by Lee Thomas
The bartender, Michael, poked his head in the office and said, “Remy is outside with our shipment. He wants to talk to you.”
Great, thought Hollis. What kind of nonsense was the thug going to be dishing out today?
“Fine,” Hollis said, pushing himself away from the desk.
Remy Long was a short, round man with a scarred face and eyes as blue as a summer sky, like two pristine ponds surrounded by a war-torn landscape. Though the acne scars covered more surface than the knife scars, the ragged, ugly lines running from Remy’s nose to his jaw, shining and broad like snail trails, did far more to destroy his appearance. He would have been an ugly man even without the horrible welts; with them, he appeared monstrous.
Hollis held out his hand and Remy shook it. Behind the gangster, two down-and-outs hoisted boxes from the back of Remy’s Ford and hauled them across the alley to Michael’s waiting hands.
“Got a break in the rain,” Remy said.
“Won’t last,” Hollis told him.
“I can see you’re shitting sunshine today,” Remy said. He removed a box of matches from his coat and a stub of cigar. Once he had it lit, he pointed the butt at Hollis. “Had to dip into your shipment this time around,” Remy said. “Some of our whiskey got hung up in Biloxi, and we’ve got to spread what we’ve got out.”
“Keep it all,” Hollis said. Relieved to have some good news. “We’re doing fine on stock.”
“You sure?” Remy asked. “Won’t be back for another week, you know.”
“Not a problem.”
“There’s still a delivery fee to consider.”
“Naturally,” Hollis said.
“Let’s go inside and have a drink. We can discuss it.”
The request was uncommon and put Hollis on edge. Remy was one of the few people associated with his business to whom he didn’t owe money, and the thug had made his distaste for Hollis and his club clear on more than one occasion. More times than not, he didn’t even accompany his men on deliveries to the club, and when he did he kept his ass parked in the car. So what was the sudden interest in a drink? In conversation?
Whatever the motivation for the uncharacteristic request, Hollis knew better than to speak up about it. Hollis instructed Michael to help Remy’s men haul the crates of liquor back to the man’s Ford. Then he took a bottle from behind the bar and led Remy Long down the L-shaped hall, past the sketches of performers that decorated the walls. The women and the boys in gowns had been caricatured by a local artist who had used to frequent Lady Victoria’s.
“All these cunts are men?” Remy asked, tapping his cigar against one of the frames and sending a shower of ash to the floor.
Hollis flinched at the disgusting comment but said, “Only about half.”
“I think I’d have to gut any guy that made my dick hard,” Remy replied.
Hollis chuckled dryly and pushed open the door to his office. Hollis couldn’t remember a single time they’d met that Remy hadn’t made some similarly offensive remark, as if the grotesque man thought himself alluring and needed to draw a line.
He retrieved glasses from his desk drawer and poured two fingers of whiskey into each of them.
“To your health,” Hollis said.
“Good enough,” the gangster replied. He took a slug of the whiskey and then puffed heavily on his cigar, creating a blue fog around his damaged face. “We got something to talk about.”
“Do we?” Hollis said.
“We’ve got a ruckus going on up in Chicago. Well, fuck, there’s always a ruckus going on up there. A bunch of shit-for-brains hotheads, if you ask me. I heard they had a street war, but it didn’t sound like much more than a girlie slap fight. It got shut down pretty fast, so now they’re just killing each other casual-like, same as always. But there’s been word that the guy who created that ruckus might be crawling around New Orleans.”
Hollis sipped from his glass. He shrugged, trying to mask his nervousness. “I don’t really have any connections to Chicago. You got a picture or something? You want me to keep an eye out for this guy?”
“I heard there was a wrestler involved. Didn’t you used to be in that game?”
“Yeah,” Hollis said. “Long time ago.”
“So maybe you know this guy.”
“Could be. You got a name?”
“He goes by Cardinal. They used to call him the Butcher. You still know people in that racket?”
“A few,” Hollis said.
