In his prime, Reilly had been considered one of New York’s finest short-con operators. His game had been faro, and he was damn good at it—hell, he practically invented its modern version. In its early days, faro was considered the fairest of all gambling endeavors, the dealer’s advantage being a mere two per cent. Reilly had single-handedly coupled creativity and skill to subvert this fairest of games, his innovation being the manufacture of a special dealing box—a handcrafted steel and brass affair complete with hidden levers, plates, and springs—that allowed the dealer to not only preview the deck’s order, but to manipulate it. It was the physical beauty of the box itself that had the marks lining up; its shiny authority and fine detail reflected upon its owner—a thieving shyster could not possibly own such a beautiful gadget.
That was long ago, though, before the game’s reputation had been tarnished by the hundreds of tag-a-long imitators and their own clumsy variations and ham-fisted executions. The new generation of unimaginative bums had ruined the system for dignified entrepreneurs like Reilly. He’d made his fortune, but had spent it too fast—and now he was looking for a quick way to multiply what remained. This trip to New Orleans was supposed to be a simple holiday—like so many Northerners, he’d been enticed by tales of Storyville’s legendary feminine delicacies. But a trusted friend had urged him to contact Stiffy Lacoume while in town, had assured him Stiffy was a reliable man and an excellent source of quick investment opportunities. And so here he was.
“SIX……”
Goddamnitall straight to hell.
Reilly’s dumbfounded eyes located Stiffy’s puffy mug across the ring; poker-pussed and unblinking, looking straight at him. Then: the slightest nod, followed by an almost imperceptible wink.
In an instant, everything changed.
The Christ Kid had risen.
“SEV—”
The body of the Christ Kid trailed the comet of his fist, barreling forwards, knocking the ref over backwards along the way. Windmill Willie hadn’t seen any of it, had missed the shriek of the ref and the gasp of the bettors, missed the swoosh of the Christ Kid’s breeze. Even the impact to Willie’s jaw failed to register until his bulk reeled against gravity, losing to sharp physics; crashing to the mat.
The crowd held its collective breath and Reilly let out a too-audible sigh. Stiffy threw him a wide grin, shaking his head as if to say: “I told you so, mister.” Dazed but uncursing, the ref picked himself up and solemnly went about a new count, this time to the detriment of Windmill Willie.
ONE…
Somewhere behind Reilly there was a commotion.
TWO…
Shouting, slamming doors. Could be the jig was up—perhaps a disgruntled bettor had smelled something rotten in this farfetched comeback, setting off the sparks that would blossom into full-out brawl. This, Reilly had to admit, was probably not the case. What he had just witnessed was the most convincing dive he’d ever seen—even he didn’t believe it would actually happen till after the fact.
THREE…
From the general direction of the commotion, a deep, booming voice of Irish extraction shouted, “Nobody move!”
Coppers!
A rush of men went for the back door, a gun went off, a man fell—spitting blood and coughing loudly. No one else followed the bleeding man towards the door, a second rifle blast sending a dozen trembling men to the floor with hands clasped behind blubbering skulls.
FOUR…
As if insulted by the ref’s continued count, Windmill Willie rose to his knees, then to his feet. The Christ Kid bobbed and danced, ready for Willie to mix it up again. The fight was not yet over.
Enraged by the tenacious boxers, The Irishman’s baritone raised to near tenor; “Stop this motherfucking fight, goddamn you! This is a raid. Game over, you shits!”
The Christ Kid let out a sigh, and let both arms droop to his sides. Willie just stared at the Kid, muttering something between clenched teeth. Reilly was just close enough to make out what was said:
“You sucker-punched me, boy. Can’t let you get away with that.”
Willie wound back for a final swing, a swollen right fist connecting directly to the center of the Christ Kid’s unguarded chest. Unprepared for the blow, the Christ Kid dropped like a sack of bricks, flat on his back, his head hitting hard to canvas. The Kid let out a gasp and a cough, then a fountain of thick phlegm and blood shot upwards into the air.
“Goddamn it, I said stop this fucking fight!” The Irish cop’s cheeks were reddening rapidly.
An ungodly shriek pierced the air. Reilly’s head turned to the source:
“Scriminee-HEE-HEE-HEEEEE! That’s my partner! Dropsy, get up!”
It was Ratboy, jumping to his feet and charging towards the ring. The little white kid jumped under the first rope and slid to the side of the Christ Kid, pulling off his own rat-bloodied shirt to tuck under the Kid’s head for a pillow.
“Dropsy! Dropsy, say something!”
The Christ Kid looked into the eyes of the Ratboy, gave a little smile, said, “I’m hurt bad, Jim. Where’s that doctor?” His eyes went cloudy and rolled to white.
