The Righteous Cut (6 page)

As he got to his car and opened the door, he cast a wistful look back at the bar. He hadn't talked to a woman in a long time that wasn't a whore, and there wasn't much talk with one of them. His life had little in it but eating, sleeping, and hurting people. He felt a spike of some emotion he didn't recognize as he got into his car.

***

Detective Sam Andrews eased the old Dodge sedan to a stop outside a gin mill on North Robertson called Chili's Place. He cut his eyes over at Daggett and grinned. “This might just be the scummiest hole you and me ever been in.”

“It just looks that way because we been in so many of 'em. Let's go inside. Maybe we'll be surprised.”

Andrews snorted. “The last time I was surprised, Herbert Hoover was president.” He pushed open the driver's door and climbed out onto the pavement.

As the pair entered the juke joint, the blare of Charlie Parker's sax from the jukebox almost blew them back out into the street. They paused, squinting into the blue haze of tobacco smoke until they saw Smoker Cauvin sitting in the far corner with his back to the wall. As usual, the stubby dark brown man surveyed the scene through a pair of dark glasses, a cigarette smoldering in the corner of his mouth. The Negro detectives split apart and approached him from two directions, their empty hands swinging loose at their sides.

“What say, Smoker?” Daggett asked when they were close enough to be heard.

“Nothin', man. I ain't like a lotta cats, rattlin' their lips when they ain't got nothin' to say. I'm a man who chooses his words with great care, you dig?”

Each detective hooked a chair and straddled it. “We're lookin' for Skeeter Longbaugh. Hear you're thick with him.”

Smoker sneered around his cigarette. “I'm that dumb-ass's first cousin, if you call that thick. He's family, so I gotta put up with him once in a while. What's that empty-headed motha-fuckah done now?”

“We just wanna talk to him. Seen him lately?”

Smoker removed the cigarette long enough to drink from a tumbler full of Four Roses, then he replaced the cigarette in the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, about a week ago. Hit me up for a sawbuck, like I'm made of money or somethin'. I give him a finif and told him to be grateful for it. Six days ago that motha-fuckah borrowed money from me and you think I seen him since? Shit, naw.”

Andrews sighed. He was tired and his patience, never great to begin with, was wearing dangerously thin. “Smoker, you know we ain't prowlin' this shit neighborhood to listen to your trials and tribulations. Where is he likely to go with your five bucks weighin' down his pants pocket?”

Smoker's mouth curved into a smile. “When he's got money, he chases after Toni Mereaux's kid sister. She ain't trickin', cause Toni'd kill her, but she been givin' it to Skeeter all the same. Boy's as dumb as a ball peen hammer, but the chicks think he's just bein' cute. By the time they realize just how dumb he is, they done give him enough tail to keep six guys happy.”

“Just in case he's run through that fortune you give him, where else could he be?” Daggett asked dryly.

“That ex-whore who cooks at Ma Rankin's house. Whole house fulla gals sellin' it as hard as they can, and fuckin' Skeeter finds the one gal there who'll give it to him for nothin'.” He laughed, slapping his knee.

“Tell me, Smoker,” Daggett said, leaning a bit closer to the smaller man. “Would you know if Skeeter was mixed up in some kinda trouble?”

“Shit, yeah, man. He's too dumb to keep a secret.” Smoker laughed raucously. “You ain't got him pegged as no criminal mastermind, do you?” He laughed some more.

Daggett got up, Andrews a half-beat behind. “Thanks for all the help, Smoker. We'll see you again some time.”

“Yeah, man, look forward to it.” He laughed some more.

As they left the noise and the stench of Chili's behind them, Andrews paused to rub the back of his thick neck with a hand the size of a ham. “One of these days, I'm 'onna slap that li'l pissant through a wall.”

“He's just another lowlife living from one buck to the next. With any luck the Army'll draft his ass soon, and
they'll
slap those dark glasses right off his nose.”

Andrews laughed. “I'd enlist myself to see that.”

“Forget that idea. You're too fat and I'm too old. They wouldn't take either of us, and anyway, we'd end up diggin' ditches. Even being a Negro cop in New Orleans is a better life than that.”

