While Annette politely put up with the pushy guy, I got us Cokes and ran into an old buddy. I hadn't seen Len Connelly, starting guard on our city champion Holy Cross Tigers football team, since before the war. He looked flushed, out of shape in a rumpled prewar gray suit. He still stood a good two inches taller than my six feet, but had put on weight, well over two-fifty now. He had called me by my high-school nickname, “Rocket,” before hurrying off to dance with a chesty brunette.
I crossed Frenchmen Street, heading for my new digs in the lower French Quarter. A couple of cars eased along Dauphine but I was the only pedestrian, which suited me fine. I lifted my belt, felt the reassuring weight of my .38 Smith and Wesson, tucked neatly in its leather holster at the small of my back.
"What's this?” Annette had asked when she'd felt it.
I told her I was a private detective and she laughed. It took a few seconds for her to realize I was serious. “That's good, actually. Better than you carrying a gun because you were a hood."
She told me she was five-nine, stood over five-ten in those heels, her slim body pressed against mine. She wasn't top-heavy but I felt them up against me and she filled out her sweater very neatly. Annette said she was twenty-one and I guess the word “vivacious” described her, full of personality beyond her good looks. I remember my twenty-first year, heading to the police academy, then riding in a prowl car in that sweet NOPD uniform. That was all before Pearl Harbor, before I joined the Rangers and saw the world, North Africa, Sicily, then Italy, where a German sniper put an end to my military career.
A long, sad moan from a ship's horn echoed from the river, six blocks away. At Esplanade Avenue, I spotted two scummy-looking guys standing beneath one of the oaks on the neutral ground—a median in any other city. They eyeballed me but didn't make a move as I eyeballed them back. Maybe I still walked like a cop. I crossed into the Quarter, which was getting worse all the time. When I was a kid, few of the buildings were crumbling. Since the war, the lower Quarter was filled with day workers, Bourbon Street regulars, mobbed-up dock workers, and guys like me—someone who needed inexpensive digs to start up a small-scale business.
No sense wasting time. I'd call Annette later today, ask her out. Why waste a Saturday night? Why be coy? We liked each other, and Annette wasn't the kind of girl who played games. She looked me right in the eye, didn't play flirty games or hard to get.
At Barracks Street I hung a right and dug the keys out of my pocket. My building's double door faced Barracks and Cabrini Playground across the narrow street. I went in, making sure the door locked behind me, then opened my office door, flipped on the lights, and just glanced inside. I'd been in business two weeks exactly, working on my first job—an insurance-fraud case.
The hardwood floor still looked polished and my beat-up mahogany desk looked better in dim light. I locked the door and went upstairs to my apartment, directly above the office at 909 Barracks Street. Inside, I crossed to the French doors, which opened to the balcony wrapping around the building's corner, and let in some brisk air before going to bed. I needed an early start in the morning.
I tried not to think of Annette's sleek legs and the faint outline of her brassiere against her sweater, tried not to think of those full lips and the lines of her pretty face, the sweet smell of her hair as we danced, cheek to cheek. I thought instead of those bright eyes and the way she talked with me, without a hint of pretension, without the typical man-woman banter, no beating around the bush. Annette was as bright as she was pretty and I liked that in a woman.
Like the way she explained her nickname—Too Wise. You see, her last name had two ys and not a single i or e, as in the standard spelling of “Bailey.” Calling her Two-Ys had changed to “Too Wise” in school, as she was always a wise guy in class, too wise for her age, claimed the nuns. Hell, when I played wise guy in grammar school, the nuns took a ruler to my knuckles.
"Bayly's Scottish,” she said.
I quipped, “And I thought you were Irish."
She put her hands behind her back and leaned forward, jaw jutting. “And what are you, Mr. Lucien Caye?"
"Half French, half Spanish. A real half-breed."
I felt a stirring in my loins as I rolled over in bed and switched to thinking about Len Connelly, replaying the city championship game against Jesuit. I remembered that the rain came just as the second half started, the score tied 7-7. I'd scored our touchdown on a five-yard scamper around the right side, Len leading the way, bowling over the outside linebacker. I darted into the end zone.
