“Uh, huh.” Marcel pulled up a chair, and Fred pulled up another, turning it around and straddling it. He studied Smoker Cauvin, saying nothing.
The beers and shot of Four Roses suddenly arrived on a tray and there was no talk while Harvey doled out the drinks. After he left, Smoker raised the shot of whiskey to his mouth and downed it. “Mighty kind of you, brutha. Now what you want, anyhow?”
“You’re related to the Cheniers, aren’t you?”
Smoker picked up his beer and drank a swallow as he looked in Fred’s direction. “You lookin’ to turn this moose loose on some of my relatives, Marcel?”
“Uh-uh. No strong-arm stuff. Just want to talk. To a certain Chenier.”
“They ain’t but about two hundred of the fuckahs ’round here. Which certain one you have in mind?”
“Albert. He’s been living in Texas, if that helps you.”
Smoker drank some beer, his brow furrowed above the rims of the dark glasses. “Albert Chenier. Can’t say that I’ve heard tell of him. Might be one or two I ain’t met.”
“Could you ask the ones you know if they’ve got a cousin or a brother by that name in from Texas?”
“Might be I could. Like I say, time is money, Marcel.”
Marcel took out a roll of bills, peeled off a five, and slid it across the table. The man’s hand captured and stowed it with remarkable economy of motion.
“I’ll get started on it tonight. You still operatin’ outa that cathouse on Soraparu Street?”
“Yeah, but if I’m not there, somebody’ll take a message.”
“I’ll be back with you, brutha. And thanks for the drink. Liquor does wonders for my thought processes.”
“Any time at all.” Marcel got up and Fred followed.
They drifted through the crowd, nodding occasionally to a familiar face, taking note of newer ones they didn’t recognize. Fred eased up to his elbow and spoke into his ear. “You think that spook’s gonna do you any good?”
Marcel shrugged. “When you’re lookin’ for somebody, you just keep movin’. You buy a drink here, lay a finif down there. It’s an investment. Sooner or later it pays off. If not directly, then sometime down the line.”
They had nearly reached the door when a man they knew approached them.
“Hey, Aristide. They tellin’ me you need a Chenier.”
“That’s right, Harley. One who calls himself Albert.”
Harley’s muddy eyes slid from side to side beneath his pulled-down hat, his thin lips drawn into a narrow line. “There was an Albert Chenier who was up in Angola ’til maybe ten years or so back.”
Fred’s eyes narrowed. “How would you be knowin’ that?”
Harley’s eyes did their side-to-side again. “Used to run with him. Did some bootleggin’, some penny-ante shit.”
Marcel studied Harley’s narrow face intently. “How’d he end up in Angola? I don’t recall you did any time.”
Harley’s thin lips cracked open and he licked them with a long, pale tongue. “Didn’t. His luck was bad. We was runnin’ a con out in the sticks. He got caught. I didn’t.”
“Didn’t rat on you, huh?”
Harley shook his head. “They didn’t come no squarer than Albert. He kept his lip buttoned and took the fall. They give him seven to ten up there at hard labor, too.”
“So where is he now?”
“Dead.” Harley’s gaze was bleak and he shook his head with a weary chagrin. “He was out with a chain gang choppin’ cane one day. Got into a beef with another con. Con cut his head damn near off, they tell me.”
“Whew.” Marcel shook his hand as though he’d touched something hot. “That’s tough, man. I’m sorry as hell.”
Harley blinked and shook his head. “Yeah, me, too.”
Fred scratched his head. “Couldn’t be our man.”
Marcel’s eyes were thoughtful, but he shook his head. “No, not at all. Thanks just the same, Harley.”
“Forget it. See y’all around, hear?”
Fred and Marcel walked outside and stood on the gallery of the lounge as a cool evening breeze swept past them from the north. Fred pulled his hat down low over his eyes.
“Funny story Harley told. The only Albert Chenier we’ve heard about all day long, and he ain’t got no more in common with the one we’re lookin’ for than I got with Pres’dent Roosevelt.”
“Yeah,” Marcel said. “Funny is the word.”
