Pale Shadow

by Robert Skinner

  He cursed in a steady, monotonous voice as he carefully pumped the accelerator. As the sirens grew louder, he hit the ignition again. This time the Mercury started. With painstaking care, Martinez let in the clutch, and the coupé moved out into the street. Hugging his hurt side with his elbow, he accelerated slowly until he was up to twenty-five miles an hour.

  As he drove away from Tchopitoulas Street, he considered his options. He couldn’t go to Theron Oswald. Ozzy was so scared already he could barely breathe. Whoever was hunting him had killed Wisteria Mullins, too, so going to her nightclub was out. The nightclub made him think of Wes Farrell. Farrell was a good man to have in a fight, but his cozy relations with the cops made him a question mark.

  As the pain in his side flared, he realized his only hope was to risk going to Doc Poe. Poe, who’d lost his license to practice, still made a substantial living stitching up wounded criminals and performing abortions on prostitutes. Martinez was banking that enough money in Poe’s pocket would get him medical help and keep his mouth shut. Poe would, of course, know about his trouble with Compasso, but Poe was independent enough that he might take Martinez’s money and keep his mouth shut.

  Poe owned what had been a storefront on Prytania Street. He had bricked up the original entrance so that one could only reach his residence through a narrow alley between buildings. Martinez headed in that direction, fighting to stay conscious.

  He reached Magazine and continued northeast until he reached Seventh. He turned left at Seventh and crept through the neighborhood until he reached Prytania. He parked at the corner, cut the engine, and dragged his failing body out of the car. He peered through the darkness, discovered there were lights on in the upper story of Poe’s building. He staggered across the street, somehow made it without falling. He leaned on the doorbell button with his entire weight. After a while, he heard cursing and the fall of heavy feet coming toward him.

  “What in the particular hell do you think you’re doin’, you Goddamned drunk?” Poe demanded.

  “Not drunk, Doc. Hurt. Need help.”

  “Who…? Jesus Christ on the cross. Martinez, you must be nuts. Get outa here before—”

  Martinez poked the muzzle of his automatic through the bars and cocked the hammer. “Let me in, Doc, or I swear I’ll splatter your guts all over the alley. Don’t think I won’t do it.”

  Poe’s face went through a transformation that began at shock, continued through fear, outrage, and finally, acceptance. “You Goddamned fool. Here, lemme open the gate.” He turned a latch and pushed the gate open so Martinez could lurch inside. He nearly fell, but Poe grabbed him and began to help him down the alley. “You’re gonna pay through the nose, Luis. Askin’ me to stick my neck out like this.”

  “Sure, Doc, sure. Patch me up and I’ll get out of here. I’ll pay you plenty.” He gasped as pain washed over him, and his legs turned to rubber.

  Grumbling and griping, Poe dragged him down the alley and into the room he used for a surgery. He eased Martinez down on the operating table then cut his bloody shirt and jacket from his body. He unstrapped the holster from around Martinez’s shoulders, then plucked the cocked automatic from his fingers and set them aside. Martinez passed out during this part of the operation, allowing Poe the leisure to paint the wound area with iodine, probe for the bullet and bits of cloth that had been carried into the wound, then stitch up the hole, all without having to administer anesthesia. He gave Martinez a shot of morphine, then got some coffee to keep himself awake until Martinez returned to consciousness.

  Martinez awakened at 4:00, finding his torso wrapped in layers of white bandage. Poe sat on a stool nearby still sipping coffee.

  “So, you’ve come back to the land of the living,” Poe said. “Well, it wasn’t such a bad wound as all that.”

  “You take a slug in the guts and tell me it ain’t bad,” Martinez said bitterly. “I feel like I been kicked by a burro.”

  “I’ll bet you do at that. But the man who’s lookin’ for you will do worse if he finds you, Luis. Much worse. Rumor has it you give somebody a thumb in the eye.”

  “He’ll get more than that before I’m through. I burned up his boat tonight. That’s how I took the slug. Some guy claimed he was a cop, but he knew things a cop shouldn’t.”

