by Peter Watson
He looked at the man across the table. Emmett Villard was a sourpuss—he always looked as though he’d just had some bad news—but he was a fine detective. He wasn’t drinking or eating.
“Emmett, I asked you here because I have a special job for you and I don’t want anyone back at City Hall to know about it.”
Villard sniffed.
Martell laid his hand on a sheet of paper next to his plate. “This is a list of names, Italian names. All are men and all are wanted by the Italian government—all, without exception, have committed serious crimes. And all are here, living in America, on the run and using false names.”
The oysters arrived and Martell squeezed a little lemon juice on them. He picked up his fork.
“You remember that bombing the other week?”
Villard nodded.
“There’s a fight going on among the dagos in this town—Sicilian trash mainly—and it’s my guess that if some of the people on this list are hiding out here, now is a good time to go looking for them. If they’re fighting among themselves, that can work to our benefit—it should make information easier to come by. People will be less loyal to each other.”
He forked an oyster into his mouth and closed his eyes in pleasure. He swallowed and then wiped his lips with a napkin. Like the tablecloths around the restaurant the napkin was printed with a red check on it.
“I understand you speak Italian.”
Villard nodded. “My mother was Italian.”
“Good. I want you to go undercover. Live in the French Quarter as an Italian, invent a background for yourself, get a job in a bar maybe, but keep your eyes open and your ears tuned in to all the gossip. I want a weekly report. We’ll meet here—don’t come to City Hall. Is that clear?”
“Sure. But … why are you suddenly leaning on the dagos?”
Martell was eating another oyster. He finished chewing before speaking. “There’s an election soon. I hear the eyeties are backing Parker. If he wins, I’m out as chief of detectives. A scandal involving the dagos is just what we need.”
He picked up another oyster and slid it smoothly into his mouth. As he chewed he picked up the list of names and handed it across the table.
“Welcome back,” said Angelo Priola. “How was life on the Mississippi?”
Nino shrugged. “I don’t like boats, but if you have to go on one, then the Crescent City is the one for me.”
After a month in Memphis, Nino and Silvio were back in New Orleans. Angelo had judged it safe to bring them back and they were now living together on the lugger as if the fight between them had never happened—which, in reality, it never had. They had been called to a meeting at Angie’s house and had entered by the back door.
“That was a foxy plan,” Priola said, going to the bar and pouring the bourbons. “Was the fight your idea, Silvio?” The old man was learning that while Nino had the balls to blow people to pieces, it was Silvio who had the brains to concoct these diabolical operations.
Accepting his bourbon, Silvio nodded.
Priola gave him an appraising look. “Well, there’ll be no more trouble from the Cataldos, that’s certain. I expect you’ve heard that Alfredo was one of those killed?”
They both nodded.
“He didn’t infiltrate your teams, of course, the way the others did. But he couldn’t resist paying Silvio a visit. They were going to torture him”—he gestured to Silvio—“before killing him.” He shrugged. “So that’s both Cataldo brothers gone and the wharves are ours.” He looked across to Nogare. “Which is just as well, because things are changing in this town.”
He settled back in his seat. “There’s an election due about a year from now and I’m backing one of the candidates for mayor—Harrison Parker. If our side wins, certain things fall into place, which is why I want to give you three here the general outline of what’s in my head. Whoever is mayor of New Orleans heads the committee that selects the chief of police. If we can get the police on our side, we’ll be like the family in Palermo. Police protection for our wharves would make them safer. See what I mean?”
They all grunted agreement.
“The current mayor, James Milton, has an Irish chief of detectives, someone called David Martell. They both own a piece of a restaurant here, an oyster bar called the Red Lantern. My plan is to replace them with people more … accommodating to our interests. But political campaigns are expensive. So, over the next weeks and months, I need much bigger profits from the fruit wharves. You won’t have the Cataldos to contend with, but I still want some new ideas for those businesses.” He looked around at the other men in the room. His eye settled on Silvio. “You’re the idea man. Think of something.”
Sono barbone? Silvio thought. Am I a poodle now? All he said was, “I already know what I would do.”
