The Righteous Cut (8 page)

Monaghan yawned. “It's a fine package of somethin' you're sellin', Farrell. I wish I could use it, damned if I don't. But ya see, I'm sittin' here in front of God and all playin' cards and mindin' me own business. Now be a good lad and let me do it, okay?” Monaghan turned his attention back to his cards.

Farrell saw he was getting nowhere. He got up and left without another word. He paused at the bar and waited for the barkeep. It was someone he recognized. “Hello, Mike.”

“Wes Farrell,” he said. “What the hell you doin' in this dump? Slummin'?”

Farrell grinned. “A shot of Monagahela for the road, Mike.” He paused while the red-haired bartender dumped a jigger of Old Overholt into a glass. “Tell me, how long you been on duty?”

Mike shrugged. “Since four this afternoon. Why?”

Farrell shrugged. “How long's Monaghan been here?”

“He was here when I came on.”

“Alone?”

“Couple people been over there talkin' to him. Nobody I recognized. None of 'em stayed long. I don't know why he's in here. He ain't played a game all night.”

Farrell downed the shot. “Thanks, Mike. I'll be seeing you.” He turned and left the bar. He paused at the door long enough to take a cigarette from his case and light it. He watched Monaghan, but saw nothing but a man intent on a game of solitaire. After a while, he left the building and drove back Downtown.

***

It was past ten by the time Daggett and Andrews reached Ma Rankin's house. At the sound of the bell, the door opened and a woman of about sixty stood there.

“Hello, Daggett. Married life gettin' you down, son?”

“Mrs. Rankin, we'd like to speak to Mabel Evans.”

“Mabel give up pleasurin' men,” Ma Rankin said. “She ain't doin' nothin' but cookin' and housekeepin' now.”

“Ma, we ain't got the energy to stand here listenin' to a lot of who-struck-john. Are we gonna have to call for a wagon to take every Goddamn person in here Downtown?” Andrews, red-eyed and greasy-skinned, was out of patience and didn't care who knew it.

Seeing they were in no mood to be fenced with, Ma Rankin flung open the door. “Why didn't you say it was business? Hell, I'm a law-abiding citizen.”

She conducted them with great ceremony to the kitchen, talking loudly enough to let everyone know a pair of cops was coming. They found Mabel washing dishes.

“Mabel, these two p'licemen want to ask you some questions,” the old woman said by way of introduction.

Mabel turned from the sink, wiping her hands on a towel. “You're Israel Daggett,” she said.

Daggett studied her face. “Do we know each other?”

Mabel shrugged. “You raided a place where I used to work. You took me Downtown, but you were nice about it. What you want with me?”

Daggett took off his hat and rubbed his scalp. “We understand you're friends with Skeeter Longbaugh.”

She took a package of cigarettes out of her apron pocket and put one in her mouth. As she fumbled for a light, Daggett stepped in and snapped a kitchen match on his thumbnail. She gently took his hand and held it while she pushed the end of her cigarette into the flame.

“Thanks,” she said, exhaling a puff of smoke. “I know him. We have a few laughs every once in a while. Why?”

“He's wanted for questioning in a kidnap/murder.”

She smiled. “Skeeter? Kidnap and kill somebody? No, he's way too timid to do anything like that.” She inhaled again, let it out gently. “There's gotta be some mistake.”

“Tell that to Butterbean Glasgo. He's in the morgue.”

She grinned indulgently. “Listen, Sergeant. All Skeeter cares about is lovin'. If he ain't home, he's prob'ly layin' up with one of his other ladyfriends.”

“When's the last time you saw him, Miss Evans?”

Mabel had been waiting for the question, but even so, when it came, she had to pause to take another drag from the cigarette. She held the smoke in for a moment before letting it feather out of her nose. “He was here last Friday. Spent the night in my room, left in the mornin'.”

“It ain't helpin' him to not tell us where he is,” Andrews said. “If he's in trouble, we're his best bet.”

Mabel stared, stony-faced. “That why so many of us is in jail? 'Cause y'all are just dyin' to help us out? Don't make me laugh, copper.”

Daggett felt his jaw muscles tighten, but he kept his temper. Shooting a warning glance at Andrews, he said, “Just because you've had a couple of run-ins with the law is no reason to think we're out to get Skeeter. If he's in a jam, we want to help him. He might be the only person who knows where the kidnap victim is.”

