Hellbound

by Chester Campbell

  Locasio turned down the sound, lit the cigarette clamped between his thick lips and dialed the Nashville motel where Marco was staying. He had sent Joe Blow and Ferrante on with Johnny “The Barber” Barbarino, their New Orleans Mafia cousin, to keep an eye on the Lovely Lane Silver Shadows.

  “Marco, how is Boots doing?” Locasio asked when his Tennessee connection answered.

  “I just left the hospital, Dom. They don’t think he’s gonna survive the night.”

  “Damn! All the more reason to get that bastard Pagano. What did you find out for me today?”

  “Not a whole lot, I’m afraid. I did like you said, told them I was a private investigator. That MacArthur guy has quite a layout. Right on the water, swimming pool, tennis court, the works. Throws dough around like it was going out of style.”

  “What did the neighbors say?” Locasio asked.

  “He came down here a few years ago. Early nineties. Supposed to be from Jersey. He said he had retired as an insurance company bigwig. His wife is with a hospital company here. She’s a lot younger than he is.”

  “The feds could have set him up with an insurance company,” Locasio said thoughtfully. “What about Bryce Reynolds?”

  “Lives in a nice house, but nothing to brag about. Neighbor says he’s a retired businessman from somewhere out west. Oklahoma, I believe. Doesn’t talk a lot. Just a quiet, friendly guy. You want to hear about Chandler?”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “He’s a retired mail carrier. Lived in Madison off and on most of his life. He’s been–”

  “Never mind. He’s obviously not our man.” Locasio grunted dismally. “You’re right, Marco. You’re not much damn help. Still sounds like it could be either MacArthur or Reynolds. Call me the minute anything happens with Boots. If I’m not here, beep me.”

  He hung up the phone and cursed his luck. Actually, he hadn’t expected much more than he got, but he had dared hope for a little better handle on which one was more likely the traitor. Now he would have to try and come up with another way to pin the tail on the donkey. Maybe they would spot something tonight that would point a finger in the right direction.

  In Nashville, Marco Rizzi had just turned away from the phone when he remembered something. He had intended to chide Dom over the error the young man had made in passing along the information on Hamilton MacArthur. Marco had found the big home on the lake in Hendersonville, not Madison as Dom had told him. He picked up the newspaper laying on the bed and pulled out the sports section. Whether the guy came from Madison or Hendersonville didn’t matter, of course. He had just intended to rib Dom about his miscue.

  The only important thing now was Boots, whose life was hanging by a thread. Marco had been with him since before Boots was made a capo. He would continue to check on him throughout the night.

  28

  Chick had just parked along Decatur Street when Bryce and his friends arrived at the restaurant. The rest of the Silver Shadows were aboard the bus, except for MacArthur, who, Tillie had explained, was to pick up his wife and meet them at Le Dauphin. The lights glowed merrily along the busy street as everyone piled out of the bus.

  Le Dauphin appeared undistinguished from the outside, as with most of the eateries and shops along the fringes of the French Quarter. Inside they found a narrow, high-ceilinged room with old French prints on the walls, along with a smattering of oval-shaped portraits Sarah Anne said bore the look of royalty.

  Fred got them a table for six. As they took their seats, a black-tied waiter fluttered about the ladies like a hummingbird sampling petunia blossoms.

  “Would you care for wine?” he asked. An indulgent smile covered his face.

  “The dinner’s paid for,” Troy said. “But I’m sure wine’s extra.”

  “I’ll buy the wine,” Bryce said. “If it’s permitted on this tour.”

  “Methodists preach temperance, not abstinence,” Fred said. “Wine’s a good biblical drink, okay if used in moderation.”

  Bryce turned to the waiter. “Do you have a good Chablis?”

  “Oh, yes. Very good,” he said. He had a slight accent.

