Pale Shadow

by Robert Skinner

  Farrell drove in the direction of the Mississippi River, and when he reached it, he followed it down into the warehouse district. As he drew abreast of a huge brick building bearing a peculiar Oriental symbol, he pulled to the curb, cut the engine, and got out of the car. He walked around the corner, halting at a door set into a frame of granite blocks. His finger went unerringly to a hole that was centered waist-high in one of the bricks. He pushed the button set into it, then stood there waiting. A few moments later, the door opened and a large bald man stood there. He was dressed in a striped sailor’s singlet and faded canvas trousers.

  “I want to see Sparrow,” Farrell said.

  The bald man glared at him for a moment, and when Farrell didn’t shrink from his gaze, he jerked his chin and stepped aside for Farrell to enter. The bald man led Farrell through a maze of corridors, occasionally passing open doors through which Farrell could see men gambling, others engaged in wrestling or bare-knuckled fighting, or dancing women dressed only in bracelets and nail polish. Sparrow’s joint was known from Mississippi to Malaysia as a place where a man could get whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, if he had the price.

  Eventually they halted before a heavy door. The man opened the door and disappeared inside. Seconds later, he reopened the door, jerked his chin at Farrell again, then allowed him inside before departing and closing the door firmly behind him.

  Sparrow sat, as usual, in a high-backed mahogany chair that might’ve been some primitive king’s throne. Her black hair was cut short, in the Chinese style, and she wore the same kind of plain black silk dress with white piping favored by young Chinese women. Her sallow skin and bold, handsome features were those of a Jew or an Arab, Farrell had never known which. She was as likely to greet you with the Muslim Inshalla as with the Yiddish shalom.

  Farrell removed his hat and walked toward her, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the aroma of incense that hung in the room like a flickering memory of some ancient time. “Good afternoon, Sparrow.”

  “Good afternoon, Farrell. I’ve not seen you in a while. Are you well?”

  “Quite well, thanks.”

  “I’ve heard that you might leave us for Cuba. That would be a pity. You’re as much a part of this strange city as the river.”

  Farrell didn’t blink at her knowledge of his private life and plans. She knew a lot of things, and that was the reason he’d come to her. “If I leave, it’ll be only for a few months out of the year. As you say, the city and I sort of belong to each other. I could never leave it entirely.”

  “Not for love nor money,” she said, nodding wisely. “What brings you here so early in the day? You’re more a creature of the night, Farrell.”

  “I’m trying to find a man before someone else does. He’s in a lot of trouble.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Luis Martinez.”

  She nodded. “I’ve heard some things about him. His woman was tortured to death. Another day passed and her cousin was also tortured to death. That’s a heavy price to pay for a relationship.” She paused and studied his face. “You and Martinez used to smuggle liquor together.”

  “That’s right,” Farrell replied. “We were as close as brothers once, but I haven’t spoken to him in a year. I’m told he’s gone underground.”

  A smiled traced itself across her thin lips for a brief second, then her face settled into its usual expression of unconcern. “Why are you such a boy scout, Farrell? Let Martinez take care of his own trouble. Whoever killed those women could just as easily kill you.”

  “Why isn’t really the question anymore,” Farrell said, settling into his chair. He had known Sparrow for a while, and he knew that part of getting her help sometimes meant enduring a philosophical sparring match. She was a woman of strange tastes. “He’s mixed up with a counterfeiting ring run by a man named Compasso. If Compasso doesn’t get him, the Feds might. Maybe I just don’t like the odds.”

  She studied him as she fingered her delicately chiseled chin. “It’s more than that with you. You don’t know what it is, but it eats away at something in you, and you can’t ignore it. It must be uncomfortable for you at times.”

  “Maybe. I never gave it much thought.”

  She laughed softly, the noise like a ghostly echo in the big room. “I don’t believe you. What do you want?”

  “I can’t help Martinez if I can’t find him. You’ve got eyes and ears in the city and in the surrounding parishes. Somebody has to have seen him.”

