I put the bottle of Bourbon and a glass in front of Len and went around to sit in the captain's chair, Len wiping his face with a handkerchief, saying, “Got your number from the operator. You're not in the book."
Not yet. I took a hit of beer as he poured himself a triple.
"Falstaff? They use Mississippi River water with that, don't they?"
"No,” I said. “Been to the brewery. They truck in spring water from Abita Springs.” When I was a rookie there was a burglary at the Falstaff brewery on South Broad. Everyone figured it had to be cops, police headquarters being right across the street, only Jefferson Parish deputies caught the perpetrators when their getaway truck broke down on Airline Highway. College students on their way back to LSU. It was a fraternity prank. Morons. Being charged with Revised Statute 14:62, Simple Burglary, wasn't a prank.
Len took a hit of bourbon, let it settle a moment before he focused his dark eyes on me and said, “Why'd you sic the cops on me?” His voice wasn't friendly.
"You were at the dance."
He nodded, looked at the row of windows facing Barracks Street. “Yeah. I just don't like coppers."
"I used to be one. You've had cop trouble?"
"Naw. I never liked bullies, and the dicks, they're just bullies with badges. Like to slap people around."
I couldn't imagine anyone trying to slap Len Connelly around. He took another drink, this one not as heavy, pointed his chin at me, and asked, “Why'd they pick you up?"
"I was one of the last people to see her alive."
Len leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. “Man oh man. She was pretty. I watched y'all dancing and damn, what a tragedy."
It came flooding back, I could almost feel Annette in my arms again. Funny how that worked. I took another hit of icy beer.
"There was a guy there, blond hair, little moustache, about your size. Real pushy with the girls. You see him?"
"Yeah. He cut in a couple times. Annette's friend called him a masher."
"Man, he looked familiar.” Len focused his eyes on mine. “And he left the same time as y'all and didn't come back."
"The cops will track him down."
He gave me a pained look. “You're a detective. Find him."
Thunder rolled in over the Quarter, sounding like distant cannon. A bright streak of lightning lit up the dark sky.
"How's the knee?” I asked.
"Goes out now and again.” Len refilled his glass. “Kept me out of the army."
Guess he could see that bothered me.
"Hey, I did my duty. Worked for Higgins building landing craft."
Higgins Boat Yard, right over there on the Industrial Canal, built the boats that took the troops ashore at Normandy, Saipan, Iwo Jima, brought me ashore with my fellow rangers in Algeria, Sicily, and Anzio.
"Saw in the paper how you came back a hero and all,” Len said between hits of Bourbon. “Almost lost an arm, as I recall. Cassino, right?"
I nodded.
"They don't give medals like you got unless you earn them. If I was you, I'd have ‘em up on the wall."
My Silver Star and Purple Heart were tucked away in a drawer upstairs, next to my police marksman pin and MVP plaque from Holy Cross.
"Maybe I could help you track down this masher."
Talk about bad ideas. Then I remembered Frenchy's warning and said, “Okay, why don't you snoop around the K of C and I'll try to figure why the guy looked so familiar."
Len raised his glass just as a bolt of lightning lit up the sky and thunder hit the building like a concussion.
"Damn,” said Len.
"Exactly.” I drained the beer and went for another.
* * * *
Sunday, February 16, 1947
Herb Moity was even too lazy to go to the Mardi Gras parades. Setting up early, I watched his neighbors pack up their kids and ladders and head for the parade routes. I spotted Moity once around two P.M., when he peeked out his front door. He was shirtless. When it got dark, I drove home, avoiding Washington Square completely.
On the radio that evening, they replayed the Mercury Theater production of H. G. Wells's The War of the Worlds and I turned off all the lights, sat back in my easy chair facing the French doors and my balcony overlooking the playground, and let Orson Welles and company take me away from everything for a while.
I'd never heard the broadcast before, didn't even know it had caused a panic across the country back in ‘thirty-eight. It hadn't panicked many people in New Orleans. I remember hearing about it after, people saying, “Hell, if the Martians wanted New Jersey, they could have it."
