by Ray Celestin
So when she turned seventeen, she came down to the office and asked the ageing, corpulent Creole who ran the place if there were any jobs going. Lefebvre, with sincerest commiserations, told her there was nothing, but that in a few months their receptionist would be retiring, and if Ida could get her typing up to speed he would be happy to consider her, and from there, if she showed enough aptitude, she could progress on to fieldwork. Ida took Lefebvre up on his offer, happy to have a foot in the door, but the fieldwork was slow in coming, and meager when it did arrive, and she ended up spending her days doing tedious clerical work or running Lefebvre’s personal errands.
So she’d decided to take matters into her own hands, to escape a suffocating existence of days wasted at a desk, of being trapped doing the same monotonous chores every day. She had fixed on the idea that solving a big case was the only way to get noticed, to prove to her superiors, and to herself, that she could do it. But the big cases didn’t come along often at the Pinkertons’ New Orleans bureau.
She heard a noise in Lefebvre’s office, lifted herself up and peered through the partition – Lefebvre was still asleep but he was muttering something to himself, involved in some restless, dreamy conversation. She often wondered what had caused Lefebvre’s slide into oblivion. He didn’t just drink for the feeling, or to forget, she could tell that much. There was a haunted look to the man, a death-liness that followed him closer than a pickpocket.
She wondered if she would ever end up like him, if it was the lot of the detective to be alone, out of step with the rhythm of the world. She had already spent most of her life feeling like an outcast; her troublesome skin tone had made her the victim of school-ground bullies, and the object of leering men. She never really had a friend in the world until Lewis arrived at her house, and so she passed her time with books and pulp-fiction magazines, immersed in a world of cowboys and pirates, Arctic explorers, ghost-hunters and magicians, but most of all detectives. She had read in one of those mystery magazines years before that the best detectives floated between worlds, and she guessed that summed her up – she could go to places where blacks weren’t allowed, and to places where whites wouldn’t dare. And so she’d learned early on that being a detective was the best she could hope for.
She resumed her work – copying down everything about Millicent Hawkes she thought would be relevant, before returning the notebook to her handbag and the files to the cabinet. She stepped over to the front door and opened it slightly, waited a moment in the silence, then slammed it shut. She saw Lefebvre’s image jolt up through the glass partition.
‘Morning, Monsieur Lefebvre,’ she shouted nonchalantly as she strode over to the windows and began pulling up the blinds, leaving a trail of sunshine in her wake.
8
Michael strode across the bureau floor, files in hand, riding a wave of indignation and annoyance, headed towards the desk of Detective Lieutenant Jake Hatener. Hatener was a fixture in the bureau, an obese man fifteen years Michael’s senior, who carried with him an air of permanent irritation. He had been Luca’s right-hand man in the days when Luca ran the bureau. During Michael’s investigation of Luca and his clique, he had gathered enough evidence on Hatener to have him sent away for decades. But when the arraignments rolled around, the District Attorney had pressed no charges against him. His omission from the list of indictees left the rest of the police force, Michael included, wondering exactly what contortionist’s trick Hatener had performed to escape scot-free. In the years since, Hatener had barely spared a look for Michael, and the two had fallen into the routine of silent enemies. When Michael approached, Hatener was just finishing off his lunch, the grease-paper wrappings of a sandwich splayed across his desk. Michael threw the police reports at him.
‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’ he said.
Hatener stared at Michael, a frown breaking out across his heavy, sagging face. Then he composed himself, wiped the grease of the po’boy sandwich from his chin, and picked up the reports.
‘What are you talking about?’ he muttered, flicking through the pages.
‘They’re the same as the Axeman. You investigated.’
Hatener read the reports a moment, and Michael studied the emotions flickering across his face, from confusion to understanding to concern. Hatener stared up at Michael. ‘Where’d you find these?’ he asked.
‘You should have told me,’ said Michael, noticing out of the corner of his eye people around the bureau stopping to watch the exchange.