Priola raised his eyebrows.
“You’ve got the wharves tied up, though you need more protection there. Where you can expand is in the bars and whorehouses. You need three shifts on the river, for loading and unloading. You also need an extra group of men—just to watch, to stop infiltration, and to check out anybody suspicious who is recruited. That makes four groups, or regimes.”
“Tell me about the bars.”
“You need a fifth group. We could operate it the way it works in Sicily, in the orange and almond groves. We let people operate their own outfits—bars, restaurants, grocery stores, whatever—but we receive a share of their turnover each week.”
“Just like that?”
Silvio smiled. “I’m sure one or two will need a little persuasion. But only one or two.”
They all looked at him.
“This has mote advantages than you think. We get to earn more through protection and we ‘ask’ the shops and the bars to buy goods from our wharves. Also, it gives us eyes and ears all over town. If people pay us for protection and anyone else gets out of line, we know about it pretty quick.”
Priola tried not to look impressed. “What’s in it for you?”
“You give Nino the docks, you give me the French Quarter. You’re still the Capo, Giovanni’s still your consigliere. Nino is sottocapo of four regimes, I’m the caporegime in the Quarter. People will soon learn that the Priola family is properly organized in New Orleans. Like a family in Sicily. We’re used to shifting fruit quickly. Our men take orders and move fast because otherwise the fruit rots. I’m saying we simply move that organization inland, to the Quarter. No one else is organized like us.”
Priola turned to Nogare. “Well?”
Nogare shrugged. “He’s right about protection. It works in Sicily. It could work here. But there’s a big difference.”
“Which is?”
“In Sicily, everybody is Sicilian. So far, in New Orleans, we have only moved among Sicilians. Which means the police are never involved. If we start the same rackets here, offering protection, we’re going to run up against the Irish, the Germans, the niggers, everybody. Gradually, the police will find out more and more about us.”
Priola looked at Silvio. “He has a point.”
“Yes, but this is America. We can’t just deal with Sicilians. Whoever they are—Poles, Swedish, Portuguese, French—if they think their store or workshop or bar will be torched, they won’t be that eager to go to the police. Think of the rewards. You’ll be able to buy the election, and the police will be on our side anyway.”
“Nino, what do you think?”
Nino drummed his fingertips on his lips. “I think people in this town are frightened of us right now. Those who know. Those who don’t know can be told. It’s a good time.”
Priola nodded. “I’d like to think about this. Silvio, as usual, has put his finger on something very clever. But Giovanni’s point needs considering, too.” He drained his glass. “That’s enough strategy for one night. This was supposed to be a welcome-home party—and I’ve got a surprise for you.” He smirked at them. “There’s a new batch of girls at Madge Leigh’s. Fresh flesh! Nothing like it, huh?”
They all drained their glasses and got up. In the hall, as they went out, Anna-Maria was walking by. She smiled at her father but gave Silvio a hard stare. Then she looked at his coat, lying on a chair. Silvio picked up his coat and put it on. He put his hands in his pockets and immediately felt a slip of paper. For the time being he left it where it was.
Nino and he left the house and got into the carriage that Priola had ordered. It was already dark, but when they reached Madge Leigh’s, about fifteen minutes later, he gave his coat to the check girl but kept the paper. Silvio could read well now, so he had no problem with Anna-Maria’s note. It said, “Tuesday, as usual. In the lugger.”
Angelo Priola had been right. Madge Leigh’s was stuffed with new girls, many of them quadroons. Silvio was intrigued. He liked fresh flesh, but he was also looking forward to seeing Madeleine again. It had been a month since he had been with her and he had yet to thank her for helping them fake the fight. Where was she? Was she upstairs with someone? Here was Madge Leigh herself now, working her way along the bar, chatting to her favorite customers. He would ask her.
Silvio ordered some wine and stood listening to the new band, named after its leader, the clarinetist Alphonse Picou. The music was slow and mellow.
