The Righteous Cut (17 page)

Richards stood there with his mouth open, his fury making him speechless.

Casey took a seat in one of the expensive leather armchairs in front of Richards' desk and leisurely crossed his legs. “Have a seat, councilman. We've got a lot to talk about. For starts there's Pete Carson.”

The blood drained from Richards' face. “What are you talking about?”

“Pete Carson. Your half-brother. The man you most likely framed for the murder of Charles Francis Tarkington.”

Richards sank slowly into his chair, his eyes suddenly lusterless, like a man stunned by a sock full of wet sand.

“You've had a very bad week, councilman,” Casey continued. “Two people you depended on are both dead, your daughter kidnapped, several of your operations knocked over, probably with significant loss of money…it's focused a lot of attention on your office that I'm sure you'd rather do without. You've made it worse by trying to cover it up.”

Richards licked his lips. “I got nothing to say.”

Casey shrugged. “Fine. I like to talk to a man who doesn't want to talk. You see, the police aren't masterminds. We plod, we trip over our own shoes, but we notice things, we make reports, and we keep files on everything. And we've always got people around with long memories, like this character. Say hello to Lieutenant Ben Guthrie from the Gang Intelligence Squad.”

Guthrie gave Richards a two-finger salute off his hat brim, but Richards' eyes were still fixed on Casey.

“Lieutenant Guthrie, working on a tip, discovered your relationship to Carson. Another tip sent us back to the Tarkington case file, which reminded us that Carson was the prime suspect. He did a neat job of faking his death, neat enough to fool the rural police up in Minnesota, but not quite neat enough to convince us.”

“You can't prove anything.” Richards' voice was hollow.

Casey grinned humorlessly. “Are you sure? Once we lay your relationship with Carson beside the death of Tarkington and your subsequent purchase of the Tarkington sugar refinery at a below-market cost in front of the district attorney, I'll bet my pension that he'll order a full investigation. Once he does, I'll bet Guthrie's pension that we find other interesting associations, with more dirty money changing hands before it ends up in your pocket.

“The newspapers will have a field day,” Casey continued. “And my guess is that once you're on the ropes, people you've swindled and extorted money from will come out of the woodwork like cockroaches in a house fire. Even if we can't convict you, you'll be ruined politically, and I happen to think that'd be a good thing all by itself.” Casey got up and put on his hat, tugging the brim low over his eyes. “I wouldn't blame you if you tried to skip town, but if you do, I'll arrest you on a material witness warrant. My men at the railroad depots and the airport will be notified to be on the lookout for you from now on.” He turned to leave, but paused at the door. “You might as well give Carson what he wants because he won't keep it long. His mugshot is in every radio car by now, and we'll get him too before it's all over. Have a good evening, councilman.”

Casey opened the door, giving Guthrie time to favor Richards with an amiable grin and a gunman's salute. As the door closed, Richards snatched up his telephone receiver, then slowly put it back. With Langdon out of the office, there was no one to call.

***

The sight of the knife under the dresser was enough to reenergize Jessica. She fiddled with it until she understood the mechanism, then closed it and shoved it under the mattress. Within minutes she had repaired her underwear as best she could and lay down on the bed. Her watch told her it was late, but not late enough to attempt an escape.

She found that she wasn't tired. She'd been through a lot that day, but she recognized a resiliency in herself she hadn't known was there. She realized she had a good three hours before anyone would visit her again with food. She pulled her tool from under the mattress and walked to the closet. It was the work of a moment to push open the trap and pull herself through the opening. Her adrenaline was flowing again, and she felt stronger than ever.

Working her way across the rafters to the louver was like revisiting familiar ground. She felt the muscles in her legs respond as she stretched them from beam to beam.

When she reached the louver, she could see through the slits that the sun was low in the sky. She heard the cries of egrets and gulls somewhere nearby, and it suggested to her that she might be near water, perhaps Lake Pontchartrain. She slipped the strip of steel from inside one of her brassiere straps and set to work on the last obstacle to removing the louver altogether.