‘I forgot,’ said Hatener, the hint of a grin on his lips. ‘These were nothing like the Axeman anyways. Just a bunch o’ dumb guineas that didn’t know any better.’
‘You buried the reports!’
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Michael turned to see McPherson standing behind him. It was only then that he noticed the silence, that the whole floor was staring at them. Michael swiped the reports from Hatener and passed them to McPherson.
‘Hatener was withholding information relating to the Axeman,’ he said.
Hatener stared at him bitterly. ‘Just like you to go squealing to the boss, huh, Michael?’
McPherson glared at them both.
‘In my office, now,’ he hissed.
McPherson made a show of slamming the door behind them, then he seated himself at his desk and flicked through the reports.
‘Well, don’t just stand there like idiots,’ he said without looking up.
Michael and Hatener sat on the two chairs opposite and eventually McPherson put down the reports and rubbed his forehead. ‘What was your evaluation at the time?’ he asked, turning to Hatener.
‘Counterfeiters,’ Hatener replied, and Michael and McPherson caught each other’s gaze. ‘The Matrangas were using grocers to distribute. Word was the three victims got greedy.’ Hatener shrugged, and Michael and the captain inferred his meaning. The victims had been killed by the Family so there wasn’t any point investigating. Hatener and his partner had let the cases grow cold.
‘Sure, they were grocers and they got killed with an axe,’ Hatener continued, ‘but it wasn’t related to the Axeman. No tarot cards left. No women and children killed.’
‘Did anyone get fingered?’ asked McPherson.
‘A few names got bandied about,’ said Hatener, shrugging again.
‘Regardless of any dissimilarities,’ said Michael, ‘I think it’s worth investigating. Discreetly. If the press gets a hold of this, we need something on record. If it is the same perpetrator, I’d say the only things to have kept him quiet for eight years would be Angola and the state insane asylum.’
McPherson nodded.
‘I’ll assign a few bluecoats to go through the records, find anyone whose incarceration and release coincides with the hiatus,’ said the captain. ‘Jake, go back and revisit the witnesses. Don’t mention the Axeman, make up something about a standard eight-year check-up on unsolved murders.’
Hatener gave the captain an annoyed look and shook his head.
‘You screwed up, Jake, and now you’re gonna put in the leg-work.’
As Michael returned to his desk, he mulled over what Hatener had said. If the Axeman was responsible for the earlier killings then he finally had a lead to pursue, a means of whittling down the infinite list of possible killers to a manageable handful. For the first time since he had started his beleaguered investigation, he could see some light at the end of the tunnel. He smiled at the thought of a victory, no matter how distant.
He got back to his desk and was surprised to see Kerry still milling about.
‘I’m sorry, Detective Talbot, I didn’t mean to cause a ruck.’
‘That wasn’t a ruck, son, and it’s not your fault.’ Michael leaned back in his chair and grinned. ‘Thank you for bringing the files to my attention. I’ll be sure to mention it to your CO.’
Kerry returned his grin and nodded his thanks, but he made no move to leave, and Michael wondered what else the boy could want.
‘Listen, kid,
’ he said. ‘You might not know this on account of you being a greenhorn around here and all, but I am, without a doubt, the least liked person in this precinct. Probably in the whole New Orleans PD. You ain’t doing yourself any favors being seen about my desk, so if you got something to ask me I’d advise you do it quickly.’
Kerry nodded and tried to smile, but Michael could see the confidence draining from the boy’s face. He had hurt Kerry’s feelings, and he felt a twinge of guilt. He peered at the boy again and guessed by the look on his face that he was plucking up the courage to make some kind of request.
‘It’s just, well, I’d like to help out on the Axeman case, sir. Help you solve it, you know,’ said Kerry. ‘I work hard, and, without meaning to sound big-headed, I think I’m clever enough. I guess I’m just asking for a chance, sir.’
Michael lit a cigarette and stared at the boy through the smoke. He thought about having someone around him to help out, someone he could mentor, and he was surprised to find that he actually quite liked the idea. His mind flashed back to his relationship with Luca, how Luca had taken him under his wing, had shown him the intricacies of the job. Perhaps he could make amends by doing the same for the boy.
