The Axeman of Storyville (7 page)

A little later, a few members of Kid Ory's band came out and shared a marijuana cigarette. Manta watched them, fascinated. He could smell the sharp, earthy scent of their smoke, and tried to hold his breath. Reefer scared him a bit.

Another hour passed, the fat busboy came out again, alone this time. He lit his smoke and leaned against the brick wall.

The Axeman approached him quickly and without a sound. The busboy never saw him. With one sharp movement, Manta snapped the fat busboy's neck.

He put on the busboy's frock, steeled his nerves, and went inside.

Miles managed to break free of the councilman and his syncophantic cronies. He made a slow circuit of the club, easing past clusters of laughing, boisterous patrons and furiously dancing couples. He shook the occasional hand, smiled, played the part.

Near the kitchen entrance, a large busboy hustled past him, jarring his shoulder.

"Pardon me, sir, sorry," the busboy said, hurrying on into the crowded hall. Miles didn't get a good look at him. It wouldn't have mattered anyway—Violet did all the hiring for the kitchen staff, and Miles wouldn't have recognized most of them.

In the kitchen, he mentioned the rude busboy to his wife, but she was far too busy to do anything other than offer him a quick peck on the cheek.

"Let's give up the club," Miles said. "Let's move back to Wyoming."

"Get out of my kitchen, husband."

He shrugged and went back out to the hall. Kid Ory's band was doing a rambunctious version of "Tiger Rag" and the new, young horn player, Armstrong, was playing an amazingly inventive solo. Miles stood and watched as the patrons went crazy.

No one paid any attention to the killer when he ducked behind the stage. The one time he'd been at the club before, he'd seen Gideon Miles go that way, and then appear moments later at the balcony. The stairs were easy to spot. He headed up them.

The door at the top was locked. The killer twisted the knob, put his shoulder into it, but the door wouldn't budge. Sweat poured down his brow, and he felt several long seconds of anxiety.

Kid Ory's band blistered through "Tiger Rag," a song the killer knew very well. In another few seconds, the horn solo would end and the rest of the band would come tearing in. The song would be at its loudest and wildest.

He waited for it, and when the other instruments thundered to life, he kicked the door in. He could scarcely hear the crash of wood himself, standing right next to it.

The space where the Miles's lived was roomy and a little Spartan. There were pictures on the walls of horses and Western scenes. A solid oak Grandfather clock. Simple furniture. Lots of books. Manta noted with some disdain that there was no phonograph or even a radio. What the hell did these people do with their time? Read books, for God's sake?

He pulled a letter he'd written out of his pocket. It was already crumpled and limp with sweat. He put it on an end table, then worried that it would be overlooked somehow, so picked it up and put it on another end table.

He started to leave.

The noise from the club came in through the open balcony doors, and the killer couldn't resist. The band was too good, the new trumpet soloist was too amazing. He wanted to see. He wanted to see the tops of heads and the dancing whores and the gleaming sweat on the horn player's face.

He moved the heavy drapes aside, very slightly, and peeked through.

Miles happened to glance up at his balcony and saw the heavy red drapes flutter. He saw a shadow play across them and disappear.

He frowned. Aside from Violet and himself, Little Cat was the only one authorized to be upstairs in the living quarters. Miles knew Violet was still in the kitchen. Was Little Cat up there for some reason? He glanced around and spotted his young protégé near the bandstand, chatting up an attractive young woman.

Miles cursed himself for leaving the Colt up there, and hurried to the narrow staircase behind the stage.

When he reached the foot of the stairs, Manta came through the kicked-in door at the top. Their eyes locked and neither of them moved for a second that stretched out long. The noise of the band was deafening.

The Axeman roared and barreled down the steps.

Miles moved to meet him.

Halfway up, Miles dropped face-down on the steps, and Manta's shoe hit him in the shoulder. Manta lost his footing, grabbed uselessly for the handrail, then tumbled down the stairs.

Miles was on his feet in half a second, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. Manta lay at the bottom of the steps, eyes wide open with the breath knocked out of him. Miles hurried after him.