  Poe put both of his hands in the air. “Don’t tell me, okay? I can still plead ignorance at this stage.” He paused to sip more of his coffee. “Y’know, he’s tearin’ the town up lookin’ for you. And so are some other people.”

  Martinez stared stupidly. “Who?”

  “Lotta people. That chick you useta run with—Jelly Some-thingerother—I forget her right name. Then there’s Farrell.”

  “Farrell? What the hell’s he want me for?”

  Poe shrugged again. “Word is, he’s lookin’ to give you a hand.”

  Martinez rubbed his face in the hope of making his brains work. “I don’t get it. I ain’t talked to Farrell in a year or more. Why’d he wanna help me?”

  Poe gave him a bored look. “I’m a doctor, not a fortune teller. I’ll tell you this much. Farrell might be the best hope you got. You can’t scare him, and he’s got some kinda in with the cops. If I was layin’ on that cot with holes shot all through me, I’d get on the phone to him. You ain’t got a lotta other people cheerin’ for you today, Louie.”

  Martinez stared at Poe with a lop-sided grin. “I get it, Doc, I’m fucked. You ain’t got to write a song about it.” He closed his eyes as a wave of pain cut through the morphine, and he took a deep breath. “Jesus. What a fuckin’ mess.”

  Poe laughed mirthlessly. “You’re gettin’ too old for this stuff, pally. If you had any sense, you’d of taken some of that money you made and retired a long time ago.”

  “Yeah.” Martinez’s voice was strained. “I could use some morphine, Doc. Gimme a shot, will ya?”

  “Sure, kid. Sure.”

  ***

  It was nearing midnight when Farrell called into Jake Broussard’s office for the fourth time. He felt his eyelids drooping, and a worse fatigue than he could ever remember. He braced his arm on the wall of the telephone booth as he listened to the line ringing.

  “Broussard Agency.”

  “It’s Farrell.”

  “Got some news, boy. One of my men has her spotted in a colored joint called the B-Sharp Club near the river end of Jackson Avenue. She’s been gabbing with the bartender for a few hours now, and according to my man they’ve been talking about Martinez. The bartender claims to know him real well. ’Course, he could be bullshittin’ her, too, hopin’ to pitch her the high hard one when he gets off work.”

  “I’m about fifteen minutes from there. I could use your help if you can get away.”

  “I can make it there in about twenty minutes. My operative is Manny Favorite. Dark brown guy about six-two, one-ninety-five. He likes pinstripe suits and derby hats.”

  “I remember him. Ex-prizefighter, right?”

  “He’s the one, and he knows you, in case I don’t get there in time. I’m leaving now.”

  “See you.” Farrell hung up and left the booth for his car. The adrenaline was humming through his veins again and his fatigue was momentarily forgotten. He wanted a cigarette, but his throat was already raw from smoking, and he doubted another one would make him feel any better.

  He left the edge of the Downtown district and traveled south until he bisected Tchopitoulas Street, then continued southeast until he neared Jackson Avenue. He turned off Tchopitoulas and slowed to a crawl. The neon sign of the B-Sharp Club was visible in the darkness, and just beyond it a car flashed its headlamps twice, and then once more. It was a signal he and Broussard had used in the old days, and he recognized it. He replied with a flash of his own as he cut his wheels into the curbing and killed his engine.

  As he got out and walked across the street, he saw the private detective approach him from the opposite direction. Broussard’s Panama hat was tipped over his left ear, and his tie was predictabl
y loose at his neck. He was about forty-five years old, a pleasant-looking man with a prizefighter’s body beginning to go to seed.

  “Man, is this like old times or what?” Broussard greeted him.

  “It’s like old times, all right. We’re sticking out our necks with no money at the end of it. Favorite still inside?”

  “Yep. How you want to play it?”

  Farrell took off his Borsalino and smoothed his hair before resettling it on his head. “We need to do this with a little finesse. I don’t want to touch off a barroom brawl and lose her in the confusion. The smart thing would be to catch her as she leaves and pick her up.”

  Broussard nodded. “Manny’ll follow her out when she comes and we can catch her between us. Unless she’s packing a bigger weapon than what’s in her dress, the three of us oughta be enough.” He leered at Farrell.