“If I see him, I'll tell him what you said.” She held the cigarette stub under the faucet and ran water over it. The sizzle of the fire put a period to their conversation.

“C'mon, Sam. Let's go home.” Daggett turned on his heel and stalked back toward the front door. Andrews gave Mabel a hard look, then he followed his partner out.

Ma Rankin, who had listened stoically, followed them into the hall. In a minute she returned. “Is he upstairs?”

“Yes'm, but I'll get him out in the mornin'. I didn't mean to bring no grief here.”

Ma shrugged. “It didn't cause no trouble. They couldn't search the place without a warrant nohow. But you oughta pay heed to Daggett. He's straight—for a cop.”

“I'll think about it. G'night, Ma.”

“'Night, Mabel.”

Mabel sagged against the sink feeling suddenly weak in the knees. She knew enough about Israel Daggett to appreciate what a terrible chance she'd just taken. She was disgusted with Skeeter and his immaturity, but her feelings for him were too strong to simply give him up. She walked to the back stairs, hoping a night's sleep would help her see things more clearly in the morning.

***

“What do you think, Iz? Was she lyin'?” Andrews asked as he put the Dodge into gear.

“She didn't seem surprised by anything we told her, but we had no cause to take her in or search the place. If we don't get anywhere tomorrow, we'll come see her again. Maybe by then she'll be scared enough to talk.” He paused, rubbed a hand over his face.

“Iz, you ever get tired of people thinkin' you're the problem, that
you're
the bad man tryin' to hurt 'em?”

“Yeah, pardner. I surely do.”

***

It took Georgia some time to calm down after Whit manhandled her. As rotten a husband as he'd been, he'd never before raised a hand to her. For the first time in many years, she confronted the fact that he was a violent criminal, regardless of the respectable persona he presented to the public at large.

She paced the floor of her bedroom, smoking cigarettes until her throat was raw. She knew it was too early to call Farrell, knew it was unwise after he had specifically told her not to call him. Whit would tell her nothing; besides, he was probably off with his tart. Knowing he was off sleeping with another woman while their child was God knows where enraged her almost to the point of violence. She was staring out at the dark street when an idea came to her.

She went to the telephone and asked the operator for an Uptown exchange. It rang only twice before a man answered.

“Yes?”

“Rob, it's Georgia.”

Rob Langdon hesitated for the briefest of seconds before he replied. “Hello, Georgia. How are you?”

“Terrible. Whit's thrown the police off the case and he's off with that Baker woman. I'm cut off here, Rob. I don't know anything and there's no one to ask.”

Another hesitation. “I—I'm not sure what I can do, Georgia. I don't know much more than you do. Whit's handling this, and so far he hasn't confided much to me.”

Georgia tangled her fingers in her hair, fighting to keep the hysteria from overwhelming her. “Rob—I meant something to you once. Please, I'm begging you. Do you know who has Jessica? Please, tell me.”

Rob Langdon hesitated. He and Georgia had enjoyed an affair of ten months' duration not long after he went to work for her husband, but as his involvement in Richards' dealings had deepened, Rob had no longer been comfortable with deceiving him. With some reluctance he had terminated their affair, but his feelings for Georgia had persisted. “I'll try to find out what I can, Georgia. Vic D'Angelo is running Whit's action on the street, and he owes me a few favors. I'll see what I can find out from him.”

Georgia managed to stifle the sigh that had risen from her chest, but her voice was shaky. “Thank you, Rob. I—I won't forget you for this. Do—do you know who's behind this yet?”

“Please don't ask me that, Georgia. Whit's got good reasons for keeping the lid on this. My fortunes are tied up in Whit's continued control of things, just as yours are. I can't do or say anything that might put him on the spot later. Do you understand?”

“So you know who has Jess.”

“Georgia, I've said too much already. Let me make some calls and as soon as I know something, I'll call you.”

“All right,” she replied. “I suppose I'll have to settle for that now. Thank you.” She paused for a moment. “I've missed you, Rob. More than I can say.”

The confession seemed to startle him. He cleared his throat before he replied. “I—I'm flattered. Good night, Georgia.”

“Good night.” She replaced the receiver, stared at it thoughtfully for a moment before going into the bathroom to draw a bath.

