He put on a spurt until he felt himself out of range of the revolver, then hunted for a call box. It took several calls and most of his small change to track down Leon Greco.
When he finally got through, his boss sounded exasperated.
‘What the hell’s Wash up to, guarding a creep like Roach?’ And, you — are you scared of him or something? What do you think I pay you for? Have I got to do everything myself?’
Turk said, in a small squeaky voice, ‘He’s got a gun, Mr. Greco.’
‘So what?’ Greco sighed into the mouthpiece. ‘Okay, I’ll send Kenny to take his gun away if it bothers you that much. Then you take that goddamn Roach apart, limb from limb, and make sure it hurts. The nerve of that crumb, hiring one of my men to look out for him. Treat him rough — I’ll put someone else in to run the business.’
Chapter Seven – Rip-Off
Fred Cave sat in his Plymouth, which was parked just off Bourbon, looking along the street. His wrinkled face wore a sour smile as he wondered how Diamond was making out between Roach and Turk. Maybe something would come of it, maybe not; he could only wait and see. Cave had a lot of patience when it came to getting at Leon Greco.
It was early evening and, over one doorway, a sign in winking neon attracted his attention:
PEEP SHOW
Live Models!
He watched men enter and leave; it was a new place just opened and he suspected that Greco might have an interest in it. He left his car and strolled along to the doorway. A notice proclaimed:
One Price
Five dollars — five minutes
He went inside and saw a row of peepholes and men of all shapes and ages staring through them. Just inside the door, the manager was taking money. He was thin with a gold tooth and pimples.
He took one look at Cave and smelt cop. ‘Free to you, Officer. Enjoy.’ He waved a hand towards a vacant slot.
Cave crossed to the glassed slit and peered through. The back room was lighted by a shaded red lamp to simulate the warmth and privacy of a bedroom. There were three young girls on view; one naked on the wide bed. They shot sly glances at the peepholes and giggled amongst themselves and looked more scared than provocative.
Cave turned back to the manager. ‘How old are those girls, for Christ’s sake?’
‘Old enough.’
‘College girls, if that,’ Cave said, disgusted. ‘School kids! I’m busting you right now. Turn everyone out and lock up.’
The manager stared at him, then put his hand in his pocket. ‘Two hundred bucks, okay?’
Cave looked coldly at him. ‘You can tell Greco there’s one cop who won’t take his money. Now shut down — and see those kids get home all right.’
*
After Turk had left the video factory, Roach came out, laughing and stroking his moustache. Diamond decided he looked more than ever like Fu Manchu.
‘You handled that just right,’ he said, and then became serious. ‘I’ll be staying late tonight — I’ve got some stuff to sort out that I’m expecting transport to pick up. It’ll be okay if you just stick around the yard.’
Diamond nodded, wondering why Roach seemed unperturbed; he must have heard Turk’s threat to return. And this time, he might well have reinforcements.
‘I’ll watch the yard entrance — it’s not likely that anyone will show till after dark now.’
Roach went back inside, took off his jacket and turned on the lights, including the yard light. It was quiet with everyone else gone; only the two of them were left on the factory site.
Diamond pulled up a chair and rested easy, watching shadows gather in the twilight. River sounds came to him as he sat just inside the doorway, near the time-clock, looking out. Behind him he could hear Roach whistling an oldie from Oklahoma as he worked; there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with his nerves. Mechanical noises echoed in the stillness, and it sounded as though he were dismantling some equipment.
The time-clock ticked loudly in Diamond’s ear. It began to seem that the biggest part of an investigator job was just waiting around. Like the army, he thought; a brief spell of action and then more waiting around until the next bout of action. He smiled at the thought.
Maybe if he’d spent more time with the brass band and less with the basketball team at his A and M University, he’d have made the grade as a jazz musician. And maybe not . . . he’d wasted too much time on manual jobs — truck-driving to road-making, building his muscles before he volunteered for the army to get away from the South.
