The Axeman of Storyville

by Lowrance, Heath

  Miles sat back in the booth and studied the woman's face. He pulled a pipe from inside his coat, packed it, and struck a match to it. He sucked smoke for a long moment while Miss Tilly watched him with tears brimming in her eyes.

  Finally, he said, "I don't see how I can help you, ma'am. You need a detective. Man-hunting and crime-solving are two different things."

  "But we have no one else to turn to."

  "Try a private detective. There's a Pinkerton agency here in New Orleans. I'm not the man who can help you."

  "But—"

  Miles stood up. "That's all I have to say on the matter, Miss Tilly. I'm sorry for your trouble, but there's nothing I can do for you. Good day."

  Miss Tilly started to say something else, but Miles had begun walking away from her. At the door to the back rooms, he turned and said, "Little Cat will see you out."

  He closed the door behind him, trying hard to ignore the little voice telling him he was a heel and a heartless cad.

  I'm not a lawman anymore, he told the little voice. I'm a club owner and a respectable Negro citizen and an old man, goddamnit.

  And that almost shut down the little voice. Almost.

  -Three-

  They had gotten in the habit of taking their evening walk at dusk, when the sun was low in the west and some of the heat from the long day had dissipated. Miles with his expensive derby hat and cane and Violet in her pale summer dress would stroll arm in arm down the length of Royal Street, along Canal and Decatur and all the way back up St. Louis.

  A humid wind from the river swept over the rusted iron lattice and ornate stonework of each building in the Quarter, carrying with it the earthy scent of steamed crawfish, oysters, and beer. Music played from every second-story window.

  It was a stroll that Miles looked forward to every day, a brief respite before heading back to the club and opening for business at ten sharp. The music would blare then, the bodies would press in upon each other, and the liquor would flow.

  Like every other club owner in town, Miles had to pay a fee to the police in order to keep the booze pouring, but it was well worth it. When they'd first opened, Violet had said to him, "Well, well, look at you now. Decades upholding the law, and now you're just a regular ol' low-down criminal, aren't you? Selling illegal booze just like some kind of gangster bootlegger," and Miles had said, "Far as I can recollect, I never did enforce any stupid laws. And prohibition? 'Bout as stupid as a law can get, my love."

  She agreed. Hell, it seemed the entire city of New Orleans agreed. The Volstead Act may as well have not existed.

  They were on Decatur, with the dark rolling waves of the Mississippi to the right and the wood and stone storefronts, gambling houses, and inns on the left. The streetlights had just popped on, bathing the cobblestoned corners in pale gold light. Violet hadn't spoken in several minutes, which Miles found odd—normally, the woman did love to talk, God bless her, and he'd learned that any extended silence usually boded ill for him.

  Just as he was about to break the silence with a weak joke, she said, "Baby ... I was thinking."

  "Uh-huh."

  "About those ... women ... who visited today."

  "Oh Lord. What about them?"

  "Don't you take that tone with me, Gideon Miles."

  "What tone, Light of My Heart?"

  She rolled her eyes, unable to keep from smiling. "Oh, never mind that. I was thinking, though ... well, I wish you'd help them."

  He stopped walking, dropped her arm and looked at her. "You're joking."

  "Do I look like I'm joking?"

  "But I thought you didn't want me doing that sort of work anymore. You hated it when I was a marshal."

  "Yes, but ... I feel horrible for them. The police don't care about the ... fallen women in this town, just like Miss Tilly said."

  Violet had apparently been eavesdropping on the entire conversation, because Miles hadn't told her every detail of it. He said, "There's nothing I can do to help them, Vi. I'm not a lawman anymore, and I don't have the resources."

  "You have plenty of resources. You always have. That brain of yours, that conscience, that sense of duty."

  "Maybe, but it's not my duty anymore. I gave all that up."

  Violet shook her head. "You never gave up duty or any of it, Gideon. You never will. And I wouldn't want you to. I wish you'd help them, in whatever way you can."

  People came and went, up and down the street, maneuvering around them. Miles frowned at her for a moment before shaking his head. "Can't do it, Vi. I have other responsibilities."