“DOCTOR!!” shrieked Ratboy. “They done kilt him! They kilt my best partner Dropsy!”
A paunchy man with a stethoscope dangling from his neck ducked beneath the ropes and climbed onto the canvas. “Now, boy, stand aside. I’m sure ol’ Dropsy’s just got the wind knocked out of him.”
Ratboy edged aside, refusing to let go the boxer’s swollen hand.
Cops wrestled with distressed bettors; some fighting like wild animals, others offering only nervous smiles and futile negotiations. The big Irishman stood near the ring: “He gonna be okay, Doc?”
The Christ Kid’s eyes, no longer purely white, stared upwards. His lips sputtered no more, and Reilly noted odd-shaped ovals of blood adorning the canvas around his head.
“Well, Officer, what we have here is an accidental death,” said the man with the stethoscope.
“Death?” The cop: Incredulous, eyes wide.
“Yessuh. Deader ’n fried chicken, I’m afraid.”
Ratboy shrieked.
The Irishman’s eyes narrowed. “Well, doc, what we have here is manslaughter.” Then, turning from the ring with his loudest authoritarian voice: “Bad news, you surly bunch of law-breakin’ sons o’jackals! Your ‘illegal gambling’ charge just got upgraded to ‘accomplice to manslaughter.’ That’d be a felony in the great state of Louisiana, so the first of you to make a move for the door gets a bullet in the back. Do not doubt my sincerity in this matter.”
Holy shit on a shingle, thought Reilly, rapidly calculating the odds of his own awful luck.
The New Yorker edged his way up to the Irish cop-in-charge, fine-tuning in his mind a burgeoning angle.
“Officer, may I have a word?”
“Stand aside, scum.” The scowl of the Irishman brought Reilly a chill.
Needfully persistent, Reilly flashed his most winning faro-smile; “Officer, I’m a businessman from New York, and I have a train to catch in thirty minutes. I assure you that I was brought here under false pretenses by a tour guide whom I’ve only just met. I had no idea—”
“New York, eh?” The cop was smiling.
“Yes, sir,” Reilly offered hopefully. There were lots of Irish families in New York; maybe this cop was from one.
The cop sent a backhanded smack across Reilly’s prickly cheek, throwing him backwards into the arms of a second, conveniently located police officer.
“Listen, you high-brow Yankee dirt bag. Your big city bullshit don’t wash with the Louisiana law. What’s your name?”
Reilly saw another card to be played and went for it, “Eugene Reilly, officer. Of Irish decent just like yourself. How about giving an Irish brother a break?” Reilly gave his faro-smile another workout. “Whaddaya say, Captain?”
“Well, Mr. Eugene Reilly of Yankee nativity and Irish descent, I will make a note of just who and what you are. We have special fun with
Yankees down the precinct, but I’ll make sure the boys leave a bone or two unbroken on account of your fine Irish bloodline.”
“But Officer, I’m certain we can work something out if you would only…”
Reilly’s pleas were interrupted by renewed commotion near the front door. A group of desperate gamblers had tried to smash the padlock with a crowbar smuggled from behind the bar. A corresponding group of beefy men in uniform responded with corresponding brutality.
“Stand against the bar, Reilly!” The big Irishman grabbed Reilly by the back of the neck and shoved him towards the bar. Fearing another blow, Reilly meekly complied. This was clearly not a good time to explore further negotiations. Perhaps at the jailhouse, after temperaments had a chance to cool. There was nothing Reilly could do now—except stand with his back to the bar as the pathetic black circus of his life unraveled around him.
Suddenly a new distraction presented itself—this time from within the ring. Reilly stared in weak amusement as Ratboy chased Windmill Willie around the ring in a surreal blur—waving his ratkilling stick and shrieking gibberish like a wounded hog. The big man and the skinny boy somehow managed to avoid trampling the corpse of the Christ Kid in the course of the wild chase, Willie bellowing threats at the boy but fleeing just the same. The thin lips of the Christ Kid seemed to curve at the edges—most likely a trick of the light, Reilly deducted—or perhaps a minute muscle contraction related to the dying process. Either way, this image of smiling death made the tiny hairs at the back of his neck bristle and stand. Reilly practically jumped out of his skin when a hand grabbed his shoulder from behind. He turned to look.
Stiffy Lacoume stood behind the bar with eyes wide and finger to lips. Before Reilly could think to question, the old Cajun displayed surprising strength and agility by yanking all two hundred pounds of the New Yorker over the bar top and onto the sticky concrete floor behind. The two men crouched alone on all fours as the room beyond exploded into a new wave of violence, Reilly’s disappearance going unnoticed.