She'd worked her way through half of the ridge of wood holding the louver in place when she felt it begin to slip. She caught it in time to keep it from crashing out onto the roof. Finding that she had the strength to lift it, she carefully brought it inside the attic and propped it against the wall. A cool breeze swept through the opening, drying the sweat on her body, as she looked out on freedom. Twenty-five yards across the field lay a patch of woods.

The sound of geese came to her through the opening as she stared out at the field. As she watched, she saw the V-shaped formations flying toward her. Geese flew south, which meant she was looking more or less due north. If she'd guessed right, Lake Pontchartrain was somewhere beyond those trees. If she could get to the lake, there would be people to the east and the west, including the Coast Guard at West End and a police district substation at Milneburg.

Turning reluctantly away from the opening, she stepped cautiously back over the rafters to the trap. Five minutes later she was dressed in her school uniform. There was nothing to do now but wait, and hope for enough luck to see her to the grove of trees after she escaped the house. She'd never thought very much about luck before. How much was enough when you were betting your life?

***

Joey Parmalee's Studebaker rolled into Treme late that afternoon and stopped across the street from King Arboneau's grocery store. Pushing open the driver's door, Joey painfully pulled himself out to the sidewalk. Smoke from his cigarette curled lazily past a face that was a rainbow of red, purple, and yellow. He held his right arm stiffly against his body, barely able to tolerate moving. He limped across to the grocery entrance.

The girl named Gabrielle saw him when he was halfway down the aisle to the butcher shop. Her hands flew to her mouth. “Joey? What happened? Was you in an accident? Oh, you poor thing.” She ran around the refrigerated meat display counter and put an arm around his waist to help him.

“Knock it off,” he said gruffly. “I ain't dyin' or nothin'. I gotta see the King.”

She put a soft, cool hand on his wounded face, made him sit down on a stool. “Just a minute, okay? Just stay here.” She turned and ran up the stairs.

Joey sat there, dragging on the cigarette but finding small pleasure in it. Every bone in his body ached. He lost track of time, and perhaps consciousness, as well. The next thing he knew, he was looking up into a pair of fierce, impenetrable eyes.

“What are you doin' here? What happened to you?”

Joey was shaken by the violence of the old man's questions. It took him a minute to find his voice. “He—he's double-crossin' you, Mr. Arboneau.”

“What are you talkin' about?”

“I—I heard him. Carson. He was on the phone, talkin' to Richards. Makin' some kinda deal with 'im. He's gonna cut you out. Johnny's in it with 'im.”

Joey's revelation seemed to have no effect on Arboneau. “They do this to you?”

“Yeah. Caught me listenin'. They left me for dead out back of the house.”

“Why would your own brother try to kill you?” Arboneau affected no attitude of surprise or disbelief. It was clear he was simply trying to get the story clear in his mind.

Joey painfully shifted his body. “My brother.” He made a rude noise. “He ain't got no love for me. He kicked me around the whole time I was growin' up.” He sneered as he looked back at the old man. “Johnny's sick of bein' nobody. He wants to be a big shot bad, bad enough to do anything, Mr. Arboneau. Carson's promised him his own territory once him and Richards has squared things.”

The news shook Arboneau, but he maintained a sternly stoic visage. He had gotten into this to humble Richards and take back what Richards had stolen from him. He had known that Carson and Richards were half-brothers, but Carson's hatred had seemed too great to be undone by any appeal to kinship or financial gain. Perhaps blood was thicker than water after all.

As he silently stroked his chin, another voice came into his mind, the voice of his silent partner in this deal. The partner who, from the beginning, had been pushing for a redress beyond mere money and territorial power. He turned back to Joey. “Boy, I'm gonna let you stay here on the quiet. Stay in your room until I say different, hear me? I got some thinkin' to do.”

Joey smiled painfully, but there was a glint in his eye that was both hopeful and sardonic. “Yes, sir. Glad to be workin' with you, Mr. Arboneau.”

Arboneau said nothing, watching as Gabrielle helped Joey from the room. He had experience enough to know a jackal when he saw one, but he reluctantly admitted that a toothless old lion might find a use for a jackal. When he was alone, he pulled his telephone to him and asked the operator for an Uptown number. It rang several times before the owner picked up.

