Pale Shadow (7 page)

“They called him ‘Keys'. Said he could look at you for the first time and know what it'd take to unlock your heart and your wallet. His right handle was Wilbur Lee Payne. He was a hell of a smart kid. Claimed to have studied in some Negro college for a coupla years. Read books all the time.”

Marcel sat up straight, his hands flat on the bar. “What else do you remember about him?”

“Like I say, he was one hell of a smart kid. He had one a' them photographic memories. Once I let him look at a page of a magazine I was readin', and I'll be Goddamned if he didn't repeat it word-for-word without a single mistake.”

Fred swallowed a mouthful of gumbo and soda crackers. “'Pears we been askin' after the wrong man all day, Marcel. This Wilbur's liable to be layin' up on Rampart or runnin' a con out in Gentilly somewhere.”

Marcel rubbed the back of his neck. “Sounds like you knew this fellow pretty good, Ernie. What else do you remember about him?”

Le Doux squinted at the ceiling as he thought. “Kid was a talker, I remember that. Claimed his daddy was a white man and that he was born in Haiti. Told stories about travelin' by ship all over the Caribbean Sea, visitin' islands and such. Said he could cast voodoo spells, too.” Ernie turned his gaze back to them, smiling. “He kept his nose clean, though, and they let him out at the end of '27. Ain't heard a word about him since.”

“Marta said he worked in a pharmacy with her. That's a poor living for a guy as smart as you say he is.”

Ernie shrugged. “He mighta just been layin' low over there, makin' enough to keep a roof over his head while he figured out a new con.”

Fred shrugged. “Or he come here just to get away from Miss Marta.”

Marcel nodded. “He wouldn't be the first to pull that trick.”

“Who's this Marta y'all keep talkin' about?” Avery demanded.

Fred grinned. “She's this sweet young thing from Brownsville. She thought this Albert/Wilbur fella was gonna marry her, but he up and run off to New Orleans. Some good friend of Marcel's told her to come up and see him, that he'd work a miracle for her and find this fella.”

A booming laugh escaped Ernie Le Doux's massive chest. “Boy's a reg'lar social worker, by Jesus.” He laughed again, with everyone except Marcel joining in. He was already thinking ahead to the next step in the search.

“This is the first real lead we've had today, Ernie. It explains why nobody knows an Albert Chenier.”

Fred scraped the last of the gumbo from his bowl and put it into his mouth, then pushed the bowl and spoon away from him. “What now, boss?”

Marcel, who had been eating as he listened, pushed his own bowl away and blotted his lips on a paper napkin. “Go back to town, I guess. Thanks fellas, for the food and the information. The day's not a total loss, after all.”

Ernie held up his hand as he saw Marcel reach for his wallet. “The grub's on the house, li'l brutha. It's good seein' you boys again. Come on back and let us know what you find out. I wouldn't mind talkin' to ole Wilbur again. He was an entertainin' kid, even if I did think he was fulla shit most of the time.”

Fred let loose a guffaw as he and Marcel crawled off their stools and departed as small knots of people entered the honky-tonk to hear Charley Boy White sing the blues.

***

Marston Leake was still in his office at First National when the telephone rang. He picked up the receiver and heard the operator's voice.

“Mr. Leake, we've got your Atlanta party on the line.”

“Put him on,” the white-haired banker said.

“Hello, Marston. How are you, old timer?”

Leake's face betrayed no particular pleasure at the greeting. “I've had Treasury people crawling all over my bank, that's how I am.”

“I heard. It's the same here. They're like a nest of angry bees. The governors at Federal Reserve, too.”

Leake snorted. “Good. Anything that stirs up that pack of hide-bound old goats is music to my ears.”

“Still holding a grudge, eh, Marston?”

“Still. But that's not why I called. Do they know anything over there yet?”

“If they do,” the other man replied, “they're keeping it damn close to the vest. They'd behave that way whether they knew anything or not, as you well know.”