***

The man listened as Pete Carson broke the connection, then put his own telephone into the cradle. His thick, rough fingers drummed a tattoo on the tabletop as he stared at the old framed photograph. The youthful couple in the photo reminded him of better times, times when he had hope for the future. Those hopes were gone now. All that remained was the thirst for revenge, but he wondered if it were getting out of hand. People were dying and would probably keep on dying for a while. He had set that in motion, and had to live with it.

He thought about Jack Amsterdam, whom he had known once, years ago. He almost felt sorry for him, dying the way he had. It had been senseless, just bad luck, really. Whoever had killed him may have done them an inadvertent favor, though. Amsterdam had been tough. There was no guarantee that he could have been handled, if he still lived.

He got up from his chair, picked up the photograph and went to bed.

Chapter 7

Louis Bras and his Sizzlin' Six were the featured act at the Club Moulin Rouge that night. As Farrell entered, Louis dropped his cornet to his side and began to croak the lyrics to “I Got It Bad and That Ain't Good.” Farrell gave him a two-finger salute off the brim of his hat as he strode to the stairs and took them to the second floor.

He found Savanna in the living room with her shoes off. The radio was turned down so low that only the essence of a song reached him from across the room. “Hello, sweetheart,” he said. “You look all tuckered out.”

She smiled up at him. “You don't know the half of it. 'Tee Ruth and Margurite took me all over creation today. I saw folks I haven't talked to in ages. They all begged me to stay home for a while.”

“No reason why we can't,” Farrell said as he hung up his hat on the way to the kitchen counter. He built himself a rye highball, then took it to the sofa and sat down close to her, rattling the ice in his glass. He leaned his head back and let her smooth the hair from his forehead.

“What's on your mind, honeychile?” she asked.

He cut his eyes over at her and saw that look, the one that reminded him they had no secrets. “A kidnapping.”

“Uh, huh. Whose kid got napped?”

“City Councilman Whit Richards's.”

She studied him thoughtfully for a moment. “What's the rest of it?”

He stalled for a moment, wondering how he could put it. “The girl's mother came and asked if I could help.”

She smoothed his forehead again and looked deeply into his eyes. “You don't look very happy about it.”

He shrugged. “I'm not happy or unhappy.”

She snickered. “Bull. You like to pretend that you have no reasons for stickin' your nose into other people's trouble, but that's crap and we both know it. Every time you play this game, you have a reason.”

“Maybe.” He took a sip of his drink to give his hands something to do. “Maybe I don't know what it is yet.”

“Let me try out a little woman's intuition on you, baby. You pretty obviously haven't been in touch with this woman for years before she came to you with her sob story, but if I've added things up right, I'd have to guess she left you instead of the other way around. Right?”

He swallowed, not looking at her. “I guess.”

“Tsk, tsk. You're not too bright about women, sonny. I never met a man yet who didn't have a thing about some woman who done him wrong. I'm guessin' from that hound-dog look that this is that woman in your story.”

“It must be great having all these insights into the male psyche,” he said, nettled by her intuition. “You're not gonna charge me for this, are you?”

“No, but from where I stand, this is one of those times you ought to've minded your own business and given your pride a rest. We got it awful good these days for you to risk blowing it up.” She kissed him lightly on the lips, then spoke in a gentler voice. “I'm used to havin' you around after this past year. If anything happened to you, I'd get over it, but I wouldn't like having to.”

He drew her close. “I could just butt out of this now, before I get in any deeper.”

“Baby, I'm not gonna nag you to stay home and do the dishes and walk the dog. That's not the kind of life we'll ever have. I know that you probably gave your word. When you give your word, you keep it. If you didn't, you'd be a kind of man I wouldn't
like
having around.”

“I guess I'm stuck, then. I did give my word.”

She slipped a soft hand over the hard line of his jaw. “That's right. So whatever your problem with this old girlfriend is, get it fixed. I'm not jealous, but I won't share you with anybody else, you hear?”

“I hear you.”

“Good, so come to bed. I need a back rub.”

***

Jessica Richards felt tired, but sleep seemed out of the question as she made the hundredth circuit of her prison. She'd had to use the chamber pot several times, and the smell had taken some getting used to. The nude calendar photo began to annoy her, so she shoved it into a drawer.

