“Forget it. I’ll be on my way now.”
Terry let him out into the warm, humid night. Without the neon sign, the brooding darkness of the bayou enveloped the place completely. As Farrell strode across the grassy parking lot to where he’d left his car, his eyes and ears continued to probe the darkness. That indefinable something he’d felt at his arrival was still there, but the surroundings were empty for as far as he could see. Casting a last look around, he got into the car, cranked the engine, and headed in the direction of home.
***
Terry locked the metal grate over the glass front doors before going through the club to turn off the remaining lights. When he reached the kitchen, he noted that the rear service door was slightly ajar, and he grimaced. He’d told the cooks and busboys to be careful about that door. He’d come back one night to find three raccoons there tearing the place apart. He cast a quick look around the kitchen, but detected nothing out of order.
He walked to the door, cursing under his breath. As he reached it, he pushed the door closed and set the deadbolt. It was then that the lights went out. He whirled around. “Who’s there? What’s the idea, Goddamnit?” He moved in the direction of the nearest light switch, but a noise checked him. His hand went instinctively to the revolver in his hip pocket. “Who’s there? I got a gun, fool, so don’t be messin’ around.” Drawing the gun, he sped to the light switch. As his hand closed over it, something hit him over the temple and he fell to the floor unconscious.
His attacker stood over him for a minute, prodding him with his shoe. Although Terry didn’t move or make a sound, the attacker kicked him very precisely in the back of the head. Satisfied, the man made his way through the darkened kitchen, heading for the stairs.
He reached a hall, and saw an open door with light shining through it. “Terry?” a woman’s voice called. “Terry, that you, honey?”
The man walked softly to the door, looked through it and saw Wisteria Mullins at a desk, thumbing through some receipts. He moved toward her in a smooth, soundless glide. He was grinning when she looked up, saw his face, and gave a single, ululating scream.
***
A ray of daylight, filtered through the dusty, ragged curtain on the window, dropped across Martinez’s face, bringing sweat out on his forehead. He squirmed out of it, turning on his side. The damage was done, however. The movement brought him out of the stupor he’d finally fallen into the night before.
As he gradually came awake, the memory of what had happened elbowed its way to the front of his consciousness, reminding him of the trouble he was in. He forced himself up on his elbows, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. A flash of sharp pain shot through his temples and he grabbed his head, groaning.
A sour belch forced its way up his throat and out between his clenched teeth. He got up and walked unsteadily to the toilet, just making it before he vomited up a mess of bourbon and yellow bile. The retching almost tore the top of his head off, but eventually the pain subsided. He looked at himself in the mirror to see that the face staring back was that of a worn-out mestizo, not the sharp operator who had always known the right answer, always been standing somewhere else when the axe fell on someone less lucky.
With shaking fingers, he tore off his wrinkled, sweat-stained clothing then ran cold water in the basin as he stooped painfully over it. He cupped his hands and rubbed his face over and over with the cold water, drinking every other handful, swishing it around in his mouth to cut the scummy taste on his tongue.
He found his toothbrush and can of Pepsodent tooth powder, using them until the foul taste in his mouth diminished. That done, he turned on the hot-water tap until the sink was filled with scalding hot water. With the washcloth and soap he’d gotten from the deskman, he systematically washed himself from head to foot, rinsing with cool water. He found his razor and shaving soap, and very carefully shaved himself. His mustache needed trimming, but he let that go.
When he was clean, he went through his bag and chose a pale blue shirt with a soft collar, fresh underwear and socks and a light gray tropical wool suit.
The soiled clothing he wrapped into a bundle and dumped in the wastebasket. He had no time for laundry. He closed his valise, put on his hat then left the room. The desk wasn’t occupied when he reached the lobby, so he dropped the room key on the counter before leaving the building.
He saw from his watch that it was a few minutes past 7:00. Magazine Street was quiet, only a few cars passing through at low speeds and a couple of pedestrians hurrying to work across the street from him. There was a feeling of peacefulness about the neighborhood that made him want to stay and enjoy it, but he knew better. He walked across the street to his Mercury and quickly drove away.