“Say that again, boss. You wanna take a flyer out to Toni Mereaux's?”

Daggett shrugged and headed to the battered old Dodge. “We got to find Skeeter so let's give it a try.”

Andrews opened the driver's door and slid his bulk under the steering wheel. “I ain't been to a high-class cat-house since I was in knickers.”

As they drove west across town, Daggett fingered his chin as he frowned at the darkening street. “You know, Smoker talks big, but he's no dummy.”

“I reckon,” Sam said grudgingly.

“He said that Longbaugh was too simple to be mixed up in something and then be able to hide it.”

Sam nodded slowly. “What d'you think that means?”

“I don't know. Let's see what else we can find out.”

It took them about forty-five minutes to make it across town and out to the shore of Lake Pontchartrain. Toni Mereaux's three-story house was silhouetted against the moon as bright light from a dozen large windows spilled out into the yard. Through one of the open windows, they heard Artie Shaw's clarinet backing Lady Day as she crooned “Begin the Beguine.” The house piano played behind them, skillfully embroidering the melody while not detracting from the pros on the recording. As they approached the house, Andrews began to snap his fingers, pleased little grunts emanating from the depths of his throat.

Daggett leaned on the bell, his badge in his hand. The door opened and a delicately featured mulatto girl stood in the door, the light radiating behind her small head like an aura. “Police. We want to talk to Miss Mereaux.”

The mulatto girl sighed, gestured for them to enter with an elegant movement of her head. She led them past half a dozen girls in slips and peignoirs, some entertaining high rollers in zoot suits. One looked past his girl's shoulder and gasped when he recognized Daggett's face.

“Keep your seat, brutha,” Daggett said softly. “Whoever you are, we ain't after you tonight.”

They continued past a skinny Negro boy of about nineteen and realized he was the piano virtuoso they'd heard outside. Andrews grinned and grunted some more. “Sweet music, man. Keep at it—the Jelly Roll man and Fats both started out in one'a these places. You sound like you're ready to move on to Kansas City, playin' like that.”

The kid gave the detective a shy grin. “Thanks, boss. Anything you wanna hear?”

“Anything, man, just keep playin'.”

The girl led them down a hall to a room with a half-opened door. The girl knocked lightly, stuck her head through the opening. Daggett didn't hear what she said, but within seconds an older woman stood in the opening. Her bronze skin was so taut and smooth you could have bounced dimes off of it. Thick dark hair swung loose to her shoulders as she stared at them with a sullen mouth.

“I've already paid this month.”

“We're not here for a payoff, Miss Mereaux. I'm Sergeant Daggett and this is Detective Andrews. We're out of the Negro Squad from Downtown.”

Her large liquid brown eyes did a slow inspection of Daggett. “Sorry if I talked out of turn. What can I do for you?” She gestured for them to enter, and for the mulatto girl to return to the front.

Daggett took off his hat and held it down alongside his leg by the brim. “We're looking for a man named Skeeter Longbaugh. We were told your sister is friendly with him.”

A frown creased the smooth tautness of her forehead. “I told her to stay away from that idiot. He hasn't got the brains God gave an animal cracker.”

“Maybe, but it would be helpful to know if she's seen or spoken to him in the last forty-eight hours.”

Toni Mereaux led them through what turned out to be a private apartment. The office door led through a small dining room into a room furnished like a parlor with very jazzy deco furniture in stark whites and blacks. A pretty girl in her late teens sat in a plump white armchair reading a novel with the words
Native Son
on the front of the jacket
.
She looked up as they entered and closed the book, holding her place with an index finger.

“Terry, these men are policemen. They want to know the last time you saw Skeeter Longbaugh.” Daggett heard anger simmering in Toni's voice, but he kept his attention on the young girl's face.

She cut her eyes at Daggett and Andrews then back up at her sister. “What for?”

Toni's eyes got a hot, mad look in them. “Have you been sneaking out with that empty-headed little cock-hound?”

Terry lowered her eyes. “It's none of anybody's business if I do.”

