Casey nodded. “What was Paret working on?”
Snedegar shook his head. “Nothing that would’ve taken him to the commercial wharves. He’s part of the pawnshop detail, which is about as complicated an investigation as he could handle, his squad commander said.” He shook his head again. “Paret’s not a deep thinker, skipper. I can’t think of a major case he’s cracked.”
Casey frowned. “You’ve heard the same rumors I have.”
Snedegar’s face grew a worried look. “The clothes he wears, you can’t help thinkin’ it, but nobody’s ever caught him with his hands dirty.”
“Which means he must be a lot smarter than we’ve given him credit for. Who’s the owner of the boat?”
“The Captain of the Port says Pete McMasters.”
Casey’s head snapped up. “You recognize that name?”
“No.”
“McMasters was one of Big Tony Romero’s men. He went underground after the Feds sent Romero to Leavenworth. That boat’s been used for something besides hauling fish. Get McMasters and turn the wrecking crew loose on him. Paret wasn’t shot over a pawnshop item or a load of codfish.”
“On my way, boss. You gonna stick it out here?”
“I’ll be the first face Paret sees when he wakes up. I’ll be at the station once I’ve talked to him.”
“See you there.” Snedegar departed, leaving Casey to walk to the nursing station.
An attractive nurse with prematurely gray hair looked up at Casey with a tired smile. “Hi, Frank.”
“Hello, Julie. Still working the graveyard shift, eh?”
Her smile brightened. “One good thing about it, when I ask for a vacation, they give it to me, no questions asked. You here about the wounded detective?”
“Yeah. What can you tell me? Can I see him?”
She checked a clipboard. “Post-op report is pretty encouraging. A bullet broke two ribs and punctured his right lung, and a second bullet smashed his right shoulder. He’s hurt, but he’ll recover.”
“Can I see him?”
She cocked a skeptical eyebrow. “I don’t know what good he’ll be, but c’mon. I’ll take you to him.”
She got up from her desk and led Casey down a hall and into a small room. Paret lay on a bed with an oxygen tent over his head and upper body. Whole blood was being fed into his left arm and saline solution was going into his right. His face looked flaccid and pale. Casey winked at Julie, then pulled up a chair and drew it close to Paret’s bed. He took a cold pipe from his coat pocket, placed the stem between his teeth, then sat back to wait.
Forty minutes had gone by when a low moan reached Casey’s waiting ears. He sat up, his attention glued to Paret’s face as the man returned to consciousness, licking his dry lips, grimacing as the pain hit him.
“Paret. Matt Paret. Can you hear me?”
Paret groaned again, and with an effort, he raised his eyelids. “Cap—Captain Casey? Where’m I?”
“You’re at Charity Hospital. Who shot you, Paret?”
“Wha—?”
“You heard me, Paret. Who shot you?”
“Dunno. Dark. Hard to see.”
Casey was on his feet now, watching the wounded man’s face. “What took you to the docks last night?”
Paret was almost completely awake now, and his face froze as the import of the question hit him. “What?”
“Why were you there, Paret? You’re on the pawnshop detail. Since when does that take you to the waterfront?”
“Can’t think. Pain—real bad pain in—”
“Don’t try to bullshit me, Detective. I know just how badly hurt you are, and you’re actually in pretty good shape. You’re going to live, and if you don’t answer my questions, I’ll let Internal Affairs put you through the meat grinder. There are too many questions about you, Detective Paret. There have been ever since Joe Dante was the big noise in this town. If you want to help yourself, you’d better open up, get me?”
Paret was already pale, but as Casey spoke, his flesh blanched to the color of milk. “I—I got a tip.”
“A tip about what?”
“About Luis Martinez.” Paret’s eyes were sunken in his face, but Casey could see the fear in them.
Casey looked down at the wounded detective, fixing the man’s eyes with a cold stare. “You got a tip about Martinez, but you didn’t contact your squad commander, or Inspector Grebb? You made a decision to go somewhere in the middle of the night, with no backup, to try to arrest a known armed felon?” Casey’s teeth were bared under his red mustache. “Your boss thinks you’re pretty dumb, Paret, but I believe you’ve got more brains than that.”