  She lowered her eyelashes and examined the rose-colored polish on her fingernails. “I’ll put out the word, but I can’t promise anything. What can you tell me about him?”

  “He’s about five-ten, stocky build, black hair, deep olive complexion. He’s a Mexican, with Indians and Negroes in his family tree, but he looks more like a movie show vaquero than anything else. He wore a mustache the last time I saw him.”

  “How old is he?”

  “He’d be in his late forties by now, maybe fifty.”

  “That’s not much to go on. Why does Compasso want to kill him?”

  “I’m told that Martinez felt Compasso was short-changing him. He wanted a bigger cut. Compasso wouldn’t give it to him. Luis isn’t the kind of fool to pick a fight he can’t win. He looks for a subtle way to hurt an enemy. If I know him at all, I’m betting he’s done something to gum up the works. Somehow prevented the phony money from getting into the pipeline.”

  She lowered her eyelashes and nodded. “That makes sense. And Compasso is fighting the only way he knows how, destroying everything his enemy holds dear until he buckles from the pain of it.”

  This revelation intrigued Farrell. “You know Compasso, then.”

  She nodded briefly. “Yes. When I heard he was in town, I told friends to listen to the whispers that I knew would rise around him. You are the first person to explain the existence of a counterfeiting ring to me. That is a far more complex crime than he is used to executing. He is a thief by trade, not a criminal mastermind. For example, there’s been no real traffic in counterfeit money in this city. I find that significant.”

  Farrell squinted, as though he could force his mind to see into Sparrow’s. “I didn’t know that. What does it mean?”

  “Think about it, Farrell. If you don’t spread funny money around the town where you make it, the Treasury people won’t look for you in that town, will they?”

  Farrell’s eyes widened as the implication struck home. “You’re right. That’s as slick as an onion. It would take a sharp bird to think of that angle.”

  “Yes, and you and I both know that Compasso is neither ‘slick as an onion’ nor a particularly ‘sharp bird.’ That can only mean one thing.”

  Farrell unconsciously leaned toward her, his ears straining to hear the sibilant texture of her words. “Tell me.”

  “It is rumored that Compasso might not be the true head of his own organization. He is used to bossing a criminal gang, yes, but he is not a subtle man. His role is strictly that of a figurehead. He draws attention away from the organization’s true purpose by dealing in the things he understands, narcotics, women, illegal gambling.”

  Those words struck Farrell like a thunderbolt. “This is a lot more complicated than I realized. A gang made of outsiders, a crime that almost nobody realizes, and now a top man with no face.”

  “And likely Martinez is, but for Compasso and his boss, the only one who knows all. He is a threat to the gang on more than one level.”

  The words brought Farrell’s attention back to Sparrow’s face. “Luis had a saying—‘luck is where you find it, but I always look for mine down by the river.’ I have no idea what that means, if it means anything. Luis is a gambler, and all gamblers have a saying. It’s like a trademark.”

  “More likely a mantra,” Sparrow said.

  “A what?” Farrell gave her a blank look.

  She smiled enigmatically. “Forget it. It wouldn’t mean a thing to you. I’ll do what I can and get i
n touch if I learn anything.” She paused as he got to his feet. “Your visit explains the significance of one other piece of gossip that came to me earlier today.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re not the only person asking around for Martinez. Besides the police and the killer, there’s a woman. She goes by the rather theatrical name of Jelly Wilde. Do you know her?”

  Farrell blinked. “She and Luis were lovers once, a long time ago.”

  “Yes, but these days she’s the mistress of Santiago Compasso.”

  Farrell felt a chill run down his spine, but he kept it from his face. “Compasso may be smarter than we think.”

  Sparrow shook her head negatively. “I think not. He is contemptuous of everyone but himself. I do not know this woman, but I’ll venture she looks for Martinez for her own reasons, although that may not be to Martinez’s advantage.”