As he drove, he considered his options. If he went to the cops, he could make a deal for his cooperation, but would still serve time in a Federal pen. He’d never been in jail in his life, and knew he couldn’t stand to be locked up for years. If he gave the plates back to Compasso, he’d be admitting defeat and submitting to execution. All that was left was to make war.
There were the plates to consider, too. Four blocks of chrome-plated nickel, each representing several months of work by a master engraver. He had them wrapped up and tucked under the spare tire in his trunk. Even if Compasso got to him, Martinez was determined to deny him the plates.
He drove into Downtown and parked in front of the railroad depot at South Rampart and Girod. Even at that early hour, there were enough people for him to comfortably blend in. He rummaged in his glove compartment until he found a small pad of paper and a pencil. He wrote one sentence in neat block letters:
Ozzy—keep safe until I come—Luis
He retrieved the cardboard package containing the plates and put the note on top before going inside to the Railroad Express Agency desk. A tired, gray-haired white man wearing steel-rimmed spectacles waited on him.
“Yes, sir. What can we do for you this morning?” he asked in a cigarette-coarsened voice.
“I need to send this to a party downtown.” Martinez laid the box down and pushed it to the man.
The man got out some shipping labels and a pencil. “Where to?”
“Blue Note Pawn Shop, twelve-fifty North Rampart Street. To the attention of Theron Oswald.”
The white man glanced up with a peculiar expression. “That’s not too far from here, Mister.”
Martinez grinned. “I’m leaving on a fishing trip and promised to get this to him today. When the fish are bitin’, you can’t keep ’em waitin’, can you?”
The man gave him a tired smile. “Reckon not.” He made out the label, fixed it to the box, then wrapped it securely in masking tape. He charged Martinez a dollar and ten cents, and promised it would be delivered that morning.
Martinez thanked the man and left the depot. Retrieving his Mercury, he backtracked, continuing all the way down Magazine, past Audubon Park, until he met the curve into Leake Avenue. He followed Leake until he reached the Carrollton area. He stopped at a diner and ate two orders of bacon, a stack of buttermilk pancakes with cane syrup, and a pot of hot coffee. He felt almost human afterward.
He gassed up the car at a Sinclair station, then got back on Leake and followed it until he reached the river road that led into Jefferson Parish. Ten miles later, he stopped at a general store and bought a box of food and a flashlight, a portable radio, and batteries for each.
The store’s owner had a secondhand Ithaca Featherlight pump shotgun that he was persuaded to part with for fifteen dollars. For another five, the owner sold him two hundred rounds of 12-gauge double-ought buckshot. A hacksaw was added to the pile for an extra twenty-five cents.
With his purchases stowed in the back of the car, Martinez got back on the river road and followed it for twenty-five miles until he came to a dirt road that led to a shanty sitting on pilings out in the river. Martinez could see that the boards he’d nailed across the windows and doors two years ago hadn’t been disturbed.
&
nbsp; With his tire iron, he removed all the boards, then went inside and threw open all the windows. While the place aired out, Martinez took all of his food and equipment inside and set up housekeeping. An hour later, he had created a headquarters for himself.
His last chore was to break out the hacksaw and shotgun. It took five minutes to cut the barrel off even with the magazine tube, and another three to clean the burrs off with a piece of emery cloth. With that done, he loaded the magazine with five cartridges and added a sixth to the chamber. He took it ashore and walked to within twenty feet of a dead tree trunk with a number of projecting branches. Bringing the shotgun to his hip, he fired all six rounds, snapping a branch with each shot. With the explosions still reverberating, he nodded, satisfied with his work.
He saw from his watch that it was nearly 11:00. There was nothing to do now but wait.
