The Axeman of Storyville

by Heath Lowrance

  He said, "Jimmy Manta worked for you in 1917?"

  Carletti nodded. "He worked for me until the end of that year. He started three years before that, when he was only a boy. Fifteen years old. He was an orphan. I mean, that's ... that's what he told me. I assume it's true, but who can say?"

  "And he left for New York that year?"

  "Yes. Was trying to find his father, he said. And I have to admit, I was relieved. Toward the end, he had become quick tempered. He would get so mad, you know? About nothing. Some grocer over-charged him once and he couldn't talk of anything but getting revenge for the slight. I think ... well, I think that's why all those grocery store owners were killed."

  "You think Jimmy did it? You think he was the Axeman?"

  "Oh God. I just don't know. But he would get so agitated and angry, and he talked all the time about his father, how he hated the man for abandoning him, and music. Jazz, jazz, jazz, all the time. He was obsessed with it."

  The sitting room was close and hot. Miles ran a finger under his collar. "Mr. Carletti. When did Jimmy come back?"

  Carletti still wouldn't meet his gaze. "Eight months ago. Eight months and two weeks. I remember because he came to my door the day after my wife left for Italy. She went to visit her family for the winter, and only came home two weeks ago. That's why Jimmy had to leave. My wife wouldn't have stood for him staying here. And he'd gotten worse. I mean, mentally. I think he had the ... well ..."

  "You think he had the what?"

  Carletti glanced at the doorway, as if to make sure his wife wasn't eavesdropping. "I think he had the syphilis," he whispered.

  Miles frowned. "Why do you think that?"

  "I knew men who'd had it. I know the signs. My uncle had it. So when Rosa came home, I told him he couldn't stay anymore, Rosa wouldn't like it. So he took his knapsack and his phonograph and records and left."

  "Two weeks ago? Is that when he went to stay in your cousin's stockroom?"

  The tears in Carletti's eyes spilled over. He held his head in his hands. "Oh, Sal, what have I done? Mi dispiace tanto, mai cugino, mai la famiglia ..."

  Miles gave him a moment to collect himself, then said, "Did he ever find his father in New York?"

  "He ... he never said. I don't think so."

  "Did he work for you again when he came back?"

  It took Carletti a minute to answer, but he finally wiped the tears away and sniffed, "Just for room and board. Business has been bad. I couldn't afford to pay him wages. But when I sent him to Sal, I told him that Sal could pay him a little for helping out in the grocery. Sal, God keep him, was thankful for the help. And I didn't ... I didn't say a word to Sal about my misgivings."

  Carletti burst into tears, sobbing into his hands.

  His wife appeared in the doorway, face like stone and arms crossed over her small breasts.

  "You leave now," she said. "Leave my husband alone. Go away."

  Miles nodded. He put on his hat and saw himself out.

  -Nine-

  Jimmy Manta had been wandering. He'd left Ventucci's grocery by the back door, leaving the axe behind but taking the time to shove his record collection in a burlap sack. He had to leave the phonograph machine. It pained him to do so, but he could always get another.

  He'd made his way down to the Garden District, walked for several hours along St. Charles Avenue and Magazine Street. He thought about nothing for a long time before making his way to Audubon Park. He found a dark spot under a giant oak near a lagoon, stretched out there, and fell asleep.

  Amazingly, the coppers didn't roust him, and he woke up with the gray dawn edging in. He knew, finally, where he was going. Back to LaHarpe. Back to Mr. Carletti. He would help him. He had to.

  He trudged along, the burlap sack slung over his shoulder. His stomach rumbled, but he drowned it out by humming to himself, "There'll Be Some Changes Made" and "Heebie Jeebies" and "Bleeding Hearted Blues."

  It was late morning when he made it to Carletti's street.

  And stopped.

  There was a young Negro standing on the corner opposite, hands in pockets, looking bored and a little surly. The Negro captured his attention because there weren't any on this block, which was mostly German and Italian. But also because Manta had an undeniable fascination with colored boys of that particular type. It was nothing sexual—he was no pervert—but more a vague sense of envy. The jazz Manta loved so dearly came from this type. This charmingly insolent sort of Negro.

