“You don’t understand,” Evangeline said. “He doesn’t mean to hurt me, he just gets a little carried away sometimes.”
“Would you like me to have a little talk with him?” Hawke asked.
“No no,” Evangeline said animatedly. “I mean, it’s sweet of you, but….”
“What you are saying is, you don’t think he would listen to me?”
“No, I…I didn’t mean that, exactly. But you are just a piano player and…uh,” Evangeline started, then she stopped. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean any offense.”
“No offense taken,” Hawke said. He finished his coffee, then put it on the table. “I’d better get back to work,” he said.
“Hey, piano player, where you been?” one of the visitors called when Hawke returned. “How ’bout playing some music so as to get some of these women in the mood?”
“Hell, Gus,” one of the other men said. “If you can’t get a whore in the mood with two dollars, there ain’t no music goin’ to do it for you.”
The parlor erupted in laughter.
Chapter 9
A PIECE OF BREAD LAY ON THE DOCKS, WET AND sodden. A rat, its beady eyes alert for danger, darted out of a warehouse, grabbed the piece of bread, then darted back inside.
In another warehouse Sal Vizzini waited with two other men. He had come here, directly from the whorehouse. It had been good, but the bitch had asked him again: When was he going to marry her? He wished now that he had never mentioned it to her. He only told her that so she would do things for him…things that the other girls wouldn’t do.
He reached down and rubbed himself. Why couldn’t she just leave it alone? There was no way he was going to marry a Cajun, especially una donnaccia, una prostitute. If he slapped her around a bit, it was because she needed slapping around.
He rubbed himself again, then got up to look through the crack in the doorway. That was when he saw three of De Luca’s men walking up the dock.
“Here they come,” Vizzini said.
“We should wait until after they have made their collections,” one of the others suggested.
“No,” Vizzini replied.
“Come on, think, about it, Vizzini. If we wait until after they make their collections, we can get the money.”
“Yeah,” the other man with Vizzini said. “That sounds good to me.”
Vizzini shook his head emphatically. “If we take the money, De Luca will think that’s what this was—just a robbery. He has to understand that this has nothing to do with money.”
“Sí,” the first said. “I agree. Questo è su onore. It is about honor.”
“Get ready,” Vizzini said.
The two men checked the loads in their shotguns, then looked up at Vizzini and nodded that they were ready.
Vizzini went back to the crack in the door, watching as the three men approached.
“You are crazy,” one of the three men said, laughing. “A whore is much better than a girlfriend. A whore will do just what you tell her to do.”
“But you must pay for it,” another said.
“You think you do not pay for it with a girlfriend? She asks you to do this and you do it. She asks you to do that, you do it. No, my friend. You must pay for it, whether it is a whore or a girlfriend. And with a whore, there are no surprises.”
The three men laughed.
Suddenly the door of the warehouse was thrown open, and Vizzini and the two men with him stepped out into the open. All three were carrying shotguns.
“Cosa è questo?” one of De Luca’s three men shouted. “What is this?”
Vizzini and the two men with him opened fire, dealing out death as they stood there, firing from point-blank range at De Luca’s men.
There were several dock workers in the area and when the first shot was fired, they added their own screams and shouts to the bedlam as they started running in a mad dash to get out of the way. Some dived for the ground, others ran for cover.
All three of De Luca’s men went down, but the firing continued, because as soon as the shotguns were emptied, Vizzini and his men drew their pistols and started firing at the bodies on the ground.
Finally the firing stopped and Vizzini looked down at the three men. One was on his back with a shotgun blast to his chest and another to the side of his head. His face was laced with rivulets of blood.
The other two were lying in a spreading pool of blood.
“Let’s go,” Vizzini said.
The three men walked away from the riverfront, unchallenged by anyone who remained.
“Tangeleno did this?” De Luca asked Hennesy when the police commissioner brought him the news of the riverfront massacre. “Tangeleno is the one who did the shooting down at the riverfront?”
“Yes,” Hennesy said.
“But why?” De Luca asked. “Why would Tangeleno kill three of my men?”
“Because he thinks you killed three of his men,” Hennesy said.
“Quello è matto! That’s crazy! I didn’t kill those men,” De Luca said.
“If you didn’t kill them, who did?” Hennesy asked.
“How the hell would I know?” De Luca snapped back. “I’m not the police here. You are.”
“Is it true, what I have heard, that Tangeleno offered to take care of the man who shot Rosario Meli?” Hennesy asked.
“Yes,” De Luca replied. “But he was just making a big show. I don’t need nor do I want him to fight my battles for me. I know who shot Meli, and I can take care of him anytime I want. The only reason I haven’t done it is because Meli deserved what he got. He had no business trying to collect from the grocer. That had nothing to do with us. That was something he was trying to do on his own.”
“Do you think it is possible that when Tangeleno sent his men after the person who shot Meli that the same person might have shot them?” Hennesy asked.
De Luca laughed.
“What is so funny?”
“Do you know who you are talking about?”
“I’m talking about the man who shot Meli.”
“Do you really think that someone who plays piano in a whorehouse could have killed all three of Tangeleno’s men?”
