Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (31 page)

"She's
indisposed
?" he said. "A friend of mine named Joe Kimball is
indisposed,
too. Permanently. He's dead. Because he was helping me on this goddamn case."

She stared at him, swallowing, her face paling as her hands gripped the arms of her chair. He knew no one talked to her that way. He didn't care. She started stuttering, "I don't ... I..."

"Whoever murdered your father murdered Charles Kane and Joe Kimball," Valentin said in a calmer, though no less icy voice. "I'm pretty sure they want me dead, too. So I'd like to find out who's behind it and why it's happening. I want to talk to your mother."

"All right, then, I'll see if she'll speak to you," she said, though he could see she was troubled over it.

He placed the ring on the end table, on the doily that was under the tasseled lamp. Anne Marie wouldn't look at it or him.

He changed his tack. "I have something else to ask," he said in a quieter tone. "I'd like to look through any papers your father may have left behind."

She turned her head to meet his gaze. "What sort of papers?"

"Records. Having to do with his business. Did he keep anything here?"

She nodded, now looking a little dazed, as if trying to catch up. "In his ... his desk. In the study."

"I'd like to see them."

Anne Marie said, "When? Now?"

"Not now. I'll come back tomorrow. Unless you have an objection."

"An objection..." She was regarding him with her mouth slightly open.

From the doorway, Betsy came to the rescue. "Will you be around for lunch, then?" she asked.

Tom Anderson was surprised to find Alderman Badel seated at the table at the end of the bar.
His
table, the one he used for most of his business. It was all the more brazen a move because he had taken Anderson's choice of chairs, too, the one facing the door. It was akin to sitting in the King of Storyville's throne.

Whatever Badel's intentions, it dawned on him that he might have blundered when Anderson stopped halfway down the bar and rapped his knuckles on the polished surface. The crack echoed through the quiet room. The bartender who was setting up for the day quickly placed a short brandy before him. Anderson didn't say a word, but kept icy blue eyes on the alderman as he took a sip from the glass. He didn't move until the alderman flinched and got up from the chair with a small hiss of impatience. Badel swaggered to the bar and stood before the King of Storyville. Apparently, he still didn't understand what a gaffe he had committed for he, too, cracked a knuckle on the marble. The bartender looked at the proprietor, who took a moment before nodding slightly. A second glass of brandy appeared.

Badel took a healthy sip. "That's a decent vintage," he said, as if Anderson might have served the cheap stuff.

"What can I help you with, sir?" the King of Storyville asked him, the edge in his voice belying the cordial words.

"We've got a serious problem," Badel said.

"What would that be?" Anderson said, though he already had an idea.

"Not what,
who.
St. Cyr."

The King of Storyville flipped a hand. "He doesn't work for me any longer. I put him off the payroll."

Badel smiled tightly. "He's still your man, Tom."

"Not so much," Anderson said, bridling at the familiarity.

The alderman took another sip of brandy. "Well, one way or the other, he's still a problem." He glanced at the bartender, who was working a few feet away.

"Would you rather talk in my office?" Anderson offered.

"No," Badel said. "This will do fine."

Anderson understood. The last thing the alderman wanted to do was climb the steps to the second floor. It wasn't just the man's unwieldy bulk; it appeared that the glass in his hand wasn't the first he'd had that afternoon. He was halfway to drunk. Apparently, he'd needed extra fortitude for this mission.

Anderson caught the bartender's attention and raised an eyebrow. The young man, used to this gambit, dropped what he was doing and found some work to do farther down the bar.

"All right, then," Anderson said, turning back. "What is it?"

"You've got to get rid of him," Badel said.

"Of who? St. Cyr?" The alderman's answer was a shift of small eyes. "I told you, he's not working for me anymore."

Badel's mouth tightened into a grotesque excuse for a sneer of command. "I mean it. You have to get rid of him, Tom."

The King of Storyville stopped, then cocked his head like he hadn't heard right. His gaze settled on the alderman's fat, florid face. "Who sent you here?"

Badel drank some more of his brandy. His hand was clumsy and the glass clinked heavily on the bar. "Nobody sent me," he stated. "I've got ears. I hear what's going on. How people are talking. You want all this landing in your lap?"

"You better say it plain, Alderman."

Anderson loomed as if he was gaining substance by the second, and Badel started to quail. "I did my part. I'm not saying no more."

He drained off the rest of his brandy, pushed the glass aside, and started to move past. Tom Anderson grabbed hold of his lapel in one heavy hand. His grip was like iron and Badel froze. The King of Storyville's glare was fierce. "Tell the person who sent you he can come face me anytime he wants. You pass that on."

"I can't!" the alderman said, just shy of moaning. "I can't..."

The alderman drew away like he wanted to bolt, but Anderson held him fast. "You're in this deep, Badel," he said. "You're the one who started it. Even if you were just running an errand." He let go of the lapel with a small, rough shove. "I'd leave St. Cyr alone if I was you," he said. "He's not as polite as I am. And he's been having a bad time lately."

Badel walked a swaying circle for the door. Anderson fumed for a moment, sipping his brandy in angry little snaps. Then he put his glass down and crooked a finger. Beansoup, who had been lurking in the far corner of the room, hurried over.

"Go find St. Cyr." The King of Storyville's blue eyes were blazing with anger. "Get him over here, and I mean now."

Once the bartender had been directed to move away, Anderson and the alderman forgot about him, and he was able to linger just close enough to pick up a word or two of the heated exchange. He didn't know what it meant, only that it might be worth something. The bartender, whose name was Jakes, nurtured a lust for girls who were far too young for even the broad bounds of Storyville, and when he got caught about to corrupt such an adolescent, a police lieutenant made him a proposition. The entire matter would be dropped, and he would face neither the wrath of the law nor that of the girl's brothers, a far more dire fate. It would, in fact, not go beyond the walls of the interrogation room, provided that he never have anything to do with a girl that young again, and that he report back about goings-on at Anderson's Café.