“Yes?” the soft voice said.

“You're going to get what you wanted after all,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

Arboneau told Joey Parmalee's story in a flat, bitter voice, leaving out nothing.

“I could say I told you so,” the soft, husky voice said. “But there's no time. We need to get someone out of the way first.”

“I'll see to it,” the old man said.

***

Farrell left Targo with the sense that he at least had a direction in which to go. But he wanted more. The Parmalees weren't leaders, they were followers. Somebody had brought them into this caper, but who? Surely not Carson. Johnny had been an aspiring boxer eleven years ago, and Joey would have been a mere child. That meant there had to be a middleman, but who? He was certain of Neil Gaudain's innocence, but that left the three others he'd talked to, and perhaps some he had not discovered.

He was startled by the sound of sirens overtaking him. He pulled to the curb to let the ambulance pass, then continued on his way. Before he'd gone another block, he had to make way for two police cars. He heard other sirens ahead of him, too. Led by his curiosity, he drove in the direction of the excitement. He came to an intersection where he saw the ambulance at the curb and several police cars around it. A man lay on the sidewalk. Near his out-flung hand Farrell saw a revolver lying. He pulled to the curb, cut the engine, then made his way to the crowd of curious bystanders.

“Cripes,” a man said loudly. “I ain't heard so many guns go off since I was in the Argonne back in Seventeen.”

“Who is it?” someone demanded urgently. “You see it?”

A large man in a bow-tie and shirtsleeves left a nearby tavern, pushing his way to the center of the crowd. He stopped suddenly with his hands on the shoulders of the men in front of him. His mouth opened in shock. “Aw, God, it's Monaghan. Doctor, is he okay? Is he gonna make it?”

Farrell couldn't hear the reply, but he saw the bartender's shoulders slump. He watched as the man turned slowly and stumbled back out of the crowd. Farrell worked his way through the tangle until he reached the bartender's elbow. “Excuse me, you a friend of Monaghan's?”

The man turned, his face stiff with shock. “What?”

“Monaghan. Are you a friend of his?”

He nodded. “We were partners in this joint here.”

“Had he said anything about being in trouble with anybody lately? Or maybe had he run into an old enemy? Look, it's important.”

The bartender heard the urgency in Farrell's voice and stared at him for a moment. “No. Fletch kept his nose clean. He'd of told me if there was any trouble.”

“Sure of that?”

The man nodded. “Sure enough. What's it to you?”

“I think somebody just made a big mistake because he's scared.” He paused, frowning. “I'm sorry about Monaghan. He was all right.” He turned to leave before the bartender could engage him in further conversation.

As he walked to his car he considered the possibility that someone with an old grudge against Monaghan could have chosen today to pay off the score, but Farrell doubted it. What made more sense was that Richards had decided to hit anyone who could possibly be connected to the kidnapping of his daughter and the murder of his cohorts. It was a desperate move, and a stupid one. If Carson got wind of this, he might go underground, taking the girl with him.

He reached his car and paused. Once again he felt that strange presence nearby. He looked around, spotting the old Chevrolet wagon a block down. At the sight of it, the urge to confront a real enemy became too much to resist. The skin over his cheekbones grew taut and his eyes took on a hungry look. He walked toward the old car, unbuttoning his jacket. When he reached back on his hip for the Luger, the driver cut the wheels hard and sent the station wagon in the opposite direction. As Farrell watched him go, it took all of his willpower not to empty his gun at the retreating car.

He felt heat simmering in his blood as he returned to his car, gunned the engine into life, then tore away with a shriek of tortured rubber.

Chapter 15

It was dark when Farrell pulled into the parking area behind his club. He took the metal stairs two at a time in his haste to get to a telephone. He'd already entered and walked halfway across the kitchen floor when he recognized instinctively that he wasn't alone. Acting on some wordless mental cue, his right hand drew and leveled the Luger as he stepped suddenly into the living room.