“I don’t know. But he did shoot Meli,” Hennesy pointed out.
“It was a pure stroke of luck. Meli is a fool, and he wasn’t paying attention. He was lucky the piano player didn’t kill him.”
“You hold no ill will toward the piano player?”
“No,” De Luca said. “The piano player was at the grocers, buying groceries for the whores. When Meli shot the grocer, the piano player came to the grocer’s defense. That was a thing of honor. I do not kill men for acting in la questione di onore.”
“I can understand that.”
“Anyway, I do not think the piano player is the one who shot Tangeleno’s men.”
“Then that brings me back to my original question. If you didn’t shoot Tangeleno’s men, and if the piano player didn’t shoot them, who did?”
“I don’t know, I…” Stopping in midsentence, De Luca got a strange look on his face and snapped his fingers. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. I know who killed Tangeleno’s men.”
“Who?”
“Tangeleno did it.”
“What?” Hennesy asked, surprised by De Luca’s suggestion. “Why would he do something like that?”
“Because he wants to start a war,” De Luca explained. “Or at least he wants to push us to the brink of a war. He shot his own men so he could blame me for it, then he used that as an excuse to kill three of my men.”
Hennesy shook his head. “I don’t know…That seems pretty far-fetched to me.”
“Now he is going to make a big show of trying to make peace between us. He’ll send someone to talk to me, to try and convince me that the only way we can have peace is if I accept his offer to merge our organizations. The only question is: Who will he use to make contact with me?”
Hennesy stroked his chin for a
long moment. “Oh shit.”
“What is it?”
“The son of a bitch is using me,” Hennesy said.
“What do you mean, he’s using you?”
“Tangeleno came to see me. He asked me to bring you a message. He wants to send someone over to talk peace with you.”
“Why would Tangeleno come see you, Hennesy? Are you working for him now?”
“No, De Luca, no, I’m not,” Hennesy said quickly. “I guess he thought I was the best way to get through to you.”
“That makes sense, I guess, since he knows that I am paying you money.”
“What? How does he know that?” Hennesy asked, his face registering alarm.
“I told him.”
“De Luca, no! Why did you do that? It is not good that he knows. It’s not good for either one of us.”
“You don’t understand the way things work with us, Hennesy. He needs to know that I have collegamenti potenti.”
“I beg your pardon? I don’t speak Italian.”
“I said he needs to know that I have powerful connections,” De Luca translated.
“I don’t like it. I don’t like being pulled into the middle of all this.”
“You are already in the middle of it. You got in the middle of it the first time you took money from me. Now, what is the message?” De Luca asked.
“He wants to send Morello to set up a meeting between you and Tangeleno.”
“Morello, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Morello is his number-two man. He must really think he has me where he wants me. All right, tell him he can send Morello,” De Luca said.
“Can I tell him you will guarantee Morello’s safety?” Hennesy asked.
De Luca looked at Hennesy. “Tell him to send Morello,” he said pointedly.
Chapter 10
HAWKE WALKED THROUGH THE FRENCH DOORS of his apartment to stand out on the veranda. As part of his compensation, Clarisse had provided him with an apartment on the second floor of the House of the Evening Star. His room was on the same floor as the chambres des dames de plaisir, the rooms of the ladies of pleasure. He was guaranteed his privacy because he was separated from the women and their “working rooms,” by a wall that had no door. In order to get to his room from the business part of the building, one would have to go down one set of stairs and come up to his room by another.
Hawke smiled as he contemplated his living arrangements. In all his travels, this was the first time he had ever lived in a whorehouse.
Resting his elbows on the wrought-iron grillwork railing that extended across the front of his balcony, Hawke looked out over the city. He couldn’t help but be impressed by nighttime New Orleans. The lights were as bright now as they had been on the night he arrived by train. The Crescent City was illuminated by the flickering lamps that lined the streets, as well as the several yellow squares of light that were cast through the windows of the many restaurants, homes, and establishments.
From downstairs, he heard the pop of a champagne cork, then an explosion of laughter. As Big Callie suggested, Hawke had found much about New Orleans to like. The city certainly had its cultural side, with traveling dramatic groups playing in the local theaters, as well as an excellent symphony orchestra, and a very good ballet company.
But he had also discovered a more sinister side. Much of New Orleans seemed to be controlled by a shadowy group of outlaws. And, while Hawke had encountered outlaws before, even gangs of outlaws, he had never run across anything quite like the Mafia.
He could relate to being shot at, though. And Hawke decided that being a target was little different, whether you were being shot at by a Yankee sniper in the war, a Texas horse thief, or a Sicilian Mafioso.
But Hawke had been in New Orleans for six weeks. He came here because he wanted to see New Orleans. Well, he had seen it, and now he was ready to move on. To that end, he had told Clarisse, earlier this week, that he would be leaving soon.
“I hate to see you go,” Clarisse replied, disappointed at hearing his announcement. “But I have to admit that you did warn me you wouldn’t stick around very long.”
“It has been an interesting six weeks,” Hawke said. “But I’m ready to see what’s over the nearest hill.”
