretched as a grin spread across his face. “That's the pigeon.”

“We can be over there in front of him before he makes the office,” Park said, his voice tense with excitement.

“Hold your horses, sonny. We don't want to fumble the ball now.” He pulled the microphone from the clip and keyed it. “Car Forty-six to Dispatch, come in, over.”

“Dispatch, go ahead Forty-six.”

“Alert Inspector Fifty-one that suspect just entered Blessey's. Will maintain position until he arrives.”

“Roger, Forty-six. Wilco.”

Gautier replaced the microphone and sat back, grinning at Eddie Park's nervous tension. “Relax, kiddo. We just about got this wrapped up in a pink ribbon.”

Park cast a glance at his partner, shaking his head. “Sometimes I think you got no nerves, Merle.”

“And you got too many. The boss has this figured. He'll surround this place and then we'll move in.”

Park exhaled an impatient breath. “Yeah, I reckon.”

Gautier chuckled, leaned back comfortably in his seat.

***

Farrell left police headquarters after sharing roast beef sandwiches with his father. The time with Casey had warmed him, and caused him to wonder if he would go back to Cuba after the first of the year. He didn't know how many years his father had left, and that thought was sobering.

He paused at the corner newsstand as the headlines from the latest edition of the
Times-Picayune
caught his eye. Under Art Frizell's byline, he read what little the reporter had learned about the murders of Jack Amsterdam and Butch Callahan. Art had dubbed the .22-wielding assassin “The Love-Tap Killer.” Grinning, Farrell left a nickel for the newsie and took the paper along with him.

He had left his car two blocks from Police Headquarters out of necessity, but walking down a sunlit street in his hometown seemed the purest form of recreation to him at that moment. He strolled with his hands in his pockets, his mind wandering. He was within sight of his car when the gleam of a lost coin on the sidewalk caught his eye. He slowed his pace, leaned a bit forward to get a better look. As his head moved, something like an angry bee hummed past his ear and swept the gray Stetson off his head. In a split second, Farrell's subconscious recognized that bees didn't knock a man's hat off, knew a second bullet could be on its way, sent an order to Farrell's muscles that flattened his body on the sidewalk. As he fell, the second bullet came, whining off the sidewalk at his shoulder. He rolled instinctively into the cover of a parked automobile.

He waited for a moment, then crawled to the rear of the pale green Oldsmobile that sheltered him. From his vantage point at the rear fender, Farrell had a good view of the street. Traffic flowed past him, but no single pedestrian was in sight across the broad avenue. Sweet shooting for a pistol. Too sweet, maybe. He scanned the area for a vantage point from which a man might use a rifle, and saw there were many. Most of the buildings across the street were one- and two-story flat-roofed commercial buildings. Easy to gain access to and easy to escape from. He saw his hat nearby and pulled it to him. Two very small holes in the crown—a .22 for certain. He looked again across the street, checking the parked cars. It was impossible to tell the direction from which the shot had come. The shooter might be gone already, or just waiting for another shot.

He clapped the hat back on his head, got to one knee. The sunlight still glinted off the quarter that had saved his life. He picked it up, polished it on his lapel. “You and I will never be parted, sweetheart, no matter how hungry I get.” He tucked it behind his show handkerchief.

Taking one last look over the trunk of the Oldsmobile, he got to his feet and sprinted down the street. Seconds later he was driving away, trying not to think about how close he'd just come to cashing in his chips.

Chapter 11

Jessica wasted no time prying the panel off the closet wall, but was disappointed to find it led only to another sparsely furnished bedroom. This one had a window, however, and she discovered that she was on the second floor of a rambling frame house in the midst of a meadow. The size of the property told her she must be somewhere at the edge of the city. Equally troubling was the sheer drop to a thick row of untamed and sharp-pointed shrubs.

Frustrated, the girl returned to the closet. She had crawled halfway through the opening when she happened to glance upward. She paused, turned her head sharply to get a better look. There was a trap in the closet ceiling.