Daggett moved a bit closer to the girl, speaking in a patient, cool voice. “Listen, miss. A white girl was kidnapped from Sacred Heart Academy this morning. A Negro custodian was killed by the kidnappers.”

“Skeeter's missing, too,” Andrews added. “We need to find him so we can ask what he knows about it. If it's nothing, he walks, but the longer it takes us to find him, the rougher it's going to be when we do. Help us out, and help him out at the same time.”

She looked up at both detectives, searching their faces for subterfuge. She cut her eyes briefly at her sister. “I—I saw him Monday, late in the afternoon.”

“You little—” Before Toni could finish the thought, Daggett held up his hand to cut her off.

“What did he say?”

Terry shrugged her shoulders. “He'd just got off work and he seemed about the same. I got him to come with me to the Fat Man Lounge and we had a couple of drinks.”

“He seem different to you?”

She shook her head. “No. He was his usual self, happy and smilin', whistling dance tunes. He's a lot of laughs.”

Toni's face had become a thundercloud. She elbowed her way past Daggett, her hands bunched into fists. “He's happy because you keep letting him get his hand inside your pants, you little tramp. I told you to stay away from him and everybody like him. I told you—”

Terry jumped to her feet, the book held in her hand like a weapon. “You tell me to stay away from him while you peddle your ass and the asses of these other girls here. You got a hell of a nerve, you two-faced—”

Daggett saw it coming just in time to step in. Toni Mereaux's right hand flashed back and streaked toward her sister's face like a rocket. Daggett caught the wrist and checked the blow, interposing himself between the two women. “That's enough of that. If you two want to kill each other, do it on somebody else's time. You—” He turned back to Terry Mereaux, who remained in a crouch, her teeth showing in a snarl. “Did Longbaugh say anything else while you were with him? Cough it up or I'll take you Downtown.”

Andrews had moved up behind the defiant girl, his face like a stone mask. “Tell him, girly. We're gettin' old listenin' to this kiddy-garden shit.”

Andrews' bass voice hit Terry like a blow to the body and she dropped the book, glancing with scared eyes over her shoulder. “Only that he was short of money and was afraid he'd have to go back to being a mechanic because it paid better.” She paused, thinking about it. “That was unusual. Normally he lives from one day to the next. That's the closest thing to an ambition I ever heard out of him.”

Daggett listened, watching the girl's face. She was shooting straight with them now. There was one other thing he wanted to know. “Does Skeeter carry a knife?”

Her face froze as she made the connection. “N-no. At least I never saw him with one.”

Daggett nodded. “Okay, you're off the hook, but if you hear from Longbaugh, I want to know about it, understand?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Daggett turned to Toni Mereaux, who was sullenly massaging her wrist. “You're gonna think this is none of my business, but if you want to bring her up right, send her away to school. You believe that by keepin' her on a short leash you're protecting her from what you do for a living. It doesn't work like that, and it won't help her grow up clean.”

She sneered at him. “I like that—a cop tellin'
me
what's right and what's not. I like that a whole lot.”

Daggett's eyes grew cold and hard and his voice dropped to a cottony whisper. “I'm investigating a cold-blooded murder and a kidnapping, Miss Mereaux. If I had the time, I'd haul you in for contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Think about what I said, before I have time to come back here. Let's go, Sam.”

They paused out at the car, Daggett using a handkerchief to wipe his neck and the sweatband of his hat.

“You got pretty wound up in there, Iz.”

Daggett snorted. “Maybe. In a few more months, I'm gonna be a father. I have this strange feelin' it might be a girl. Maybe that's what I was thinking about.”

Andrews nodded soberly. “I hear you. You wanna look up the gal at Ma Rankin's that Smoker mentioned?”

“It's the only other lead we got. Let's roll.”

Chapter 5

Two hours after Georgia Richards left his apartment, Farrell took to the streets with his mind full of questions. Kidnapping was something he'd had little experience with, but it occurred to him that there could be only two reasons for such a move against Whit Richards: money or advantage.

