The Righteous Cut (15 page)

***

Farrell continued Downtown knowing that time was getting short. The longer this went on, the greater was the danger that Jessica might become a casualty or simply an inconvenience to the men seeking to destroy her father. He admitted to himself that the clock was ticking for him, too, as long as the sniper remained unchecked on his tail.

Finding Pete Carson was going to require all the manpower Casey could throw at it, but the Parmalee brothers were bottom-feeders. Wherever that kind went, they left a trail of slime behind for someone to follow.

Johnny had been a fighter, and probably still had friends and acquaintances at the fringes of the fight game. Farrell had, himself, trained to be a fighter long ago, and decided to see where that road would lead him.

He swung back to the east and picked up Tchopitoulas Street. New Orleans was a fight town, with more than its share of trainers and promoters. He stopped at a gymnasium near Jackson Avenue that was run by an old fighter named Red Chisum. Red remembered Johnny well enough, but hadn't seen him in a couple of years. He suggested Farrell try at a gym on Third Street run by a Spaniard named Parma. Parma sent him to a Negro trainer named Sugar Boy Wilkes. Nobody had seen Johnny Parmalee in some time, but Wilkes confided that a mutual acquaintance had said Johnny mentioned somebody from out of town asking him to do a job. Since Johnny wasn't much of a talker, Wilkes said, that nugget of info amounted to about a week's worth of conversation.

As Farrell followed the trail, he became aware of a Chevrolet station wagon behind him. He saw it the first time on Louisiana Avenue. Later it showed up in his rear-view mirror again on Annunciation. The third time he was certain it was the same car. The front bumper had been bent at a crazy angle on the right side. Farrell decided to leave the driver alone for a while. He'd made the mistake of getting too close. That meant he was human. If he was human, Farrell could take him.

He stopped at a bar on Octavia that he knew was frequented by ex-pugs. Talking to the bartender, he discovered that the man knew Johnny Parmalee and carried a scar from their last meeting. He was only too willing to talk. He mentioned a gym on Magazine Street, a few blocks west of Napoleon. Farrell thanked him and drove over there.

As the afternoon deepened, northerly winds blew an overcast over the city. Staccato bursts of hard rain lashed his windshield, the chill of it fogging the glass. Shivering, he cut on the heater, a thing he'd barely used in the almost year-round tropical heat.

Fifteen minutes later he parked the Packard in front of a two-story brick structure that had once been a movie theater. Now it was owned by Bucky Targo, a former heavyweight champ and trainer extraordinaire. As he paused to light a cigarette, the street behind him showed no trace of the station wagon. He felt the driver there, all the same. They had a connection that only death could sever.

He entered the gym, stopping just inside to let his eyes adjust. It was like most other places where aspiring fighters learned the craft. A regulation canvas ring dominated the center of the room. Around it, young men worked out on the heavy and speed bags, skipped rope, or worked out on weights. The air was permeated with the aromas of sweat and liniment, and just under those the coppery smell of blood. The combined stinks sent Farrell's mind back to 1917, when he had traded manual labor for eating money and boxing lessons in a place much like this.

The relative gloom of the large room gave way to harsh yellow light that illuminated the ring. A young white man and a stocky Cuban, both in silk trunks and leather headgear, bounced energetically on the balls of their feet as they feinted and parried. A half dozen of their peers watched in stoic silence as an older man kept up a torrent of abuse.

“Christ Jesus on a fuckin' bicycle, Devereaux, hit him, whydontcha? You waitin' for a fuckin' engraved invitation? No, Castillo, lead with your right, cover with your left. If Dev ever does throw a punch, he's gonna knock your fuckin' block off. Jesus!” He shook his head in frustration.

He was big, with shoulders like hams and arms the thickness of a normal man's legs. His midsection had gone soft, but he remained a powerful man who moved gracefully. He called time and ordered the young men to various workouts. He was rubbing the back of his neck when he noticed Farrell. “Do somethin' for ya, mister?” There was no wariness in the question, but Farrell saw the man sizing him up, measuring his trim-waisted physique with a professional eye. His thin-lipped smile suggested he did not consider Farrell an appreciable threat.