  But he couldn't possibly have any business here, no good sort of business anyway.

  The killer crossed the street north at the intersection, away from the boy. He walked up half a block, and then positioned himself behind one of the oak trees that lined the street. He peered around the trunk. Just in time to see the front door of the Carletti home swing open and another black man come out.

  This one was much older, maybe in his sixties, but still fit and powerful-looking. He wore a good suit, if not a little muted and modest. Right away, there was something about him that made the killer anxious.

  The old man walked with the speed and assurance of someone half his age, swinging a hickory cane, up the street to the younger Negro waiting there. The young man came to attention and the two of them conferred for a moment. Then they started southeast, toward St. Bernard Avenue.

  The killer followed at a distance, sweating. His heart pounded double time with fear. The old man. He was bad news. The killer knew it in his gut.

  They stopped at St. Bernard and hailed a passing taxi cab. The killer hurried as the taxi drove off, and was lucky enough to snag another one. He only had a few coins in his pocket, could scarcely afford a taxi, but it was vitally important to know where the old man was going, where he was from, what he wanted.

  He told the driver to follow, and the next few minutes were spent in mounting terror as they took left and right and left again, and the killer imagined all sorts of disastrous scenarios.

  The first taxi turned onto Rue St. Louis, and at the intersection with Royal Street let the old man and the young swell off in front of a club called the VioMiles.

  The killer knew the place. He'd been there once before, right after he'd come back to New Orleans. It was a fairly new place for well-heeled types who didn't have to worry about coppers not letting them booze it up. And they always had live bands playing hot jazz.

  And it all came clear to him as he got out of his taxi at the opposite corner. He knew who the old man was. The Times-Picayune had done a sensational piece on him not long ago.

  The owner of the VioMiles.

  The semi-famous Negro U.S. Marshal.

  Gideon Miles.

  The killer's heart fluttered but he breathed deeply and concentrated on calming himself. "The stars that shine above," he sang under his breath. "Will light our way to love ... ah you rule this world with me, I'm the Sheik of Araby ..."

  He had the advantage here. He knew who his enemy was. Not the coppers, not the Black Hand, not anyone but Gideon goddamn Miles.

  -Ten-

  By 12:30, the VioMiles was hopping. In a remarkably short period of time, the club had become one of the premier destinations in the Quarter, attracting top talent to the stage, and by proxy club-goers with taste and money to burn. Gideon Miles had never intended the club to be for the elite types, black or white, but he wasn't complaining.

  Kid Ory's Band was playing for the fourth weekend in a row, back temporarily from a spell in Los Angeles, and featuring a young trumpet player called Armstrong. The dance floor was packed with couples dancing in ways that boggled Miles's mind. Thirty years earlier, he'd seen people arrested for less provocative things.

  Cigar smoke hung thick in the air, along with the tang of fine booze, raucous laughter, popping champagne corks. All to the syncopated beat of Kid Ory's laconic drummer.

  Violet was in the kitchen, overseeing the wait staff. Little Cat's duties as concierge kept him jumping between the packed foyer, the dining area and the hall. And Miles
watched it all from the second floor balcony, hidden from most angles by heavy red drapes.

  He smoked his pipe and thought about this strange new world he'd somehow managed to survive into. Hell, not only survive, but thrive. He was well off now, very nearly wealthy, even. He remembered days on the trail, living rough, thinking one day he'd leave it all behind and enjoy the Good Life.

  And here the Good Life was, right in front of him. Everything he and Vi had worked for, everything they'd dreamed of.

  So why wasn't he enjoying it?

  He had to admit it—the last couple of days, on the trail again, tracking down a vicious murderer, he felt more alive and focused than he'd felt in a very long time.

  Trouble was just in his blood.

  Imagining what Violet would say if he told her any of that made him smile. Best keep that one under his hat, he thought.

