“The Feds?” Farrell looked at his father.
“That’s right,” Casey affirmed. “They think he’s involved in a counterfeiting racket.”
Light bloomed on in Farrell’s mind. That explained the presence of Compasso and a gang of outsiders. “Do you know who Martinez is working for?”
McGee’s lip curled. “What’re you, Farrell, an apprentice G-Man? You’re here to answer questions, not conduct a separate investigation. And while we’re on the subject, why are you looking for this Martinez character?”
Farrell cut his eyes at his father and saw nothing there. It seemed clear that neither of them knew of Martinez’s connection to Santiago Compasso. “It’s a personal matter. I’m trying to get a message to him from a relative in Texas.” He got out his cigarette case and offered it to McGee, who stared at him intently before taking one. Farrell put a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and took out his lighter. He used it on McGee’s cigarette before lighting his own. “Here’s something for you to think about, Lieutenant. I used to know Martinez pretty well. He’s an organizer, a guy who puts things and people together, then sets a plan in motion. He’s never the big boss, but he’s the kind of guy every big boss wants, a ramrod who can recruit, plan, and execute.”
McGee drew on the cigarette as he listened, not interrupting. It was obvious that Farrell’s theory interested him. Casey, too, was listening.
“Wisteria Mullins was the cousin of Linda Blanc, Martinez’s woman,” Farrell continued. “This kind of torture is gangland stuff, probably to get information.”
“Unless it’s just some psycho,” McGee said.
“Some psycho who deliberately tortured two women connected to Luis? I don’t think so. Martinez is in hot water with somebody, and whoever killed these women is scouring the city for him, going to people who know Luis well and trying to force his whereabouts out of them.”
Casey nodded, fingering his chin, and McGee frowned thoughtfully as he drew on the cigarette again, his eyes focused somewhere beyond Farrell. Casey finally spoke.
“Since you know him so well, that could mean you, Wes.”
Farrell nodded slowly. “If it’s true, the best thing I can do is keep looking for Martinez until I find him.”
McGee crushed the butt of his cigarette in an ashtray and looked up at Farrell. “And we just sit around waiting for the killer to strike again? Nuts.”
Farrell moved closer to McGee, looking him straight in the eye. “Listen, McGee, if I’m standing under the headsman’s axe, too, there’s no better man to find Martinez than me. If I find him, I’ll give him to you. It may be the only way to keep him from getting killed.”
McGee could not quite believe Farrell, but there was doubt in his eyes. He looked at Casey questioningly.
Casey tugged thoughtfully at his earlobe. “I think he’s talking straight, McGee. He’s never lied to me, and he’s figured things out that the entire Detective Bureau couldn’t see through. My suggestion is leave him free to move around. What have you got to lose?”
The deputy looked at Farrell again, his arms folded across his broad chest. “Okay, Farrell. Casey’s word is good enough for me. I want the guy who did this, you understand? Her being a Negro, maybe it looks like something we’d shove into the wastebasket and forget, but that’s not the way I do things. Anybody gets killed in my parish, white, black, or Indian, somebody pays for it.”
Casey grinned. “Get in line. We want the guy, too.”
“We’ll dope that out when the time comes. You can go, Farrell, so long as Casey’s responsible for you.”
“Swell. I’ll keep in touch.” Farrell took off his hat and smoothed his hair under it. “Can you get me back across the river, Frank?”
“I brought you here, so I guess so. So long, McGee.” He turned and Farrell followed him out of the club.
When they were back in Casey’s squad car and on their way back to the Algiers Point Ferry, Casey glanced over at his son. “Okay, now that we’re alone, why don’t you tell me what you didn’t tell McGee?”
Farrell tipped his hat onto the back of his head and leaned his elbow on the open window ledge. “All I’ve got is a rumor that Martinez is working for Santiago Compasso.”
“Who’s he?”
“He’s from Argentina originally,” Farrell replied. “He moved into Miami in 1927 and cut himself a slice of the booze racket there. In time he controlled about a third of what came in and went back out. They ran him out of south Florida a couple of years ago, and he operated mainly between Mobile and Pensacola for a while. His operation was mostly narcotics, illegal gambling, and prostitution. Last night I discovered he’d sneaked into New Orleans and set up shop with Martinez.”