“You won't need that for me,” Georgia said. She sat on the sofa with her shoes off and legs tucked up under her. She put a cigarette into her mouth and drew on it until the tip glowed bright red.

“I haven't got time to visit, Georgia, and anyway, what the hell are you doing here? I told you to wait at home.”

She glared at him. “You know, I'm getting good and goddamned sick of all you big strong men telling me where to go and what to do. My daughter's been out there for almost two full days and not one of you has done or said anything to make me feel any better about it. Instead of ordering me around, why don't you tell me what you know?”

Farrell stared at her for a long moment before the fierce look on her face reminded him of other times. He relaxed, put the pistol away. “I'm having a drink. You?”

“Yes, but no more of that fucking Pernod. Scotch in a tall glass with plenty of ice.”

Farrell laughed as he went to the taboret, remembering once again what he had liked about her. It was only the work of a moment to put ice and scotch into two glasses and take one to her. “Season's greetings, baby.”

“Bullshit.” She grabbed the glass and took a healthy taste. “What about Jessica?”

“Jessica's a pawn in a gang takeover. Quite a few years ago, your husband set up a man named Pete Carson, to take the fall for a murder. Carson apparently faked his death to throw the cops, and probably Whit, too, off his trail. I think he's made a deal with some local hood to back him in a takeover attempt.”

“Who's the local hood?”

Farrell shook his head. “So far all I know is that a couple of loogans named Parmalee are involved. I've got a line on them that I'm following up tonight.”

Georgia shook her head irritably. “Great, but why kidnap Jessica? Why not just kill Whit?”

Farrell snorted humorously. “Baby, don't ever get mad at
me
, okay?” He shook his head, grinning. “I've got a theory about that. Whit's a big man in this town, but not just because he's a smart crook. He's built up a network of city and state officials, cops, and political grafters that makes it possible for him to manipulate state laws and local regulations. He uses that power to extort money and gain influence, allowing him to maintain a more or less legitimate front. If he dies, the network dies with him.”

Georgia blinked, shaking her head. “All this time I thought he was just another crooked politician. You make him sound like a cross between Capone and Woodrow Wilson.”

He smiled grimly at Georgia. “You gotta admire what he's done. He plays his cards right and he could be governor one day. And that's just the reason that Carson wants him alive.”

Georgia looked at him blankly. “I don't get it.”

Farrell pointed a finger at Georgia. “Think, beautiful. Carson hasn't been sitting around for the past ten years just so he could kill your husband. He wants what Whit made, and he can't have it without Whit.”

Now Georgia laughed. “Men,” she said in a tone that was half admiration, half pity. “So this Carson is using Jessica to pin Whit to the wall. That's really funny.”

“Why funny?”

“Because Whit's been fucking his secretary for the past ten months. He's goofy in love with her. If Carson had kidnapped her, Whit would've folded up like wet cardboard.” Her mouth opened wide for a rich peal of laughter. “So what are you planning to do, mastermind?”

“I'm already doing it.” He stepped across the room and picked up the telephone receiver. Giving the operator the number for police headquarters, he waited patiently until he got a voice. “This is Wesley Farrell. I need to speak to Captain Casey. Yes, it's urgent.”

A moment or so passed before his father came on the line. “Where are you calling from, Wes?”

“I'm at home right now. Did you get word of the hit on Fletch Monaghan a while ago?”

“Yeah. It looks like Richards decided to fight back. He may have hit a snag, though.”

“How's that?” Farrell asked.

“Vic D'Angelo and some of his boys tried to hit Kurt Van Zandt, too, but his luck ran out. D'Angelo killed Van Zandt's partner, Lenny Raskowitz, and wounded both of his bodyguards, but the rest still managed to kill D'Angelo's men and wound him. D'Angelo's under guard in the hospital. Van Zandt's in protective custody by his own request.”

“Does he know anything about Carson?”

“No,” Casey replied. “But he'd spill his guts if it would keep him safe. He's not part of this.”

“What about D'Angelo? Is he talking?”

“He's making like a clam. He won't even admit to knowing Richards or Carson.” Casey paused for a moment to get his breath. “What have you learned so far?”