  “You knucklehead. Will you ever grow up?”

  Broussard laughed. “Never. Let’s take a load off.” He gestured toward his sedan and they went to sit down.

  They’d reminisced about scams they’d pulled back in the late ’20s and early ’30s for nearly an hour when Farrell stretched out a hand. “That’s her.” They were out of the car in less time than it takes to breathe.

  Jelly paused to fish her keys from her bag, and as she found them she felt their approach. Farrell she recognized, but not the white man with him. She turned to reenter the bar and walked right into the arms of a big brown man wearing a derby hat.

  “Don’t kick up a fuss, Margaret,” Farrell said. “I’ll tie and gag you if you make me.”

  She turned to face Farrell, her features blurred with outrage. “If you want a date, call me on the phone. I don’t care much for the hard pass.”

  “I’m looking for Luis, Margaret. So are you.”

  “So? It’s a free country.” She worked the keys between her fingers, planning to mark them up if they touched her.

  “I’m trying to keep him alive. Compasso wants him killed.”

  She snorted. “Says who?”

  Farrell shook his head. “Margaret, you’re a smart woman, so I won’t mince words with you. Everybody knows that Luis pulled some kind of fast one on Compasso and that he brought in a hitter from somewhere. The hitter’s been visiting Luis’s friends and so far two women close to him have been tortured to death.”

  She blinked. “What? What are you talking about?”

  “That’s right. Luis lived with a woman named Linda Blanc. Somebody tortured her with a hot iron to find out where Luis was. She died of heart failure. Later the killer discovered Wisteria Mullins was Linda’s cousin. He went over there and cut slices out of her until he realized she didn’t know anything, then he severed her jugular vein and let her bleed out.”

  Jelly had gone looking for Martinez for reasons she’d only half-understood at the beginning, but tonight she knew she’d been looking for something of herself, too. It came to her that she’d walked out on a man she couldn’t bend, and in penance had bound herself to a man without pity, without feelings of any kind. A wave of sadness washed over Jelly for the woman who had taken her place and died for Luis Martinez. She felt soiled, foolish, and a bit unnecessary.

  “What about it, Margaret? You want to let it go until Compasso remembers what good friends you and Luis were? There aren’t very many of us left.”

  She looked around at the three men, examining their faces. She felt no threat from any of them. Farrell looked tired, but his pale-eyed gaze was steady. “What will you do if you find Luis?” she asked.

  “That’s up to him,” Farrell replied. “He’s in trouble with the cops up to his neck, but he can deal with that when the time comes. The main thing is to make sure he lives long enough to make the decision. Compasso wouldn’t kill Luis’s friends if he didn’t mean to kill Luis, too.”

  Once again she examined each man’s face for subterfuge. She had confidence in her knowledge of men, and something in her relaxed. “All right. I’ll help you.”

  “Did the bartender tell you where Luis’s hideout is?”

  Jelly raised an eyebrow. Like many, she had often wondered if Farrell’s reputation was justified, and she began to recognize that it just might be. “He claims to know. Claims to have been there with him lots of times.” She offered Farrell a knowing grin. “Of course, he could’ve been feeding me a line. It’s been known to happen.”

  A wisp of a smile fluttered briefly across Farrell’s stern mouth. “Can you take me there?”

  “Now?”

  “The sooner the better. We don’t know whether or not Compasso’s men have been tipped off by anyone else. If I can get Luis somewhere safe, then I can deal with Compasso.”

  She nodded. “It’s a long drive. You up to it?”

  He nodded. “Jake, tell your men I said thanks. I’ll settle up with you before the week’s out.”

  “You don’t want us to come with you?” Broussard asked.

  Farrell shook his head. “I’d like you along, but Luis is trigger happy. If I show up with a carload, he might shoot first and ask questions later.” He turned to the big Negro. “Good work, Favorite. I’ll see you around.”

  “Anytime, boss.”

  “C’mon, Margaret. We can take my car.” He clapped Broussard on the shoulder, then took Jelly by the elbow and steered her across the street to his Packard. Seconds later, they headed Uptown on Jackson Avenue.