***
Bank President A. J. McCandless’s private plane landed at Shushan Field at 9:00 that morning. No one was waiting for him, which was how he’d planned it. He taxied the twin-engine Lockheed Vega to his private hangar at the western end of the field, steering it expertly through the open hangar doors. He cut the engines and made his way through the rear of the silver plane to the cabin door, where his personal mechanic waited. McCandless, a lithe, agile, dark-haired man, jumped nimbly to the concrete and walked past the mechanic with the barest of nods. His steps took him to a private office within the hangar where he closed and locked the door behind him.
Settling himself at the desk, he picked up the telephone receiver and gave the operator a number. It buzzed three times before a man answered.
“It’s McCandless. I just flew in.”
“What are you doing back in town already?” the other man asked.
“The Treasury Department is crawling all over my bank. Did you think I was going to remain in Atlanta while that was going on?”
“I suppose not. What now?”
“I’ll tell you what now. I’ve got to be bloody careful. I can’t afford for the wrong people to find out too much about me. It could cost me everything.”
“It could cost me too, A. J. I’ve been backing you up all this time, you know.” A wry tone had appeared in the other man’s voice.
McCandless wasn’t amused. “I’m the one with the most to lose if this thing blows up. See that you don’t forget that.”
The amusement left the other man’s voice. “Now that you’re here, what do you want to do?”
“Nothing. Keep your ears open. Be helpful but ignorant if anyone asks you anything.”
“That should be easy. I made it a point to not know very much.”
McCandless stroked his long bony jaw. “All right, then. I’ll be in touch with you later.” McCandless hung up the telephone without waiting for a reply, then he strode out into the hangar. The mechanic had just finished putting his bags into the trunk of a pale blue Lincoln Continental. McCandless grunted his thanks, got into the car, and left through the rear of the hanger.
***
Farrell crawled out of his sheets about 9:30, grimacing as he saw the face of his bedroom clock. Coffee was the most immediate thing on his morning agenda.
The act of walking into the kitchen did something toward waking him up, and by the time he drained a pan of hot water over coffee grounds, he began to feel human again. He had transferred coffee and hot milk into a cup and was taking a bite out of a cold dinner roll he found in the refrigerator when the kitchen telephone began to ring. He slowly chewed the roll, hoping whoever it was would give up and let him wake up in peace.
By the time the instrument had emitted a half-dozen rings, it occurred to him that it might be important. He took a sizable gulp of the coffee, then reached up and snatched the receiver from the cradle. “Hello?”
“I knew you were home,” Frank Casey’s voice said.
“Hi, Dad. Yeah, I had kind of a late night, and woke up too early. Are you free for dinner tonight?”
“You were over in Gretna last night,” his father said, ignoring his question.
Something in the tone of Casey’s voice put Farrell on his guard. “Yeah, as a matter of fact. How’d you know?”
“I’ll be there in about twenty minutes. Get yourself together so we can take a ride across the river.”
Casey’s words were casual, even polite, but Farrell noticed that he didn’t make it a request. He was telling his son that they had to go, and now. “Okay, Dad. Pull into the parking space behind the club. If I’m not there waiting for you, just come on up, the kitchen door’ll be open.”
“Okay. See you soon.”
“Right.” Farrell hung up knowing that if Casey wanted to go to Gretna, it had to be about Wisteria Mullins.
***
The early September sun was already growing hot when a gunmetal gray Chrysler sedan turned off Elysian Fields Avenue onto North Villere and parked in front of a neat white and green cottage. A neatly lettered sign hanging from a bracket read “Abraham T. Rodrigue, M.D.”
A good-looking, well-dressed man got out of the car, carefully locked the door, then walked up on the porch and unlocked the door to the cottage. It was already stuffy in there, so he spent several minutes opening the windows and turning on oscillating table fans located in all the rooms. When he had finished, he took off his jacket and hat, and carefully placed them in the closet of the room he used as an office. He heard a noise behind him and twirled quickly.
“Goodness, Dr. Rodrigue, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” The speaker was a doe-eyed young brown woman.
Rodrigue put a hand to his heart as though to still the pounding there, and a relieved smile came to his face. “It’s all right, Phyllis. I didn’t hear you.”