“So you think this counterfeiting ring is Compasso’s?”
“The evidence leans that way, but what I know about Compasso makes me wonder. Compasso got everything he ever had with a gun. He’s tough and he doesn’t scare. But counterfeiting is a different game. It requires subtlety, planning and patience, all things Compasso’s short on.”
“But you said Martinez was the organizer, the man who puts the people together with the plan. Maybe Compasso’s using him for the brains and subtlety.”
Farrell frowned and shook his head. “I wonder. Successful counterfeiting requires a steady hand over a long haul. Luis could put the gang together and get it started, but he’d never hang around long enough to see it through. And Compasso wouldn’t be able to run it by himself.”
Casey grunted. “So who’s the guiding hand? And why is he calling attention to himself with all this killing?”
Farrell shook his head again. “Something’s off the rails. The killing has Compasso’s name written all over it, but there’s somebody above him. Somebody who’s probably very worried about his operation falling apart.”
“You going to tell the Treasury boys what you know?”
“Give me twenty-four hours, Dad. If I tell Ewell, the first thing he’ll to do is put surveillance on Compasso and a tap on his phone. I want him free, because he’s clumsy and impatient. He’ll make a mistake soon.”
Casey sighed. Farrell’s way went against his instincts, but he trusted his son enough to go along with him. “What will you do in the meantime?”
Farrell shrugged. “I’ll go around making a nuisance of myself. Sooner or later, somebody will get careless or reckless, and I’ll be there. But Luis is the key. If I can find him, I’ll find out what this is all about.”
***
“Damn,” Fred grumbled. “I reckon we drove a hundred miles and walked another fifty in the last two days.”
“And talked to about a thousand Cheniers,” Marcel added. “You’d think one of them would have a relative named Albert, even if he was dead.”
It was late afternoon, and both men were tired and hungry. Fred got an idea.
“Ya know, we covered New Orleans, but it might be this Chenier’s from out in the sticks ’round here. Maybe he only tells people he’s from New Orleans, ’cause it’s easier than sayin’ he’s from Jefferson Parish or St. Bernard Parish. Nobody outside the state ever heard a’ them places, but everybody knows New Orleans, man. They know us in Siberia.”
Marcel chucked softly. “Yeah, ‘the city that care forgot.’ I met a girl from up in Ohio once who was disappointed to find out we don’t hold Mardi Gras every few weeks.” Both men laughed aloud at that, then Marcel made a suggestion. “Let’s head out to Avery’s joint over in Jeff Parish. We’re not too far from there now.”
“Yeah, and he’ll have some crab gumbo on the stove.”
“Always thinking of your stomach. Yeah, I’m hungry, too. Let’s go.”
About twenty minutes later, they crossed the parish line on Jefferson Highway, and another ten minutes later, they were driving down a marl road that ran north of the highway. Soon they saw the low, squat building where Avery and his partner, an ex-bank robber named Ernie Le Doux, operated their honky-tonk. The hot sun was just beginning to fall, bu
t already the French doors were folded back all along the gallery and people could be seen gathering around the openings. Fred parked his Chevrolet Straight-8 between a pair of aging jalopies, then the two young men walked through the grass to one of the open doors.
Inside, a bluesman who went by the name of Charlie Boy White lazed in a ladderback chair plucking chords out of his battered Gibson while a few men and women idled nearby with their Mason jars of beer, some of them already snapping their fingers and rolling their hips to the music. Avery leaned against the wall behind the bar beside Ernie Le Doux, each of them watching the crowd for trouble. Every juke joint has its share of trouble, but they were both rough men. It was a rare visitor who was dumb enough to cut up in their place more than once.
“Evenin’, fellas,” Marcel said, touching two fingers to the brim of his Stetson.
“Hey, li’l brutha,” Le Doux rumbled. “How’s it hangin’, Fred?”
“Ain’t seen you fellas out here in a while,” Avery said. “Makin’ too much money to come out and spend any?”
“You know how it is. Every year I seem to have more business than the year before, and less time to kick up my heels. You got any crab gumbo for a couple of hungry men?”