  “Thank you, Sparrow. I’d better be on my way.”

  “Farrell, I normally expect some tribute from you at times like this, but for once I’ll forgo that pleasure and simply tell you to be careful. The other side of the world is on fire now, but evil energy is in the air even here. This will test your luck, my friend.”

  Sparrow liked riddles, but she had never given him such an explicit warning. “I hear you.”

  “Go with God, Farrell. We’ll speak again.”

  He touched two fingers to the brim of his hat, and left the room with her words ringing in his ears.

  ***

  Frank Casey parked his squad car about thirty yards from the burned-out airplane hangar and walked slowly toward a knot of men standing near the red hook-and-ladder truck. The stench of burning wood and heated metal was everywhere and the air was full of ash being blown about by winds off Lake Pontchartrain. Someone heard his approach and at a word, the knot of men turned to face him.

  “It’s an arson job, Skipper,” a hefty white man in his shirtsleeves said. “Some of the firemen have found shards of broken glass with gasoline residue on them.”

  “Who does the building belong to, Grebb?” Casey asked.

  “We’re still checking on that,” Inspector Grebb replied. “They’ve found the remains of three bodies inside—two of ’em burnt to a crisp, but there’s enough to identify all three. There’s also enough to see they’re all dead from shotgun blasts to the body. Delgado’s already found brass from several shotgun shells in there.”

  “So we’ve got a triple murder as well as arson,” Casey said. “That makes it somebody a lot more serious than just a firebug. You find any witnesses yet?”

  Grebb shook his head. “This place is a mile from the airfield, and there’s nobody living close enough to’ve seen or heard anything. The killer had a free hand and all the time in the world to get his work done. It’s gotta be a mob hit.”

  Casey looked past Grebb at the smoldering building. “Yeah, but what mob? Why would anybody burn down an old airplane hangar? If they wanted to cover the murders, you’d think they would’ve done a better job of burning up the evidence. I don’t know.” He shook his head and began walking closer to the hangar.

  Firefighters knocked away loose flammable material while others dragged smoldering objects out of the hangar to wet them down. Casey loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar. Sweat was gathering on his brow and it trickled down his back while he made a slow circuit of the hangar, poking his toe at various objects he came across.

  As he approached the far end of the structure, a gust of wind blew ashy flakes toward him. There was something about them that arrested him. He stared for a moment then reached out and caught one. He brought it to eye level. It took him only a second to realize it was the corner of a twenty-dollar bill. He looked down at the ground around him, and he saw other pieces of money.

  His head snapped up. “Grebb! Grebb—over here.” He removed his hat and waved it in the air. Grebb and two other plainclothesmen came at the double.

  “What is it, chief?”

  “Get some men to gathering up as many of these as you can find.” He thrust the corner of the burned bill into the inspector’s hand. “The ground’s covered with them, and there may be more partially burned stuff inside. Get the firemen to help you. See if there’s more in there that wasn’t incinerated. Step on it, before the wind scatters it.”

  Grebb sent a man back to the fire captain at a run while he and the other shirt-sleeved detectives got down on their knees and began picking up every fragment they could find, transferring them to envelopes they pulled from their pockets. Casey jogged back to his squad car and got on the radio to headquarters. In about ten minutes, he had established a connection to Treasury Enforcement and had Paul Ewell on the line.

  “Listen, Paul. I’m out a bit past Shushan Airfield where there’s been an arson fire at an airplane hangar. There were three dead men inside, and we’re finding bits of burned money. I think there’s a possible connection to your case.”

  “Any identification on the dead men?” Ewell asked.

  “Not yet, but we should be able to get some prints at the morgue.”

  “Give us a half-hour. We’ll see you out there.”

  Casey signed off with headquarters then leaned against the fender of the car as he fanned himself with his hat. He thought about his son, and for some reason recalled Farrell’s promise to turn Luis Martinez over to the police. Casey wondered how he’d tell Farrell that Martinez might have killed three men in cold blood.