“You Bucky Targo?”

“I am. And who might you be?”

“Wesley Farrell. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“What about?”

“Johnny Parmalee.”

Targo sense of self-assurance seemed to slip. His eyes narrowed, darted from side to side to check for eavesdroppers. “We can't talk here with all this racket. Let's go inside my office yonder.” He indicated a partitioned cubicle built on what had been the stage back when the place still operated as a theater.

Farrell nodded agreeably, followed the trainer across the noisy gym and up a short flight of stairs. Targo pushed open the door and indicated with his chin for Farrell to precede him. He closed the door, then lowered a set of grimy Venetian blinds over the single window. He turned to Farrell, his expression obscured by the gloom. “So what about Parmalee?”

“You already know, or you wouldn't have brought me in here.”

Targo stiffened, his eyes blazing for the briefest of seconds. “What're you talkin' about? I barely know 'im.”

Farrell's mouth parted and a hollow, mocking laugh escaped. “You're a liar, Targo. When you were fighting, Johnny was your sparring partner. When he got good enough to make a try at the title, you helped him train and got him a backer. He's got money tied up in your gym and he's helped you back a couple of young comers.” Farrell's laugh sounded again. It had an edge like a headsman's ax. “He's a mighty obliging fella for a guy you don't know so well.”

Targo rubbed a hand stupidly across the lower half of his face. He moved out of the corner on the stiff, leaden legs of an old man until he reached the desk, where he collapsed into a chair. “What do you want?”

“You can save yourself some grief by talking, Targo. Parmalee and his brother kidnapped a teen-aged girl yesterday and killed a man doing it.” Farrell moved a bit closer to the desk, his voice dropping to a sharp, hypnotic whisper. “I don't give a damn about the Parmalees, but I want that girl. If I can get her back without hurting Johnny or giving him up to the cops, I will. It's up to him, really.”

Targo turned slightly in the chair to avoid looking at Farrell. His lips worked like a man trying not to vomit. “I—I dunno where he is. I ain't seen him lately.”

“You know where he hangs out. And don't bother with that address off Lee Circle. He moved.”

The ex-boxer turned his chair again, putting his legs under the kneehole of the desk. His right hand was just out of sight near his leg. He raised his head and looked directly at Farrell, as though craving his immediate attention. “Yeah, well, there's a place or two he goes.”

“Like where?”

“Like—” Targo's hand shot into view, a .38 revolver dwarfed in his huge fist.

Farrell seemed to know in advance that the gun was coming. His right hand ripped the bullet-pocked Stetson from his head and swept it into the ex-fighter's face. Targo grunted in surprise, his gun hand waving off center. Farrell moved in like a tornado, knocking the gun from Targo's grasp as he threw a crushing right into the man's jaw. As large as he was, the blow lifted Targo from the chair and sent him crashing against the wall. He lay there, shaking his head, his eyes large with shock. It took him a moment to remember he was Bucky Targo, three-time heavyweight champion of the world. Grunting, he lurched to his feet, his fists up as he moved in on Farrell.

Farrell's face was an image from a nightmare. His pale eyes blazed like molten silver as he brushed Targo's guard aside as though it were of cobwebs. His right smashed into Targo's chin, his left sinking elbow deep into the man's paunch. Breath whooshed out of Targo, but Farrell's attack on his belly was relentless. Three more blows sent the big man crashing to the floor. As he fell, greenish vomit shot out of his mouth to the dusty floor.

Without warning, the office door flew open and the room was suddenly full of loud male voices. Farrell met it with his Luger in his fist. “Get out!” His voice cut through the younger men's bluster and backed them out. Two tried to stand fast, but Farrell's feral stare above the dark maw of the Luger changed their minds.

Kicking the door closed, Farrell turned back to Targo. “All right, Goddamn you. Talk, and no more stalling or I'll rip the skin off your bones.”

Targo remained on his knees, panting like a winded dog. “No more, please, no more.”

“You can't save Parmalee, Targo. If I don't get him, the cops or Whit Richards's men will. With me, he gets an even break. What about it?”

“D-don't know where he is, swear it.”