She scrambled to her feet, pulling the wooden clothes rod loose from its brackets. Raising it to the perpendicular, she pushed the trap and saw that it moved. Trembling all over, she put the pole against the wall. She refused to confront the possibility that this might be anything other than a means of escape.

As she looked around for a way to reach the trap, her eye lit on the dry sink. Crossing to it quickly, she removed the pitcher, then lifted the cabinet experimentally. It was heavy, but it could be moved. Two minutes later, she found that it fit the closet with inches to spare.

With a sudden movement, she grabbed the sides of the closet door and climbed. The trap door rose under her fingers and fell back on a hinge, releasing a stale, dusty odor as she pulled herself through the opening. Her eyes darted quickly about the gloomy rafters until she found daylight leaking into the darkness.

All the years of gymnastics and dance she'd studied paid off as she lightly stepped from rafter to rafter, careful not to plant a foot wrongly between them. In no more than a minute she found herself in front of a metal ventilation louver that fit into the peak of the roof. Through it she could see a flat porch roof and a dilapidated rose trellis at the edge.

Planting her feet firmly, she hooked her fingers around the edges of the louver and put her back into lifting it. It made noise, but she was too far committed to stop now. She shifted right, left, up, and down, ultimately realizing that the metal was set into wood that had been milled to accept it. God damn it, she thought. To be this close…

As she moved her leg, the piece of metal in the pocket of her skirt thumped against it. She pulled it out, fitted it into the loose joint and pried experimentally. As she'd hoped, the wood was brittle and desiccated. She worked the bracket methodically, breaking wood off in small pieces. She lost track of time, focusing fiercely on the job.

She had broken away two sides of the triangle when she thought to look at her watch. Holding it up to the light, she saw that it was almost 11:45. If her jailer was feeding her on a schedule, any minute now he'd be there with lunch. She didn't give a damn about the food, but knew if he found her gone, he just might kill her before she could escape.

Turning regretfully from a job nearly complete, she worked her way to the ceiling trap and lowered herself into the closet. There was no time to get the cabinet back where it belonged, so she closed the closet door.

As Jessica turned from the closet, she got a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She was covered in dust and cobwebs. Even if the dapper man were half out of his mind on cocaine, he'd surely notice a layer of filth all over her. She tore off her skirt, sweater, and blouse, and beat them against the bed frame until they were relatively clean. Time seemed to evaporate as she struggled to clean herself.

Pouring water into the bowl, she pressed her handkerchief into use as a washcloth. Her face and arms were nearly clean when the tumblers fell in the lock.

***

It was approaching 11:00 when Daggett and Andrews pulled up beside Merlin Gautier and Eddie Park. Daggett rolled down his window.

“He still in there?”

Gautier nodded. “Unless he's sprouted wings.”

“Okay.” Daggett took the microphone from the dashboard and spoke into it. “Inspector Fifty-one to Cars Eighty-nine and Sixty. Take your positions and watch closely. The subject may be armed.” He put the mike back into the clip, then nodded to Gautier. “Let's go.”

Andrews drove up the street, pulling to a stop just outside the gate to the garage complex. Park drove just past them, taking up a position adjacent to the cottage. All four detectives got out of their cars and took cover behind them. Through the gate, they could see mechanics stopping their work to stare nervously at them.

Daggett flipped a switch on his microphone and activated the loudspeaker. “Skeeter Longbaugh, this is the police. Come on out with your hands up. Mr. Blessey, you come out with him. Don't make us come in after you.”

Inside the cottage, Skeeter jumped to his feet, his eyes flickering wildly. Blessey came past him with his teeth bared in a snarl. “Goddamn them fuckin' Uncle Toms.”

“P-put the gun down, Unca Howard. They'll shoot us sure if they see it.”

“Shut up, boy. I gotta think. That Daggett's a smart mothah-raper. He's prob'ly got cars stationed on the street behind my salvage yard, in case you try to climb the fence.”