The deep voice of Orson Welles echoed, “We know now that in the early years of the twentieth century this world was being watched closely by intelligences greater than man's, and yet as mortal as his own..."
I closed my eyes and remembered reading that same opening in the book when I was a kid. Can't improve on good writing.
"...across an immense ethereal gulf, minds that are to our minds as ours are to the beasts in the jungle, intellects vast, cool, and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with envious eyes and slowly and surely drew their plans against us..."
* * * *
Monday, February 17, 1947
A detective will take luck in any form, whenever it comes.
At 11:10 A.M, a Sears & Roebuck truck pulled up in front of Herb Moity's shotgun. Two men got out, one knocking on Moity's door, the other opening the back of the truck. I focused my Leica on the door as Moity came out to hold open the screen door for the two men, now wrestling with a huge refrigerator. I figured they'd take it around back because the kitchen in a shotgun house is always at the rear, but these geniuses decided on a frontal attack and promptly got stuck going up the front stoop.
They tried wiggling the refrigerator on the dolly, tried going back down the steps, tried tipping it, almost losing it, before they stopped and scratched their heads. Moity had been shouting instructions, getting red-faced in the process, then let go of the screen door and went to show them how to do it. I got a good shot of him plopping his big butt on the edge of the stoop, bouncing to the ground, a better shot as he went around to put a shoulder against the fridge as the man above pulled on the dolly and the other used his shoulder next to Moity.
They got it up two of the three steps before the man next to Moity jumped up on the porch to hold open the screen door. I got a series of pictures of Herb Moity shouldering the fridge up the final step. The growl of a dog caught my attention as I photographed Moity shoving the appliance through the front door. I looked down and a black mutt was snarling up at me.
I'd brought ham sandwiches, so I unwrapped one and dropped it for the dog, who wolfed it down. After, he sat waiting for another. I trained the Leica on the house and waited. When the dog started growling again, I gave him my last sandwich. Fifteen minutes later, the three men led a rusty fridge back out, back down the front stoop, back into the truck, ole Herb Moity helping all the time. He waved to the men as they pulled away. I waited until Moity went back inside to slip out of the alley, making sure I didn't run over the dog.
I was feeling pretty good for a few minutes, until I approached Elysian Fields and it hit me again—Annette Bayly and that smile, that Too Wise gleam in those blue eyes. The sinking feeling gripped my heart again. Okay, I'd just met her, barely knew her, but she was alive, so damn sparkling.
Just as I pulled up in front of my building, Frenchy Capdeville arrived in his prowl car. Flipping his cigarette into the street, he joined me on the banquette and said, “Got something to show you.” He wore another rumpled suit, this one dark green, and had his black tie loosened, his dark hair looking disheveled.
I led the way into my office, called back over my shoulder, “Want a ‘smile'?"
Frenchy called a beer a “smile.” He shook his head and plopped down in the chair Len had used. Funny how most of my visitors sat in the right chair in front my desk, rather than the other. I sat in my captain's chair.
> From an inside coat pocket, Frenchy pulled out his notepad and said, “Listen to this. Came in a letter today addressed to the detective in charge of the murder at Washington Square.” He cleared his throat before reading, “'The girl was a sacrifice. No need to worry until next February fifteenth.'” Frenchy looked up at me. “Signed, Brother of the Wolf. There was a return address on the envelope that read ‘Cave of Lupercal.’ It was postmarked New Orleans, with today's date."
"Since when you get mail the same day?"
"Somebody at the post office must be trying to impress one of their big shots, I guess.” Frenchy put his notebook away.
I shrugged. “What do you make of it?"
"I checked. Whoever wrote it's got education. Lupercalia was a Roman festival celebrated on February fifteenth, a pagan fertility festival. The Christians countered it with Valentine's Day on February fourteenth, sort of to trump them a day early."
"Lupercalia? They sacrificed girls?"
"Not according to Dr. Walker, professor over at Loyola. They sacrificed goats and dogs.” French looked at his watch. “Maybe a ‘smile’ would be all right."