“Well, if you hear anything, you give me a call. We might both find ourselves with a nice Christmas bonus.” Eyes still slit, Remy returned to puffing on his stogie and stared at Hollis intently through the fog.
“You don’t hear about those kinds of things down here,” Hollis said. “The killings, I mean. You read the papers, and you think every corner in Chicago must have a corpse on it.”
“Louisiana boys keep things quieter,” Remy said. “They’re discreet, and they got the Mississippi toilet out there to flush their shit away. A body hits that current and it’s like the guy never existed. If they got the time, they take a trip to the bayou to feed the gators. Chicago’s one big pissing match between the Irish and the Italians. They’re always making examples and sending messages, but down here, boys just want to get their business done and slide into something warm at the end of the day. Now before I forget, I’m gonna need that delivery charge.”
The gangster quoted his price, exorbitant of course, but still a relief compared to what a full shipment would have set him back. Hollis went to his safe and retrieved the cash, handed it to the ugly man, who counted it before sliding the bills into his jacket pocket. The conversation waned quickly after the transaction was completed. Neither man was particularly interested in the other’s opinions about politics or picture shows, and they’d already discussed the weather. Remy emptied his glass for the third time and then clamped the cigar between his teeth. He stood from the chair, wobbled a bit, and then slapped on his hat.
“You hear anything about Cardinal and you give me a call,” Remy said, before making his exit.
Hollis assured the scarred man he would, and then he showed him out. Back in his chair, he poured another drink. Remy had backed him to the edge of a cliff on that one, but he’d kept from falling off. He picked up the phone and called to warn Butch, but the bell just rang and rang. Butch was out searching for answers, trying to get the skinny on his necklace.
Today might be the day he finally got his answers. If so, Butch could leave at any time. Hollis closed his eyes and fought the sad ache in his gut. What had been inevitable was now imminent, and Hollis found he wasn’t ready for it. He didn’t want Butch to leave. Or more accurately, he didn’t want Butch out of his life.
• • •
After completing the delivery at the sissy’s bar, Remy Long drove through the Central Business District and then followed Tchoupitoulas Street into the Irish Channel. The warehouse rolled up on his left and he raced the Ford through the open gate. The brakes squealed to a stop in front of the door to the building’s business office. Remy climbed out. He surveyed the sky, and wondered when the next big wet would start. A few minutes? An hour? Whatever the case, the shit would be coming down hard by nightfall. That was good. Thunder and a good rain could cover a multitude of sins, including shouting and gunfire.
He walked into a gloomy corridor. Half a dozen doors opened onto it. Remy went to the last door on the left and bustled in, already removing his hat and shrugging the raincoat from his shoulders. Colin Welch, one of his longest standing buddies, sat in a chair by the door. He nodded when Remy entered. In the chair at the center of the room, sat a blond kid with a smooth face and big arms. This Lowery kid, Lionel Lowery, had tracked Remy down, spouting some shit about knowing where Butch Cardinal was holed up. How the kid knew Cardinal had a price on his head was beyond Remy. He’d only gotten word from Chicago the day before, but Lowery seemed to have hit the mark. Rossington had acted cool as a dead fish, but his color gav
e him away. He’d gone pale after Remy dropped Cardinal’s name. A guy could control a lot of things in a conversation, but he couldn’t force the color to stay in his cheeks.
“I was right, wasn’t I?” Lowery asked, leaping from the chair.
“Sit your ass down, snowflake,” Remy said. He crossed to the corner and draped his coat over a hook in the wall. His hat went on its neighbor. “But yeah, it looks like you called it.” He turned to Colin by the door and asked, “We know where Rossington lives?”
Colin nodded and patted his chest. “All written down. It’s in the Quarter. Easy to find.”
“You done good, kid,” Remy said.
Lowery smiled. The kid was already counting his money, already laying it out for the things he considered precious. “Told you, pal,” he said to Colin Welch.