“Don't con me—”

“No, wait. There's—there's a place he goes. I'll t-tell you…”

***

Joey Parmalee was floating in dark water at the bottom of a deep well, treading to stay afloat. Water kept splashing him in the face from somewhere, getting in his nose and mouth, he turned his head this way and that, trying to escape but it was no use. The more he tried to escape, the more insistent the slaps of water were.

“Come out of it, kid. Come on, that's it.” Johnny Parmalee sat on the edge of the bed where his brother lay, gently slapping him in the face with a wet washcloth. He stared at Joey's battered face with mingled feelings of disgust and regret.

“Christ—stop—stop hittin' me with that fuckin' thing.” Joey turned his head to the side and pushed at Johnny's arm. He reached up to touch his face, and the movement stretched the bruised ribs. “Christ,” he gasped, grabbing at his side. “Christ, I think he broke somethin'.”

“Yeah,” Johnny said softly. “He was tryin' to, the way I heard it. You're lucky he didn't kill you at that.”

Joey looked at his brother's face, saw the disappointment in his eyes. “Takin' his side. That's just what I'd expect from you, Johnny.”

Johnny got up, shoved his hands into his pockets. “You been at the coke again. You told me you were off of it.”

With difficulty, Joey sat up, eased his legs over the edge of the bed as he sucked painful breath between his teeth. “I—I got bored. I needed some to take the edge off. Christ, he broke somethin' inside me. I feel like something's stickin' me in the lungs.”

“Maybe you oughta try some more coke. Take the edge off the pain,” Johnny said in a flat voice.

“You sonofabitch,” Joey said through clenched teeth. “What'd you ever do for me except nag, criticize, treat me like some feeble-minded jerk?”

Johnny looked at his brother through heavy-lidded eyes. “It ain't my fault that mom and pop's car stalled in front of that train, Joey. That was as bad for me as it was for you. I wasn't but a kid my own self. Maybe I didn't always do right, but I tried to teach you how to be.”

“Bullshit,” Joey replied, running his fingers over his bruised face.

Johnny's face hardened. “So I ain't Saint Francis. All God give me to get along on was a hard head and my fists. I tried to live clean, but I didn't have no luck. I went to work for loan sharks to keep a roof over our heads and you out of the orphanage. Yeah, I ain't no saint but you never learned killin' from me. You never learned beatin' women or rape from me.”

Joey's face was turned from his brother. He lay quiet, his damaged face sullen.

Johnny looked at him for a moment, squelching the sigh he felt building in his chest. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “Anyways, you better get your stuff and clear out. Pete said he didn't want you around.”

Joey managed to stand up, his arm wrapped tightly about his damaged ribs. “You comin'?”

Johnny shook his head sadly. “I told you, I was sick of bein' a nobody. With Carson I got a chance, so I'm takin' it. It's time for you to grow up. You can do it if you try. You do that, you clean yourself up, maybe we can get back together again.” He turned his head away from Joey. “I'm through nurse-maidin' you as of today.”

Joey found his coat and shrugged painfully into it, then put on his hat. He saw that his valise was on the floor, ready to go. “Where's my rod?”

“In the bag. I took the shells out of it, so don't get any ideas. Just get in your car and go back to town.”

Joey stared at him, his mouth working to spit out a curse, but nothing came. He picked up the valise with his good arm and walked past his brother into the hall. Johnny listened until he heard the front door open and close, then he let out a long, shuddering breath.

Joey limped outside, lugging his valise painfully to the shed where his Studebaker rested. It took him less than a minute to get inside and drive out of the pasture to Filmore. He took the road west through the park, stopping under a tree to think. While he thought, he got out his bindle of cocaine, used some of it. He hurt in so many places that the burn of the cocaine was like a mother's caress. He rested his head on the seat back, letting the drug take him to a place beyond pain, beyond humiliation.

When his heartbeat settled, he sat there, his thought processes now tightly focused. He opened his valise and found his .32 Smith & Wesson under the hastily packed clothing. From a box of cartridges in the glove compartment he loaded all six chambers, then replaced the gun in the valise. He knew what he wanted to do now. Turning the car around, he headed back east to Wisner, a street that would take him south into the city.