It had seemed that every time we got the ball, the rain increased. When the Blue Jays got it, it seemed to slacken, enough for Jesuit to boot a twenty-yard field goal as the third quarter ended. It got real sloppy then. Both quarterbacks fumbled snaps from center, receivers dropped passes, punts were shanked. Len's knee was killing him. With a minute remaining, we were backed up on our twenty-yard line, rain pelting our helmets so hard we could barely hear the play calls in the huddle. The Blue Jays were bouncing in place, anticipating the championship. Our quarterback called two plays. A slant off right guard, Len's position. Then a fake off left tackle and a long pass.
We never got to the second play. I took the handoff deeper than usual and hit the crease, accelerating in the mud. Len trapped two linebackers with one block and I cut back, sending another linebacker sliding into the safety and the field was open in front of me. I hit the afterburners and used my 100-yard dash track speed all the way to the end zone, two Blue Jays right on my tail but never able to catch me.
I didn't hear the crowd noise until I turned around and suddenly the rain hammering my helmet faded with the roar of the Holy Cross fans, but drenched and standing, all screaming. Holy Cross Tigers 14, Jesuit Blue Jays 10. Len Connelly lay flat on his back at our twenty-five yard line. He needed two operations to be able to graduate without crutches.
* * * *
Saturday, February 15, 1947
I left before six A.M., wanting to set up on my prey before anyone got up in his neighborhood. Herb Moity was forty-two, stood five-five, weighed close to three hundred pounds. Balding and unmarried, Moity lived on the left side of a shotgun double on Port Street, Bywater. His parents lived on the other side. He'd slipped and fallen at work and was permanently disabled. Oxford Insurance Company had a problem with Mr. Moity. This was the third time he'd been “permanently disabled,” hitting up Farmers Insurance and Delta Insurance along the way. The man brought home an easy twelve thousand a year in settlement money, with more to come from Oxford.
I had two problems. The first I'd solved when I found an alley between an abandoned house and Nick's Barroom to be able to sit in my prewar 1940 DeSoto Coach, ready to photograph Moity if he did anything physical around the house, ready to follow him if he left in his baby-blue 1947 Chrysler four-door sedan. Being gray, my DeSoto was good for surveillances. The second problem—Herb Moity was a fat, lazy slob, not likely to do anything physical.
I took Burgundy over to Esplanade then took a left on Dauphine on my way to Bywater so as to pass by Annette's, slowing as I crossed Frenchmen Street. It was getting light out and the streetlights still lit up the area well. I spotted someone with a flashlight in Washington Square, turned to look at Annette's house, and realized the front door was wide open. I slowed, then looked back at the square again, spotting a man in a suit with flashlight in hand, a man with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. I pulled over, parked, and took a couple of deep breaths.
Whatever brought Lt. Frenchy Capdeville to Washington Square that early had to be bad. I got out and went through the gate at the Elysian Fields side of the park and approached Frenchy as he stood on the concrete walkway next to some thick bushes. Two uniformed coppers beyond Frenchy noticed me, one calling out, “You can't come in here."
Frenchy looked up, saw me, and said, “It's okay.” If he wore a cape and mask, Frenchy could pass for Zorro, with his black curly hair and pencil-thin moustache. He wore an old dark-brown suit, cigarette
glowing in his mouth.
I looked back at Annette's open door, seeing a light on somewhere inside, feeling my heart pounding. I stepped up and asked Frenchy, “What happened?"
"Girl got murdered last night."
My knees felt week. No. It couldn't be.
"When?"
"Around one A.M. We came back to search the area in daylight. She lived across the street."
I stepped over to one of the black wrought-iron benches to sit. I took in another breath and asked, “Her name? It wasn't Annette, was it?"
"Annette Bayly,” Frenchy said, the words hitting me like a land mine. I couldn't move.
"What?” I heard Frenchy say as he moved closer. “You knew her?"