Paret licked his dry lips. His left hand lay exposed on the sheet, twitching nervously. “I—I wanted to make a major case. Sure, it was stupid, but—”
“Cut it out, Paret. Let me tell you my theory. Luis Martinez has declared war on Santiago Compasso. Yesterday he burned up a building full of counterfeit money and killed three men. Now if I’m to believe you at all, Martinez burned that boat and he burned it for one reason—it belonged to Compasso, too. The skipper is an ex-rum runner named McMasters. Right now they’re frying him under a hot light at headquarters. I’ve got ten bucks that says he’ll name Compasso as the real owner of the boat.”
“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”
“Sure you do. Nobody else on this case knows the boat belongs to Compasso. The only reason you’d have been there is that you already knew it was Compasso’s boat, and you doped it out that Martinez would strike there next.” Casey laughed bitterly. “You’ve had everybody thinking you were dead weight all these years, Paret. It was a good act. Too bad you’re nothing but a cheap crook.”
“You got no right to say that. I got shot tryin’ to make an arrest and you’re givin’ me the third degree.”
Casey shook his head, his eyes gleaming malevolently. “You know what happens to cops when they get to Angola, Paret? I sent Murphy Culloz there five years ago and they had to put him in solitary to keep him alive. He got out last May, but they tell me he’s still lookin’ over his shoulder. Culloz was a saint compared to you. You’ll be up there until you’ve got a gray beard hanging to your knees, if somebody doesn’t shank you first.”
Paret’s eyes were large and sick, his mouth working as though he was about to vomit. “Awright, awright! Stop it awready. I worked for Compasso. I gave him information, did favors for him. Nothin’ big, Captain, I swear.”
“Nothing big. Tell me that when they send you upstate to work in the cane fields. Now what about Martinez?”
“Like you said. I made a guess he’d hit the boat. I tried to take him alive so I could get the plates back. Thought he’d play ball, but he threw a gasoline bomb at me. I fired. Hit him, I think, but he fired back, got me. I don’t know nothin’ after that until I wake up here.”
“Plates? What are you talking about?”
Paret looked even more diminished than before. He shook his head. “Martinez and Compasso fell out over a split. Martinez got his hands on the engravings and took off. We been tearin’ the town apart tryin’ to find him.”
“So that’s why the two women were killed? Martinez stole the plates and shut the operation down? What’s the killer’s name, Paret?”
“I dunno, Captain. Compasso brought him from outa town last month. I never seen him. Don’t even know his name.”
“I’ll bet.” Casey turned away from the wounded man. There was nothing about discovering a dirty cop to make a man feel good. “All right, Paret. You can consider yourself under arrest. I’ll have some men put on the door for your own protection and I’ll have a stenographer come in later to take your statement. I suspect it’ll take quite a while.” He left the room without looking back.
He asked a uniformed officer in the hall to take up a position at Paret’s door, then he went to find a pay phone. It was going to be a long day, but some arrests would make him feel better about it.
***
F
arrell took Jackson Avenue north until he reached Claiborne Avenue, then turned west on U. S. 90. Jelly, resting her long bare arm on the open window ledge, was silent as they slipped through the dark streets, occasionally casting a quick glance at Farrell’s expressionless face. It made her feel strange to be with him this way. He had been gracious to her when she and Luis had been together, something that clashed wildly with the reputation he had. A different woman might have been afraid.
“You wouldn’t have a cigarette, would you?” she asked. “I ran out at the bar and forgot to buy more.”
Farrell brought out his hammered silver cigarette case and popped the lid open. “Light one for me, too, will you?”
Without thinking, she put two in her mouth and set fire to them. It was only after she took one from her mouth to hand to him that she realized she’d presumed an intimacy with him that she wouldn’t even have dared with Compasso.
He took the cigarette from her and stuck it in the corner of his mouth without hesitation. “Thanks.” He drew on it, letting the smoke feather out of his nose.