The whine of a car engine sliced through the night. It was coming nearer; headlights threw a beam across the gate and went out. The dark shape of a car turned into the yard, reversed, and parked facing outwards. The engine switched off.
Two figures emerged; one a great hulking shadow that had to be Turk. The other tall and thin; Kenny, Diamond guessed.
He rose from the chair and called into the factory: ‘They’re here — get under cover.’
Turk and Kenny moved quickly towards the door and, suddenly, there was a gun in Kenny’s hand.
‘Stand still, spade, while Turk here has a little chat with your client.’
Diamond watched Kenny’s gun hand, working out angles of fire. Turk came directly towards him, grinning; he had to pass close to get through the door to reach Roach inside the factory building.
Turk put out a big hand to push him aside, confident he had nothing to fear while Kenny covered him. Diamond grabbed hold of his arm and jerked him forward, off balance, and turned him around. He held Turk tightly in front of his body, using him as a shield, staring into the muzzle of Kenny’s gun.
Kenny snapped off a shot that missed by a hair’s breadth and ricocheted off the doorframe into the factory. Turk screamed, ‘Don’t shoot, Kenny — for Christ’s sake, don’t shoot!’
Diamond held Turk in a stranglehold, watching Kenny creep forward and sideways, looking for a clear shot at him. He waited till the lanky gunman got to within a few yards, then braced himself and catapulted Turk forward with every ounce of muscle he possessed.
Kenny tried to dodge but was far too slow. Turk cannoned into him, knocking the gun from his hand. Kenny went down on his back, swearing, with Turk’s heavy body sprawled on top of him.
Diamond stepped forward, drawing his revolver.
Kenny wriggled out from under the big enforcer, his hand darting along the ground, groping for his gun.
‘Leave it!’
Kenny looked up at Diamond’s face and stopped trying. His expression contorted with viciousness, and Diamond didn’t doubt that if he’d had his gun he would use it with intent to kill.
Turk rose unsteadily, reeling like a drunk, half-stunned.
‘Now get going,’ Diamond said, revolver steady in his hand. ‘And forget about coming back.’
Kenny scrambled to his feet. ‘Mr. Greco will nail you for this, spade. You’ve really got it coming to you.’
‘Move out!’
Kenny and Turk turned away and walked towards their car. Diamond stepped inside the doorway, watching them closely. The car took off in a hurry with Kenny handling it like a racing driver, changing down and accelerating. It hurtled through the open gate out of the yard.
Diamond waited, listening to the sound of the engine fade away, then he scooped up Kenny’s gun and went inside, calling: ‘Roach? All clear — they’ve left.’
His voice echoed hollowly in the barn of a factory. There was no answer. Maybe Roach had got scared and skipped out the back way. Diamond walked down the aisle between plastic-topped benches, noting absently that things looked different; some pieces of equipment had gone.
He called again and still there was no answer except the echo of his own voice, and no sign of Roach. Then he heard an engine start up beyond the loading bay and quickened his step.
He reached the rear loading door, half-open in its slide-grooves, in time to see a van accelerate away. As it turned, he caught a glimpse of the driver in the light of the moon; he wa
s almost sure it was Roach.
The van was a plain one and its rear number plate was obscured by mud.
Diamond retraced his way through the factory, looking at the workbenches with a keen eye. Exactly what was different? He saw that Roach hadn’t bothered with any of the copies, but the master tapes and all the video machines were gone.
He laughed aloud in the empty shed and the sound echoed. Greco was due for an unpleasant surprise when he learnt that Roach had skipped with his equipment. The Fox had been out-foxed this time.
Diamond left by the front gate, whistling Tiger Rag, and started to walk back to his office and bed.
*
Detective Cave pushed back his Panama hat and lit a cigarette as he perched on one corner of Diamond’s desk. Morning sunlight came through the open window and illuminating his face so that the wrinkles looked as though they had been etched in black ink.
He listened, smiling as Diamond related the events of the previous evening, his gaze not moving from the private investigator’s chocolate face. When Diamond finished he burst out laughing.