I couldn't see anything; it was as if I'd fallen into a black pit. I put my head down between my knees and tried to breathe. It couldn't be her. Couldn't be. But ... if I'd learned anything as a cop, it was that death was always possible.
Frenchy's black shoes moved into my line of vision. They needed a shine.
"You knew her?” he asked again.
I sat up and leaned back. “Met her last night at the K of C dance.” I pointed across the park. “Walked her home just before midnight.” I looked up at Frenchy. “She have strawberry-blond hair?"
He nodded. “Wore a blue sweater, black skirt."
"What the hell happened?"
"Her paw says she was all excited when she got home, talking up a storm, realized she'd left her purse at the dance, and went to get it just before one. They found her when she didn't come right back."
Two other detectives stepped up, Collins and Francona. I watched them search around the bushes. I could see now, in the morning light, that branches were broken on the bushes.
"Three buttons were missing from her skirt,” Frenchy said for my benefit. I remembered that Annette's skirt had buttons down the front. “We found one up here on the walkway.” Frenchy flipped off his flashlight. “See the dirt under the bushes? Red clay. Musta been put in by the parks department ‘cause it ain't native to New Orleans, that's for sure."
I watched Francona collect some of the dirt into an envelope. Frenchy fired up a fresh cigarette just as a scream echoed from across the street. A girl I recognized as Annette's friend stood out on her gallery with her hand raised, finger pointing right at me. “That's him! That's him!” she screeched. “That's the one took her home last night!” She crossed the street to the fence. “He's the one smooching with her!"
A large man came out on the gallery, followed by a small woman with strawberry-blond hair. The man hurried across Dauphine to the fence. Frenchy went over and talked with him. The big man, whom I took for Annette's father, shouted, “He was probably waiting outside for her!"
I got up and eased toward them, watched Frenchy flip away his cigarette and take out his notepad. He asked, “What about this other guy you mentioned?"
The girl stared at me with such anger in her eyes. “The masher?” she said. “He was pushy, but him...” She pointed at me again. “He's the one took her home."
Frenchy glanced back at me for a second before reading from his notebook. “This masher, you said he was about six feet, blond hair, small moustache, little white scar on his chin, right?"
"Yes.” She still glared at me.
"He wore tan linen slacks with cuffs, white shirt, brown jacket, and had a gold Bulova watch?"
"Yes."
French nodded back to me. “This the guy you said wore the brown suit?"
She described my clothes to a tee, the brown suit, white shirt, beige tie with geometric designs, down to my brown-and-white Florsheim shoes.
Annette's father reached a fist through the fence and snarled, “The killer always comes back to the scene of the crime!” The man read too many detective novels.
Frenchy fired up another cigarette, gave me the same look my old man used to give me when I'd disappointed him, and said, “You need to come with us."
I nodded, lifted my coat, and turned my .38 toward him. “You better take this."
"He's a cop!” said Annette's father.
"Private investigator,” Frenchy said as he took my .38 and slipped it into his coat pocket. Francona tapped my shoulder and I went with him, across the park to Royal Street where their prowl cars were parked, directly across from the K of C Hall. As Francona unlocked one of the cars, I spotted Len Connelly standing beneath the awning of the hall. He lifted a hand and hesitantly waved to me.
"Who's that?” Francona asked.
"Guy I know. You need to talk with him. He was at the dance too."
* * * *
I'd been in the tiny interrogation rooms in the Detective Bureau before, but for only brief intervals. I'd never been left inside one to fester for hours until that morning. Never realized it smelled that bad, reeking of stale cigarette smoke, body odor, and ammonia, probably from urine. It looked clean, however. There was no window, only four blank walls painted light green, a small gray metal desk, and two hardback chairs.
Right after they put me inside, Frenchy came in with a consent search form for me to sign. “Better get two,” I said. “My car's parked next to Washington Square.” I pulled out my keys for him. He knew my apartment and office. I wanted him to search it, search for the missing buttons, for branches broken from the bushes, for that odd red clay.