Gradually Madge Leigh came toward him. Funny how no one ever shortened her name to Madge; she was always Madge Leigh—even, it was said, in bed. She was a small, birdlike woman with sharp features and a very precise manner. She was wearing a bright red dress, off the shoulder, and a necklace that he could only hope was made of glass and fake diamonds. If it were real it would surely be stolen from her before the end of the week. She needed protection, he thought idly.
“Welcome back, boys,” she whispered, smiling and offering her cheek to be kissed. “Ah’d heard yo’ were in town. No fireworks tonight, ah hope.”
Nino shook his head. “We’re here to try your new girls.”
“That’s mo’ like it. They real keen, an’ one or two of ’em are very young. Ah always keep yo’ in mind, Nino.” She grinned.
“I don’t see Madeleine,” said Silvio. “She upstairs?”
Madge Leigh’s face hardened. “Maddie’s gone, Silvio. She left mo’ than a week ago.”
“Gone? Why? Gone where?”
“Where, ah don’ know, ah’m sho’. As to why, well, ah only own twenny percent of the joint. Mr. Priola owns the bigger piece. An’, two weeks ago, he suddenly announces he’s changin’ all the girls. Good fer business, he said, though we was doin’ well enough, it seemed to me, an’ lots of people, like yo’ all, had their favorites. But no, all the girls had to be changed. Men like fresh blood, he said, though if yo’ ask me, that daughter of his had somethin’ to do with it.”
“Anna-Maria? Why you say that?”
“She ain’t hardly never come to the club, but she was here las’ week, makin’ all sorts of suggestions, for new decorations, new lights, new food—’n’ new women. Mr. Priola, as you mus’ know, dotes on her. He always does anythin’ she asks.”
Silvio was furious. His mind went back to their last afternoon on the lugger, when Anna-Maria had questioned him so closely about Madeleine. He had tried to be careful in his replies, not wanting to make Anna-Maria jealous, but he had obviously failed. As soon as he was out of the way, she had gotten rid of her rival.
He finished his wine and ordered another. His indignation mounted. He became determined that Anna-Maria would not have things all her own way. He would find Madeleine and reinstate her at Madge Leigh’s. The French Quarter wasn’t that big. Or else he would go someplace else to sleep with her if Madge Leigh would not agree to take her back. After all, Madeleine had played her part well in preparing for the fake argument with Nino. And that had led to the success of their plans with the Cataldos. He owed her a lot.
He drained his second glass and ordered a third. As he gulped at it he thought angrily of Anna-Maria. Come Tuesday, far from having sex on the lugger, there would be a fight to rival the one he’d had with Nino. Except this time it would be for real.
The corner of Orleans and Dauphine streets was dominated by a large flower shop. A big sign outside in gold letters read DONOVAN’S GARDEN. Silvio and Gaspero stepped inside. A man came toward them. He was thin, with a pale skin.
Silvio spoke first. “I’m looking for Mr. Donovan.”
“I’m Patrick Donovan.”
“Ah, good. Mr. Donovan, I represent certain business interests in New Orleans. A group of friends who hate all the bombings and knifings and garrotings that have been taking place in recent weeks have decided to do something about it.”
Donovan stared at them.
“The police have obviously not had much success at either stopping the violence or catching the criminals, otherwise what I am proposing wouldn’t be necessary. But we—my friends, that is—feel that we have the answer.”
“And what might that be?”
“An arrangement. A contract, if you like. My friends will guarantee peace, a quiet life in the area, complete safety for you to carry on your business in the normal way, and you—along with all the other businesses in the neighborhood—will pay a small proportion of your turnover for this service. Una tassa particolare, as we say in Sicily. A private tax. Nothing that will hurt, you understand. Just enough for my friends to be able to meet their overhead for offering this service. You understand?”
Donovan threw back his head. “I understand very well, you greasy dago. You’re offering a protection racket. Well, you can hurry back to whichever stone you crawled out from under, and go play with yourself. I’m not paying protection to you or any of your so-called friends—more slimy Sicilians, I’ll wager. This is a decent neighborhood and I’ve got a good business here, built with my own hands and with no help from wops like you. So get lost.” He shouted, “Do you hear? Go back to your own kind with all those other eels in the river.”