  Betty Lou declined, but the others agreed to join Bryce in an apéritif. As the waiter was leaving, MacArthur and his wife strolled up and stopped beside the table. Mrs. MacArthur looked coquettish, and younger than her fifty-four years, in an embroidered white tunic and navy blue trousers.

  “I would like you to meet Fred Scott, dear,” MacArthur said. “He’s the fellow who showed such great hospitality when I arrived at the church. This is my wife Andrea. She finished her meeting today and will be heading back to Nashville in the morning.”

  Fred, Troy and Bryce promptly rose from their chairs. Fred introduced the rest of the table.

  Andrea MacArthur smiled at Bryce. “You’re the investment expert Ham told me about.”

  “I lay no claims to being an expert at anything,” Bryce said. “But I have been rather lucky at it.”

  “Don’t be so modest. He was really impressed, and for him to be impressed, you have to be good.”

  Fred looked across apologetically. “I wish we had more room at the table. I’d invite you to join us.”

  “No problem,” said MacArthur. “We promised to sit with Emma Gross and Mrs. Ellis. Incidentally, I’ve had some good reports about the food at Le Dauphin.”

  “I wonder where they got that name, Dauphin?” Betty Lou asked, rumpling her forehead.

  “It was a title given to the eldest son of the King of France,” MacArthur said. “Went out of vogue shortly after this area became part of America with the Louisiana Purchase.”

  Betty Lou’s eyes widened. “That’s interesting.”

  “It is also the name of a French province, isn’t it?” Sarah Anne leaned forward on the table.

  MacArthur turned to her. “Yes. With an ‘e’ on the end. That was actually the origin of the title. It is a region in southeastern France, including part of the Alps. Grenoble is the major city.”

  Andrea MacArthur shook her head. “Don’t get him started. He’s an incurable buff when it comes to geography and history.”

  After they had moved on, the men resumed their seats. Betty Lou said, “Seems like a pretty bright guy, doesn’t he?”

  “Bright?” Fred frowned. “Young people are bright, Betty Lou. Old folks are supposed to be wise.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Bright means you know lots of trivia and can give snappy answers on quiz shows. To be wise, you got to know how to apply knowledge in useful ways.”

  Troy gave a slight sneer. “Based on that criteria, I would have to agree with Betty Lou. Hamilton MacArthur seems like a pretty bright guy.”

  The waiter turned out to be correct. The wine was good, and they enjoyed a zesty crawfish entrée. After dinner, the group filed out of Le Dauphin and began a leisurely stroll up St. Peter Street toward Preservation Hall. The warm night air felt heavily laced with humidity. A parade of noisy tourists crowded the sidewalks, most dressed casually, many in shorts, seemingly intent on rivaling the decibel level emanating from a succession of night spots.

  Bryce watched them with an especially attentive eye, feeling a bit like a fox turned loose in a field of hounds. But where were the hunters?

  A growing line meandered down the street from the doorway marked by a modest overhead sign that read "Preservation Hall." Tillie moved among them, passing out tickets, and soon they began to drift toward the entrance.

  Whoops and shouts from a group of revelers just up the street brought a momentary pause in the line as Bryce handed his ticket to the wiry, white-haired man at the open doorway. The ticket-taker craned his head. “Buncha drunks. Cops ain’t never around when you need ’em.”

  “You have much trouble around here?” Bryce asked.

  “Not much.” Then he bared a row of uneven teeth. “I keep a peacemaker handy just in case.”

  Bryce wondered what the “peacemaker” might be but dismissed the tho
ught as he stepped inside a corridor that ran to the back of the building. Wooden benches, like old church pews, were parked against the wall on the right. A short distance back, a large doorway on the left led into an open area not a lot larger than his den. Toward the front of the building, a couple of steps went down to what passed for a stage. Three rows of seats flanked the narrow strip, putting the patrons almost at the feet of the performers, who perched on well-worn wooden chairs.