Leake grunted. “If there's any change, call me, day or night, you understand? We might have to move quickly.”

“You're the boss, Marston. See you.” The man hung up.

Leake placed his receiver carefully back in the cradle, then opened his desk drawer. He pushed a .380 Colt automatic aside in order to retrieve a small leather-bound notebook. He opened the book, made some quick notations, then put the notebook back. He took out the gun, placed it inside his jacket, then closed and locked the desk. He sat there thinking for a long moment before getting up and leaving the office for the day.

***

The woman called Jelly Wilde had lived several lifetimes in her thirty-one years. She had run away from home at the age of fourteen after she tired of fending off the unwanted advances of her brother and male cousins. By the time she ended up in New Orleans, she was five years older chronologically and about thirty in experience.

She'd embarked on a series of domestic jobs that had almost always included sleeping with the master of the house when the wife was away. The first had been a young-hearted fellow of forty who'd taught her every way to please a man that he could think of before his wife and sister caught them in the act one day. She got away with a couple hundred dollars and the realization that certain men would go to extraordinary lengths to have sex with a woman like her.

She went along that way for some time, doing well for herself until one day she allowed herself to be picked up by a good-looking, slick-talking young man who went by the name of Georgie Sam McGuire. Georgie Sam carried gold all over his body: stickpin, watch chain, cuff links, and even in his teeth. The overall impression was that of a man who knew where he was going and what he'd do when he got there.

Within a few weeks, she learned that all that glittered with Georgie Sam wasn't gold. His gold jewelry turned out to be mostly gold plated, and even the five-dollar gold piece on his watch chain was no more than a gold-plated “racketeer” nickel. Apparently the gold in his teeth was real, but that was as authentic as Georgie Sam got.

Worse yet, he was a drug addict. It was a rare night he didn't get tuned up on nose candy, and when he did, he was apt to do anything. She wanted to get away, but Georgie Sam had already gotten his hands on most of her money and spent it on heroin or cocaine.

Necessity is the mother of invention, and one day Georgie Sam hit upon a foolproof scheme to keep them in eating money and nose-candy. Jelly would go into a honky-tonk and look for someone in the advanced stages of a good time. She would then insinuate herself into this gentleman's good graces, and proceed to get him blind drunk. When he was drunk enough to be pliant, she'd coax him outside with the promise of fucking his eyeballs out in the back seat of his car. Of course, when the love-starved drunk got outside the tavern, Georgie Sam would be waiting with a sap, and down would go the unlucky suitor.

They did pretty well with this con, and gradually Jelly made back all of the money Georgie Sam had squandered, with a nice little profit on top. It was her first experience at outsmarting a veteran con artist, and it was a wisdom she came to value.

However, no good thing continues forever. One night, after hitting the cocaine a little too hard, Georgie Sam got heavy-handed and beat the mark's brains out. As the crestfallen Georgie Sam looked down at the corpse he had by the collar, Jelly ducked into the nearest alley. She made her way quickly to the railroad station and got a ticket on the first train out. It took her from Jacksonville to New Orleans, where she changed her name and began a new life.

As a light-skinned Negro, Jelly found she had an added value in New Orleans, where white men had been making mistresses of such women for over two hundred years. With the right clothes and a few of the right friends, she found herself much in demand among the well heeled. With the help of some of those same men, she invested the money and gained an independence that she used to further her ambitions.

She had met Luis Martinez toward the end of Prohibition, and was charmed by his cock-sure way. Altogether she must've spent almost two years with Luis, on and off, and she'd gotten to know him pretty well. He was smarter than most of the crooks he worked for, and he knew it. He was also smart enough not to give away just how smart he really was, and got far more of the take than any of his bosses intended.

He was independent, too, and she was yet young enough to be irked by it, not understanding that it was the other side of the cockiness that had attracted her in the first place. She left him after a quarrel one day, knowing she was in the wrong. When good sense finally overcame her pride, it was too late. Martinez had moved on.

