The Last Man to Die (The Micah Dunn Mysteries)

by Malcolm Shuman

  “The name that keeps popping up is Al Silvano. He was supposed to be the godfather for that time.”

  “Silvano,” I repeated. “I’ve heard the name. I don’t think he’s around anymore.”

  “Probably not. But anyway, it looks like the Mob took care of the problem, because about a month after the bombing they found a small-time crook in the river, an Angelo Marconi. They have some police lieutenant saying he was probably the one who did it.”

  “Makes sense,” I said.

  Thunder rumbled outside, shaking the thin wooden walls.

  “A lot of people would have quit after that,” she said, her eyes suddenly intent on my own. “But he didn’t. It just made him more determined.”

  She pulled out several more of the clippings and I saw Max shaking hands with some dignitary, and then, again, behind another podium. No crutches, so I assumed he’d been fitted with a prosthesis. I felt a pang of envy: Injury affects different people different ways. Mine had made me despondent at first, and eventually it had ruined my marriage. It had taken five years before I’d gotten my life back together. But not Max: He’d come back as energetic as ever. I wondered what he’d had that I was missing.

  “Did all this zeal do him any good?” I asked and realized after I’d said it that it sounded petty.

  “No. It looks like it drove them underground, because nobody was ever indicted or brought to trial. And finally …”

  There was a louder blast of thunder, and she shivered.

  “… Max dropped out of sight, himself.”

  There was a silence, broken only by the whirring of the fan overhead.

  Finally I spoke: “You aren’t asking me to find Max’s killers, are you? Because—”

  “No. There’s more to it than that. I haven’t finished the story.”

  “I’m listening.”

  She leaned back slightly. “After I did this research I kept thinking about him and how mysterious fate is, that he was killed before I was born and lay there for over forty years and then I was the one who happened to find him, so that for the first time in forty years people know what happened to him and where he ended up. I feel almost like I knew him, if that makes sense.”

  “It makes sense,” I said, because I was starting to feel like I knew Max, too.

  “So I called the FBI man who’d talked to us and asked him what funeral parlor they’d sent the bones to. It was a place on Claiborne, not far from here, so I went. It was just something I felt like I had to do.”

  “It was a nice gesture,” I said.

  “I went in and looked for his name but they didn’t have him listed. I was wandering along the hallway when I ran into the man.”

  “What man?”

  “Just an ordinary man, maybe your age, but with a bald head and glasses. He asked if he could help me. I thought he worked there. I told him about Max. I said I thought I might use the story for a history thesis. I asked him different things about Max but he either didn’t know the answers or didn’t want to help. I had the feeling it all made him uneasy. I left and went home. It was the next morning, yesterday, we got the call.”

  “The call?”

  “A woman who said her name was Madeline Gourrier. She said I’d been highly recommended as a historical researcher and she wanted me to do a history of her family including their French ancestors. She said she had leukemia and might not live another two years, and she had to have it finished as soon as possible. She said I’d have to go to France to do some of the research, but it didn’t matter: She’d send me and I could name my price.”

  “It sounds like a good deal to me.”

  “Maybe too good. She asked what I was doing now and I told her about the Ship Island project. She said I’d have to let it go, for the time being. It’s on hold right now, anyway, thanks to Max, but we’re expecting to get word to start up again any day now. I told her about that and she asked if we couldn’t hire somebody to take my place. Of course we could, that’s no problem.”

  “So what is the problem?”

  “Doesn’t it seem strange we’d wait all year for a decent job and all of a sudden we get two: Ship Island, and now this? And that this is one that would take all my time until Max is safe back underground again?”

  “Life is full of coincidences. What does your partner say?”

  “Sam’s all for taking it. In fact, we had an argument about it. He said I was being paranoid, that we needed to take whatever we were offered and not ask a bunch of questions.”

  “He has a point.”

  The first raindrops hit the side of the building, died away, and then were followed by an onslaught.

  “When do you have to have an answer?”

  “She asked me to call her tonight at eight.”

  I thought for a moment. “Are the sources for the research you’d have to do readily available?”

  “Yes. That’s just it—that’s what makes it so damned odd.”

  “How so?”

  “The work she wants me to do has already been done.”

  It was my turn to frown. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” she said, speaking slowly, as if to a child, “the book she wants me to write has already been written.”

  I thought I was starting to see. “You mean there’s nothing for you to do?”

  “No. The book is called The Gourrier Family of South Louisiana, by Gregory Massey. He published it privately two years ago. I used it myself on one of our projects. He even went back to France and searched the birth records in the town halls. I can’t imagine what he could have left out.”

  “Did you tell her all this?”

  “Yes, of course. She sounded surprised at first, and then it was just like I hadn’t said anything at all, like she’d sort of switched gears: She told me she was sure there were things he must have left out and the offer still stood.”

  “What, specifically, do you want me to do?” I asked her. “I’m not cheap and I have a feeling you and Sam don’t have a lot of money to spend on investigating this.”

  “I want your advice,” she said. “And I’ll pay you for it. If Sam knew I was talking to you, he’d go apeshit. But he doesn’t have to know, and I’ll pay you out of my own money. Mr. Dunn, I just want to know what to do.”