The single light bulb didn't give much light, but she was in no mood to read about Richard Byrd or Clark Gable anyway. Under most circumstances she'd be asleep in her own bed, the image of which almost brought tears to her eyes. But there was steel in Jessica Richards. She clenched her jaw and ruthlessly choked the tears back. She walked more briskly about the room, her green eyes flashing with the heat of sudden anger. She couldn't allow herself the luxury of sentimentality, not if she was going to survive this.

She had eaten the last of her food hours ago. The fact that they'd brought her so much suggested that her kidnappers had some vested interest in maintaining her good health. If they'd planned to kill her, she reasoned, they'd have done so already.

Once upon a time she might have considered praying, but she had reached an age where she subscribed to something her parents' cook was fond of saying: “God helps them what helps themselves.” Bessie Mae was a Baptist, and had learned the hard way that prayers alone don't always help.

The walking and thinking gradually relaxed her enough to sleep. After removing her shoes and her skirt, she pulled the light chain and crawled into bed. A thin line of yellow light leaked from beneath the door, teasing her with evidence of the world existing just the other side. She turned on her side and closed her eyes.

As she lay there, she let her hand brush against the cool metal of the bed frame. It was soothing in some strange indefinable way. She allowed her fingers to explore the shape, pressing and tugging. Eventually the fingers met a piece of steel that was loose. It felt as though it might be eight inches or so in length, and perhaps a half-inch across. It was held in place by metal screws, but they were loose. She began twisting the screws and felt them loosen further. Jessica's eyes came open slightly as she began to imagine the possible uses of a loose piece of steel.

***

Easter Coupé had never been to Toni Mereaux's bordello, but he knew of it by reputation. She paid plenty of sugar to the cops to remain open, and also had the tacit support of certain members of the Negro bourgeoisie. She, herself, was said to be the mistress of a white man named Larson who'd made a fortune in oil. Coupé found that amusing. A certain type of rich white man always seemed to like having a black woman for his fun, while some Negroes were consumed with the desire to sleep with a white woman. You always want what you can't have, he reckoned.

As he drew near the house, he began to wonder how he should play this. People to whom he'd spoken had made it plain that Toni Mereaux kept her kid sister away from the johns. He had a feeling, though, that Skeeter had probably sampled some of the house girls, even if the younger Mereaux sister was giving it to him for nothing.

At his knock, a delicate little mulatto girl with brown hair cut boyishly short opened it and invited him in.

“Good evenin', suh. Can I get you a drink?” she asked.

“Seven Crown, if you got it, with a li'l water, missy.”

She offered him a shy smile. “We got it. Why don't you have a seat over there and I'll bring it to you.”

He sauntered over to a cushioned bench under a window that seemed to offer some privacy. As he made himself comfortable, he checked the other faces in the room, noting a couple of local business owners, three well-known musicians, and the head of surgery at Flint-Goodrich Hospital. He smiled as he watched them laughing and talking to the women they'd chosen.

The little mulatto girl came back with his drink, and he invited her to sit down with him.

“You sure, suh? We got some other gals who ain't workin' just now. Maybe you'd like to look 'em over.” She fluttered like a bird under his gaze, and he wondered how long she'd been a whore.

“You'll do fine. Sit down and tell me your name.”

“It's Patience, suh.”

“That's a pretty name. You can call me Frank Brown.”

“Okay.” She looked down at her hands. “You, uh, wanna go upstairs now?”

“In a minute. How'd you come to be here, Patience?”

“Oh, I come over from Lafayette after my mama died, hopin' to find some secretary work, but nobody was hirin'.” She shrugged. “I run outa money and needed a place to stay and, well, somebody told me 'bout this place.” She shrugged again, looking down at her hands.

“You still wanna be a secretary?”

She looked at her hands again. “Well, I learned all that typin' an' shorthand an' all. It's nice, clean work.” She looked up suddenly, as though fearing she might have given offense. “But this is okay, too, most of the time.”

“Most of the time?”

“Well, every now and then we get a fella in here who don't know how to behave. Miss Toni don't hold with any carryin' on. If you're too drunk or loud, she has Elwood throw you out on your ear after he knocks you around some. I can tell you're a gentleman, though. You ain't hardly touched your drink. I hope it ain't too strong.”