“Not much, only the name of a place Johnny Parmalee visits almost every night. I'm going over there in a little while to see if I can pick him up.”

“What about the sniper?”

“I don't know. I think I saw him at the scene of the Monaghan kill in an old station wagon. When I went for him, he beat it. Maybe now that I'm on to him, he'll steer clear of me. I wonder if he really knows what he's doing.”

“If he's the one who killed Amsterdam and Callahan, he knows. You shouldn't be going after Parmalee alone. How are you going to watch your back?”

“I'll manage,” Farrell said.

“You're nuts. Let me put some men with you.”

“Where I'm going a city dick would stick out like a boil on Miss America's nose. Let me play this my way.”

“Sometimes I think you want to get killed,” Casey said bitterly.

“You know better than that,” Farrell said in a chastened voice. There was a moment of silence before Casey spoke again.

“I shouldn't have said that, son. I'm sorry.”

“Forget it. You learn anything new since I left you?”

“And how,” Casey replied, the rift already forgotten. “Ben Guthrie found out that Richards and Carson are half-brothers. That piece of information links Richards to the Tarkington murder. I was over there with Guthrie just a while ago to let him know the jig was up. You should have seen his face.”

Farrell smiled at his father's enthusiasm. “Maybe I will later, after we get the girl back.”

Casey sighed. “Good luck, son, and good hunting.”

“See you later.” Farrell hung up the receiver, turned to see Georgia looking at him speculatively.

“Since when did you get so chummy with the law?”

Farrell rubbed the back of his neck. “That's not important. What the cop told me is.”

“What is?”

“Carson is Whit's half-brother. That connection gives the cops the leverage they needed to pin Whit to the wall on the Tarkington angle. They went to his office and lowered the boom on him.”

Georgia shook her head, a strange little smile on her lips. “He framed his own brother. Even I didn't think he was that big a louse.” She turned her gaze back to Farrell, saw the pale light in his eyes that had once frightened her so and almost trembled. “So what will you do next?”

“I've got a tip as to where a man named Johnny Parmalee might be tonight. We're pretty certain he's one of the men who grabbed Jessica. If I can get my hands on him…” He left the thought unspoken while he finished his scotch. “At any rate, I can't hang around talking to you all night.”

“I'm going with you,” she said abruptly.

“Not on your life. Forget it.”

She got up and walked to the window. “I can't forget it. It's my fault she's in this fix.”

Farrell made a face. “C'mon, Georgia. It's got nothing to do with you.”

She continued to stare out the window. “It's got everything to do with me. It was marrying Whit that caused this. Sure, he loves Jessica, all right, but that doesn't change the way he's lived his life. People respect Whit, they fear him, but I've never heard anyone say that they liked or admired him.” She half-turned, her face pale against the darkness outside. “I've kept up with you, Wes. Sometimes I get gossip from people I used to know. I read the papers. You turned into a pretty decent kind of guy.”

Farrell felt foolish. “Knock it off, Georgia. I was a two-bit hood when you knew me. I ran whiskey past the Coast Guard, I made a living playing cards, I even owned some cat houses. Besides, what's this got to do with me?”

“Have you still got that picture of Jess I gave you?”

“Look I haven't got time—”

“I said have you got the picture?” Her voice rose suddenly, her features contorted with strong emotion.

“Yeah. Yeah, I've still got it.”

“Give it to me.” When he gave it to her, she caught him by the hand and dragged him into the bathroom. She shoved him in front of the mirror, then held up the picture. “Look at it.”

“I did look at it,” he said peevishly.

“No, goddamn you. Look at her eyes, then look at your own, and the shape of your chins and your noses. Look!”

Farrell looked at the picture, studied it. He looked at his reflection, then cut his eyes back to the photo, really looking at the girl's eyes for the first time. A wrenching shudder went through him. “No. No.” He turned and caught Georgia by the arms, pulling her to him. “No. Goddamn you, no.”