Santiago Compasso had much that Luis had lacked. He had charm, manners, and knew how to dress. He was a capable lover, if not a particularly inspired one. But gradually she learned things about him that troubled her. He was an unacknowledged misogynist, and she had heard him use the words “nigger” and “
indio”
and other slurs when talking about people. Jelly sometimes wondered if he used that language to describe her when she wasn't around.

Why are you doing this? she asked herself. Why help a man you dislike to find a man you've missed for years? The only answer she could identify was pride. She wanted to show Compasso, and Martinez, too, that she had value, that she was capable of accomplishment. But a question remained. How could she do that without hurting Martinez? She already knew she didn't want that to happen.

She thought back over the time she had lived with Martinez, trying to remember the things he had said, the topics that had interested him. Her self-absorption had caused her to ignore him at times, but some things she remembered. There was a saying he had—“luck is where you find it, but I always look for mine down by the river.” What the hell did that mean?

Fishing. He had talked about fishing. Where did a person go to fish? She recollected seeing people fishing in the lagoons of Audubon and City Parks, but those were mostly old people, poor Negroes, and children. A man like Martinez would not be satisfied with such a sedentary occupation.

There was something else, now that she thought of it. Martinez had owned a rifle and a shotgun. What had he called them? They had the same name, and he spoke it like a man who understood such things. Web-something—no, not web. More like wind. And a man's name—Chris? Calvin? Chester. Yes, Wind-Chester. Winchester, that's it. She remembered the guns hanging from a rack under a pair of spreading antlers. He had often spoken of his life on the west Texas plains, and of the hunting and fishing he'd done there.

She drove to the street where Martinez had lived when she met him. It was a large house on Paris Avenue divided into three apartments. She hadn't been there in years, but she remembered the neighborhood well enough. It was largely residential, and perhaps somebody there would remember Martinez.

It took her three-quarters of an hour to reach the neighborhood, and to find the apartment house. She saw a man cutting the grass, so she pulled over and spoke to him.

“Pardon me, mister. Who owns that building yonder?” She pointed out the window, and the old man became immediately mesmerized by her long, golden arm and scarlet-tipped fingernails.

“Well,” he said finally. “Reckon that'd be me.” He had leaned over to get better look at the owner of the arm, and he was more mesmerized than ever.

“Did you own it when Mr. Martinez lived upstairs?”

The old man took off his sweat-stained fedora and wiped his shiny head with a tattered bandanna. “Well, let me think. This woulda been a few years back, right?”

“Right.”

“Yeah, I b'lieve I remember him. Mex fella, kinda broad through the chest and shoulders, right?”

“Uh, huh. Did he ever talk to you about huntin' and fishin', sir?”

“Oh, golly, miss, that'd take a better memory than I got.” He rubbed his neck, his face twisted with chagrin. It bothered him to disappoint such a fine looking female. Then he brightened. “Say, if he did, I'll bet he did some trade with Pelecano's hardware. It's two blocks down, then left, and three more blocks. Big white clapboard place. You can't miss it.”

She favored the old man with a smile. “Thanks, mister. I'm sure sorry if I troubled you.”

“Oh, miss. Please come back and trouble me any time,” he said fervently.

She waggled her fingers at him playfully and pulled away from the curb. When she looked back into the rearview mirror, the old man still stared wistfully after her.

Chapter 6

After Casey dropped him at the Café Tristesse, Farrell got in his car and drove Uptown on St. Charles Avenue. He turned on to Freret Street near the bend in the river and continued to Joliet Street. He discovered that the mission the priest had opened was in an old church that had been abandoned by a fundamentalist Negro sect some years before. Although the building showed definite signs of age, the yard was clean, the fence had a fresh coat of whitewash, and a sign over the doorway proclaimed that it was “St. Swithan's Mission for the Destitute.” Young children played on a set of swings while men and women of varying ages worked on the yard or were whitewashing the building.