  "Our first responsibility is to other people, Gideon. You know that. Especially the folks who can't help themselves. That's what you always stood for. That's why I fell in love with you. You could help them, if you wanted."

  "But I—"

  "And don't tell me you're too busy running the club. Why, just today you were complaining about being bored with paperwork and all the usual tediousness. I saw it in your eyes. You miss the excitement of your old life."

  "Believe me, baby, I had my fill and then some of excitement."

  "Don't you lie to me. I can tell."

  He sighed. "The answer's no."

  "Gideon, you—"

  "No, Vi. That's the end of it."

  Gideon Miles rarely spoke sternly to his wife, but when he did, she knew he meant it. Even then, Violet was too strong willed to roll over, but she'd at least back off for the moment.

  He gave her his arm and she reluctantly took it. They continued along Decatur.

  They made it only a few steps before three men blocked the sidewalk in front of them.

  The men were well-dressed in expensive suits, and all three were big in the shoulders and chest. They loomed over the old couple, spread out along the sidewalk in a row, and the one in the middle smiled a nasty smile. He said, "Enjoying your nightly stroll, pops?"

  Miles said nothing, sizing them up, waiting to see which way this was going to go. He gripped his cane tightly in his right hand, and with his left, he gently nudged Violet behind him.

  "Asking you a question, old man," the one in the middle said in a thick Italian accent. "You having a good time with your, what you call it, nightly constitutional?"

  Since he'd been in New Orleans, Miles had come to know this particular sort of hard case, possibly members of the Black Hand, preying mostly on their fellow Italian countrymen. He couldn't imagine what they wanted with him and Violet.

  Miles said, "Yes. As a matter of fact, we are. Is there something I can help you with?"

  The three of them crowded in, trying to intimidate him, get him to step back. Miles stood up straighter, didn't budge. He was conscious of his age right then, and of his wife behind him. This would be a fine line to walk. He knew he couldn't display any weakness to these men, but he also knew he was at a serious disadvantage.

  The one in the middle did all the talking for the group. He said, "Yeah, Mr. Miles. You can help us. You can help us a lot."

  He snickered, but the other two remained impassive, staring at Miles with dead, empty eyes. Miles didn't take the time to wonder how the thugs knew his name. And then the talker glanced at Violet.

  "Well, well," he said. "This must be Mrs. Miles, yeah? Not a bad-lookin' old bag of bones there. Bet she was really something back in the day, huh? Bet she was a real ride, once upon a time."

  Anger flared in Miles's eyes. He clenched his jaw. "You'd best watch your tongue before it gets ripped out of your mouth."

  The talker cocked his head at Miles. "You know something, old man?" he said. "I truly believe that you'd try it. I truly do. But I wouldn't, if I was you. I'd hate to have to break your filthy Negro neck."

  People steered clear around them, averting their eyes, hurrying past.

  Miles said, "I'll ask you one more time, and I'll ask it slowly so that you understand. What ... do ... you ... want?"

  Violet gripped his hand tightly, staying half-behind him. Miles felt her moving very slightly, and knew she was
reaching in her bag for the knife he'd given her years ago.

  The thug on the right finally spoke, his accent so thick Miles barely understood him. "Get to the point, Antonio. We don't got all night."

  The talker, Antonio, glared at his partner, then turned the glare back to Miles. "Okay, fine. Here's my point, Mr. Miles. Consider this fair warning. You stay out of Storyville, understand? You keep your nose out of whatever business transpires there. You don't do no favors for no whores, you got it?"

  Miles frowned, but didn't answer.

  Antonio continued, "If you go poking your nose in, it'll get cut right off your face. It's important that you understand that. Mr. Matranga takes care of the District. It's his. That's the way it is."

  Miles fingers were tight on his cane.

  Antonio stepped up even closer. His breath reeked of garlic. "Do you understand what I'm telling you, old man?"

  The cane in Miles's hand shot up between them, jabbing Antonio hard in the chin. His mouth was half-open, and the force of the blow slammed his teeth together so hard the sound of it was like a hand clap.