Clarisse laughed. “Oh, honey, it’s a long way from New Orleans to the nearest hill,” she said.
“That’s right,” Hawke said, pointedly.
Clarisse sighed. “Well, you have been a wonderful asset to our place of business, Mason, and I also like to think you have become a good friend. I wish you luck.”
“Thanks.”
That conversation had taken place three days earlier. This was Hawke’s last night at the House of the Evening Star. Tomorrow, he would be departing for St. Louis, Missouri, onboard a Mississippi riverboat, Delta Mist, having been hired to play piano in the great salon.
This wasn’t to be a longtime job either, because once the boat reached St. Louis, Hawke planned to board a train and head west. He had no specific destination in mind, as long as it was somewhere in the West.
Finishing his glass of wine, Hawke went back into his apartment, put on an emerald jacket, adjusted his yellow cravat, and went downstairs to work.
“There you are, you handsome devil, you,” Clarisse said as Hawke stepped into the parlor.
Clarisse was a little younger than her sister, Big Callie, had been. She was also considerably smaller, though she wasn’t a petite woman by any means. Her blonde hair was piled in ringlets on top of her head and her low-cut gown displayed a generous spill of creamy white breasts.
“You have come to break our hearts one last night, have you?”
“Clarisse, you could always give this up and run away with me,” Hawke teased.
“Oh, don’t think for one minute I wouldn’t do it if I thought you were serious,” Clarisse said.
Hawke laughed. “And abandon your girls? You know you are their mother, and they are your children. You couldn’t leave them.”
“Maybe not,” Clarisse said. “But oh, I will have a wonderful time fantasizing about it. Hawke, as a special favor for me on your last night, would you play ‘Beautiful Dreamer’?”
“I would be honored,” Hawke said.
Clarisse watched Hawke walk through the parlor, exchanging pleasantries with the women and their customers. She chuckled as she recalled a notion she had shared with the other girls, shortly after Hawke arrived. Clarisse had told the girls that if she could find four or five more men who were as handsome and refined as Hawke, she could start a brothel for women.
“Of course, I’m sure I would be tarred, feathered, and run out of town,” she admitted. “I don’t think New Orleans is ready for such an arrangement yet, but I do believe it would do very well.”
Taking his seat at the piano, Hawke began playing, starting out with Clarisse’s request. When he finished, he looked toward her, smiled, and nodded his head. Returning his smile, Clarisse gave him a slight curtsey.
“It is you,” a man said, coming up to the piano.
Turning, Hawke saw a small man, nearly bald, with round cheeks and prominent ears. Although Hawke showed no sign of recognition, he knew who the man was.
“Something I can play for you?” Hawke said.
“It is you, isn’t it?”
Hawke chuckled. “As far as I know, I am me.”
“That’s not what I mean. I am Professor Leonard Tompkins,” the man said. “And if I am not mistaken, you and I once shared the billing at Vienna’s Grosser Musikvereinssall. You are that Mason Hawke, aren’t you?”
“That was a long time ago,” Hawke said.
Tompkins smiled broadly. “I knew it!” He hit his fist into his hand. “I knew it!”
“How are you doing, Professor?”
“I’m doing fine, just fine. Wonderfully, in fact,” the professor replied. “I am the conductor of the New Orleans Symphony Orchestra,” he added proudly.
“Good for you,” Hawke said.
“What is it you don’t understand?”
Professor Tompkins looked around the room at the scantily clad women and their customers. “I don’t understand why you are here,” he said.
Hawke laughed. “Well, as you can see, Professor, I’m playing the piano. But a better question might be what are you doing here?”
Tompkins cleared his throat. “Oh well, uh, see here, this is rather embarrassing,” he said. “But I hasten to add that I am a widower, so it isn’t as if I am cheating or anything.”
Hawke chuckled and held up his hand. “You misunderstand me, Professor,” he said. “I’m not passing judgment on you. I’m not qualified to pass judgment on anyone for anything.”
“Where have you been for the last…what has it been? Sixteen, seventeen years since our European tour?”
“Something like that,” Hawke replied, without answering the rest of the question. “By the way, you should be congratulated. You have a very good symphony orchestra,” Hawke said.
“You’ve attended some of our concerts then?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t mean to be vain, but, didn’t you recognize my name? Didn’t you remember our sharing the bill?”
“Yes,” Hawke said. “I knew who you were.”
“Well, man, why didn’t you come to see me? I would have put you on with the orchestra immediately. In fact, I would feature you.”
Hawke shook his head. “I don’t do that anymore,” he said.
“What do you mean, you don’t do that anymore? You are doing it now.”
“No, I’m playing piano in a whorehouse,” he said. “It isn’t the same thing.”
“No, not exactly, but…”
“I thank you for your offer,” Hawke said, cutting him off. “But I don’t do that anymore.”
Tompkins stood there for a moment longer before realizing that Hawke was serious, that he wasn’t just trying to elicit further response or a more specific offer.
“All right,” Tompkins said. “I don’t understand why you feel that way, but I’ll respect your decision. But if you ever do change your mind, if you would like to get back into serious music again, please, come see me.”
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