Farrell parked his car near the entrance and went inside. He found a pair of young Negro girls in white dresses behind a hastily built information counter.

“How may we help you on this blessed day, sir?” the taller girl asked, her face wreathed in a beatific smile.

“I'm looking for Father Maldonar.”

“Yes, the Reverend Father is in his sanctuary. Anita will show you.”

The other young girl smiled, ducked under the counter, and led Farrell down the middle of the church to a door behind the altar. She knocked, then opened it and gestured for Farrell to enter.

Maldonar was sitting in his shirtsleeves at a battered oak desk that held a telephone, a blotter, and a few pencils. The irregular pale patches that Farrell had noticed on Maldonar's visit were apparent all the way up his arms, and down his neck. He sat under a sun lamp with a pair of sunglasses over his eyes. He started as Farrell entered.

“Sorry if I startled you, Father James,” Farrell said as he removed his hat. “The young ladies said it was all right for me to come in.”

Maldonar removed the sunglasses and turned awkwardly, his crippled leg dragging across the floor. “No, please don't apologize. I suffer from a condition known as vitiligo—it is another cross that God in his wisdom decided I must bear. I use the sunlamp to counteract the death of pigmentation in my skin.”

Farrell nodded. He had a faint recollection of reading a magazine story about the disease, but Maldonar was the first person he'd met who suffered from it.

As Maldonar buttoned up his clerical collar and put on his black jacket, he gestured to a vacant seat. When he was dressed, he picked up the leg with the brace and moved it to a more comfortable position. “Have you information about Señor Martinez?”

“Not yet, but I'm learning things that might help me find him. I hope to locate him in the next day or so. I couldn't help but wonder how long his mother has before—”

Maldonar waved a hand. “One never knows how long one has here on earth, but God is merciful. I believe he will grant Señora Martinez's wish before she is gathered to Him.”

“I hope you're right. I'm glad to see you putting some people to work, Father. The folks in this part of town are pretty hard up. I expect they're grateful to you and the Church.”

“One does what one can, Mr. Farrell. I've found some splendidly generous people here, like those two young ladies out front, to help me. We've also got a magnificent cook who's making chicken and dumplings right now for those in the neighborhood who don't get to eat regularly.”

“You've managed quite a bit here in a short time. How long have you been in the city, Father?”

“Oh, a month or two. But God was here before me. I only had to pick up the pieces and arrange them into a useful shape.” He looked at Farrell and a shrewd look came into his eyes. “I sense that you did not come for a social call. What have you learned about your friend?”

“Only that he's in trouble with a gangster. Two people have been killed by someone who obviously wanted to know where Martinez was.”

“Killed? You mean—murdered?”

Farrell nodded. “Uh, huh.”

“Jesu!”
The priest crossed himself, his eyes shocked.

Farrell studied the priest for a moment. “What do you know about Luis, Father?”

“Very little.” He paused for a moment to blot perspiration from his forehead. “I have never met him, or his mother, so it would be truthful to say practically nothing. Why do you ask?”

“It's time for some frankness. You ought to know that Martinez is a criminal, Father James. I know because I worked with him during Prohibition. Afterwards, I got lucky and got to walk a straighter path. Luis stayed in the life. Lately he's been involved in a counterfeit ring, and he's in trouble with the leader over something I haven't learned yet.”

“But you intend to keep looking.”

Farrell got up and put his hat on. “He was like an older brother to me once. Yeah, I'm going to keep looking. I'll be back with you soon, Father James.”

“Peace be with you, my son. I'll pray for your success.” He shook hands with Farrell, then watched as he left the room. When he was alone again, he took off his coat, unbuttoned his collar, and turned the sunlamp back on.