Skeeter put his hand on Blessey's shoulder. “It's no good, Unca Howard. Lemme go out before you get in trouble.”

“Shit,” Howard snarled. “I'm in trouble already if they find you here. C'mon.” He grabbed the youth by the sleeve of his coat and pulled him into the center of the house. As Skeeter stared wide-eyed, he kicked aside a frayed rug and, with another quick movement of his foot, caused a section of floor to pop out of its moorings.

“Get down there and work your way to the side of the house. Listen close, 'cause I'm gonna draw them cops inside. When they do that, crawl out from under the house and slide into the next yard under the fence. The house is vacant, and so are the next two. Keep goin' until you reach Horrit Street, then walk out like you ain't got a care in the world. It's our only chance, so go on, now, git.” He grabbed Skeeter and shoved him down in the hole. It was the work of a moment to close the section of floor and replace the rug. Daggett was yelling for them to come out again as the old man walked placidly to the front door.

***

Skeeter's heart was hammering in his chest as he crawled under the house. Hearing the clatter of cops' feet above him, he quickly moved to the fence and under it.

Finding himself in a back yard overgrown with weeds, he continued to the next fence. He passed through two more yards until he reached the last one. He trotted down an alley, pulling up short at the edge of the house. None of the detectives were in sight. The compulsion to run was as urgent as a bladder full of beer, but he broke into a sedate stroll, rolling his shoulders like a man without a care in the world. When he turned the corner that would take him out of Gerttown, he began to breathe again. He was considering the theft of a car when a dirty brown Plymouth pulled up beside him. He tried to ignore it.

“Say there, fella, need a ride?” The voice was friendly, kind of country-sounding.

“Naw, man, I don't—”

The voice spoke again, low, soft, all business. “Get in the car, nigger, or I'll punch my initials in your back.”

Skeeter froze, slowly turned his head until he saw the blocky, scar-faced black man staring at him over the barrel of a long, slender gun. Coupé pushed open the door. “I'll leave you layin' in the gutter if you don't move.”

“Who are you, mister? I ain't done nothin' to you.”

The black man's bared teeth were like those of a feral dog. “Get in the car.” The words were hard, distinct.

Skeeter willingly gave up his soul to God at that moment. He'd wiggled and squirmed and connived with a criminal, all to end up where he'd started, trapped in a car with a strange, violent man. Ignoring the weight of the gun in his own coat pocket, he eased into the car and shut the door. He was trying to think when something hard struck him over the temple. Daylight brightened to fierce hues of yellow and red before it faded quickly to darkness.

***

Still shaky from his brush with death, Farrell headed Uptown on St. Charles Avenue. He turned toward the river at Jackson Avenue, then continued Uptown on Prytania. Two blocks up he eased the big maroon Packard to a stop under a pair of venerable oaks whose gnarled and knotted roots had turned the sidewalk into a roller-coaster track. A six-foot iron gate in an equally imposing fence was open, allowing him to reach the porch of the granite mansion unimpeded.

A push on the ivory button set into the door frame eventually brought an old man dressed in a morning coat, striped pants, and haughty expression. “Yes, sir?”

“I'd like to see Mr. Gaudain. The name's Farrell.”

The old man looked him over with a thinly veiled air of suspicion. “May I ask the nature of your call?”

“Tell him Whitman Richards. He'll understand.”

The old man's expression didn't change, but there was a sudden flash of light in his lusterless gray eyes. “One moment.” He gently closed the door in Farrell's face.

Farrell set fire to a cigarette, smoking leisurely as he leaned his shoulder against one of the massive white columns. He'd smoked it about halfway down when the door opened again. “Mr. Gaudain will see you now.”

Farrell sent the butt spinning out into the yard as he followed the old man down a long hallway to a library. A huge window let in light from a garden that boasted a fountain in which a bronze nymph gamboled under a shower spewed by bronze dolphins. In a leather club chair was a pale slip of a man who sat with his chin cupped thoughtfully in his hand as he examined the nymph. “She's lovely, don't you think?” he asked as Farrell approached.