In the seconds it took Miles to reach him, Manta had recovered. He was pulling himself up by the bannister. From three steps above, Miles kicked him in the face.

Manta grunted, stumbled back. Miles pressed the small advantage, swinging a wide left at the killer's stunned face. The blow connected against the killer's nose, and Miles felt the satisfying snap of cartilage.

In Miles's experience, most men who'd taken a fist to the nose that hard would be down for the count. So he was surprised when Manta shook it off and threw a sloppy punch of his own. Miles sidestepped it but couldn't avoid the big man's bulk when he moved to tackle him.

They went stumbling back against the bannister, hard enough to snap it off, and Miles felt jagged wood dig into his spine. The killer had him around the torso, and Miles rained blows down on the big, round head.

Manta snapped his head up hard into Miles's chin. Stars glittered in Miles's vision. Then the killer had both huge hands around his throat, throttling.

Miles didn't attempt to pry the massive fingers from his throat. That would have been useless. Instead, he did something only slightly less useless, punching the madman in the face over and over, with both fists.

But Manta's grip didn't loosen, despite the cuts and bruises and blood all over his face. If anything it got tighter, and the stars in Miles's vision were starting to go dim.

Something moved behind Manta. Miles heard a faint
thud
, and the fingers around his throat loosened. He fell back into the stairs, saw Manta spinning around to face the new threat. It was Little Cat. He had something big and solid in his hands, swung it hard, and hit Manta in the face. The killer cried out in frustration and pain, clutching his face. He shoved past Cat and made for the hall.

"Stop him!" Miles croaked from the bottom of the steps.

Little Cat looked at him. "Stop him?" he said. "Mr. Miles, sir, did you see the size of that man?"

Despite everything that had just happened, the expression on Cat's face almost made Miles chuckle. He saw that the kid was holding one of the big, silver standing ashtrays that decorated the club. The heavy end of it was dented and smeared with blood.

Cat set the ashtray down and offered a hand to help Miles up. Miles braced himself for a moment against the part of the bannister that wasn't broken and struggled to get his breath back. His adrenaline was still pumping, but he suspected his old bones would register the pain soon enough.

"Cat," he said. "That makes the second time you've saved my ancient carcass."

Cat grinned. "I'm mighty useful to have around, I reckon."

"That you are."

"Was that ... was that who I think it was?"

Miles nodded. "I expect so." He glanced up at the kicked-in door to his living quarters. "Looks like Jimmy Manta the Axeman decided to drop in for a visit."

You can imagine my delight upon learning that you have deemed to pursue me. I consider it an honor. All of the Souls that burn with me in the deepest Regions of Hell now burn brighter with envy at my new station. You will, of course, fail. Not even a man of your considerable skills can lay hands on a Dark Spirit. But that is beside the point. You will try, won't you, and that alone pleases me.

You think me a monster, and you are right. But as you know, I love jazz. You might call it my weakness, but it is, in fact, a source of strength. I am a sporting type and so propose this to you:

On Saturday night, I intend to roam your earthly realm again. I will claim another prize. As is my wont, I will pass over the houses that are swinging it.

But there will be one with no music in her. She will be chosen to get the axe.

I await with much anticipation to witnessing your attempts to stop me.

Yours, from the Pit.

The letter felt greasy in Miles's fingers. He set it down on the end table where he'd found it and wiped his fingers on his trousers.

Violet sat on the sofa opposite him, hands crossed on her lap. Tears brimmed in her eyes and her lower lip trembled. She said, "He knows who you are."

"Yes."

"How?"

"I don't know. But it doesn't matter. I know who he is as well. And I know who he intends to go after."

"Fine," Violet said. "Then call the police. Tell them. Let them stop him."

Miles shook his head. "I made a deal with Matranga to leave the police out of it."

Violet said, with some bitterness, "You're making deals with gangsters now? There was a time, Gideon, when you never would have done something like that."

Miles clenched his jaw. "The world has changed, Violet. I play it the way I promised, and Matranga stays out of Storyville."