“No, missy, it's just fine. Why don't we go up to that room of yours and see what it looks like.”

“Okay. Uhm, Miss Toni, she likes us to tell you up front that it's five dollars for a couple hours, and ten for the whole night. It's kinda expensive, I reckon.”

“For a fine lookin' young woman like you? I should say not. She oughta charge more.”

Her complexion deepened and she ducked her head as she stood and took his hand and led him up the stairs.

The room was clean and neat, as he'd expected, and there was a fresh seersucker spread on the bed. Patience turned on a small lamp, then closed the door. She turned her back to him as she undressed, neatly folding her things over the back of a chair. She wore a look of fierce concentration as she took his coat and unbuttoned his shirt and vest. He almost smiled at the methodical way she went about undressing him, but recognizing she was nervous, he made no comment.

She finally led him to the bed. He noted as she turned back the covers that there was a studied way about how she went about her work, as though she'd been well tutored but was yet unskilled enough to feel the need to give each immediate project her full concentration. She was even more delicate looking in the nude. Her skin was a dusky yellow, with a tiny patch of light brown hair at the place where her legs came together. He felt strangely excited.

The sex had a leisurely quality that was quite out of Coupé's experience. Most whores were in a hurry to move on to the next customer, but Patience was everything her name suggested. When it was over, she collapsed on top of him, her heart thudding against his chest.

He gently turned on his side and caught her in his arm as she slid off. “You didn't wear yourself out, did you, Patience?” he asked in an amused voice.

She pushed light brown bangs out of her eyes and smiled at him, her expression a bit self-conscious. “I'm sorry. It's supposed to be for you, but I forget sometimes.”

He looked at her, stroking her bare shoulder with his blunt fingers. “Don't be sorry. It's supposed to be fun.”

“Well—thank you, suh—I mean, Frank.”

“How long you been at this place?”

“Oh, not long. About six months, I reckon.”

He grinned. “You're pretty experienced for only six months. You're just a natural woman, I reckon.”

“Oh, hush,” she said, grinning self-consciously.

“This is my first time out here. Know a young fella who talks about it, so I thought I'd come see for myself.”

“A young fella? What's his name?”

“Calls himself Skeeter. Funny name, ain't it?”

She flushed. “Oh, him. I reckon he's tried every gal here when Miss Terry weren't payin' no attention.”

“Miss Terry?”

“She's Miss Toni's sister. Miss Toni don't 'low her to do what the rest of us does, but Miss Terry's kinda sweet on Skeeter. I seen them sneak into empty rooms when Miss Toni's not around. But he still does it with others whenever he gets the chance.”

“You, too?”

“Oh, no. I feel sorry for Miss Terry, and I wouldn't do her that way.”

He nodded gravely. “You don't meet many people with ethics nowadays. That's right fine of you.”

“Thank you.”

“I ain't seen Skeeter lately. Wonder where he got to?”

“Well, he useta work for his uncle. I forget his name, but he runs a garage somewhere in the city. Lately he's been workin' at that Catholic girls' school out on Saint Charles. I went by there once on the streetcar. It's a grand lookin' place, Frank. Wish I could work there one day.”

“Well, maybe you will. That garage you was talkin' about, that wouldn't be Mr. Blessey's garage, would it?”

She nodded. “That's the name. You know him?”

He shook his head. “Know of the garage, but not Mr. Blessey personal. It's over in Gerttown, I think.”

“That sounds right, but I never been over there.”

“You don't wanna go. It's rough.”

She ran her finger along the ridge of scar tissue on his jaw, but she didn't ask how it got there. “Thank you for that piece of advice, Frank. You're a real gentleman.”

She was a screwy little dame, but her innocence had somehow penetrated the callus over Easter Coupé's soul. He rolled over on his back, pulling her along until she lay atop his thick chest. They teased each other gently with their fingers and lips and teeth until she finally melded her body to his once again. Easter Coupé genuinely regretted that he'd have to leave soon. As they rolled and pumped and squeezed each other, he felt a strange, indefinable sadness.

***

Joey Parmalee remained at the kitchen table late into the night, opening and closing his switchblade knife. He finally got up and paced around the room, bored out of his skull. The crap on the radio made him sick. He looked at his jacket hanging from a chair, thinking of the bindle of cocaine in it. Johnny had told him to lay off of it.