‘You sure?’ he said. ‘Working with me’ll make you public enemy number two in here.’
Kerry shrugged. ‘I was an outsider back home, sir. I’m used to it.’
Michael smiled and held out his hand and Kerry shook it, his grip firmer than Michael had expected.
9
Carlo’s garden was an anomaly in squalid Little Italy, being spacious and open and brimming with myriad plants, bushes and trees. Luca and the old man strolled through an orchard at the far end of the garden, near the longest of the high whitewashed walls that surrounded the property. Luca could hear the sound of carts running along the street on the other side, the shouts and screams of urchins playing stickball. They passed a clutch of vines, stunted and sickly in the foreign soil. It was well into spring but they showed no signs of budding, their sinewy, brown tangles lofted into the air as free of green as the trellises of wood and wire that supported them.
‘I can understand you wanting to go home,’ said Carlo, images of a far-off, sun-drenched land flitting across his eyes. ‘Remember the wine in Monreale? We’ve been trying to grow our own here, but the soil . . .’ Carlo shook his head ruefully. ‘America isn’t a land for wine,’ he muttered. As they strolled, the old man held out a hand to the vines, touching the branches, testing the trellises, as if they were all in an attritional battle against the unforgiving American land.
‘So you’ve heard about the Axeman?’ he said, casting a sideways glance at Luca.
Luca nodded. ‘A little.’
‘He’s been making things difficult for us,’ said Carlo. ‘The police are using it as an excuse to close things down, and we don’t have Mayor Behrman’s protection anymore. The raid on Ciro’s bank would never have happened in the old days.’ Carlo paused for a moment to rue the loss of better times.
‘Of course, it’s not just the police,’ he continued. ‘The people are looking to me for help. Everybody pays us protection, but we can’t protect them from this.’
He lifted his hands into the air as if to indicate some kind of malevolent ether. ‘The killer is making us look weak. We need to find him. Make him an example.’
Luca nodded, understanding what Carlo was asking him to do.
‘You used to be a detective,’ he said, his voice soft. ‘Deliver him to us, and I’ll give you the money you need to go back to Monreale.’
Luca smiled. ‘When I was a detective, I had the whole department to help me. I’m rusty. Older.’ He shrugged as if to suggest he was nothing special, that he wasn’t the right man for the job.
‘I understand,’ said the old man. ‘We’ll give you all the help you need.’
Carlo stared at Luca with the expression of a man who was accustomed to being obeyed, and with that look, Luca realized that he had already been chosen for the task, and there was no way he could refuse. It wasn’t the work he had been expecting. He had hoped to be given a simple job – driving, collecting envelopes, book-keeping. He had dreaded a job that involved being violent, inflicting pain and sorrow. An investigation, he reasoned, was neither a simple job nor a violent one. After forty years in America all he wanted now was peace, the freedom to go back home and find somewhere quiet to rest. If one last case was the means to get to that peace, he’d do it. But then he thought of Michael, of being put on a collision course with the man he wanted to avoid. The best he could hope for was to run the investigation and not get caught, and to finish it to Carlo’s satisfaction, because he knew what would happen if he failed. Luca had expressed a desire to walk away, and no one was ever allowed to walk away. He had to pray the old man wouldn’t renege on his promise.
He turned to Carlo and they smiled and shook hands. He was back in the world of men, of people with agendas and bargains to be made. They turned and ambled back towards the house.
‘It’ll be good to have you around again,’ said Carlo, as if there had been no hint of coercion in Luca’s return. ‘One of the old faces. The young ones, they don’t understand the proper ways. They call us zips, as if we should be ashamed we were born in Sicily.’
Luca nodded somberly. ‘America does strange things to people,’ he replied.
They passed through a row of lemon trees and the smell of citrus wafted into Luca’s nose.