"Then call your gangster friends and let them deal with it!"

Miles stood up, his anger flaring. "Damnit, Violet, you're not being reasonable!"

Violet stood up as well to face him, her nose inches from his. "No, Gideon,
you're
not being reasonable. This man almost killed you! I know you're a strong and capable man, but you're 67 years old! You can't get around that. In your heart you're as strong as ever, but ... you're human, Gideon. You're the best man I've ever known, but you're a man. Just a man. And you don't have the sense to be scared."

Tears rolled down her face, and Miles felt a deep stab of guilt for causing her pain. She deserved better.

In a softer voice, he said, "Vi, baby ... you're wrong. I am scared. If I wasn't before, I am now. I promise you, I have no interest in dying just yet, and earlier tonight ... I thought for sure I was a goner. Yes, it scared me. It terrified me, but mostly because I never felt that ... helpless before."

"Gideon—"

"And that's why I have to finish this. I wish there was some way I could make you understand."

He gave her his handkerchief and she dabbed at her eyes. "I do understand, Gideon. I always have. But, you know, that never made it any easier."

He took her chin in his hand, looked her in the eyes, and thought that, after all these long, long years, she was still the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen.

"I'm sorry, Vi."

She said, "This isn't the Wild West, Gideon. And you don't have anything to prove anymore."

"I know that. I'm not trying to prove anything."

"Yes, you are. You're trying to prove something to yourself."

He started to deny the accusation, but stopped. It was uncomfortably close to the truth.

"Listen," he said. "I'll have Little Cat with me. And I'll be armed. I may not be as agile as I used to be, but I'm still damn good with a revolver."

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "When, exactly, was the last time you fired that Colt?"

He cleared his throat. "Not that long ago."

"I think it's been years."

"No, he said. "Not that long."

"Did you even shoot a gun when we were in France?"

He said, "Woman, you really are a big, old pain in my neck."

She smiled feebly. "Until the day we both die, husband."

He took her in his arms and held her for a long time.

Violet stayed close to him all day Saturday. They went out for a walk after lunch, but otherwise stayed in their living quarters, reading and talking. They didn't discuss what Miles would do that evening.

Mid-morning, he placed a telephone call to New York, and by early afternoon the operator rang back with the call. He talked with the party for a few minutes, asking some very specific questions, then rang off.

When it started getting dark, Miles put on a good suit, strapped on his old holster, slid the Colt into it. He put on a light overcoat that hid the rig from casual sight. Violet didn't cry or get angry. She kissed him and said, "Be safe."

Miles and Little Cat hired an auto and drove down to the District.

The clientele at Miss Tilly's place was exclusively white and didn't respond well to seeing two Negroes walk in. Miles found that the older he got, the more perverse pleasure he took from upsetting bigots. He wasn't proud of that, but he wasn't particularly ashamed, either.

Miss Tilly greeted them hurriedly, looking nervous. "Mr. Miles, Mr. Borre ... what on Earth brings you here this time of night?"

Miles said, "Is Celissa working?"

"Well, no," Miss Tilly said. "After all, you advised ... that is to say ..." Her wide face ran through a variety of shades of red. She looked over her shoulder at the clients lounging in the parlor, drinking whiskey, playing billiards, chatting up the scantily-clad whores. More than a few of them were distracted now, glaring at the colored interlopers on their debauchery.

"Is she in her room?"

"Yes. But, as I say, she's not working until ... I mean ..." She lowered her voice to an embarrassed whisper. "The doctor said it would take a couple of days until he knows if—"

"That's fine," Miles said. "Take us up there."

"But—"

Little Cat said, "Don't argue with the man, lady."

It was uncharacteristically rough for Cat, and Miss Tilly and Miles both looked at him. "
What?
" Cat said. "It's what you call an urgent situation, right?"

Miss Tilly laughed a shrill, false laugh and said, very loudly, "The problem is right upstairs, gentlemen, thank you for coming by so quickly," and proceeded to lead them to the second floor.