Jakes balked. Jail was no treat; a beating at the hands of the girl's brothers would be worse. Getting caught spying and informing on Tom Anderson would mean the hospital, then jail. On the other hand, if Anderson learned about his crime with the girl, he'd be out of a job. He was in a rough pinch.

"It's up to you," the copper had said, breaking into his frantic thoughts. "You can do the police a service. Or we can turn you over to the family. We'll collect whatever's left of you when they're finished, and the next stop will be Parish Prison." Then he smiled.

A few minutes after the alderman had gone stumbling out the door and Anderson had settled back at his table, Jakes made an excuse about an errand and hurried out the door, across Basin Street, and downtown to the police precinct at Parish Prison. He stopped at the desk and sent a message that contained a particular word upstairs. Then he walked to Jackson Square and sat down on one of the benches. Within ten minutes, a familiar figure appeared. As usual, he was carrying a copy of the
Picayune.
He sat down on the other end of the bench and opened his newspaper.

"So," Lieutenant Picot said, careful to keep his tone casual, "what's new this day?"

Beansoup got the word from Frank Mangetta that the detective had probably gone off to Esplanade Ridge again, but that he might be back any minute. The kid skittered around the saloon and the grocery, then out on the street, clearly agitated that his errand for Tom Anderson was taking so long. He blew his harmonica out of sheer nerves.

He hurried back inside and asked to use the grocery telephone. A few moments later, he was whispering into the mouthpiece. When he came back into the saloon, he was all settled. He went to sit at the bar and drank the sarsaparilla Mangetta poured for him, glancing occasionally at the clock on the wall. He finished his soda, thanked the saloon keeper, and stepped out onto the banquette. A few minutes later Valentin appeared, as if the kid had known exactly when he was going to arrive.

Frank stepped to the window in time to see the two of them disappear around the corner of Iberville, heading for Basin Street.

That Beansoup was acting on behalf of Tom Anderson seemed to give him no end of delight. Valentin had to spend a moment pulling him down from his lofty perch so he could actually receive the message.

"You gotta hear this," he said. "You know that alderman named Badel?"

Valentin slowed his steps. "What about him?"

"He showed up at the Café a little while ago. He was drunk." Beansoup glanced around and lowered his voice. "He told Anderson he better get rid of you."

"Is that right? What did Mr. Anderson say?"

"He run him the fuck off." Beansoup snickered. "Told him he better get the hell off of you, too. I thought he was going to pick him up and throw him out the door!"

Valentin gave him a wry look, and Beansoup snapped back to business. "Anyway, Mr. Tom says you need to come by. And he said go round the back way. Don't let nobody see you."

The detective noticed how Beansoup was taking himself. It seemed that just a few days ago, he was a snot-nosed street Arab, running messages and errands for dimes and quarters. Now he was a player, on the fringes, but still on his way to becoming a rounder. Tom Anderson trusted him with important matters. On his own, he'd made himself that useful.

As if to punctuate that thought, the kid took the opportunity to switch to the subject of the third of the three witnesses that had come up on Ten Penny and John Benedict that night. The one who had seen the stranger in the duster.

"I went back to check on him," Beansoup said. "Got that butcher he works for to tell me where he lived at. A rooming house off Decatur Street. I went over there and the landlady said he moved out. Said something about going to Memphis, but she couldn't be sure. Could have been Mobile. He's gone."

"And we'll never find him," Valentin said. He mulled the information for another few moments, then went into his vest pocket for a coin.

Beansoup held up a hand. "I don't need none of that," he said. He winked and waved a hand in the air.

"Where are you off to?" Valentin asked.

"Go find Charley," he said. As he strode away, he pulled out his harmonica and began playing a reedy melody that trailed him down the narrow street.

Valentin pushed through the swinging doors of the kitchen and into the Café. Anderson was at his usual table, and he waved the detective into the opposite chair.

"You want a drink?"

"No, thanks," Valentin said.

"Well, then," Anderson said. "I had an interesting visit today. I'm going to guess you already know about it."

Valentin smiled. "The kid's getting better all the time."

"That fucking Badel," Anderson muttered. Valentin could see the anger flashing in his eyes. "He must be crazy, coming in here like that."

"Or too scared not to."

The King of Storyville nodded somberly. "You'll have to watch out," he warned. "I can't just fix this." "I understand."

"Those two fellows the other night were stupid. It won't be a couple of clowns like that the next time. Do you understand that?"

"I do," Valentin said.

Anderson gave the detective a long look. "Listen to me. You can't go after a man like Henry Harris, Valentin. It's just not possible. There are certain things you have to accept."

"And I can't just let it go, either," Valentin said. "He murdered Joe Kimball."

"He didn't do any such thing."

"He was behind it. He's guilty, Mr. Anderson."

"Everybody's guilty!" Anderson said, his voice rising. "It's the way of the world!"

"Joe Kimball wasn't guilty of anything," Valentin said stubbornly.

The King of Storyville sighed and sipped his drink. "It's not too late to stop it," he said.

"I don't want to stop it," Valentin said. "I want to finish it. And I will."

"Oh? And what if he decides to pick off someone else next? Maybe Beansoup. Maybe Justine."

"Or maybe he'll come after you," Valentin said.

Anderson almost smiled. "I'll have to keep an eye out."

"No," Valentin said with a slight shake of his head. "I'm the one they want. You and everyone else can stay out of the way."