  “My advice is to meet with this lady and see what else is involved. Maybe she’s just a harmless, rich eccentric. Maybe she didn’t want to admit she hadn’t done her homework, and she’ll back out on you. Play along for a little while, though, and in the meantime I’ll do a little checking on your friend Max and see what turns up, if anything. The two aren’t necessarily related.”

  “No, of course not. But I still can’t figure who’d want to pay good money for me to go write something they can buy for twenty dollars at a bookstore.”

  “It’s a good question. But the other one is, What harm can you possibly do to anybody in a forty-year-old case? You didn’t actually analyze the bones. You don’t know any of the people involved, most of whom are probably dead, anyway. The only thing you can do is keep digging up old news stories. And, being in a historical line of work, you could write a book.”

  She nodded. “Maybe somebody doesn’t want that.”

  “Maybe not.” I got up. “So I gave you your advice. I hope it all works out.”

  She followed me toward the door.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t do anything. But keep me posted.”

  She held out a hand and I saw she wasn’t wearing any rings.

  “Thank you, Micah Dunn.”

  Traffic on Esplanade was slowed to a crawl by the rain and water sloshed against my hubcaps. I turned slowly onto Decatur, passing the Old Mint building, which was now a tourist attraction, and then made a right onto Barracks. Just past the corner I stopped in front of the big wooden gates to the inner courtyard and got out, bending my head against the torrent, and punched in the code to unlock the door. Then I shoved it open, got back into my c
ar, and drove into the patio, where tenants were allowed to park their cars. By the time I got back up the outside stairs and into my office I was soaked.

  I sponged myself off, changed into jeans, and flopped into my chair. For a long time I stared idly at the far wall, and the picture of my platoon, next to the NVA battle flag we had captured. What would Max Chantry have thought of ’Nam? I wondered. He’d fought in the big one.

  I picked up my phone and punched in Sal Mancuso’s number on the automatic dialer. The police operator put me on hold and I was getting ready to hang up when Sal came on.

  “Yeah?”

  His voice was raspy and I knew he was wondering what I wanted this time.

  “So how’s crimes?” I asked.

  “Vicious, senseless, and mostly unsolved,” the detective growled back. “I hope you don’t have another one, because I just put a freeze on my caseload until two thousand and ten.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact,” I said, “I did have one. Guy named Max Chantry.”

  “He was killed in this parish?”

  “No, in Mississippi.”

  “Well, hell, Cuz, that’s probably federal. When did it happen?”

  “Nineteen forty-nine.”

  “Nineteen … What? Wait a minute. Chantry … I’ve heard that name. The guys down here were talking about it. Wasn’t that the guy …?”

  “The one who was found the other day,” I said. “There was something in the paper.”

  “Sure.” There was a long sigh. “I guess some mourning relative hired you to find out if whoever did it’s still alive.”

  “No,” I said. “I was just there when they dug him up and I got interested.”

  “Well, that’s good. Have fun with your hobby. As for me, I’ve got a stack of folders of people that got killed in New Orleans in the last month. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll give them my attention.”

  “That’s fine. Just do me a favor first.”

  “I knew it was coming. What? And don’t ask me to get the files for 1949. I don’t know where I’d start—even if they still have ’em.”

  I laughed. “Nothing that hard. I just want a name, and then I’ll leave you alone.”

  Another silence.

  “There must be somebody you know of, or your captain knows about, who worked with the department back then and is still alive. Somebody who’d remember this Max Chantry.”

  “Are you serious? Do you know how long ago that was? That was—”

  “Forty-three years ago,” I said. “I know. Whoever it is would be eighty or so. But there must be a few old-timers.”

  He sighed. “You’re reaching past my time. But hold on. I’ll ask.” I waited, knowing how crazy it sounded. Forty-three years. What did I expect?

  He came back on the line five minutes later.

  “My captain said to talk to Deputy Chief Jake Kelso. Kelso may’ve been around then. Old man’s been retired ten years but he still comes around and hangs out sometimes. Make him feel good. But the captain says watch out: Kelso’s a talker. You won’t get rid of him.”

  “I’ll survive,” I said. “Where do I find him?”

  He gave me a phone number. “It’s in Gentilly. But don’t call on a Friday: His daughter comes and gets him on Fridays and takes him to their camp for the weekend.” Mancuso chuckled. “Keeps him away from the pony parlors.”

  “I’ll remember that. Thanks, Sal.”

  “You bet. Good luck.”

  I pressed down the button on the telephone and waited, wondering if I was about to do a stupid thing. My hobby was collecting pictures of famous yachts, of which I now had three albums. My profession was private investigator. I was about to lose the distinction. But then, I told myself, since nobody was paying me, I could stop anytime I wanted. Call it historic research.

  I released the phone buttons and, placing the receiver against my shoulder, slowly punched in the old man’s number.

  Would I be waking him from a nap? Or would he be alone in front of the television, watching game shows? I thought of my own father with a twinge of guilt: I hadn’t called him for a week or so, but he kept to a busy social life and I figured I’d get to him on the weekend. Besides, every time I called these days he asked about that girl, meaning Katherine, and every time I heard her name it stabbed me to the quick.