“Pull up a stool,” Avery said. “I’ll dish some up. Give these boys a beer, Ernie.”
Marcel and Fred each pulled up stool to the bar and eased a hip over it as Le Doux drew two beers. Marcel took off his hat, placed it on the bar beside him, and ran his fingers through his light brown curls. A moment later, Avery returned with a tray bearing two thick china bowls full of fragrant stew, a dish of soda crackers, and spoons.
“Lawd have mercy,” Fred said. “Y’all sure make a fine gumbo. Let me at it.”
As Fred tore into his food, Marcel tasted his in a more leisurely fashion. After a couple of bites, he said, “Tell me, you boys know any Cheniers?”
Le Doux laughed. “That’s like askin’ how many Smiths we know. Which one?”
“The one I’m looking for is Albert.”
Both Le Doux and Avery scratched their chins as they looked quizzically at each other.
“I recollect an Alfred, but he’s about seventy years old,” Avery said.
“The fellow I’m after can’t be more than thirty or thirty-five. Take a look at these.” He reached inside his jacket for Marta’s snapshots and laid them on the bar.
The two older men put their elbows on the bar as they intently studied the shapshots.
“Chenier, you said.” Avery stepped back and rubbed the back of his neck with a meaty palm. “He don’t even look like none of the Cheniers I know of.”
Marcel shifted his gaze to Ernie Le Doux, who had straightened up, his left eyebrow raised dubiously. “It ain’t a very good picture, but if it’s who I think it is, his name ain’t Albert nor Chenier.”
Marcel felt a ripple of electricity dance its way up his spine. “Who is it, then?”
“When I was in the stir, back in 1926, there was a seventeen-year-old kid in there, shared the cell with a man I knew. Kid was in there for some kind of con—I forget which—but he looked like this fella one hell of a lot.”
“What was his name?”
“They called him ‘Keys’. Said he could look at you for the first time and know what it’d take to unlock your heart and your wallet. His right handle was Wilbur Lee Payne. He was a hell of a smart kid. Claimed to have studied in some Negro college for a coupla years. Read books all the time.”
Marcel sat up straight, his hands flat on the bar. “What else do you remember about him?”
“Like I say, he was one hell of a smart kid. He had one a’ them photographic memories. Once I let him look at a page of a magazine I was readin’, and I’ll be Goddamned if he didn’t repeat it word-for-word without a single mistake.”
Fred swallowed a mouthful of gumbo and soda crackers. “’Pears we been askin’ after the wrong man all day, Marcel. This Wilbur’s liable to be layin’ up on Rampart or runnin’ a con out in Gentilly somewhere.”
Marcel rubbed the back of his neck. “Sounds like you knew this fellow pretty good, Ernie. What else do you remember about him?”
Le Doux squinted at the ceiling as he thought. “Kid was a talker, I remember that. Claimed his daddy was a white man and that he was born in Haiti. Told stories about travelin’ by ship all over the Caribbean Sea, visitin’ islands and such. Said he could cast voodoo spells, too.” Ernie turned his gaze back to them, smiling. “He kept his nose clean, though, and they let him out at the end of ’27. Ain’t heard a word about him since.”
“Marta said he worked in a pharmacy with her. That’s a poor living for a guy as smart as you say he is.”
Ernie shrugged. “He mighta just been layin’ low over there, makin’ enough to keep a roof over his head while he figured out a new con.”
Fred shrugged. “Or he come here just to get away from Miss Marta.”
Marcel nodded. “He wouldn’t be the first to pull that trick.”
“Who’s this Marta y’all keep talkin’ about?” Avery demanded.
Fred grinned. “She’s this sweet young thing from Brownsville. She thought this Albert/Wilbur fella was gonna marry her, but he up and run off to New Orleans. Some good friend of Marcel’s told her to come up and see him, that he’d work a miracle for her and find this fella.”
A booming laugh escaped Ernie Le Doux’s massive chest. “Boy’s a reg’lar social worker, by Jesus.” He laughed again, with everyone except Marcel joining in. He was already thinking ahead to the next step in the search.
“This is the first real lead we’ve had today, Ernie. It explains why nobody knows an Albert Chenier.”