"Suit I wore last night is in the closet,” I told Frenchy as I signed the consent search forms. “Lighter of the two brown ones. Tie's in there, too, shoes on the floor. Only brown-and-whites I have. Shirt, undershirt, and jockeys are in the dirty-clothes hamper."
Passing him the forms and the keys, I asked, “You're not going to let Hays in there, are you?"
I'd spotted Jimmy Hays in the squad room. A squat man with stubby arms, hair cut like Moe Howard, Hays worked with me at the third precinct before the war. He'd shot a dog that had knocked over the garbage can outside the precinct house one night. I knocked him out with one punch to his glass jaw. He never liked me much after that.
"I'm taking Francona."
"Thanks."
I tried leaning one of the chairs against the wall, closed my eyes, trying to think of a beach or the Rocky Mountains, anything to escape, but I kept seeing Annette's face smiling at me after we'd kissed. The coffee I drank that morning churned in my belly and tried to work its way back up my esophagus. It didn't occur to me to worry that I was a suspect, not really. The fact that I'd never see Annette again was enough to fill my heart with a sharp pain, fill my brain with images from the dance. Obviously, the “masher” was the pushy guy who'd cut in. I still couldn't place his face, but I'd seen it before. I started thinking like a detective, wondering who could have done this, instead of focusing on the loss of such beauty.
I'd just glanced at my watch again, seeing it was almost ten-thirty, when Frenchy came in and placed my gun on the tiny desk. “I had to go through the motions. You have an alibi witness, to boot."
"I do?"
"Sergeant V. M. Clortho."
"Clortho? He can't stand me.” Another one of my fans, Clortho was the laziest cop I'd ever worked with. I told him that once at roll call, which got the whole platoon roaring as I gave Clortho his nickname—Slowdown. Like Hays, he never forgave me.
Frenchy lit up another cigarette and sat across from me. “Slowdown was outside your building just now, shooting off his mouth about you. He was on the beat last night. Saw you kiss the girl and walk home. He tagged behind you in his prowl car, said you were all moonstruck. Waited for you to fall off the curb, but you weren't drunk enough. Saw you go in your building. He parked next to Cabrini Playground and caught up on his reports. I asked how long he was there. He said a good hour, hour and a half, and you didn't come back out. That's an alibi witness, best when it's someone who don't like you."
I picked up my keys, tucked the .38 back in its holster, and stood up. “So what now?"
Frenchy said they were going back to the K of C Hall, see if they could locate this “masher” and anyo
ne else who was there, see if any neighbors saw anything in the park last night.
"You.” He tapped my chest with an index finger. “Don't go anywhere near there. We already drove your car home."
I spotted Francona in the squad room and asked him what Len Connelly had said.
"Said he saw you leave with the girl. I asked about the ‘masher’ and he saw the guy leave too, about the same time and none of y'all came back inside."
Frenchy gave me a wary look. “Don't go back around there. Let us handle this."
I told him okay, but we both knew better.
* * * *
I thought about trying my luck with the wonderful Mr. Herb Moity that afternoon, anything to get my mind off the fact that Annette was lying in the parish morgue. But the rain came in just as I was about to leave, and if I didn't know better, it looked like a hurricane. The huge branches of the live oaks in Cabrini Playground bounced in the wind as rain hammered my building. The thick black branches of the magnolias seemed to bend precariously in the storm.
I watched through my office windows, spotting a man running along the banquette and stopping outside my building then ringing my office doorbell. I hit the buzzer and went to see who I'd let in. Len Connelly pulled the coat off his soaked head and smiled weakly at me. “You got something to drink, Rocket?"
I'd picked up a coat rack at a used-furniture store and draped the soaking coat over it as Len went and plopped in one the chairs in front of my beat-up mahogany desk. I went over to the kitchen area, calling back, “Scotch, Bourbon, or Irish?"
Len opted for Bourbon, neat. I reached into the small refrigerator for a beer, not wanting to get loaded. My office was once an upholstery shop, so most of the interior walls had been removed, leaving the kitchen and bathroom and enough room to play a little touch football without knocking anything over.
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