  The phone started to ring and I shifted my attention back to the man I was calling. By the fourth ring I was ready to hang up, but old people sometimes take longer, so I gave it another two.

  He answered on the sixth ring, a raspy voice that gave away nothing.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Chief Kelso, but I got your number from the police department. My name is Micah Dunn.”

  “Not bothering me,” he said. “I was in the can. You get old, you spend half your life in the can. What can I do for you, Mr. Dunn?”

  “Does the name Max Chantry mean anything to you, sir?”

  Silence and then I got my answer. “Max Chantry. I’ll be damned. I read where they found him the other day. I hadn’t thought about him in forty years. Hey, what are you, a crime writer?”

  “I’m a private investigator,” I said, and told him how I’d happened to be there when they’d unearthed Max’s bones. “I had a little spare time and got interested in it,” I said. “They told me downtown that you’d remember him if anybody would.”

  The line rumbled with a low laugh. “God damn me. All the things you forget in a lifetime and yet they just stay there, waiting to be pulled out again, like old pictures. Sure. That was a big case. It happened the year before I joined the force, but I remember hearing ’em talk about it. We were a lot smaller force then. What you want to know about Max Chantry?”

  “Who killed him,” I said, trying to make it sound like a joke. But it didn’t faze him:

  “That part’s easy. It was the Mob. From what I heard, Chantry was a one-man crusade. He was running for some office, D.A., I think. They blew up his partner, you know, and damn near killed him. All because he was after what was left of the machine. It didn’t stop him. He was a bulldog. Then he got too close. Finito. He disappears. Until now.”

  “The Mob was big in New Orleans back then?” I knew the answer but I wanted to see if any new facts fell out.

  “Oh, hell yeah. The Old Regulars were still running the city then. With the help of the Mob, of course. Then Morrison got elected mayor in ’forty-six. He was supposed to be a reform candidate, but this city’ll be a whore as long as they have paved streets.”

  “Names of any special mobsters come to mind?”

  “You mean the dagos with mustaches?”

  “Muscle,” I said. “The guys with muscle.”

  “Oh, the wiseguys. Well, the biggie was Al ‘The Frog’ Silvano. He ran most of the books and the women and the card parlors. He was tied in with Luciano, Costello, and that bunch in New York. His number one was Tommy Noto. Tommy ‘No Toes,’ we used to call him. He branched out into labor relations, you get my meaning. There was Gus DeStefano, Phil de Filipi, I could name names.… I used to head the intelligence unit, you know. That was right before I retired.”

  “Most of these people are dead, I guess.”

  “Mostly. Hell, they’re as old as I am. They ought to be.”

  A chuckle.

  “Look, I’ve got some stuff here at the house. Things I collected over the years. Maybe you want to come and look at it. Maybe it would help you. Clippings of old cases, notes …”

  I felt the conversation starting to wander.

  “Thanks, Chief. But I think you’ve given me enough. I appreciate your time. I’ll get back to you if I decide to follow this any further.”

  His voice this time was slightly muted. “Sure. You know what you want. I’ll be here. You just call.” The chuckle this time was forced. “Any way I can help. My memory’s still good.”

  I thanked him again and hung up.

  The rain was gusting outside and somewhere on the other side of the courtyard a loose stor
m shutter was banging against a wall. A clap of thunder shook the air, and I went to stand by the window and look out over the street. There was nothing to see except unrelieved gray.

  I turned back to the desk, got out my phone book, and looked under Chantry. The only thing close was a Chantrey. So I went to the yellow pages and tried “Funerals.”

  CHAPTER 3

  I knew they wouldn’t give me the name and address so I waited for Sandy. Sandy could get anything she wanted.

  It was five o’clock when I heard her coming up the steps. The rain had slackened and the thunder had retreated to a distant growling. The door came open and she started to unbutton her raincoat as if I weren’t in the room. When she’d hung it on the hook behind the door she turned and faced me.

  “Good day to play with your boat pictures,” she said.

  I nodded. A tall, elegant woman with chocolate skin and a face that could take on any expression, Sandy Gibson had grown up on the streets and had survived. We’d been together four years now, and sometimes I thought I took her too much for granted.

  “Do me a favor?” I asked and told her about Max.

  She screwed up her face. “Anything, Micah-man.”

  She picked up the phone and in a few seconds she was talking to the funeral parlor.

  “Honey, I can’t deliver the flowers if I don’t have an address,” she was complaining in the tones of a long-suffering florist. “They thought there’d be a service at the funeral home.… No, we can deliver them, sweetheart. They’ve paid for that and we have to give it to them. I just need an address.”

  She turned her face toward me and winked, writing a number and a street name on a sheet of paper. “Thank you, darling.”

  “His bones have already been cremated, but his wife’s still alive,” she said. “Her name’s Lydia Goodfather, so she must’ve remarried. This is the address.”

  “You’re a gem,” I said, squeezing her hand.

  “I know it. But where is this leading? We so hard up we’re soliciting forty-year-old cases these days?”

  “Just trying to keep stimulated,” I said.

  “Well, you need another kind of stimulation,” she scolded.