***

At his fish camp on the river, Luis Martinez changed into a pair of canvas trousers, a blue chambray work shirt, and a pair of work boots that laced up over his ankles. He strapped a holster containing his .38 around his shoulders, then put a light denim jacket on over it. Placing a battered gray fedora on his head, he picked up the sawed-off shotgun and went to the car.

Martinez stuck to back roads, entering New Orleans just north of City Park. After he passed through the park on Filmore, he drove north toward the lake and the amusement park at Pontchartrain Beach. The aromas of hot dogs and popcorn borne on a hot breeze released a flood of bittersweet memories that he ruthlessly pushed away.

He continued on Southline Drive, following it past the airport to Hayne Boulevard until he sighted a large airplane hangar about a mile distant. It had the name of a defunct regional airline painted on the roof, but, as Martinez was well aware, it now belonged to Santiago Compasso. It was also the hub of the counterfeiting gang, where the bills were printed, cut, and bundled for shipping.

He drove slowly around to the rear, finding three automobiles parked there—two Fords and an aging Jackson, its shiny brass radiator gleaming in the sun. He stopped short of them, leaving the motor of his car running. He picked up the shotgun, got out, and walked to the hangar doors. There was a smaller, man-sized door set into one of them. He went to it.

As he slipped inside, he heard the faint sound of a radio playing somewhere in the building. He saw light shining from a small interior office and moved stealthily toward it. He had nearly reached it when a sandy-haired man stepped suddenly from behind a stack of crates. It was Stevenson, the printing specialist from Atlanta. Stevenson stopped short, then snatched desperately at the butt of a revolver on his hip. Martinez let him free the gun before he squeezed the trigger. The shotgun blast swept Stevenson off his feet as the roar reverberated like summer thunder.

Martinez moved, knowing he had only a minute to get ready. He ducked behind another stack of crates, listening to the rattle of feet on concrete, the sound of men crying out in surprise. As they ran past him, he stepped from cover and fired twice at their backs. Both men staggered as a mist of blood flew from their contorted bodies.

Martinez racked the slide again, then stood there listening, holding his breath in order to hear. The ringing in his ears was fierce, and he trembled as he waited to see if a fourth man might jump from cover. When he heard nothing, he moved, checking the office, then the rest of the hangar. He kept the door to the outside in sight as best he could until he was satisfied he was alone.

He continued his search, tearing the lids off crates, cutting into bales with the blade of his knife. As Martinez had suspected, Compasso hadn't moved anything to another location, no doubt thinking Martinez lacked the gall to attack the counterfeiting headquarters in broad daylight. He found bags of bills, bound in phony bank bands, ready to be fed into the pipeline.

He went outside to his car, opening the trunk. He placed the shotgun inside, then removed two bottles of gasoline that he'd stuffed down inside a cardboard box full of paper. He took the bottles inside the hangar, where he lit the cloth wicks hanging from their necks. The first he threw into the office and the other into the printing press. The clash of breaking glass was swiftly followed by the whoosh of the gasoline catching fire. He didn't linger, turning on his heel and sprinting out. He was driving west before the smoke began to pour out of the half-open door. He was miles away when he heard the first siren.

He wanted to feel something. He'd just murdered three men, but he couldn't feel a thing. He thought about Linda being murdered, and he couldn't feel a thing.

***

Daggett was waiting in Casey's outer office when he returned from Gretna. Casey greeted him and led the Negro detective into his private office.

“You look tired, Daggett. Long night?”

“Yes, sir, but profitable. We found a man who's heard some things.”

“Tell it.”

“Looks like Martinez has been in with a racketeer named Compasso. He's not from around here, but we looked him up and found out he's a big operator last known to operate in Pensacola. Martinez is supposed to've helped him put together a mob, all from outside the state. The informant doesn't know what the mob's racket is, but it makes sense it's got to be the counterfeiting ring.”

“I agree. What else did you learn?”

“Martinez and Compasso have had some kind of falling out, about what, he didn't know. He believes Compasso brought in another outsider to track him down.”