Chapter 13

Casey put his trepidation about Farrell's safety to one side and focused all his attention on Pete Carson. He knew nothing about the murder of Charles Francis Tarkington nor the possible complicity of Pete Carson, so, after getting Carson's record from R and I, he summoned his head of gang intelligence, Lieutenant Ben Guthrie.

Guthrie was a lean, fit man in his late thirties, but his snow-white hair and eyebrows sometimes caused people to mistake his age. He had been in gang intelligence since winning his detective shield in the late Twenties. Nobody in Casey's command knew more secrets and street gossip.

“I had to do some thinking when you mentioned Pete Carson, captain. That's going back a ways.”

“Does anything exist that shows or even suggests a connection between Carson and Whit Richards?” Casey asked.

Guthrie grinned. “Before I answer that, let me tell you what I know that I can't prove. First, Gang Intelligence has been eyeing Richards since he first appeared in town in the late Twenties. He had money and he spent it to make more.”

“Meaning,” Casey said as he dug his pipe into his tobacco pouch, “that he invested in various criminal enterprises.”

“Yep, but he was careful from the beginning. He would occasionally be spotted in public drinking with people like Big Tony Romero, Joe Dante, and Emile Ganns in a casual way, but he made a point to never be seen at any of their operations. The conventional wisdom is that he bought into booze, narcotics, and vice operations through go betweens. When gang leaders or their men took a fall, Richards was never around and there was nothing concrete to connect him.”

Casey grunted as he set fire to his pipe. “Nobody ever said he was stupid.”

“No, indeed. As he amassed enough money to build an empire, he took on men he could trust, like Amsterdam and Callahan, to oversee his gambling and vice operations while he stood back and played the upright public servant.”

Casey squinted against a tendril of smoke that drifted past his eye. “So how did he keep contact with these people if he was at such pains to show no public association?”

Guthrie got out a cigarette and lit it. “We came to the conclusion some time ago that Richards and his key people are using unlisted telephone numbers subscribed under assumed names. These new rotary dial phones that have become available make it possible to make a call without even involving an operator. Those numbers are the kind of information you need a court order to get, and no judge is going to give it to you without a darn good reason.”

Casey's mouth stretched into a taut, impatient line. “There's quite a few judges who owe their seats on the bench to Richards.” He paused to puff smoke. “So how does this help us make a connection between Richards and Carson?”

“Strictly speaking, it doesn't. What we know we learned fairly recently, and by accident. My file clerk reminded me of it after you called.”

Casey relit his pipe, knowing Guthrie enjoyed the process of revealing secrets a layer at a time. “Go on.”

“A contact in the City Finance Department forwarded something interesting to us a few years ago. It was the cancellation of an allotment that Richards drew on his salary. It was going to a Mrs. Felicia Carson of New Iberia. The reason for the cancellation was listed as ‘payee deceased.' That got me interested.”

Casey felt a strange tingling in his blood, but he remained patient. “I can see how it might.”

“I thought at first that maybe this was some woman Richards was keeping on the side,” Guthrie continued. “So I contacted the sheriff's office there and asked them to see what they could find out about this lady. Turned out to be a sixty-eight year old woman—”

“Who was Richards' mother,” Casey exclaimed.

Guthrie laughed. “I wasn't that quick, boss, but you're right. It seems that Mrs. Carson, born Felicia D'Abadie, was first married to a Cajun oil field roughneck by the name of Claude Richar', by whom she had a son named Jean-Louis. When Jean-Louis was nine, Claude was killed in an oil well explosion. Two years later, Felicia received a proposal of marriage from a railroad brakeman named Peter Carson, by whom she had a second son, Peter, Junior.”

Casey started. “Jean-Louis Richar' is Whitman Richards, and he's also Pete Carson's brother?”

Guthrie nodded. “Half brothers. I had the sheriff's people look up the birth certificates and wire-photo them to us. It's the straight goods.”

Casey leaned back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. “So how did the son of a Cajun roughneck end up being City Councilman Whitman Richards?”