‘That’s the only laugh I’ve had in a long time. Yeah, I like it. Greco pays Roach, who pays you — with Greco’s own money — to protect him from Greco. You get the jump on his gunsel and enforcer and send ’em crawling home. Then Roach scoots off with the Fox’s porno set-up, to start an operation of his own someplace. But not in New Orleans, that’s all I care about. Well, every little helps in the fight against organised crime. You reckon we should team up as a double act?’
His harsh laughter turned into a fit of coughing and he stubbed out his cigarette and tossed the butt through the open window.
Diamond opened his desk drawer and took out a gun, holding it by the barrel as he handed it to the detective. ‘Kenny dropped this.’
‘I just bet he did.’
Cave removed the cartridges and slipped the gun into his pocket. ‘I’ll take charge of it.’ Still smiling, he adjusted his Panama. ‘Watch yourself, pal — Greco could be hopping mad.’
He paused in the doorway.
‘I’ll have to see if I can’t push another client your way.’
Then his shoes clattered down the stairs.
Chapter Eight – Snake Dancer
The grey Ford edged forward a few yards, stopped, edged forward again, creeping through the mid-day traffic. Kenny babbled lasciviously to himself at the wheel.
Leon Greco, immaculate in a grey suit recently dry-cleaned, sat in the back and looked out at the cars jamming Royal Street. New Orleans was a convention center and that suited him very well at the moment.
The Ford stopped again and Greco became aware that Kenny was watching him in the rearview mirror. The gunman’s face looked as sharp as a hatchet, his lips tight — pressed into a vicious line. He knew what the trouble was: Kenny had lost one of his precious guns.
‘You ought to let me kill Diamond.’
‘No.’ Greco raised his voice, almost explosively. ‘Leave him alone — that’s an order. What is he, after all? A two-bit private eye. I should waste my time on such garbage.’
He remembered the phone call from the factory that morning: Roach had skipped, taking the videos and masters with him. It was a fleabite, nothing. Roach would have had more sense than to stay in Louisiana. Well, good riddance to bad rubbish.
‘You drive the car, Kenny, and protect me and that’s all. If I want a hit done, I’ll bring in somebody from out of town.’
Kenny didn’t reply immediately, concentrating on pushing the Ford forward a few more yards. When they stopped, he said sullenly, ‘Then let Turk have him. He’s sore too.’
‘Maybe I should hire Wash back? He takes your gun away and beats up Turk — what are you, a couple of amateurs?’ Greco made a small sigh. ‘Anyway, I’ll need Turk for another job soon.’
The car gained some more yards and braked.
‘I just don’t know what’s got into you, Mr. Greco,’ Kenny said finally. ‘You’ve changed. You don’t seem to care that Roach ripped you off, or anything else these days.’
And that’s the truth, Greco thought, and smiled. He had more important things on his mind, like the contacts he was making to get Madden’s team together. Like his future. He wasn’t interested in the rackets any more. He was just going through the motions and waiting . . .
*
Diamond and Chelsea had lunch together in a small restaurant in the French Quarter, platters of bar-b-que ribs in sauce with bread and whipped butter followed by ice cream. He was in a good mood and, as they made their way back through Jackson Square, past the artists showing their work, he thought it would be nice to have a portrait of Chelsea for his temporary home.
He paused looking at some of the sketches on view, hung on iron railings.
‘A quick sketch sir? Only takes ten minutes.’
The artist was a wizened little man wearing smock and beret.
‘Yeah,’ Diamond said. ‘My girlfriend. Charcoal.’
‘If you’ll sit here, Miss?’
Chelsea was startled. ‘What is this, Wash?’
He grinned. ‘Just a notion I have. Maybe one day you’ll be famous . . . and my sketch will be worth something.’
Chelsea put out her tongue, but sat down. No one had ever wanted a portrait of her before and she had a warm feeling for Wash for thinking of it.
Diamond watched the artist limn in her features with a few sure strokes of charcoal. She seemed to come alive on the buff paper; the sun catching her love of life, the dazzling smile, her dark beauty.
‘That’s great, man!’