Fred scraped the last of the gumbo from his bowl and put it into his mouth, then pushed the bowl and spoon away from him. “What now, boss?”
Marcel, who had been eating as he listened, pushed his own bowl away and blotted his lips on a paper napkin. “Go back to town, I guess. Thanks fellas, for the food and the information. The day’s not a total loss, after all.”
Ernie held up his hand as he saw Marcel reach for his wallet. “The grub’s on the house, li’l brutha. It’s good seein’ you boys again. Come on back and let us know what you find out. I wouldn’t mind talkin’ to ole Wilbur again. He was an entertainin’ kid, even if I did think he was fulla shit most of the time.”
Fred let loose a guffaw as he and Marcel crawled off their stools and departed as small knots of people entered the honky-tonk to hear Charley Boy White sing the blues.
***
Marston Leake was still in his office at First National when the telephone rang. He picked up the receiver and heard the operator’s voice.
“Mr. Leake, we’ve got your Atlanta party on the line.”
“Put him on,” the white-haired banker said.
“Hello, Marston. How are you, old timer?”
Leake’s face betrayed no particular pleasure at the greeting. “I’ve had Treasury people crawling all over my bank, that’s how I am.”
“I heard. It’s the same here. They’re like a nest of angry bees. The governors at Federal Reserve, too.”
Leake snorted. “Good. Anything that stirs up that pack of hide-bound old goats is music to my ears.”
“Still holding a grudge, eh, Marston?”
“Still. But that’s not why I called. Do they know anything over there yet?”
“If they do,” the other man replied, “they’re keeping it damn close to the vest. They’d behave that way whether they knew anything or not, as you well know.”
Leake grunted. “If there’s any change, call me, day or night, you understand? We might have to move quickly.”
“You’re the boss, Marston. See you.” The man hung up.
Leake placed his receiver carefully back in the cradle, then opened his desk drawer. He pushed a .380 Colt automatic aside in order to retrieve a small leather-bound notebook. He opened the book, made some quick notations, then put the notebook back. He took out the
gun, placed it inside his jacket, then closed and locked the desk. He sat there thinking for a long moment before getting up and leaving the office for the day.
***
The woman called Jelly Wilde had lived several lifetimes in her thirty-one years. She had run away from home at the age of fourteen after she tired of fending off the unwanted advances of her brother and male cousins. By the time she ended up in New Orleans, she was five years older chronologically and about thirty in experience.
She’d embarked on a series of domestic jobs that had almost always included sleeping with the master of the house when the wife was away. The first had been a young-hearted fellow of forty who’d taught her every way to please a man that he could think of before his wife and sister caught them in the act one day. She got away with a couple hundred dollars and the realization that certain men would go to extraordinary lengths to have sex with a woman like her.
She went along that way for some time, doing well for herself until one day she allowed herself to be picked up by a good-looking, slick-talking young man who went by the name of Georgie Sam McGuire. Georgie Sam carried gold all over his body: stickpin, watch chain, cuff links, and even in his teeth. The overall impression was that of a man who knew where he was going and what he’d do when he got there.
Within a few weeks, she learned that all that glittered with Georgie Sam wasn’t gold. His gold jewelry turned out to be mostly gold plated, and even the five-dollar gold piece on his watch chain was no more than a gold-plated “racketeer” nickel. Apparently the gold in his teeth was real, but that was as authentic as Georgie Sam got.
Worse yet, he was a drug addict. It was a rare night he didn’t get tuned up on nose candy, and when he did, he was apt to do anything. She wanted to get away, but Georgie Sam had already gotten his hands on most of her money and spent it on heroin or cocaine.
Necessity is the mother of invention, and one day Georgie Sam hit upon a foolproof scheme to keep them in eating money and nose-candy. Jelly would go into a honky-tonk and look for someone in the advanced stages of a good time. She would then insinuate herself into this gentleman’s good graces, and proceed to get him blind drunk. When he was drunk enough to be pliant, she’d coax him outside with the promise of fucking his eyeballs out in the back seat of his car. Of course, when the love-starved drunk got outside the tavern, Georgie Sam would be waiting with a sap, and down would go the unlucky suitor.
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