The Quarter was the same as ever, street noise lightly mixed with jazz escaping the doors of juke joints and nightclubs warming up for the night's business. Eventually he reached the nameless club identified only by its trademark neon sign, the top-hatted crawfish with his two-olive martini. The colored kid at the door grinned his recognition and slipped him some skin as he passed through.

He saw immediately that his friend Little Head Lucas had spruced the place up since his last visit. Where the Wurlitzer juke box used to hold sway was a real bandstand, and on it were the Bones Melancon Sextette and Anna Lou Hamer just breaking into “Kick It,” a number recently recorded by Krupa's band.

He located Little Head Lucas near the bar, his table now on a small raised platform. Oblivious to the music, the big man's dark face was bent over his chessboard as his thick fingers tickled the tops of the black chess pieces.

“I was afraid for a second I'd come to the wrong place,” Farrell said when he was close enough to be heard.

The Negro lifted his head and turned, his face breaking into a huge grin as he recognized his old friend. He rose and pulled Farrell to the platform, enfolding him in a bear hug. “Man, I was afraid I wasn't ever gonna see you again. When'd you get back?”

“Earlier today. This is my first time out.”

“And you come here first. I'm honored, my man. Sit down there.” He snapped his fingers loudly and made a signal to the bartender as he returned to his seat. “What's it like in Cuba?”

Farrell removed his hat and ran his fingers through his thick reddish-brown hair. “Havana's a lot like New Orleans, pal. Anything goes if you got the price of the ticket.”

Little Head's broad grin faded and an appraising look replaced it. “How you doin'? That was pretty tough, what happened last year. I never got a chance to tell you how bad I felt about Luis Martinez.”

Farrell looked down at the chessboard, shaking his head. Even now he found it hard to talk about the death of his old friend. “Yeah. I know. That's all ancient history now.” He was saved from further discussion by the arrival of two tall glasses full of lime juice and Barbados rum.

Lucas picked up a glass and touched it to Farrell's. “Good times, man. Let 'em roll.”

Farrell smiled. “I hear you.”

They drank in silence, listening for a while to Anna Lou croon words of love as only she could. Little Head watched Farrell covertly, concern in his eyes. He had known Farrell a long time, and recognized tension in the set of Farrell's body, the way his pale eyes moved restlessly across the crowd.

“What's cookin', Pops? I know you're into somethin', so don't be tryin' to jive me. Who you lookin' for?”

“An old friend visited me today. Said her daughter's been kidnapped. She asked me to help find her.”

Lucas nodded. “That'd be Mrs. Georgia Richards. That story's all over town by now. Whoever snatched the girl also stuck a chiv into a brutha named Butterbean Glasgo. He left a wife and six kids.”

“Damn. I didn't know. Georgia didn't mention it.”

“No,” Lucas said in a somber voice. “Don't reckon she did.” He sipped some rum, ruminated for a moment. “Funny that should happen today.”

Farrell cut his eyes at his friend. “Funny? In what way?”

“Seems like Councilman Richards is havin' a run of bad luck this week. Las' night, his right-hand man, Jack Amsterdam, got his lights put out in the Bella Creole Hotel. They sayin' that a whore rolled him.”

Farrell studied his friend's face. “If that's a coincidence, I'll take up needlepoint.”

“That's pretty much the way I feel, too.”

Farrell rubbed a thumb over his chin. “If Richards weren't so big in this town, I'd be tempted to think somebody was trying to jerk the rug out from under him.”

Little Head shrugged. “When you're that big, there's always somebody lookin' to take your place.”

“But who's big enough to tackle Richards? He's got more than just guns going for him. He helped elect the mayor and Sheriff Tim Marrero has won three elections thanks to Richards' money and influence.”

Little Head nodded. “That's all true, but the man's made some big enemies. I can think of several right off the bat that he hurt, but they all come back from it. And they all got money, men, and patience.”

Farrell studied his friend's face, waiting for him to tell his story at his own speed.

“Number one on the list is Kurt Van Zandt,” the big man continued. “He had a hell of a big gamblin' operation he operated outa some warehouses down river from here. Richards wanted a piece of it. When Van Zandt said no, Richards sent in enough guns to wreck it.”