I brought us two Falstaffs and Frenchy said, “Jesus, you gotta start getting Schlitz or Budweiser. They make this stuff with river water."
I didn't correct him. I just sat there thinking about Annette as asacrifice.
* * * *
A detective will take luck in any form, whenever it comes.
Ten minutes after Frenchy pulled away, I went down the block to my cleaners to drop off my blue suit and felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck when the masher from the K of C dance hurried into the cleaners right in front of me. I went in behind him to make sure. The little moustache was neatly trimmed and there was a light scar on his chin. Annette's friend said he wore a gold Bulova and there it was on his left wrist.
When he plopped his bundle of clothes on the counter, I saw the tan linen slacks with cuffs, white shirt, and brown jacket he'd worn to the dance. I watched Mr. Juan, owner and operator of Praca's Cleaners, corner of Barracks and Burgundy, stuff the masher's clothes in two separate bags, attach tickets to the bags, and hand the man his receipts.
I put my blue suit up on the counter and followed the masher outside. No way I could just follow him without being spotted, and since he didn't get in a car, he lived nearby like me. What I hadn't expected was for him to wheel about and say, “What's your problem, fella?"
"Whaddya mean?"
"Ogling me like you're about to pull a stickup."
I smiled. “Weren't you at the K of C dance Friday night?"
He hesitated a half-second and said, “No. What's it to you, anyway?"
"I saw you there."
He took a step closer. He was about an inch shorter than me, but more solid, a pretty boy with his hands in fists now, set and ready for me, and I figured there was only one reason for him to lie about the dance. I slowly raised my left arm to glance at my watch and threw a right cross at his jaw, stepping into it, catching him square, sending him straight down.
I landed with both knees on his chest and he gave out a whoosh of air and whatever fight was left in him was gone with the wind. When I yanked him up by the front of his yellow dress shirt, a couple of buttons popped off and his receipts went into the gutter. I shoved him against the wall and waited for his eyes to clear. When they did, a minute later, they'd lost their fight.
It wasn't easy lugging him all the way down the street and into my office, plopping him in the popular right chair in front of my desk while I called Frenchy, who stammered, “You did what?"
"You wanna come get him or do I drag him to headquarters?"
I frisked my prisoner, who just sat there with drool running down his chin. Driver's license in the name of Maurice Bullock, he lived at 1212 Dauphine Street, a half-block up Dauphine from my corner building. He also had a Tulane University ID card, listing his job as assistant professor, and two hundred dollars cash.
Wait a minute—Maurice Bullock? Mo Bullock? No wonder he looked familiar. I stuffed the card and money back into his wallet and shoved it back in his pocket. I went around to my chair to take a long gander at New Orleans's Most Valuable High School Athlete of 1935, the man I'd just cold-cocked. Mo Bullock was the best baseball player to come out of Jesuit, maybe forever. He also played right halfback and strong safety for the Blue Jays my senior year. He was one of the guys I outran on my eighty-yard scamper in the rain. Last I'd heard of him he'd signed with the Detroit Tigers farm club.
"You're in big trouble,” he told me as I saw Frenchy's prowl car park in front of my DeSoto. “My family's got enough money to bury you in lawsuits."
He told Frenchy the same thing, but after hearing my side of the story, the lieutenant took Mo to the detective bureau, me trailing behind in my DeSoto. I had to wait out in the squad room, sitting at one of the desks, while the dicks ignored me. The room smelled of cigarette butts and stale coffee, and the windows had a yellow tint on the inside. I sat there massaging my right hand. Should have kicked the sucker.
After about an hour, Jimmy Hays brought two men in fancy suits into the room and had them wait outside Frenchy's glass-enclosed office while he went to the interview room where Frenchy was questioning Mo. Hays gave me his meanest look, which looked so much like an angry Moe Howard, I almost laughed.
Frenchy guided Mo Bullock by the elbow out of the interview room and into his office with the two fancy-suited men, leaving Hays outside. On his way to the coffee pot, Hays shot me a evil grin. “You're in big trouble now."
"How's Larry and Curly?"
He growled.