Guthrie took a long drag on the cigarette, blowing it right back out again. “That's another story. I did some digging on this, skipper. I wanted to be sure. See, there's underworld gossip that when Richards hit town, he was still combing hayseeds out of his hair. He spoke better French than English. As the story goes, he realized pretty quickly that if he was going to make his way in the city, he was going to have to put up a more sophisticated front.”

“He found somebody to teach him social graces, huh?”

Guthrie grinned. “In a manner of speaking. He took up with a prostitute who hailed from Boston. The story goes that she was the black sheep of an old Boston family. Anyway, she taught him to dress, how to talk, which fork to use—enough to help him get by until he could learn more.”

“And he changed his name to go with his new identity. But where did he get the name Whitman?”

“That's the best part of the story, skipper. Seems this Boston gal had a sweet tooth, and a particular fondness for the Whitman's Sampler.”

In spite of himself, Casey roared with laughter.

“That's the story, sir. When I got the information, there didn't seem to be much I could do with it, since Carson was dead according to the Minnesota State Police.”

“But you filed it and your clerk remembered it. Nice work, Ben.” He put his pipe in the ashtray and his expression grew sober. “That might be just what I need to stir the pot a little.”

Guthrie's casual pose vanished as he leaned closer to Casey's desk. “Can I help hold the spoon?”

“Maybe so. Let's take a short ride and see if we can catch the councilman in his chambers.”

***

“Man, if you're gonna kill me, just get it over with. If you ain't gonna kill me, lemme go. I was on my way outa town. Anyhow, the white gal ain't none of my business.”

“Shut up,” Easter Coupé replied crossly. “Sit there and keep your trap shut. I got to think this out.”

Skeeter had been through a lot in the past two days. He had been running like a rabbit until this morning, but he no longer felt like running. He was angry to the point of foolhardiness. “Think! Man, you slay me. I seen them kidnap a white girl, I seen that crazy white boy stick a knife in my friend's insides. I seen enough to have you all put in the chair six ways to Sunday. And you know what? I don't give a damn. Because of that ofay maniac, I done lost everything that matters to me, you hear?” He was handcuffed to a kitchen chair, but in spite of that, his outrage had the chair legs creaking and scuttling on the kitchen floor.

Easter Coupé turned, his face hideous with the emotions roiling inside him. “Damn you, shut up. I don't
want
to kill you. You ain't done nothin' to be killed for. That's the fuckin' trouble. I promised a man I liked and trusted that I'd do a thing to keep his ass outa the fire and agreed on a price. I ain't never gone back on my word before, not about business. But this time…”

Skeeter frowned thoughtfully as he listened. No one had ever told him about the meaning of a moral dilemma, but in listening to Easter Coupé he began to understand the concept. He spoke in a quiet, almost awed voice. “Man, you don't sound very happy.”

The hardened gunman looked at his quivering fist, then opened it and looked at the splayed fingers. “You can do somethin' a long time and think it's a dandy idea,” he said in a subdued voice. “Then a thing can happen and it don't seem so dandy anymore.” He walked about the room, rubbing the back of his neck as though it pained him, seeming to talk to himself, rather than to Skeeter. “Every time I ever made a hit on somebody before, it made sense to me. I truly figured the man had it comin'. But you—hell, you're just a kid. You ain't been alive long enough to deserve killin'.”

Skeeter felt disoriented. “What—what you gonna do?”

Coupé went to the kitchen cupboard, removed a flat brown pint of Old Overholt. He pulled the cork and took a long drink. “That's the problem. I made a deal and the job ain't over. Worst thing is, I give my word to a white man. Normally I'd never have no truck with a white man, but I thought I knew this one. I thought he was somebody who made sense.” He drank some more of the rye, but it seemed to have no effect on his mood.

Skeeter understood now. He felt a strange pity for the other man. “If you don't kill me, they'll kill both of us. Sure as God made little green apples.”

“Yeah,” Coupé said in a harsh rasp. “Yeah.”

***

“Why are you d-doing this?” Jessica asked, shivering under the sheet. “You say you're my uncle, but you've had me kidnapped and a man's been k-killed. It's—it's insane.” Her composure was as tattered as her undergarments. Her lips quivered and speaking was clumsy for her. She stared, strangely dry-eyed, at the big dark blonde man.