***
Daggett and Andrews were nearing the end of a frustrating day. Their canvas of Linda Blanc’s neighborhood had been a bust, and Nick Delgado’s sweep of the murder scene picked up nothing useful. They’d spent the afternoon questioning known associates of the dead woman with no more profit. It was now three hours past the end of their normal day watch, and their rumpled clothes were stuck to their sweaty skins.
“What’s next on the list, boss?” Andrews asked as he skillfully took the Dodge through evening traffic.
“This is tougher than I expected. I figured an ex-prostitute with her associations might lead us to somebody who’d know more about her business.”
“Somebody taught her somethin’ about keeping her business to herself,” the stocky man replied. “Nobody we talked to even knew she was hooked up with Luis Martinez.”
Daggett had no comment to that. He continued to stare into the darkness while he tapped his fingers restlessly on the ledge of the open car window. Finally, he said, “I’m dead beat. Take us to the Fat Man Lounge. I’ll call into the office and we can have a beer before we go home.”
“I like your thinkin’, boss.” Andrews took Napoleon Avenue up as far as Saint Charles then headed in the direction of Lee Circle. He turned across the streetcar tracks at Clio Street to drive several blocks before bringing the car to a stop in front of the lounge. The two big brown men got out of the car and strolled through the door as they shook the wrinkles out of their pants. It was early yet, and the place contained only a handful of male customers and a couple of bored working girls.
The detectives approached the bar and gave a wave to the big black man busily polishing glasses with a bar towel.
“Evenin’, Big Boy,” Daggett said.
“Iz, Sam. Long time no see. What’ll it be?”
“Two Dixies,” Daggett said as he eased a hip over a barstool. He and Andrews both leaned their forearms on the bar as they waited for the beer.
As he served them, Big Boy saw the dullness of frustration in their eyes. He spoke to them in a low voice. “Who you guys lookin’ for?”
“We don’t know for sure,” Daggett replied. “We’re workin’ the Linda Blanc murder.”
Big Boy’s eyes narrowed as he shot quick glances about to check for unwanted listeners. “I knew that gal. She was all right. You ain’t got no idea who done it, huh?”
Daggett shook his head. “We don’t know a hell of a lot of nothin’. We got some dope that she was hooked up with a guy named Luis Martinez. We think there’s a connection.”
Big Boy screwed up his mouth as he considered Daggett’s words. He cut his eyes at Andrews, and saw the other detective watching him over the rim of his beer glass. “I told her a couple years ago that he was gonna bring her grief. She just patted my cheek, said she loved the guy and for me not to talk bad about him.” He shook his head. “Crock of bullshit.”
Andrews sipped his beer, paused to lick the foam from his lips. “We want to talk to Martinez some kinda bad, Big Boy. Any idea where he might be?”
Big Boy slowly wiped the bar in front of him as he flicked his eyes about the room. “Been hearin’ some funny shit lately.”
“About what?”
“Martinez is supposed to be connected to a heavy hitter—white man.”
Daggett raised his eyes. “This white man got a name?”
“Santiago Compasso.”
Daggett and Andrews exchanged a look and shrugged. “Never heard of him. What’s he into?”
“Don’t know. And nobody I talked to kno
ws, neither.”
Daggett considered this as he sipped some beer. “A racket nobody knows about. That’s new.”
Big Boy reached under the bar and brought out a dish of salted nuts and shoved them between the two detectives. “Supposed to be all out-of-town people that Martinez got for this Compasso. But that ain’t the interestin’ part.”
Andrews dunked a meaty hand into the bowl of nuts, captured some and transferred them to his waiting mouth. “What is?” he said around the nuts.
“Martinez is in the soup with this Compasso. Word is there’s a contract out on Luis. Nobody’s seen the guy in a few weeks. Might be he’s dead already.”
Andrews swallowed audibly, chasing the nuts with some beer. “Maybe he took the hint and split town.”
Big Boy shook his head. “Uh-uh, brutha. He wouldn’t make a permanent disappearance without takin’ Linda. They was two beats off the same drum. He had her in a place he thought was safe, but the contract has somebody hungry. He musta sniffed out the house and killed her to let Luis know they wasn’t playin’ no game.”