She stared back at him without batting an eyelash, her mouth tight and hard. “Yes. I found out I was pregnant with your kid and I ran. I didn't know what the hell you'd say if I told you. Whit came along at just the right time. He wasn't as hard as you, at least not then. He didn't frighten me the way you did. With him, I thought—” The tension drained out of her body and she dropped her eyes from his. “I don't know what the hell I thought. I was twenty years old. I'd run away from home and I was knocked up. So I ran away again.”

Farrell looked down at her, his eyes going out of focus. His fingers relaxed and Georgia slid out of his grasp. She sat down on the toilet seat, looking up at him with moist eyes. “You want to know the crazy part? She's like you in a lot of ways. Stubborn, intense. She plays to win and almost always does. Lately I've wondered what it would've been like, having you around to see her grow up.”

Farrell felt limp and rubbery. Without knowing it he sank to the edge of the tub and sat on the bath mat. “I have a kid. I have a kid.” His mind jumped back to the night he'd discovered he had a father, and had listened to that father talk about losing him and always wondering where he was. A tear escaped the corner of his eye and dribbled over the sharp line of his cheek.

Georgia nodded slowly, her eyes cast downward. “Silly, isn't it. You looked like such a bad risk and Whit like such a good one. Now he's got men who want what he's got badly enough to—to—” She buried her face inside her cupped palms, her shoulders shaking.

From the time he'd understood what it was to live with the knowledge of his mixed racial heritage, Farrell had always meant to remain childless. He and Savanna had talked about the burden of bringing a child with two bloods into the world. Along with the desolation he felt at not knowing Jessica he felt the sting of the burden he'd unknowingly placed on her. He reached out a tentative hand, placed it lightly on Georgia's bowed head, smoothing the hair. She looked up at him.

“You hate me now.”

“No.”

“I'm sorry for what I did. I stole something from you. You should hate me. I hate myself sometimes.”

He sighed, shrugged. “I'd have made a lousy father.”

A small, breathy laugh escaped her. “You can't know that. Children make you better. They force you to stop being selfish. Now that Whit and I are finished, I'd like her to know you, as much as you can stand to be known. What I can't do anymore is just sit at home wringing my hands. You've got to let me help you find our child.”

Farrell felt like someone waking up in another man's body. He looked at her for a long time, nodding slowly. “You've got guts, Georgia. I always said so. Put your shoes back on and go powder your nose. We may be out late.”

***

King Arboneau got a cigar from the box on his table, bit off the end and spat it into the corner. He lit it carefully, using the match to toast the wrapper. He smoked it in silence as he looked at the photo of Tel and the pretty girl he might have married. He'd have enjoyed living in the same house with their love. The knowledge that Gabrielle was upstairs copulating with that weasel, Joey Parmalee, was like a distorted image of his lost dream.

So much lost, so much time gone by, never to be recovered. He recognized now that this had been a stupid play, needlessly complex. He had a strange premonition that he had been maneuvered into something that had now taken on a life of its own.

It had taken him months to figure this all out. It had been an accident, really, that got it started. A tin-horn gambler, Dink Iacono, had come to New Orleans with an unbelievable story. He had seen Pete Carson, alive, in Seattle. Because Iacono was a blowhard and braggart, Arboneau had been reluctant to believe him at first, but the gambler's insistence eventually won him over.

The King had sent the one person he trusted above all others to Seattle with Carson's photograph. Three weeks later, a long distance call in the middle of the night from that confidant had confirmed Dink Iacono's story. Carson, now calling himself Big Mike Hayden, had put together an organization out there and was doing nicely for himself. Arboneau had barely dared hope that Carson would be willing to throw away everything he'd built just for the chance to return and get even with Richards. It was a lot to ask, so much so that after the initial contact was made, Arboneau himself made a secret trip by plane to Seattle in order to discuss a plan. It was a risky gamble, but it paid off. Carson seemed to hate Richards even more than Arboneau did, and suggested the possibility of not just overthrowing Richards, but keeping him alive in order to use him as a pawn. That part of the plan had required considerable negotiation, but eventually was grudgingly agreed to by Arboneau's silent partner.