  As people scrambled for the seats, Betty Lou, Sarah Anne and Marge slipped into the last three on the back row. The men took their places standing behind them, Bryce winding up in back of Marge. As he looked around, he couldn’t help but grin at the idea of this being called Preservation Hall. The term conjured up visions of places like Carnegie in New York and Constitution in Washington. On a smaller and more modest scale there was Faneuil Hall in Boston, but even that was much more lavish and commodious compared to this tiny place. Dirty window panes opened to the street, where curious, would-be patrons on the sidewalk occasionally peeked in. There was no air-conditioning. The only thing to stir the warm October night was a floor fan in the corner behind the piano.

  The area behind Bryce soon became packed with a murmuring, shifting crowd of standees. They filled the air with a variety of odors ranging from garlic to tobacco to a perfumed mixture almost as noxious as the others. Suddenly the room was cast into darkness, leaving only the musicians visible in the pale yellow glow of incandescent bulbs.

  The laid back performers numbered five blacks and two whites who played piano, banjo, bass, clarinet, trumpet, trombone, and drums. The banjo and clarinet players were white-haired veterans who looked old enough to have performed back in the heyday of New Orleans jazz. And what they performed now was Dixieland at its best. A lover of most kinds of music, but particularly jazz, Bryce found the toe-tapping rhythm nearly enough to make him forget the threat that was ever-present, possibly lurking in the darkness behind him.

  Nearly, but not totally.

  That fact came to light after a rousing rendition of St. Louis Blues, with each musician taking his turn at an improvisational romp. Somebody, undoubtedly by accident, jabbed an elbow in his back while applauding vigorously. Bryce snapped his head around and heard an apologetic, “Sorry.”

  The incident jarred him back to the reality of the moment. He began to strain his eyes, searching the barely visible faces around him. Seeing nothing familiar, he decided to step out into the lighted hallway and take a look around.

  A smattering of people, either foot-weary or somewhat indifferent to the lure of jazz, had come out to sit on the benches. One who likely met both criteria was Polly Pitts, the dumpy little woman who had shared her chocolate chip cookies on the bus. She looked across at Bryce with a pained smile as he came through the doorway.

  “You get tired, too?” she asked. “My feet are killing me.”

  “Gets to you if you aren’t used to standing,” he said. Then he strolled leisurely up the hallway toward the front entrance.

  The white-headed ticket taker leaned in the doorway, chatting with a couple on the sidewalk who waited patiently for admission to the next show. As Bryce looked past them into the street, he caught a glimpse of something that sent a low-level electric charge coursing through his body, a sensation that tingled up his neck. Three familiar figures in business suits stood on the sidewalk across the street.

  Now he knew where the hunters were.

  He stared across at Dom Locasio and his two sidekicks. Only the man from the cemetery and the carriage ride was missing. Had they finally figured out that he was Pat Pagano? Bryce wondered. If so they would have only one thing on their minds. Revenge. He was their target. And he no longer had the luxury of calling on the FBI for backup.

  That thought rankled him. How could the Bureau so readily have assumed that he was the William Holder whose body had washed ashore in Oregon? And then the most plausible explanation hit him. Kravitz was gone. The agents in the office now probably considered Pat Pagano just another mobster who had ratted on his pals. They would not be unhappy at the prospect that he was gone. Good riddance. The shark-eating incident had likely generated enough notice that someone in the Bureau saw the name and made the connection, then did only a cursory investigation, prepared to accept what appeared to be obvious. One less name on the witness list to worry about, if, indeed, they ever really worried about such people.

  He saw the trio start slowly across the street. For a moment they were hidden behind a passing van, then they appeared in the glow of the street lamps, apparently heading directly toward the Preservation Hall entrance. Their looks were somber. Their eyes seemed to stare straight at him.

  The enemy was on the march. Cut from the same cloth as those responsible for the death of his sons, these men intended the same fate for him.

  His emotions had been on a roller coaster ride since Monday morning when he came face-to-face with Boots Minelli. Down, then up, then down again as the threat appeared to wax and wane and his feelings cycled from frustration to relief to anxiety to anger.