Daggett had been silent through most of Big Boy’s story, remembering what Paul Ewell had told them about the counterfeiting ring. The name Santiago Compasso was clearly something Ewell’s people didn’t know.
He picked up his glass and drained the rest of the beer down his throat. “Thanks, Big Boy. We owe you one.”
Big Boy turned up a big pale palm and shook it. “Just do me a favor and don’t go spreadin’ nothin’ with my name tacked on it, okay? I ain’t interested in gettin’ a reputation as no pigeon, you dig?”
“Okay, brutha,” Andrews said. “We’ll be silent as the grave.”
“That ain’t funny, Sam.”
“No,” Andrews replied. “It sure ain’t.”
Chapter 4
By the time Farrell reached the Algiers Point ferry it was nearing 3:00. His was almost the last car to board before deck hands raised the gangway and cast off lines.
Farrell remained in his car as the ferry rumbled and vibrated beneath him. He had been on the prowl at this hour many times, but he recognized an unfamiliar fatigue tonight. His life was so full that he tended to ignore the passage of time, but lately there had been little reminders—fine lines at the corners of his eyes, stray gray hairs among the reddish brown ones on the backs of his hands, an unreadiness to jump out of bed first thing in the morning. It made him think of his father, whose own red hair was graying noticeably these days.
Farrell wondered would he be so quick to venture into the night like this if he and Savanna were married and had children. He did not probe his motives as a rule but on this night, he recognized that he was putting himself in harm’s way out of boredom. The priest’s visit had set him in motion, but it was the murder of Luis’s girlfriend that had heightened Farrell’s resolve to find his old friend. He faintly recalled another priest reading from the Bible, “am I my brother’s keeper?” but it was too late to ponder that question.
The ferry shuddered and groaned as they approached Algiers Point, slowing until the bow nudged the dock and bounced away. Deck hands hastily made the boat fast then let down the gangway with a clatter. A few minutes later, he drove across to dry land.
This side of the river was almost rural in comparison to the New Orleans side. Most buildings he passed were shuttered and dark, and few cars shared the road with him.
The village of Gretna’s Huey P. Long Boulevard was empty of all but shadows. Farrell continued to the eastern edge of the village, driving north to the brink of a bayou.
There was a considerable Negro population on this side of the river, composed mainly of people who fished, crabbed, trapped, or did back-breaking labor in fish canneries, boat yards, or on farms. Roadhouses or juke joints along the rural roads outside Gretna offered such folks the only entertainments they could afford: white lightning, canned beer and the romantic laments of a lowdown bluesman.
However, Negroes who worked in town for white people or had small businesses of their own craved a more genteel kind of enjoyment, and for them there was nothing to equal the opulence of Wisteria’s Riverboat Lounge. As Farrell came upon it, he saw the huge neon sign lighting up the area for a hundred yards around. The sign featured a Southern belle in layers of petticoats with an articulated coquette fan at each end. In between them a Mississippi sternwheeler huffed smoke from its stacks. Farrell had heard that even the white people on this side of the river viewed it with a mixture of envy and awe.
Farrell parked at the edge of the lot and got out into the late night air. The sounds of tree frogs seemed to vie with the Dixieland coming from inside the lounge. Something made him pause, and in response he faded into a shadow. He remained there, listening as his eyes made a circuit of the area. He sensed a presence, but it was no more than that. He moved softly, threading a path through the clutter of parked vehicles to the entrance.
He pushed through the doors, pausing just inside to let his eyes adjust to the soft lighting. A Negro in a white dinner jacket saw him enter and strolled unobtrusively toward him. Farrell made him for the bouncer by the width of his shoulders and his loose-limbed, flat-footed saunter. His right hand was clenched, no doubt hiding a roll of nickels, a weapon as effective as brass knuckles.
“Evenin’, sir. Can we help you with somethin’? Maybe you’re lost.” At least he had a few brains. He was going to try being polite before he threw a punch.