“Uh, huh.”

“Next on the list is King Arboneau. When he wouldn't let Richards in, he used the Zoning Commission and various laws to condemn or confiscate most of the King's prime real estate. On top of that, he had King's son killed.”

“I thought Tel Arboneau died drunk when a train smashed into his car at the Bywater crossing.”

Little Head smiled. “Uh-uh, brutha. Lenny Schwarz, the coroner's stenographer, told me Tel was dead from a broken neck long before the train got there.”

“Interesting. So who's number three?”

“Remember Old Man Tarkington?”

“Sure. He owned a big sugar refinery. I heard he was gunned down on a country road.”

Little Head chuckled. “Uh, huh. Anyhow, Richards got his hands on the refinery and it gave him a respectable front—that's how he got what he needed to get started in politics, my man.”

“How did he get the refinery?”

“Tarkington didn't have no family but a nephew, man named Neil Gaudain. Gaudain didn't know what the refinery was worth. Richards kinda made sure of that by scarin' all the other bidders off. By the time Gaudain understood how bad Richards had cheated him, a coupla years had gone by. The way I hear it, Gaudain's stayin' alive just so he can dance on Richards' grave.”

Farrell drummed his fingers on the tabletop as he gazed at the Negro from under an arched eyebrow. “How the hell do you know all this stuff? Have you got a librarian working in the back room who compiles it for you?”

Little Head sighed. “No, its just when you sit in one spot all day, people is always comin' past and droppin' stuff where you can see or hear it. And then I got kind of a long memory.”

Farrell nodded. “You've given me a lot to think about. Any one of those guys might have the resources and manpower to undermine Richards. There's only one thing missing from the picture.”

“What's that, man?”

“There's not a really brave man in the bunch. Whoever's behind this has brains, but he's got more than his share of guts, too.”

“Can't argue with you there, brutha. But I got one more name. Remember Fletch Monaghan?”

“Sure. He was hooked up with old August Milton during Prohibition. He's a gambler now. What's his beef with Richards?”

Little Head reached behind his head with a huge brown paw and massaged his neck. “From what I can tell, he just hates his ass on general principles. What they call a personality conflict.”

Farrell gave the Negro a wry look. “Have you been reading the encyclopedia again?”

Little Head shrugged. “There might be a better reason for the hate, but that's a piece of information that ain't walked through the door yet.”

Farrell grinned. “The night's young. And you're not the only man in town who soaks up loose talk.”

“Let's have another drink then,” Lucas said. “You can tell me about Cuba and maybe that information will come sit down beside us.”

“Little Head, I like the way you think.”

***

Whitman Richards lay on his back in Meredith Baker's bedroom. She sat astride his thighs and ran her fingers through the thick dark hair on his chest. Pale amber light from a lamp with a mica shade gave her skin a golden glow. Her head was bowed and blonde hair fell over her face, shading it from his view.

“Who is this horrible man, Whit? Why is he doing this?”

“His name is Pete Carson. We were partners—once.”

She moved her hips slightly, causing the breath to catch in his throat. “There must be more to it than that.”

“Be sure you want to know before you ask, Merry. I've told you enough about me by now for you to know I'm no angel.”

“I love you, baby. I can take it.”

He looked up, trying to see her bright blue eyes within the shadow of her hair. “There was a man named Tarkington, eight or nine years ago. He had a business that I needed in order to give myself a respectable front. I tried to buy him out, tried to go partners with him, but he was stubborn. He wouldn't give in.”

“He sounds like a stupid man,” she said.

He smiled. “He was that. Pete was for killing him outright. But then, Pete was getting too big for his britches. I found out he'd been shorting me on the take. I'd trusted him and he'd been stealing from me.”

She began to move above him, her breathing quickening. “So what—did you—do?”

“I had somebody else kill Tarkington. Then I found a way to let the cops believe Pete had done it. He had to leave town, of course. Since I didn't have as many cops or judges in my pocket then as I do now, I couldn't help him.”

She laughed. “Not that you wanted to.” Her fingers kneaded the muscles of his chest.