  He staggered back into his partners, and Miles swung the cane like a baseball bat, catching Antonio on the temple with the hard, wooden handle. Antonio dropped to the sidewalk and didn't move.

  A passing woman screamed, and in a heartbeat an enormous commotion erupted all up and down the street. The two remaining thugs started toward Miles and Violet, but Violet had the knife in her hand and the thugs stopped, nervous about the look of wild intensity on the woman's face.

  From up the street, someone yelled, "You there! Stop! This is the police!"

  The thugs glanced at each other, and very quickly turned tail and ran off, leaving Antonio unconscious on the sidewalk.

  Miles watched them light out. Once they were around the corner and out of sight, he felt the tightness leave his body, felt the rush of adrenalin subside. He turned to Violet, just as the madness was leaving her eyes and a vague fear was replacing it. He put his arm around her.

  Running footsteps approached them, and they turned to face the policeman.

  Except it wasn't a policeman. It was Little Cat.

  The boy slowed down a few feet from them, that damnable smile spread across his face. He said, "Mr. Miles, sir. Ms. Violet. Glad to see you both well this fine evening."

  Miles and Violet smiled back at him, and Violet said, "That's a fine impression of a policeman you do, Little Cat."

  Cat said, "Yes, ma'am. I done heard enough of them chasing me in my time, I got the nuances of it down mighty good."

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, they were back at the club. Miles said, "Violet, Cat. See to things. Make sure we get opened in time. I have some things I need to attend to."

  Neither of them asked what he intended to do. Violet only nodded, and Cat started for the lobby to talk to the just-arriving employees.

  Miles went upstairs to their set of rooms. He opened the closet, pulled out his old trunk. Inside, he found the Colt wrapped in oil cloth. He checked it thoroughly, took the time to take it apart and clean it. Then, after putting it back together, he loaded it up and held it in his hand.

  It had been a few years since he'd felt the cold iron of the old Colt, and it felt good. It felt right.

  He put the gun in his pocket, fished around in the trunk some more until he found the spring-loaded wrist mechanism he used for his knife. He yanked up his sleeve, strapped the thing to his forearm, and then set the blade carefully in it. He tested it two or three times, jerking his wrist just right, so that the blade slid out and into his palm.

  He grinned. Just like old times.

  What would Cash Laramie think if he saw me now? Some crazy old man, about to go do something foolish.

  Hell, Cash would probably insist on joining him.

  That thought gave Miles strength, and he knew it was the right thing.

  He headed downstairs to tell Violet not to wait up for him.

  -Four-

  The young whore called Celissa came barreling down the stairs in her nightgown, screeching, "Turn it off! For Christ's sake, turn it off. It's killing me!"

  She stormed up to the phonograph machine, grabbed the record disc off and threw it on the floor where it smashed into pieces. The serving girl stared at her wide-eyed, and Celissa pounded her fists into her own temples, sobbing. "My head ... oh God, my head hurts so much, can't you understand? Why must you play that awful music so loudly?"

  With that, she turned on her naked heel and ran back upstairs.

  In the sudden silence of her departure, Gideon Miles frowned. He was sitting in the parlor of Miss Tilly's house, sipping a whiskey and soda and waiting to be seen by the Madame. The serving girl had just put the record on and wound up the machine, and all had been pleasantness and light—until the girl who hated jazz came roaring in like a five-foot-five tidal wave.

  The serving girl gathered herself, turned an embarrassed smile at the visitor, said, "I do apologize, Mr. Miles. Celissa is, well ..."

  "I've met Celissa already," Miles said. "No need to apologize."

  The girl gathered up the bits of broken wax, saying, "Miss Tilly will be along in just a moment, sir. Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?"

  "No, that's fine."

  She scurried out, and Miles was left alone in the parlor.

  He sipped his drink and stared at a piece of broken record underneath the phonograph machine that the serving girl had missed. The parlor was bedecked with gold and pink wallpaper, battered tables, and lamps with frilly shades. It smelled of cigar smoke and flowery perfume.