  Near the bar, Little Cat was waving, trying to get his attention. The young man gestured toward the other end of the bar. Miles scanned the patrons there, spotted a prominent city councilman with a sizeable group of hangers-on.

  Miles sighed. The councilman would want to bend his ear a bit, flaunt his connection to the famous lawman-turned-club owner, and Miles would have to smile and endure his company, at least for a few minutes.

  He headed downstairs.

  * * *

  Jimmy Manta waited in the alley behind the VioMiles.

  Two busboys came out to smoke. One of them was fat, wearing a white frock that would fit him well enough. But he held back, watching from the shadows behind a cluster of garbage cans. He didn't want to risk two at once.

  A little later, a few members of Kid Ory's band came out and shared a marijuana cigarette. Manta watched them, fascinated. He could smell the sharp, earthy scent of their smoke, and tried to hold his breath. Reefer scared him a bit.

  Another hour passed, the fat busboy came out again, alone this time. He lit his smoke and leaned against the brick wall.

  The Axeman approached him quickly and without a sound. The busboy never saw him. With one sharp movement, Manta snapped the fat busboy's neck.

  He put on the busboy's frock, steeled his nerves, and went inside.

  * * *

  Miles managed to break free of the councilman and his syncophantic cronies. He made a slow circuit of the club, easing past clusters of laughing, boisterous patrons and furiously dancing couples. He shook the occasional hand, smiled, played the part.

  Near the kitchen entrance, a large busboy hustled past him, jarring his shoulder.

  "Pardon me, sir, sorry," the busboy said, hurrying on into the crowded hall. Miles didn't get a good look at him. It wouldn't have mattered anyway—Violet did all the hiring for the kitchen staff, and Miles wouldn't have recognized most of them.

  In the kitchen, he mentioned the rude busboy to his wife, but she was far too busy to do anything other than offer him a quick peck on the cheek.

  "Let's give up the club," Miles said. "Let's move back to Wyoming."

  "Get out of my kitchen, husband."

  He shrugged and went back out to the hall. Kid Ory's band was doing a rambunctious version of "Tiger Rag" and the new, young horn player, Armstrong, was playing an amazingly inventive solo. Miles stood and watched as the patrons went crazy.

  * * *

  No one paid any attention to the killer when he ducked behind the stage. The one time he'd been at the club before, he'd seen Gideon Miles go that way, and then appear moments later at the balcony. The stairs were easy to spot. He headed up them.

  The door at the top was locked. The killer twisted the knob, put his shoulder into it, but the door wouldn't budge. Sweat poured down his brow, and he felt several long seconds of anxiety.

  Kid Ory's band blistered through "Tiger Rag," a song the killer knew very well. In another few seconds, the horn solo would end and the rest of the band would come tearing in. The song would be at its loudest and wildest.

  He waited for it, and when the other instruments thundered to life, he kicked the door in. He could scarcely hear the crash of wood himself, standing right next to it.

  The space where the Miles's lived was roomy and a little Spartan. There were pictures on the walls of horses and Western scenes. A solid oak Grandfather clock. Simple furniture. Lots of books. Manta noted with some disdain that there was no phonograph or even a radio. What the hell did these people do with their time? Read books, for God's sake?

  He pulled a letter he'd written out of his pocket. It was already crumpled and limp with sweat. He put it on an end table, then worried that it would be overlooked somehow, so picked it up and put it on another end table.

  He started to leave.

  The noise from the club came in through the open balcony doors, and the killer couldn't resist. The band was too good, the new trumpet soloist was too amazing. He wanted to see. He wanted to see the tops of heads and the dancing whores and the gleaming sweat on the horn player's face.

  He moved the heavy drapes aside, very slightly, and peeked through.

  * * *

  Miles happened to glance up at his balcony and saw the heavy red drapes flutter. He saw a shadow play across them and disappear.

  He frowned. Aside from Violet and himself, Little Cat was the only one authorized to be upstairs in the living quarters. Miles knew Violet was still in the kitchen. Was Little Cat up there for some reason? He glanced around and spotted his young protégé near the bandstand, chatting up an attractive young woman.