She smoked in silence for a mile or two, then words rose to her lips. “You’re a funny kind of guy, Farrell.”
“Yeah. I’m taking over The Pepsodent Hour the next time Bob Hope takes a vacation.”
“Don’t treat me like I’m just some dumb twist, okay? You’re sticking your neck out with the cops for a Negro. I don’t get why you’re doing it. What’s your angle? Some of the rake-off from the scam Spanish is running? Or do you just want to stick a thumb in his eye, too?”
He cut his pale eyes at her and she felt the chill as they fell on her. “I’m trying to help Luis stay alive, and you, too. Compasso won’t like you going against him.”
That bothered her, and she sat back quickly, blinking to keep fearful tears back. It was only now that she began to feel frightened. Farrell must have felt the spike of fear rising in her, for he spoke in a soothing voice.
“Don’t worry, Margaret. Compasso will be out of business this time tomorrow. The cops are wise to him and pretty soon they’ll have enough to put him away for a hundred years. He won’t be around to bother you.”
His quiet assurance calmed her, and her boldness returned. “That’s what I don’t get. Why should you care what a colored woman thinks, or whether or not a colored man lives or dies?” She waved a dismissive hand in the air between them. “Oh, I know all about the stories they tell about the great white hope, Wes Farrell, who reaches down to help all the poor, helpless niggers in distress.” She paused, inhaled an impatient drag of smoke, using it to keep the quaver out of her voice. “White people don’t help us unless there’s an angle, so what’s yours, Farrell?”
Her frankness surprised him, as tired as he was. Men never asked him why he did the things he did. It was always the women who tried to understand, who wanted an explanation for why he behaved in ways that were inexplicable in a white man.
“I could ask you that, Margaret. You’ve got it made with Compasso. You’ve been with him a couple of years now, but you’re blowing all that up to help Luis. I was always Luis’s friend, but you walked out on him a long time ago.”
She deliberately ignored his question. “You’re probably the only man in town who still calls me Margaret. That’s what I’m talking about. I hate being called ‘Jelly,’ and for some reason you bothered to know that without me saying a word. That’s what I don’t get. A white man caring about a colored girl’s Goddamned little feelings without wanting something back for it.”
Farrell laughed softly. “Jelly’s a pretty dumb nickname. Maybe I just feel sorry for you.”
She gave him a hard stare, but decided to finally answer his question. “The reason I’m helping Luis is that I gave him a raw deal once. I hooked up with Santiago because—well, I guess it was because I knew from the beginning he was no good. When you’re with somebody like that, you can ignore almost everything he says or does because you know he doesn’t care and you don’t care either. So when the day comes, you can walk away and not feel two cents worth of regret about it.”
“And that’s what you’re doing tonight.”
“Yeah.”
“But you’re doing it for Luis, too. You still care about something, Margaret.”
She turned her head, tried to think of something to say in reply. When she couldn’t, she turned her eyes back to the road and remained silent.
Jelly had told Farrell enough of the bartender’s directions that he was able to figure a shorter route. Traveling west, he reached the village of Harahan, turning south to intersect the river road. Before long, they began to see the landmarks—the general store belonging to a man named Joe LaGrange, the burnt remains of an antebellum plantation house, and finally the two ancient oaks whose giant limbs swayed just inches from the ground around it.
“Otis said it was less than a mile from here,” Jelly said. “Somewhere on the left.”
Farrell switched on the movable spotlight attached to the door hinge and played it along the scrub across the road from them. A bit more than a half-mile beyond the oaks, he saw a pair of ruts heading off toward the river. Farrell cut his lights and eased the Packard off the road.
“Keep still,” he said softly. “Louie might just take a shot at us, and I happen to know he’s a good shot. If I tell you to get on the floor, just do it—quick.”
The brightness of the moon provided enough light to keep them on the rutted path, and a few moments later, the shack came into sight.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” he breathed.
“What now?” Jelly whispered.