Ten minutes later Mo and the suits left without looking my way. Frenchy waved me into his office and said, “Close the door.” He fired up a fresh cigarette and I didn't know why, the room was cloudy with cigarette smoke.
"Those were the Bullock family lawyers. Did you know your boy's father is a millionaire? Some kinda shipping magnate."
"Nope."
"Well, prepare yourself for a lawsuit."
"What about the dance? He lied about it. He was the masher."
Frenchy kicked his feet up on his gray metal desk. The soles of his shoes were almost worn through. “Said he saw you at the dance. Claimed you were all over the Annette girl. Claimed he didn't even know about the killing. Doesn't read the papers. It ain't against the law to lie to a P.I."
I sank back in the uncomfortable metal folding chair. “I've been thinking. He's a professor at Tulane, right?"
"Teaches European History."
I perked up. “Then he'd know about this Lupercalia."
Frenchy nodded. “So would anyone who could read an encyclopedia.” He tapped ashes into an overflowing ashtray on his desk. “I don't think he did it. Wrong shoe size."
"Shoe size?"
Frenchy shook his head. “You know, Sherlock, we don't tell civilians everything we know. We found two good footprints in the dirt. Our killer wore a size fourteen shoe with a worn left heel. We got closeup pictures and casts of the prints."
My chin dipped slowly to my chest.
"Bullock wears a size ten. Like you,” Frenchy added. “You need a good lawyer, let me know."
"I have one."
On my way home I wondered if the attorney who hired me to catch Herb Moity would represent me. There went any money I'd make on Moity. Then I remembered Praca's Cleaners and gunned the DeSoto. Why hadn't I thought of it earlier?
I found both receipts in the street.
"I wait this for you,” said Mr. Juan, handing me a receipt for my blue suit.
I handed him Bullock's receipts, along with a sawbuck to look inside the bags with Bullock's clothes. Holding my breath didn't help as I searched the white shirt, brown jacket, and linen pants, even the cuffs. No branches, no red clay, no missing button from Annette's dress.
* * * *
Tuesday, February 18, 1947
When I was little I loved Mardi Gras, going to the parades with my parents, dressing up i
n costume, yelling “throw me something, mister,” catching beads. But when my parents died, well, how did St. Paul put it? Something like, “When I was a child, I spoke as a child, thought as a child: But when I became a man, I put away childish things.” I think it was St. Paul who said that. I wasn't much of a Catholic anymore.
Frenchy had called me a “civilian.” Don't know why it bothered me. I guess because I thought I was a detective. The din from the parade two blocks away up on Rampart Street sounded like a distant riot as I sat out on my balcony, feet up on the wrought-iron railing. I watched a pair of mockingbirds run off a blue jay and two crows in quick succession. Smaller than the crows, the mockingbirds looked like P-51s hounding Heinkel He 111 German bombers. They must have had a nest in one of oaks in Cabrini Playground.
A ship's whistle echoed dolefully from the river to my left. I thought it had changed tune until I realized that the second tone was my doorbell. I hit the buzzer and went into the hall to look downstairs to see who I'd admitted. Len Connelly stood unsteadily at the bottom of the stairs.
"Up here,” I called down. He spotted me, raised the bottle of Bourbon in his left hand to me, and started up. Needless to say, he was more than half looped and I wondered if he'd make it all the way up. He did, smiling at me and saying something profane about the crowds outside and the dumb parade.
"Can't understand the attraction,” he said as he came in to drop heavily onto my sofa. Focusing bleary eyes at me, he said, “Got any ice?"
I went for a Falstaff and dropped ice cubes into a glass for him. He managed to pour himself a triple without spilling any on my coffee table. Then he raised the glass to me and said, “City champs!"
I sat in the love seat, both of us kicking our heels up, on either end of the coffee table.
"Funny you should mention that,” I said. “Remember the masher at the dance, the guy who looked so familiar?"
"Yeah. Blond guy."
"Mo Bullock."
"Huh?” It took a second and his eyes lit up. “Oh, yeah. No wonder he looked familiar. How'dja remember him?"
EQMM, November 2008 Page 19