‘My pleasure, sir,’ the artist said as Diamond paid him.
Then they walked slowly back to the office through narrow streets, beneath the iron-grille balconies of old houses. The muggy air smelt strongly of magnolia blossom.
They reached the Coin-op shop and climbed the stairs to find a client waiting. Middle-aged and dapper, he perched on the edge of the visitor’s chair, hands clasped over a silver-topped cane. He wore a white suit, longish grey hair brushed straight back and a worried expression.
Diamond slid into his swivel seat behind the desk while Chelsea went into the back room and closed the door.
‘What can I do for you?’
This client was white and obviously a tourist; judging by the quality of his suit, a man with money and something of an aristocratic air.
‘My name is Leland and I want you to find my daughter.’ He produced a colour photograph from his pocket and passed it across the desk.
Diamond saw a studio portrait of a young girl with fair hair and freckles. He decided she had the pugnacious look of a natural rebel.
Leland confirmed his impression with his next words. ‘Ella has always been something of a problem — now she’s just plain wild. She dropped out of college, and that’s a pity because she’s bright.’
He tapped at the floor with his cane as if he regretted not using it on his daughter when she was younger.
‘She’s running with a wild bunch and is into sex and drugs, rock music, hot-rods and demonstrations and everything else going. Everything except work, that is. Now, apparently, it’s voodoo. She’s caught up in some religious cult and I’m scared for her.’
For a moment, Leland looked uncertain. ‘You’re not a believer, Mr. Diamond? No offense was intended, I assure you.’
Diamond smiled easily. ‘And none taken, Mr. Leland. You mustn’t think that everyone descended from African blood worships the voodoo gods.’
‘I want Ella back.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Twenty-one — just.’
‘I can try.’ Diamond said. ‘I don’t doubt I can track her down, but as an adult, she’ll have a mind of her own. I can’t force her to return if she doesn’t want to.’
Leland nodded. ‘Possibly you can show her the error in her reasoning — or lack of it. If you can show her this cult is phony. I believe she’ll get the message quick enough.’
‘Do you h
appen to know where this cult meets, or who runs it?’
‘The leader calls himself Doctor Ambrose — that’s all I’ve been able to find out and why I’ve come to you. I assume you have contacts.’
Diamond nodded. ‘I charge a hundred a day and expenses for as long as I work on the job.’
‘Agreed.’ Leland rose to his feet and limped to the door, bearing down on his cane. ‘I shall hope to see Ella shortly.’
As he clumped down the stairs, the door of the back room opened and Chelsea came through. Her normally sunny face was disturbed.
‘You shouldn’t mix in witch things, Wash.’
Diamond laughed. ‘Don’t tell me you believe this voodoo crap? You can bet your last dollar it’s a trap for the tourists. They fall for it and Ambrose makes money the easy way.’
‘Perhaps.’ Chelsea moved uneasily about the office. ‘I don’t like it, that’s all. You stick your nose into voodoo, and all sorts of unpleasant things happen. I had an aunt who was a witch.’ She shivered at a childhood memory.
‘So, what happened?’
‘My Aunt Rebecca, when I was young and living in the back country — another woman tried to take her man away. She made a sacrifice at sunset and said the words. Then she dreamed of the other woman, dreamed of a poisonous snake biting her and her whole body swelling up. Next day she was told that the woman died of snake bite in the night. Just suppose Ambrose isn’t a phony?’
‘All the more reason to get the girl away from him. Have you ever heard of this Ambrose?’
‘I haven’t heard anything good about him. He has a temple across the river, in Algiers — off Pelican Avenue somewhere.’
Diamond slipped into his jacket. ‘I’ll just snoop around a little.’
‘Be careful, Wash.’
‘Sure, baby.’
Diamond drove his Mustang onto the bridge over the Mississippi and into the suburbs on the west bank. Pelican Avenue was easy enough to find and he coasted through a residential area, quiet in daytime, till he found a gas station, and asked.
‘Doc Ambrose? Sure thing . . . four blocks along and turn left.’
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