“I came to see Wisteria Mullins,” Farrell replied. “The name’s Farrell.”
The bouncer nodded with recognition, but his expression said it didn’t bother him. “It’s mighty late, sir, and we gonna be closin’ up here in less than a half-hour.”
“I won’t need very much of her time. It’s about her cousin, Linda, and Luis Martinez.”
The man became rigid, and Farrell could sense him considering his next move. Just as suddenly he relaxed, his concern for his boss evident in his expression. “I’ll tell her, but I don’t know. She’s had a real bad day.”
Farrell nodded sympathetically. “I’m not here to cause her any extra grief. I’m just trying to find Luis.”
He considered for a second. “I’ll see what she says. Tell the barman I said to give you whatever you want.”
“That’s friendly of you. Thanks.” Farrell took off his hat and went to the bar. The bartender came close enough to catch Farrell’s order for a rye highball. Farrell had put about half of it away when the bouncer returned.
“She’ll talk to you. Follow me.” He led Farrell through a door and up a flight of stairs to the second floor. There was a door open up there, and through the door Farrell saw a willowy woman in a sea green evening gown. A cigarette burned in her right hand, and a tendril of blue smoke floated up past her handsome brown face. “Thanks, Terry. You can go on back to the floor now.” Her voice was like honey seasoned with pepper.
Terry cut his eyes at Farrell. “You sure?”
She smiled indulgently at him. “Mr. Farrell only wants to talk. He don’t have to beat women to get what he wants, do you, Mr. Farrell?”
“I never want that much,” Farrell replied.
Wisteria’s mouth flew open and a rich, full laugh escaped. Terry, seeing he was outclassed, turned and left.
“Don’t mind Terry. He thinks he needs to protect me from people. Buy you a drink?”
“No thanks.” Farrell sat down in an armchair and put his hat on the floor by his feet.
She sat down across from him and crossed her legs. “Terry said you’d come about Linda.”
“I think Luis is in some kind of trouble and what happened to Linda is connected to that. I’m hoping you can tell me where he is so I can help.”
She held her hands in her lap and looked down at them. “I like Luis—always did. But I knew he was trouble first time I looked at him. He’s too slick for his own good.” She was quiet for a long moment, and as she sat there, Farrell saw two tears escape from her eyes and flow soundlessly over the curve of her chee
ks.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “People said good things about Linda to me. Have you got any idea where Luis might be?”
Wisteria Mullins’ eyes grew hard and her nostrils flared. “If I knew, I’d go after him myself. I want to slap his face and spit in it.” Her mouth gaped suddenly and she began to weep, the sobs like groans of agony. “All his talk about how much he loved my sweet b-baby girl, and now she’s lyin’ dead over there.” She swiped angrily at the tears blurring her eyes and looked up at him fiercely. “You ever look down on somebody you love ’at’s been butchered like some hog?”
Farrell nodded gravely. “Yes.”
She started at the single word then relaxed. “I don’t know where he is. I thought he’d call, but maybe he’s afraid to.” She shook her head ruefully.
Farrell sat back in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. He saw from his watch that it was now 4:00, and he was no closer to Luis Martinez than when he’d left the Café Tristesse. “If you hear from him, tell him to call me at my club. The number’s on this card.” He laid a business card on the table, then picked up his hat and turned to go.
“Mr. Farrell?”
He turned his head and saw her looking at him. “Yeah?”
“I don’t know what it means, but it’s somethin’ I heard Luis say. It went ‘luck is where you find it, and I always look for mine down by the river.’ You know what that means?”
He shook his head. “I remember him saying it, but I thought it was just some trash he was talkin’.”
She nodded. “Maybe so. Thanks—for what you said.”
“Sure.” He walked through the door and downstairs to the club. Except for Terry, everyone else was gone. The man turned as he heard Farrell’s approach.
“How’s she holdin’ up?” he asked.
“She’s hurt, but all hurts get dull with time. She just needs her friends to get her over the rough spots.”
He nodded, his mouth stretched tight. “Yeah. Sorry if I acted impolite with you earlier.”
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