  He had felt this same way half a century ago in that snow-covered field in Belgium. And now, as then, a cold dispassion took over. He faced a relentless, determined enemy with one obvious goal–his destruction. There was only one way to deal with the problem, the same way he had reacted on that icy December day outside Bastogne.

  Only this time he was trapped without a weapon.

  As he glanced about in a sudden frenzy, something caught his eye. A small table sat next to the wall behind the ticket-taker's empty station, a pile of ticket stubs on top. But what snared his attention was a drawer left partway open. A small revolver lay plainly visible. I keep a peacemaker handy just in case. The man’s voice echoed through his mind.

  Bryce recognized the black rubber grip and blued barrel of a Charter Arms .44 Special Bulldog Pug, identical to the gun he kept at home. The pistol had a two-and-a-half-inch barrel and weighed a mere twenty-five ounces. Loaded with five 200-grain rounds of .44 Special cartridges, the Pug was accurate as far away as fifteen yards, but built for close self-defense.

  Once his mind had committed, his actions became reflexive. He slipped over to the ticket-taker's seat, reached into the drawer and pulled out the gun. A quick flip of the cylinder showed a full five rounds chambered. Locasio and his cohorts were now no more than fifteen or twenty feet away. They were strung out like the German soldiers he had faced that fateful day in Belgium, only much closer. Picking off beer cans atop a fence could not be easier.

  He began to raise the gun.

  29

  Bryce’s hand stopped as he heard someone call his name.

  Turning his head, he saw Marge a few feet behind him, leaning against the wall.

  The spell had been broken. A wave of cold fear swept over him. Not fear of the mobsters–he had been ready to face them down–but fear of himself, of what he had almost done. He remembered that nagging dread that had troubled him early on, a fear that some day, under some dire circumstance, he might revert to the same coldly calculating killing machine he had been during the war. But regardless of the similarity between then and now, he knew this was different. Had he pulled that trigger, he would have become the same kind of savage animal as the Mafia trio. A ruthless killer without conscience. The idea sickened him.

  And as the voices of tourists out on the sidewalk reached his ears, his pain deepened with the thought of innocents he might have killed accidentally. As if to punctuate that possibility, a group of laughing, chattering teenagers abruptly passed by, obscuring the mobsters.

  The Bulldog Pug suddenly felt like a lead weight in his hand. Grasping the barrel, he shoved the gun toward the startled ticket-taker, who had also turned on hearing Marge’s voice.

  “Your peacemaker was lying out in the open over there,” Bryce said. His voice sounded strange. “You’d better hide the damned thing before somebody uses it on you.”

  A dark frown on his face, the man grabbed the gun a
nd shoved it into a back pocket. He started to reply, but Bryce turned away at a gasping sound and found Marge bent forward, hands grasping her stomach. A distressed look distorted her face, which appeared pallid and damp with perspiration.

  Bryce ran back to her. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

  “I...I feel like...it’s my stomach. Those crawfish must not have agreed with me.”

  Bryce helped her over to a bench and sat down beside her. “Do you want me to call a taxi and take you back to the hotel?”

  She shook her head. “No. No, I’ll be all right.”

  He pulled out a handkerchief and brushed her forehead, then handed it to her.

  “Thanks.” The color was beginning to return to her face, the color of embarrassment.

  Betty Lou came out of the darkened hall and hurried over. “What happened? I wondered why you got up and left.”

  “She felt sick at her stomach,” Bryce said. “It may have been the crawfish. She’s looking a little better now. Getting some color back in her face.”

  “Chick should have the bus out front in a few minutes,” Betty Lou said. “We’ll help you out there.”

  Marge handed back the handkerchief and murmured in a soft voice. “Thank you, Bryce.” Then she turned to Betty Lou. “Really, I’ll be okay. Just let me sit here and rest a few minutes.”