His own breathing was starting to quicken. “No. I needed him gone, and once he was, things began to fall into place. I even got word he'd been killed. Cut in half by a train, but that was crap. Somehow, he figured out how I tricked him, and now he's back. It's too bad.”

Her face was right over his now, and he could see her eyes were closed as she worked up and down on him. His body didn't seem to belong to him now, it felt like it was floating past him. He grappled and clutched at her, giving in to the convulsions tearing through him, trying with all his heart to blot out the fear that sucked at his mind like a vortex.

***

Darkness had fallen by the time Joey Parmalee eased his Studebaker convertible behind the old farm house off Fillmore Drive. He carried a valise full of the money he'd taken from the shoe repair shop through the back door where he found his brother and Pete Carson sitting at a table.

“Joe,” Johnny said. “This is Pete Carson. My brother, Pete.”

Carson stood, towering over Joey. He had a hard, fit look that reminded Joey uncomfortably of his brother. Carson held out a hand. “Good to know you, Joe. How'd it go at Bockman's?”

Joey grinned as he held up the valise. “Like shootin' fish in a barrel. Here's five grand, Mr. Carson. That operation's closed out. Permanent.”

Carson took the bag, his eyes suddenly gone narrow. “You sayin' you killed Bockman?”

Joey shrugged. “Bockman, his boys. Jimmy Daughtery, too. They knew who I was, so I took care of 'em.”

Carson blinked slowly. “Nobody told you to kill anybody, kid. I wanted the operation knocked over, not wiped out. Those guys all knew things that would've been helpful later on.”

“Hell,” Joey said, defensively. “They was just a bunch of bookies. They're a dime a dozen in this town, Mr. Carson.” Joey saw Johnny looking at him, and felt his guts twist into a knot. All his life he'd been trying to please Johnny, and it was never enough. Carson was giving him hell, and Johnny would give it to him again. He felt sick to his stomach.

Carson stared down into Joey's eyes, holding them for a long minute before nodding imperceptibly. “Okay, you made a mistake. Don't make another one. Richards threw the cops off the kidnap case, but every time somebody gets killed, cops start snooping around. The more dead men, the more cops snooping. Am I gettin' through to you, kid?”

It took all of Joey's strength not to wilt under Carson's piercing green gaze. “I understand you, Mr. Carson. No more killin' unless you say so. I got it, all right.”

Carson nodded. “Okay. I got to make some calls in the other room. Take a load off for now.” He walked away, leaving the other two men alone.

Joey walked to the stove, poured himself a cup of coffee as he studiously avoided his brother's eyes.

“What is it with you, Joey? We got a shot at a sweet deal, with a guy who's goin' places, and you piss all over his shoes, for Chris' sake.”

“Don't start wearin' my ass out, Johnny. I'm warnin' you—”

Johnny stood up quickly, looming over his brother. “You dumb fuck. Are you tryin' to get killed? Pete Carson ain't some drugstore cowboy you can lip off to.” He paused, shaking his head. “I've watched you, Joe. You like killin' way too much. Don't tell me you couldn't of just stuck those guys up. No bookie's gonna risk his life over a few bucks. They ain't made that way.”

Joey turned slowly, anger and fear warring within him. His right hand twitched with the desire for a gun, but Joey knew better than to pull iron on his big brother. “Get the fuck off my back, Johnny. You can't scramble eggs without breakin' the shells. You think them four guys was gonna give me the money for my looks? They pulled iron and I shot first. I ain't big like you. I don't scare nobody. A gun's the only size I got.”

Johnny blinked uncertainly. He smoothed the anger out of his face as he considered Joey's story. Maybe he was in the wrong this time. He shrugged, took Joey by the arm and drew him close, looking down into his eyes. “Don't screw up anymore, little brother. I'm sick of bein' a leg-breaker to a loan shark. I could have class. I could be somebody.
We
could be somebody.” He let Joey's arm go and his eyes wandered down the front of Joey's clothes. “Say, where's that nifty li'l tie bar I gave you for your birthday? The one shaped like a clarinet?”