  ***

  Marcel left Xavier University and returned to the house on Soraparu Street with his mind buzzing. He recognized that what he and Dr. Samson had discussed was pure supposition, but the scenario had merit that Marcel couldn’t deny. Marcel was well enough educated to recognize the power a title like “Doctor” had for less sophisticated people. He had heard a sufficient number of stories from the old days in which a snake oil salesman worked his way through the community by calling himself Doctor this or Doctor that. A well-dressed man with a slick line of jive could go a long way, even today.

  Marcel reached his office and sat down at the desk, pondering his next move. More than anything else in the world, he wanted to talk to someone who’d actually known Wilbur Lee Payne—someone who could have observed him in a disinterested way. Ernie Le Doux’s remark that Wilbur Payne had always ‘had his nose in a book’ gave him an idea. He had been involved in some things up in East Feliciana Parish a year before, and during that time he’d been thrown together with someone who might be able to help him.

  He picked up his telephone receiver and got the long distance operator on the line, giving her the number for Angola State Penitentiary. After a few moments, he heard the line begin to buzz through the static in the line. After four buzzes, a man spoke.

  “State Penitentiary. How can I direct your call?”

  “I’d like to speak to the librarian, please.” There was a series of clicks on the line before a woman spoke.

  “Prison library. Mrs. Albertine speaking.”

  “Miss Roberta? It’s Marcel Aristide in New Orleans.”

  “Marcel? My land, boy. What you doin’ makin’ a long distance call this time of the day? You made of money?”

  “I’ll write it off as a business expense, Miss Roberta. I need some help from you.”

  The old woman picked up the urgent note in his voice and replied to him crisply. “Tell me what kind.”

  “About twelve years or so back, there was a young Negro imprisoned up there by the name of Wilbur Lee Payne. You might know him by his underworld handle, Keys.”

  “Oh, yes. I recollect those names,” she replied thoughtfully. “He spent about three years up here altogether.”

  “I’ve got some good reason to believe he might be here in New Orleans workin’ a scam of some kind.”

  She snorted humorously. “That sounds like the boy I remember. He was a honey-talking thing, when he didn’t have his nose buried in a book.”

  “A reader, eh?”

  “Oh, yes.
It seemed to be the only thing he cared about. Right after he came, he behaved himself and managed to get assigned to me in the library, and did he ever take advantage of that.”

  “Is that so? In what way?”

  “Well,” she began, “he seemed bent on improving himself. He read books on English grammar. Got to talking like a city man after a while. But then he got interested in science. He read all the books on biology and chemistry.”

  Marcel found himself smiling. “How about medical books?”

  “Well, we didn’t have too many of them, but I was able to get some for him. Read those books from cover to cover. He would even talk over with me things he’d learned, and a lot of it was over my head, I can tell you faithfully. By the time they released him, I realized what a remarkable mind he had. He could literally have been anything, Marcel.” She paused for a moment as though remembering Wilbur Payne’s wasted genius. “You think he’s in N’Awlins?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid so. Let’s keep that between us, okay? How are the kids?”

  “Oh, surely. Betsy’s in the tenth grade now, and Robert’s hoping to go to Tuskeegee next summer. They’re both doing fine. I’ll tell ’em you asked. I think Betsy’s still in love with you, even though I told her you were nothing but a disreputable vagabond. You can’t tell young gals anything.”

  “Young fellas, neither,” he said. “Thank you for the information, Miss Roberta. Let me know what I can do to return the favor, you hear?”

  “I can do ten years of favors for you and still not pay you back for what you did for us last year. ’Bye, now.”

  “Goodbye.” Marcel hung up the telephone and sat back in the chair. Well, he thought, you won’t get any better confirmation than that. Now, how to find a phony Negro doctor in a city with a half-million people? Then he remembered having done a favor for a young Negro police officer. It was time to call the favor in.