  As a marshal, oh-so-many years ago, he'd known many prostitutes. Known both in the Biblical sense and also in the line of his work. He'd come into contact with them on a regular basis. He knew them, understood them, even sympathized with them. And he had some suspicions about what Celissa's headaches portended.

  He dwelled on that for a moment before Miss Tilly appeared in the doorway.

  "I'm so pleased to see you, Mr. Miles," she said. "Have you reconsidered, sir?"

  Miles stood up, bowed slightly. "I have, Miss Tilly. I'd like to speak with you."

  "Of course."

  She was dressed with more flamboyance than she'd been that afternoon—a rustling silk dress of red and purple, with feathers at the hip and in her hair. A very Edwardian ensemble. It occurred to Miles that brothel madams hadn't changed style in his lifetime.

  The girl brought fresh drinks, and Miss Tilly perched on an over-stuffed divan. Miles settled again in the florid-print armchair.

  "With your permission, Miss Tilly, I'd like to get right to the point."

  "Of course. After all—"

  "What interest does Charlie Matranga have in your business?"

  Miss Tilly's face turned red, and she stammered, "Charlie Matranga? The gangster? I'm sure I don't—"

  Miles cut her off, "Honesty in all transactions, Miss Tilly. That's how you achieve what you desire. Please, don't lie to me, madam."

  Miss Tilly lowered her gaze to the carpet for a moment. When she looked at Miles again, her eyes were steely. "Please accept my apologies, Mr. Miles. You're right, of course. It's just that ... the Black Hand, as I'm sure you know, is not anything to be trifled with."

  "That is my understanding. But I've not had dealings with them before."

  "Oh, you probably have, only you weren't aware of it. You own a nightclub, and therefore require permits and licenses and all matters of legal documentation. And if you own a business in New Orleans, you've had dealings with the Black Hand, in one form or another."

  "Hmph."

  "How is it you've come to know my relationship to Matranga?"

  "A chance meeting on the street."

  "I see. Well, sir, Charlie Matranga is ... he's no stranger to me. He's come to my house on numerous occasions in the last three years or so, demanding money for ... protection, I suppose. He's an extortionist. And just about every house in this block pays him. If his
people were actually able to protect the girls, then I would consider it money well spent. But, as you know ..."

  "The girls aren't feeling particularly safe of late," Miles said.

  Miss Tilly nodded. "And in the meantime, Matranga is demanding more from us."

  "Is he aware of the murder of your girl Eva-Lynn? Or of any of the victims?"

  "I'm sure he is. He must be. But he hasn't raised a hand, so far as I know, to find the murderer."

  Miles sat back in his chair, pondering.

  Miss Tilly said, "It's in the blood of a gangster, I suppose. They want power, that's all. They want to control other people's lives. In the last year or so, Charlie Matranga has been positioning himself to take over more of the District, and he's pushed hard on all the businesses here. Not just the brothels."

  "When was the last time you saw Matranga?"

  "It's been well over three months now. But he sends his goons around every couple of weeks. The last time I saw them here was four days ago. Again, demanding more money."

  "What did you tell them?"

  "I refused this time. If they can't protect us from this vicious axeman, then what good are they?"

  Miles nodded thoughtfully. "Have you considered, Miss Tilly, the possibility that this murderer could be working for—"

  "For Matranga? Yes, Mr. Miles, I have."

  Miles shook his head, smiling. "And that's the real reason you haven't gone to the police with this, isn't it? You believe they wouldn't help you against the Black Hand."

  Miss Tilly licked her lips, blinking rapidly. "Well ..." she said. "They wouldn't. That's true."

  "But you have no compunction against involving me in this business."

  "It's not like that, Mr. Miles. This axeman—"

  "Axeman, you said."

  "Yes?"

  "I understand that this isn't the first time an ... axeman ... has plagued New Orleans."

  "Sadly, that's true. It wasn't long ago the so-called Axeman terrorized this city. It was before you came here, Mr. Miles, but I'm sure you've heard all about it."

  "A bit. I was in Europe at the time."

  "He operated in the Italian district, as I recall. Just three or four years ago."