“Sorry I didn’t get here on time. I planned to get the place cooled off before you arrived, but my little brother woke up with a fever this morning. I waited to see if he needed to come in for a visit.”
“He’s all right, then?”
“He’s the baby and Mother still treats him that way.”
Rodrigue laughed, nodding. “That’s a common failing of older mothers. It passes when the babies grow up.”
Their chat was interrupted by the telephone in the reception room. Phyllis went to get it. Seconds later, the telephone buzzed on Rodrigue’s desk. “Yes, Phyllis?”
“A Mr. Huntsville calling. Shall I put him through?”
“Yes, please. He’s a patient from my old practice.” He waited for a moment, then the receiver clicked as the call was transferred. “Yes, Mr. Huntsville, how are you?”
“Poorly, Doc. I need some pills, and soon.”
“Well, that’s not a problem. Why don’t you drop in later this afternoon, and we’ll fix you right up.”
“Lemme call you. I’m tied up with something and might not be able to get away. You still live on North Broad?”
“Why don’t I drop them off with your friend downtown?” Rodrigue suggested. “You shouldn’t wait any longer.”
“Sure. You’re muy bueno, Doc. See ya now, hear?”
“Si, companiero. Vaya con Dios.”
Huntsville laughed as he hung up the phone.
He looked up to see Phyllis watching. “Yes, Phyllis?”
“Was that Spanish I heard you speaking? You speak it beautifully.” She looked at the handsome doctor with a glow of admiration in her eyes.
“Just something I picked up in Texas, Phyllis.”
Chapter 5
It took about an hour for Casey and Farrell to make it to the site of the Riverboat Lounge on the outskirts of Gretna. When they arrived, there were five Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Department cars, a car from the Gretna police, and an ambulance parked outside the club.
Casey pulled up between two of the Sheriff’s cars and cut the engine. He and Farrell walked toward the front door of the club where a muscular man dressed in the uniform of the Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Department waited. His gimlet eyes examined them with a decidedly unfriendly look.
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“Thanks for bringing him over, Casey. I doubt he’d have come just because I asked.”
“He didn’t refuse to come, McGee. He admits he visited the club last night.”
“That’s swell. Let’s go inside and show him what he left here.” He turned on his heel with military precision and led them through the club and up the stairs to the office. As Farrell entered the office, he felt as though he’d been dealt a blow in the chest. What was left of Wisteria Mullins was bound hand and foot to a chair. Like Linda Blanc before her, she had been stripped naked. He saw that she’d been cut—precise cuts meant to cause a maximum amount of pain. On some of the more sensitive parts of her body, it looked as though skin had been flayed from her. Farrell fought the urge to get sick.
He turned to McGee, saw the man watching him in an appraising manner. “She was alive when I left. Her bouncer, Terry, let me out.”
McGee made a clucking noise with his tongue. “Too bad Terry can’t talk to us. He’s in a coma from the beating he took. Doc’s not sure he’ll pull out of it.” He hooked his thumbs inside his Sam Browne belt and moved a bit closer to Farrell. “The cleaning people found both of ’em this morning. When the Gretna police discovered your calling card on her desk, they called me. Seems your reputation ain’t all that good in this parish.”
Farrell felt his face growing hot. He and McGee knew each other well, but there was no friendship between them. “Go on, McGee, arrest me. But you’d better have something better than my business card, because even in this hick parish the D. A. won’t indict on something that flimsy.”
McGee smiled thinly. “Okay, hot-shot. Then start convincing me. Why were you over here last night?”
Farrell looked at his father and saw Casey nodding at him. “There’s no charge against you, Wes, but you’d better tell what you know, and tell it straight.”
Farrell took in a breath and let it out slowly. “I was over here looking for a man named Luis Martinez. His girlfriend was killed in New Orleans two days ago.”
“I recognize the name,” McGee said. “Martinez is a racketeer. Casey says the Feds are looking for him.”
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