Remy pulled his Smith & Wesson from its holster and put a bullet behind Lionel Lowery’s ear. The kid toppled over and hit the concrete with a thwack. “Fucking faggot,” Remy said, shaking his head. He replaced the gun in its holster and retrieved a silver cigarette case from his pocket. After lighting up, he kicked Lowery’s foot. “Get a couple of the boys to drive this punk to the swamp. Then have them meet you at Rossington’s. Impelliteri wants Cardinal alive. If you can blow out his kneecap and keep him breathing, fine. If not, sometimes shit fucks up. We’ll still get paid.”
Colin nodded and stood from his chair. “What if he’s not alone?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions, Col. Just bring me the wrestler.”
Chapter 38
The Galenus Rose
For the third afternoon in a row, Butch stood on Dauphine Marcoux’s porch, knocking on the door. The woman he had met the previous afternoon sat in a rocking chair on her own porch across the way. Butch waved to the woman, who stood from her rocker, bent forward as if staring off into a great distance, and then, apparently recognizing him, she waved back before returning to her chair.
The door to the Marcoux home opened and the plump Asian woman stuck her face in the gap. Another cigarette burned between her lips. It took her a moment to recognize Butch from his earlier visit, but when she did, her put-upon expression brightened into one of interest.
“It’s you,” she said, sounding surprised. Again, Butch found her accent, that Brooklyn growl, surprising. “I figured you’d sober up and we’d never see you again.”
“I wasn’t drunk, and I’m here now, so may I please see Mrs. Marcoux?”
“Your appointment was days ago, and we’ve just returned from a trip.”
Butch didn’t consider a drive from Baton Rouge a particularly taxing journey, but he kept quiet. “I understand, and I’m sorry, but it is very important that I speak with Mrs. Marcoux.”
The door closed in his face. Butch punched his thigh in frustration, wondering what was so god damn important about Mrs. Dauphine Marcoux that every moment of her life had to be scheduled. He just needed five minutes of her time, unless she decided to open him up in the way Keane had attempted.
When the door opened again, the Asian woman had put out her cigarette. She eyed him, doing nothing to mask the fact she found his existence an annoyance.
“Come in,” she said. “Mrs. Marcoux will see you.”
She stepped back and pulled the door with her, revealing a narrow hall ahead. Off to Butch’s left stood a magnificent living room, lit by numerous electric wall fixtures and an ornate crystal chandelier. The walls above the chair rail wore a pale yellow paint. Below the rail, the walls were stark white.
“Wipe your feet on the mat,” she said. “My name is Sadie. I am Mrs. Marcoux’s secretary, her ambassador to the outside world.”
Sadie held the door, looking at him expectantly. She was waiting for him to introduce himself. He fumbled for a moment and then said, “I’m William Cardinal.”
With a dip of her head, Sadie stepped aside and Butch walked over the threshold. He closed his umbrella and dropped it into an empty stand beside the door. Sadie closed the door muffling the roar of the marching rain.
“This way,” she said, leading him through the opulent living room.
Crystal vases, porcelain knickknacks, tiny metal sculptures, and framed photographs crowded the flat surfaces. Butch had trouble identifying the scents in the room. There were the obvious odors of cigarette smoke and wood polish, but beneath these a rich perfume of spices and paraffin and a scent that reminded Butch of blood flavored the air. Sadie led Butch through a doorway and into a chamber with far less ornamentation.
The study was dimmer than the living room, and the single table at the center of the room was bare, except for a small rectangular box that had been fashioned of old, splintering boards. The furnishings were spartan. Besides the table, there were a single chaise lounge and a short, narrow stool with a single spindle running up the back as a rest. To his left, the wall was ornamented with a dozen photographs in golden frames. The images drew him and he stepped closer to see the faces of men and women propped at tables or in armchairs or in coffins. They all wore their Sunday best: men in suits; women in frilly dresses, their hair swept back and pinned up. They were all dead, Butch knew. He’d heard about the practice of photographing the dead, capturing a final expression for grief-stricken loved ones to paste in an album, but he’d never known anyone who’d made a habit of collecting such images.