Silvio didn’t move. He just stood, staring at Donovan. Then, instead of leaving, he strolled around the shop, looking at the blooms, the dried flowers, the miniature trees. He stopped and looked down. “What’s this?”
“What does it look like? Ice.”
Four blocks of ice stood slowly melting in a shady spot.
“Why have these got flowers in them?”
“It’s the fashion. You wouldn’t know, I’ll be bound, but society hostesses put ice on their tables, in trays, to cool down their dinner parties. The flowers make the ice look pretty, and at the end of the evening the ladies can take away a fresh bloom as a gift. Not everyone eats with their fingers, like in Little Palermo.”
This Donovan was becoming tiresome.
“Think carefully about my offer of an arrangement, Mr. Donovan. You can always find me at Madge Leigh’s. I won’t come here again.”
“Make sure you don’t. Now go spread your slime someplace else!”
Again Silvio stood his ground. For a moment or two he and Donovan remained staring at each other. Sono anguilla? Silvio thought. Am I an eel? Eels wriggle. He wasn’t wriggling.
Silvio stooped down and picked up one of the ice blocks. It was heavy, but he managed to lift it above his head. Then he let it fall onto the stone floor. With a dull thud, it smashed into a thousand pieces.
“This better be good, Silvio. Mrs. Priola is jealous of Sundays. Only day she sees me, she says.”
“Nearly there,” replied Silvio. “Up Orleans to Rampart.” He led the way as Nino and Angelo followed. They had been lunching at a restaurant called the Court of Two Sisters, on Royal and Toulouse, so it wasn’t far.
As they approached Rampart, however, the normal street noises began to be overwhelmed by a regular rhythmic thumping and chanting. Farther north it got louder still, until, as they turned the corner, the beat drowned out all other sound. They stopped and stared.
“I’d heard about this,” breathed Angelo after a while. “But I ain’t never been. They’re all niggers.”
In front of them, in the square, hundreds of Negroes
were dancing. Dancing and chanting, dancing and slapping hand drums, dancing with their eyes closed. Some beat their hand drums with bones, others wore black top hats, battered and broken, still others had paint smeared on their faces. All were in a frenzy.
“Okay,” growled Angelo. “Okay. So this is voodoo, Congo Square on Sunday. I’d heard of it, now I’ve seen it. So? We ain’t niggers.”
In reply, Silvio pointed diagonally across the square. “She’s the reason we are here, Angie.”
They saw a woman, a black woman with long black hair, and a black dress with a white lace collar and cuffs. Her hands were held by women on her right and left as she swayed from side to side in time to the beat. Her huge eyes were closed.
“Widow Milan,” said Silvio. “The most powerful woman in the city.”
At this, Angelo turned to look at him. “How come?”
“She’s a voodoo queen. The voodoo queen, in fact. They say she even put a spell on her old man, and he disappeared.”
“So? What’s it to us? What do we want with niggers?” Nino had drunk a lot of wine at lunch and his belligerence was never very far from the surface.
“Let me ask you both a question,” said Silvio. “Do you believe in voodoo?”
Angelo couldn’t understand where this was heading. “I’m a Catholic, for Christ’s sake. I go to confession every Tuesday. Voodoo is for ignorant niggers.”
“Nino?”
Nino looked across the square. He didn’t appear as convinced as Angelo. All he said was, “I guess not.”
They both stared at Silvio.
“You call me the idea man,” he said to Angelo. “You said you wanted something foxy. Well, here’s an idea. The niggers are the biggest group in the city. Bigger than the Sicilians, bigger than the Portuguese or the Germans. Now the niggers are free, hundreds of them—thousands—are moving into the city. And the only thing that bothers them, gets to them, is voodoo.”
“What are you getting at?” Angelo’s tone had changed.
“The docks are expanding. We’re already taking on people who aren’t Sicilian. Blacks, quadroons, Creoles. Say we pay Widow Milan a little visit, have a talk with her.”