“I'm sorry, Jess.” Carson looked down at his feet. He hadn't felt ashamed of anything in years, but looking at the girl's bruised face touched something that he'd thought long buried. “It wasn't supposed to happen this way. I gave orders that you weren't to be harmed.”

She laughed at him, the sound of it jarring even to her. “He was going to k-kill me, you son of a bitch. Explain to me how that helps you any.”

He looked at her bleakly. “Your father framed me for murder eleven years ago, and he did it just so he could cut me out of what I had coming. Sooner or later, I had to come back to make it right. Kidnapping you was, well, it was just supposed to throw him off balance long enough for me to step in and jerk the rug out from under him.”

She looked at him with her mouth open. “What? What are you saying? My father framed you for
murder?
You're insane. My father's a city councilman, a real estate magnate. Framed you? No, you're crazy.”

He bit his lip, nodding slowly. “Yeah, it's tough to take. My own old man, your step-grandfather, he was no good either. It's a tough thing to know about your old man, but it's true. Whit's a grafter, a swindler, and he's had men killed so he could get rich. There it is.”

She looked away from him, drawing her legs under her in a vain effort to put more distance between them. She shook her head over and over. “And what are you, Uncle Pete?”

He opened his mouth, but her question stopped him. He looked away, unable to look her in the eye. “I had that coming, I guess. But everything I said is true. I came back to get back what he took from me. Before it's all over, I mean to have it. One way or another. I'll let you go then. I don't want you to get hurt.”

“You're too late,” she screamed in a raw voice. “Get out. Get out and leave me alone.”

He regarded her silently for a long moment, then nodded, backed out of the room. She heard the tumblers in the lock fall and then she was alone. She wept silently into the sheet, trying to make sense of the fact that her privileged life had been a sham, that all she'd believed had been a horrible lie. She wept for a long time, a silent, steady weeping that made up in intensity what it lacked in volume. Her courage had been tested to the limit and her confidence in her world had eroded almost to nothing.

The room was a blur in the midst of the weeping, but as her tears began to ebb and dry, a gleam across the room drew her attention. It was just under the bureau. She leaned forward, brushing at her eyes with the backs of her hands. As she got up and tiptoed across the room in the shreds of her underwear, she saw that it was Joey Parmalee's knife.

***

King Arboneau finished putting rubber bands about the last stack of bills brought in by one of his couriers. It had been a good day so far in Treme. He'd collected $7,000.00. That was more than two working stiffs could make in a year, but the realization gave him little pleasure. At the age of sixty-three he should be retired, playing with grandchildren. Instead he worked long hours and felt the world closing in on him.

His son's death had been a monumental blow to him. When Tel had come into the world, it had been at the cost of his mother's fertility. There had been no other children, and his wife had died young, of disappointment, rather than cherish what she already had. That would have made some men bitter, but Arboneau had borne it with grace, and had lavished all his affection on Tel.

He wondered sometimes whether or not it would have made a difference if he'd made his living as an honest man. Tel wouldn't have been exposed to the kinds of men and women that Arboneau had needed to run an empire in the underworld. Tel had grown up to be a man who believed that being a man meant giving vent to a violent streak whenever he was tested or challenged. You taught him that, he thought. That was the kind of man you were.

His hand moved to the framed photograph of the young man and his girl on his desk. He took it in his rough hands and rubbed his thumbs softly over the images. The girl's name had been Linda Sue Mahoney. He had loved her almost as much as Tel had, but she was gone now, too, wiped away by the same stroke that took Tel. He had dreamed of the grandchildren they'd have, but that dream, too, was ashes.

It had taken him a long time, but he'd found some peace. He'd found Gabrielle in one of his brothels, and had brought her home to warm his own bed. When he'd seen how young she truly was, he'd been unable to go through with it. She'd become a surrogate child, and through her he'd found Cal Russell. Cal wasn't like Tel, but he was a pretty good kid, if not particularly intelligent. In the absence of a real son or grandson, Cal served. What a strange little family they were, but there was some happiness in their being together. It was something to be grateful for.