He reached out and grasped the corner of a photograph. In it, a little girl with black hair and a pale ribbon tied in a neat bow above her brow sat at a toy table set for tea. Unlike the other photographs, this little girl’s eyes were partially opened. They reflected the glare of the photographer’s flash, which had erased the irises, the pupils. Between the silken lashes, there was nothing but white, and Butch felt his skin shrivel at the sight.
“Will you take a seat, Mr. Cardinal?”
Butch turned away from the photograph. He assumed the chaise was for the lady of the house, so he squatted down on the odd little stool, which proved to be even less comfortable than it had appeared.
“And why have you come to see Mrs. Marcoux?” Sadie asked.
“Is she here?”
“You speak with me first. If I feel your inquiry is worthy, she will see you.”
“Yeah,” Butch said. He told her about the necklace in vague terms, said he needed to know what it was.
Sadie nodded. She lit another cigarette and held it between her lips. The smoke wafted around her round face. With stubby fingers she withdrew the cigarette, turned her head and spit a flake of tobacco on the floor. “I’d imagine a jeweler would be more helpful in this matter than my employer.”
“I thought so too, but I was told that this wasn’t a normal piece of jewelry. A friend thought Dau…thought Mrs. Marcoux would know more about such things.”
“I see,” Sadie said. “And who sent you here?”
“Andersen Seward.”
After hearing the name, Sadie nodded her head with approval. “A good friend to have,” she said. “And not one to waste Mrs. Marcoux’s time. One moment.”
Sadie exited, leaving Butch alone in the parlor. He didn’t like this room, hated it, in fact. The place was a tribute to death. He felt the photographs on the wall behind him. Their presence unnerved him as if the dead themselves and not just their images had been pinned to the wall.
Mrs. Marcoux appeared in the doorway and the sight of her surprised him. He hadn’t expected her to be black. Her coffee-with-cream skin was tight and shone as if recently scrubbed, and she was much younger than he would have expected.
But more to the point, Butch had never seen a woman this beautiful in his life. None of the arena dolls or mob molls even came close. Her skin appeared free of make-up and her hair was slicked back, drawing away from her high, narrow cheekbones to arc over her petite ears. A white dress clung to her curves like a second skin from shoulder to ankle, hugging her hips and her breasts. She held the kind of beauty men fought over; the kind they died over. From reflex he stood and folded his hands in front of him.
“If you’ll take a seat, Mr. Cardinal,” Mrs. Marcoux said. She crossed to the chaise and stood behind it, one hand placed delicately on the raised back of the furnishing. “Andersen is a dear friend. If he sent you here, I imagine the reason is quite sound. Now then, you have an item?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“I’d like to see it now.”
Butch fumbled for the bauble. It came free in his hand and Mrs. Marcoux’s eyes grew wide. She smiled and knelt down so that her face was even with his.
“The Galenus Rose,” she whispered in deference. “Where did you find this?”
The Rose. The Galenus Rose. Finally, he had a name for the piece, and the expression on Mrs. Marcoux’s face clearly showed she knew a great deal about it.
“It was given to me,” he said.
“May I touch it?”
“Yes.”
Her long fingers wrapped around the Rose and stroked its metal surface. She closed her eyes as she petted it, cooed a soft sound, rubbed the charm with a thumb, bit her lower lip. When she opened her eyes she appeared disappointed. She frowned and released the necklace.
“It doesn’t breathe for me,” she said.
He remembered a similar comment from Keane, something about his knife not dancing for him. And though he knew that the knife was uncommon, had felt a union with the handle and the blade, he still didn’t understand what either comment had meant.
“Can you tell me what it’s supposed to do?”
Dauphine raised herself from the floor. She moved sinuously like an ascending pillar of smoke. Her body seemed unrestricted by muscle and bone. Only the lowest hem of the white dressed rippled; the rest of the fabric followed the movement of her body.
“Does it breathe for you?” she asked.