“Keep still. I’m going to drive as far as I can, then get out and hail him. We’ll play it by ear from there.”
“You mean you’ll play it by ear. What if he shoots?”
“Then you’ll have to help him. I’ll be past caring.”
He got out of the car, taking a flashlight from the door pocket. He walked to within twenty feet of the shack, switched on the flashlight, and called out. “Luis—Luis Martinez. It’s Wes Farrell. Luis—I’m here to help.”
He waited for a moment then advanced slowly on the rude cabin, letting the flashlight beam light his path. When he reached the door, he stepped to the side, rapped on the door, and called out again. When nothing happened, he pushed the door open and flashed the light around inside. “Come on up. It’s empty,” he called.
Jelly left the car and tottered over the rough ground to the cabin door on her high heels. “Damn. These shoes are worthless out here,” she hissed. She went in behind him and waited for him to light a kerosene lamp. It bathed the interior in an anemic yellow glow that wasn’t quite sufficient to light the gloomy corners. “Jesus wept,” she said. “What a dump.” She wrinkled her nose at the musty smell. “It smells like an animal pen in here.”
“Baby, you’ve lived one hell of a sheltered life. I know Negro families back in town who’d think this was a palace.” He poked around the room until he found the saucepan with the remains of Martinez’s hasty supper. He sniffed it, touched the bottom and then rubbed his fingers together. “He’s been here, and not long ago, either. Not more than a few hours.”
“There’s his suitcase.” Jelly pointed at the foot of the cot. “It’s got his initials on it.”
Farrell slapped his leg impatiently. “Where the hell are you, Louie? This is a rotten time to go missing.”
“He’s bound to come back,” Jelly said. “Probably everything he’s got is under this roof.”
“If he’s able. If he went back to town to give Compasso another hotfoot, he may not be able to come back. Each time he goes into the city he takes a bigger risk.”
She folded her arms beneath her breasts and poked around the room, thinking. She took a breath, then looked back at him. “Then you should go back to town and keep looking for him. I’ll wait here, and if he shows up, I’ll convince him to come in to you.”
Farrell regarded her solemnly as he rubbed the stubble growing on his
chin. “I don’t like it. This is no game, Margaret. Don’t forget, somebody’s already killed two women to get to Luis. It’s too big a risk.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “I don’t expect you to understand this, but I owe Luis. I was a spoiled, rotten little bitch when I walked out on him. Maybe if I’d stayed with him, he wouldn’t be in this mess now.”
“You don’t know that. When a man and a woman split up, there’s usually blame on both sides. He wouldn’t want you to risk your life.”
She was exhausted and didn’t have the strength to talk much more. “I’m staying. Just go and find him, if you can. Come back and get me later today. It’s a way to cover all the bases, Farrell. It makes sense and you know it.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but he was tired, too. He stalked out of the house without another word. He was back in a couple of minutes with something in his hand. “Here. Take this and keep it with you.” He opened his hand and a small black .32 Colt revolver lay in it. “If somebody besides Luis comes in, get your back to a wall and squeeze the trigger until it’s empty, you understand?”
Reluctantly, she took the gun, looking at it as though it were an unexpected bill. “I’m not crazy about this.”
Farrell snorted. “We’re even. I’m not crazy about leaving you here. Be safe, Margaret. Don’t take any chances. I’ll be back before nightfall.” He turned and walked out of the shack, and a moment later, she heard the Packard roar into life, and gradually fade away.
She looked down at the gun, and for the first time, felt terribly afraid. She sat on the cot with the pistol in her lap, her eyes moving from one dark corner to another, until, exhausted, she lay down and fell into a deep sleep.
***
The news that the Treasury Department had recognized New Orleans as the probable distribution point for the counterfeit money put Compasso into an unusually introspective mood. Even if Dixie Ray Chavez or his own men found Martinez and retrieved the plates, the operation in this part of the country was pretty well finished. His silent partner was aware of that, too, or he wouldn’t be talking about leaving. There was the chance, too, that the police might get their hands on Martinez before anyone else.
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