‘Where will you stay?’ asked Carlo. ‘I’d offer you a bed here but for the restrictions of your parole.’
‘Do you still have an interest in the hotel?’ asked Luca. ‘The old one in the business district?’
The hotel was outside Carlo’s stomping ground, in a busy area close to the mainline stations. If anything went wrong, Luca reasoned, he could skip town a lot easier than he could from Little Italy. Carlo frowned at him, and Luca sensed he had made the old man suspicious.
‘Yes,’ said Carlo, his eyes fixed on Luca, ready to pick up on any emotions that might flicker across his face. ‘But there are nicer places you could choose.’
‘That’ll be fine, thank you,’ said Luca trying to keep his expression fixed. ‘I’ve been in a prison all these years, it’s too soon for a home. A hotel will help me readjust.’ Carlo continued to stare at him, then eventually he nodded, either believing the lie, or choosing to ignore it, or most likely making a note of it for later use. They smiled at each other and continued on their way. As they approached the doors to the house, Luca saw the gas-lamps had been lit and the first hints of dusk were darkening the sky. The house looked warm and inviting, speaking of the family Luca had never really known.
‘Well, how about you stay for some food?’ said Carlo. ‘Giulietta is making spaghetti alla carrettiera.’
‘I’d be honored,’ said Luca.
He noticed someone had set the gramophone off; the sound of Verdi and Caruso floated through the open terrace doors. Luca knew the characters were singing about betrayal, about swearing a pact of loyalty to each other, by the marble of heaven. The strings and horns seemed to hover in the air, the voices floating above them, enchanting and faraway. They stood for a moment in the twilight and listened to the music, then Carlo turned to Luca, the glow of the lamps shining on his face.
‘We have to find him before the police do, Luca. Otherwise we can’t use him as an example.’
Luca nodded. ‘I’ll get to him before anyone else.’
Carlo put his hand on Luca’s shoulder, and they stepped back into the warmth of the house.
10
John Riley sat in the lecture room in Gibson Hall and scanned the rows of smiling undergraduates, and the vision induced in him a mouth-drying, bilious nausea. He prayed the mayor would keep his speech short; he prayed he could get out of the hall before anyone accosted him; he prayed the streetcar would come on time and he could make it across town to Elysian Fields Avenue before he started to vomit.
He had wasted his day catch
ing the bus out to Boutte, speaking to D’Andrea, catching the bus back. And now he was going to waste his evening reporting on the mayor’s annual talk to the graduating class of the Tulane University Law School, a talk that was deemed newsworthy by no one in the city except his fool of an editor, himself a graduate of the Tulane University Law School.
Riley was a Tulane alumnus too, but the university held no great place in his heart. Whenever he approached the Romanesque buildings on St Charles Avenue, his thoughts invariably drifted to thwarted ambitions. He had been accepted by Harvard to study Comparative Literature and Philosophy, but a downturn in his parents’ fortunes forced him to study locally, provincially, and thus his dreams of a literary life in the salons and publishing houses of New York and Boston had withered and died.
The door at the front of the room opened and the mayor stepped in with some of the university administrators. The undergraduates clapped politely and the mayor smiled and waved a hand. Mayor Behrman was a round, stocky man, with a balding head and a bushy mustache. He’d dressed in a tweed suit and a bow tie in a vain attempt to paint himself as the somber, Deep South Democrat he thought it expedient to be. Riley took his pad and pencil from his pocket. He licked the pencil and realized how dry his mouth was – sticky and tasting faintly of iron. He probably didn’t need the notes, he had reported on the mayor’s speech for the past four years and it had never changed – a numbing list of platitudes about the city was all he could offer.
‘New Orleans, the Big Easy, the City That Care Forgot, the Crescent City, Paris on the Mississippi, the Most Un-American of American Cities. Why does our hometown have so many names?’ the mayor asked in a booming voice. ‘Built on a marsh, six feet below sea level, between a river and a lake, the existence of New Orleans is both a miracle and a testament to the tenacious nature of man. This is how our city earned its sobriquets.’