  Miles cursed himself for leaving the Colt up there, and hurried to the narrow staircase behind the stage.

  When he reached the foot of the stairs, Manta came through the kicked-in door at the top. Their eyes locked and neither of them moved for a second that stretched out long. The noise of the band was deafening.

  The Axeman roared and barreled down the steps.

  Miles moved to meet him.

  Halfway up, Miles dropped face-down on the steps, and Manta's shoe hit him in the shoulder. Manta lost his footing, grabbed uselessly for the handrail, then tumbled down the stairs.

  Miles was on his feet in half a second, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. Manta lay at the bottom of the steps, eyes wide open with the breath knocked out of him. Miles hurried after him.

  In the seconds it took Miles to reach him, Manta had recovered. He was pulling himself up by the bannister. From three steps above, Miles kicked him in the face.

  Manta grunted, stumbled back. Miles pressed the small advantage, swinging a wide left at the killer's stunned face. The blow connected against the killer's nose, and Miles felt the satisfying snap of cartilage.

  In Miles's experience, most men who'd taken a fist to the nose that hard would be down for the count. So he was surprised when Manta shook it off and threw a sloppy punch of his own. Miles sidestepped it but couldn't avoid the big man's bulk when he moved to tackle him.

  They went stumbling back against the bannister, hard enough to snap it off, and Miles felt jagged wood dig into his spine. The killer had him around the torso, and Miles rained blows down on the big, round head.

  Manta snapped his head up hard into Miles's chin. Stars glittered in Miles's vision. Then the killer had both huge hands around his throat, throttling.

  Miles didn't attempt to pry the massive fingers from his throat. That would have been useless. Instead, he did something only slightly less useless, punching the madman in the face over and over, with both fists.

  But Manta's grip didn't loosen, despite the cuts and bruises and blood all over his face. If anything it got tighter, and the stars in Miles's vision were starting to go dim.

  Something moved behind Manta. Miles heard a faint thud, and the fingers around his throat loosened. He fell back into the stairs, saw Manta spinning around to face the new threat. It was Little Cat. He had something big and solid in his hands, swung it hard, and hit Manta in the face. The killer cried out in frustration and pain, clutching his face. He shoved past Cat and made for the hall.

  "Stop hi
m!" Miles croaked from the bottom of the steps.

  Little Cat looked at him. "Stop him?" he said. "Mr. Miles, sir, did you see the size of that man?"

  Despite everything that had just happened, the expression on Cat's face almost made Miles chuckle. He saw that the kid was holding one of the big, silver standing ashtrays that decorated the club. The heavy end of it was dented and smeared with blood.

  Cat set the ashtray down and offered a hand to help Miles up. Miles braced himself for a moment against the part of the bannister that wasn't broken and struggled to get his breath back. His adrenaline was still pumping, but he suspected his old bones would register the pain soon enough.

  "Cat," he said. "That makes the second time you've saved my ancient carcass."

  Cat grinned. "I'm mighty useful to have around, I reckon."

  "That you are."

  "Was that ... was that who I think it was?"

  Miles nodded. "I expect so." He glanced up at the kicked-in door to his living quarters. "Looks like Jimmy Manta the Axeman decided to drop in for a visit."

  -Eleven-

  Dearest Mr. Gideon Miles, You can imagine my delight upon learning that you have deemed to pursue me. I consider it an honor. All of the Souls that burn with me in the deepest Regions of Hell now burn brighter with envy at my new station. You will, of course, fail. Not even a man of your considerable skills can lay hands on a Dark Spirit. But that is beside the point. You will try, won't you, and that alone pleases me.

  You think me a monster, and you are right. But as you know, I love jazz. You might call it my weakness, but it is, in fact, a source of strength. I am a sporting type and so propose this to you:

  On Saturday night, I intend to roam your earthly realm again. I will claim another prize. As is my wont, I will pass over the houses that are swinging it.

  But there will be one with no music in her. She will be chosen to get the axe.