“She'd be the star in any burlesque house in town.”

Up close, Farrell could see the man's face. The skin had a fragile, rice paper look, his hair platinum. Farrell knew he was yet under forty, but he seemed older, and frail.

“Strange you should say that,” Gaudain replied. “The model was a stripper on Bourbon Street who used the name Torchy LaFlamme. She was my fifth wife—for about ten months.” He paused to allow Farrell to sit down in the chair opposite. “What about Whitman Richards, Mr. Farrell?”

“Someone's kidnapped his daughter. I have a suspicion that it's part of a plot to weaken him for a takeover.”

Gaudain's dry, papery face twitched, almost smiled. “Dear me. Isn't that just dreadful.” He paused to sip some port from a tiny crystal glass. “It's so nice of you to bring me the news.”

Farrell got out his cigarette case, offered it to Gaudain, then selected one for himself. He lit it, watching Gaudain's face. “I guess this is all news to you.”

“I've spent a lot of time and money trying to hurt Whitman Richards legally, Mr. Farrell. I've backed his opponents in three separate elections, backed Sheriff Marerro's opponents in two others. All told I've spent about a quarter-million trying to ruin that bastardly sonofabitch, and I suppose I'd do it again if I thought there was even the least chance. But kidnapping his child, dear me, no. I wouldn't even know how to go about such a thing.” He sipped port. “Why are you telling me this?”

Farrell inhaled some smoke, then let it feather out his nostrils. “I'm no friend of Richards's, Mr. Gaudain. I might even dislike him as much as you do. But I used to be friendly with his wife, and she asked me to help find her daughter after Richards threw the cops off the case.”

Gaudain laughed, shaking his head. “That sounds so like him. I'm sorry for his wife and child, but I don't know what more I can offer you, Mr. Farrell.”

“Sure about that? I heard someone say that you were staying alive just so you could dance on Richards's grave.”

“I am not, as you can plainly see, a man of action, Mr. Farrell. Nor have I ever consorted with thugs or gangsters. I might have once, but I didn't. I know nothing of the kidnapping or anything associated with it.”

Farrell nodded slowly. “Well, knowing that is something, I guess. Richards has a lot of enemies. I think someone here is backing the play of a bigger man who's masterminding the takeover of Richards' territory.”

Gaudain held up the decanter of port, offering Farrell some. When Farrell declined, he refilled his glass and took a healthy sip. “Well, I have heard that many people in this town have reason to hate Whitman. I am but one, not that my hatred is by any means inconsiderable. You see, I suspected from the outset that it was Richards who had my uncle killed, even though he masterfully cast the blame on another man, who subsequently left town to escape arrest.”

“Sounds like a story I can believe.”

Gaudain smiled. “It was the man who first approached my uncle about purchasing the refinery. My family opened the first one in this state, did you know that? And Uncle Charles was extraordinarily proud of that heritage. It was his life, you see. He couldn't possibly give it up.”

“Who was this man?”

“Pete Carson was his name. A big brute of a fellow, but clever. It was he, the police later claimed, who lured my uncle to a meeting up in St. Charles Parish and killed him, left him for the buzzards.”

Farrell sat a bit straighter, intrigued by the story. “Claimed? You don't think he did it?”

“Well, the entire thing was rather too neat for someone even as gullible as I to believe. It began with the note they found on my uncle's body which had set the meeting up. It was unsigned, but the handwriting was quite distinct. Then someone came forward who claimed to have seen an automobile leaving the area where my uncle's body was found. It was quite a distinctive automobile, a dove-gray LaSalle with dark green fenders. An informer later tipped the police that Pete Carson owned such a vehicle. When they investigated further, they found his handwriting on some papers filed with the Notorial Archives that matched the handwriting on the note.”

Farrell rubbed the edge of his jaw. “Pretty damning.”