  Favorite rubbed his neck as he stared after them. “Is he as good as they say? He’s bitin’ off a mighty big chew.”

  Broussard laughed. “Yeah, he’s almost as good as he thinks he is. Let’s roll. I’m missing my beauty sleep.”

  ***

  It was nearing 1:00 AM when a telephone began to ring in a darkened bedroom. It was a private, unlisted number known only to a handful of people. A man sleeping beside the telephone snapped to consciousness, the way a trained soldier awakens at the first note of reveille, the way he always did when that particular phone sounded. His eyes glittered in the pale moonlight that seeped between the slats of the Venetian blinds over the bedroom window. His hand went unerringly to the receiver, plucking it from its cradle during the second ring.

  “Yes, what is it?” His voice was clear and bold, as though he’d been awake the entire night.

  “It’s Compasso.”

  “What is it?”

  “Martinez. He’s destroyed the hangar and most of the stockpile of counterfeit money. I’m told the police found scraps of it in the ashes and alerted the Treasury people. To keep Martinez from destroying all of it, I have sent the rest of the bills to our contact in Atlanta using the Railway Express Agency, as usual.”

  The man was silent, his eyes blinking as he considered the situation. “I see. All our efforts to mask our base of operations have been undermined, haven’t they? And we haven’t recovered the plates yet.”

  “No. But we may be able to get them without your asesino.” There was a haughty satisfaction in his voice. He resented Chavez, and resented even more the fact that the hired killer wasn’t reporting to him, personally.

  The man ignored Compasso’s resentment. “How?”

  “My woman. She used to be with Martinez. She told me she could find him. Naturally, I did not trust her. Women are rarely trustworthy in my experience.”

  The man in the bed almost smiled. He trusted few men, either. “Get to the point, man.”

  “I had two men follow her. To see where she went and who she talked to. They followed her tonight to a bar on Jackson Avenue. She talked for a long time to a Negro bartender who is a friend of Martinez’s. The bartender gave her instructions on how to find a camp Martinez has upriver in Saint Charles Parish.”

  “So that’s where he’s been hiding. No wonder none of your people could find him in the city. She has communicated the information to you, then?”

  “Outside the bar she met Wesley Farrell and some other men. My men did not hear their conversation, but she and Farrell went off together.”

 
; “I see,” the man said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You were right not to trust her. Where are they now?”

  “My men also spoke to the bartender. He did not want to repeat his directions, but he was—convinced—to be helpful. Farrell and the woman are being followed upriver now. With luck, Martinez will be at his hideout, and they can bring him—and the woman—to me.”

  “What about Farrell? I’m told he’s a dangerous man.”

  “He is only one man. And I made it clear to my men that they dare not fail me.”

  The man in the bed suppressed a sigh. Compasso’s great drawback as a leader was his belief that men could be scared into doing anything, even committing suicide, in order to escape Compasso’s wrath. “I hope you’re right. One more setback and I’m pulling out of here.”

  Compasso’s voice was silky. “In my country, one does not desert his companieros in time of trouble, amigo. If we pull out, we pull out together, entiende?”

  The man continued to rub the bridge of his nose, and when he made no reply, Compasso gently broke the connection, leaving the man to stare up into the darkness above his bed.

  Chapter 11

  Frank Casey had been routed out of bed in the small hours of the morning with the news that Detective Matt Paret had been taken to Charity Hospital with two bullets in him. Another man might’ve grumbled at being awakened, but the shooting of a cop was something he moved on. He reached the emergency room at 3:00 and was met by Sergeant Ray Snedegar.

  “Tell me what you got, Ray.” The two had worked together for fifteen years, and enjoyed an easy informality.

  “Arson near the Third District Ferry slip, boss,” the hatchet-faced detective said. “Fishing trawler set on fire. Nobody knows why Paret was there.”

  “He regained consciousness yet?”

  “No, but he ought to soon. The wounds weren’t serious enough to put him in a coma. They dug two jacketed slugs out of him, either .38 auto or 9 millimeter. Paret must’ve either crawled off the boat or was carried off by the man who shot him. There’s a blood trail leading from the gangplank to the dock.”