“I've had some of Snedegar's men checking murder reports for the past few weeks. There's nothing else like the Blanc murder. Except for the one in Gretna last night.”

Daggett raised an eyebrow. “In Gretna? What happened?”

“Woman named Wisteria Mullins. She owned a joint over there called the Riverboat Lounge. Somebody knocked her manager unconscious, then went upstairs to her office. The M. O. is similar to the Blanc murder. She was stripped and tied to a chair. This time he used a knife on her. When he was finished torturing her he cut her jugular vein and let her bleed out.”

“Christ on the Cross,” Daggett exclaimed. “What's the connection between the two women?”

“Wisteria Mullins was Linda Blanc's first cousin. The killer probably thought she'd know where Martinez is.” Casey paused for a moment as he pushed a paper clip around on his blotter. “The murder occurred right after Wes Farrell was there to see her. He's looking for Luis Martinez, too.”

Daggett nodded. “What's his interest?”

“He didn't say, although he and Martinez have known each other since Prohibition.”

“Mr. Farrell's a good man, but I wish he didn't turn up on the edge of things quite so often. He's stickin' his neck way out this time.”

Casey gave a restrained grin. “The Compasso angle is a secret so far. I don't think the Treasury guys have made the connection yet. Which gives us something to work with. Paul Ewell wants a gang of counterfeiters, but we want a double murderer. Until I know more, we're gonna play our cards close to the vest.”

“What do you want us to do, Captain?”

“These two murders are Negro Squad cases, and we'll continue to treat them that way. Assign teams of men to watch Compasso's house round the clock. Maybe we'll get lucky and his pet killer will come to call.”

Daggett nodded. “Sounds like a plan. I'll get to it.”

“Pick some lucky men, Daggett. We need some luck.”

***

Marcel Aristide had put the word out about Wilbur Lee Payne to a dozen people he knew in the Negro underworld before going to bed the night before. When he woke up it was past 8:00.

He got up and put through a call to the Metro Hotel, and asked for Marta's room. She was still there when the phone rang.

“Yes?” she said a bit timidly.

“Marta? Miss Walker? It's Marcel Aristide.”

“Oh,” she said, relief evident in her voice. “Forgive me. I couldn't imagine who could be calling me. I don't know another soul here.”

“Well, I'm sorry if I upset you. I was wondering if you'd had breakfast yet.”

“Well—no, I haven't.”

“The Astoria Hotel not far from you has a swell restaurant. If I came by in about forty-five minutes, might you be ready?”

“Yes, of course. You're ever so kind, Mr. Aristide.”

“Call me Marcel. I'll see you in a little while.” Marcel hung up the phone, feeling the pleasant buzz of blood rushing through his veins.

When Marcel arrived to pick the young woman up, she was wearing a print sundress with a matching bolero jacket, and a small straw hat cocked to the side of her dark hair.

“Morning. You look great today,” Marcel said.

Marta's complexion deepened at his compliment, and she looked down a bit shyly. “Thank you. I'm glad you called. I'm starved.”

“Come on, then.” Marcel led her out to his car, and a few minutes later he pulled up outside the Astoria, giving his keys to the bellhop. He led her inside the most luxurious Negro hotel in the city. He spoke to several people as they passed through the lobby to the dining room. Soon they were seated next to a window.

“This is so nice,” she said, marveling at the draperies and table linen. “This won't be too expensive, will it?”

He smiled, and managed not to laugh. “No more than the law allows. Don't worry. Just enjoy the food.”

After the waiter took their orders for scrambled eggs and bacon, Marta found the courage to ask about her missing boyfriend.

“I know you're doing all you can, but have you heard anything at all about Albert? Please don't think I'm being a nuisance.” She stared across the table at him, her eyes luminous and full of questions.

Without thinking, he reached out and took one of her hands. “I've spoken to some people who recognized Albert's photo, Marta, but—”