“If you want to get out of this mess, you’ll keep your mouth shut and follow me,” said the Cajun. Reilly quickly nodded. Stiffy wasted no time, turning around and crawling towards the deep end of the back of the bar Reilly followed Stiffy’s sizable backside, glimpsing salvation in its frantic waddle.
The bellow of Crawfish Bob rose above the din, “He got ’em, goddammny! Ratboy done got Willie! Got ’im with that naily stick o’ his! Now we got ourselves two bodies!” Bob’s excited tone was a weird mixture of horror and amusement.
“Holy Christ almighty!” Reilly yelped.
“Quiet, damn ya!” Stiffy scolded.
Reilly looked up to see Stiffy fiddling with a section of wall near the back end of the bar. Miraculously, a rectangle measuring approximately two and a half feet wide by three feet high came loose in the Cajun’s hands. Stiffy shoved the rectangle outside and bounded out and after it. Reilly followed fast.
Once they were both safely in the comparative cool of the alley outside, Stiffy reattached the rectangle, got to his feet and brushed himself off.
“I devised that escape route for in just such a case,” said the Cajun, with no small amount of pride.
“You’re a genius,” Reilly exclaimed in genuine awe. “Now what?”
“Now what?” Stiffy grinned. “Now ya git gone, sunnyjim. Catch the next train north. You done made a big impression on that mick copper.” He took a deep breath before amending, “No offense meant by that, my Irish friend.” Continuing, sans grin, “Good chance he’ll notice yer gone once the dust settles. Git yerself to that train station and keep low about it. Cops might try’n nab you there since you were dumb enough to mention yer travelin’ by train. So be careful, palley. Goodbye, and good luck.”
Reilly did some quick faro-math and figured Stiffy’s plan an eighteen-to-one favorite. He had to get on that train and pray it was leaving soon, before the Irish brute had a chance to notice his absence. Reilly clasped Stiffy’s hand in both of his own, said, “How can I thank you? You saved my life.”
“Ah, puh-shaw,” said Stiffy with pronounced humility, exposing a top row of yellow, brown, and black. “I don’t leave my business associates hangin’ out to dry if I kin help it. No, sirree.”
“What about you?”
“I got places to stay ’round here. Don’t you worry none about yer old friend Stiffy Lacoume. I’ll be just fine. Now, you best git, pardna.” Then, after two breaths of awkward silence: “Go on, now. Git.”
Reilly nodded, walking briskly southwest in the direction of the train station.
In the heat of the moment, neither man mentioned the five thousand dollars Reilly had left behind in the fight pit. After he was well on his way to safety there was a very good chance Reilly himself would write the money off as an acceptable loss. After all, things had gone amazingly wrong and he had at least managed to escape with both his skin and freedom intact.
Thanks to his dear and thoughtful friend, Stiffy Lacoume.
*
In the alley behind Bob’s, Stiffy whistled low as he strolled leisurely to the alley’s mouth. When he hit the stone pavement of Franklin Street, he turned left, and walked to the corner before going left again. Half circle.
Upon arriving at Crawfish Bob’s front door, which was currently padlocked from inside, Stiffy stopped briefly to ponder the night’s events as he listened with amusement to the muffled chaos raging inside. He shook his head and let out a chuckle, scratched his greasy head and said out loud, “Lord, lord, lord.” After an additional second or two of meditation, Stiffy raised a gnarled right fist and knocked with just enough force to be heard over the ruckus, not quite hard enough to break the skin of his knuckles.
Bap. Bap-bap. Buh-bap, bap, buh-bap.
The sound of chaos faded, then all but ceased.
A mass of muttering. Almost quiet. A small burst of laughter. An admonishing shush. Finally: Near total quiet.
The fresh silence was gently broken by the clickety sound a key makes in a padlock.
The door creaked open slow, just enough to expose one very serious-looking mug.
“Well?” inquired Crawfish Bob.
Stiffy: “Cooled out and on the broad, Bob.”
That being con-man talk for:
The mark is on the train with piss in his pants and nary a clue.
Chapter twenty-four
Dog
At six-foot-one and two hundred twenty pounds, Dropsy Morningstar certainly had the looks of a killer—especially with his face freshly bloodied on the job at Crawfish Bob’s. In truth, Dropsy was nothing more than a large child and incapable of hurting a fly. At the other end of the spectrum, Jim Jam Jump looked harmless enough at sixteen years of age and ninety-six pounds, but most certainly was a killer. So, between Dropsy’s unsettling looks and Jim’s unsettling inclinations, the two believed they didn’t have cause for concern as they walked through the dark alley behind Marais Street, their pockets stuffed with equal fair shares of Eugene Reilly’s recently plundered life savings.
“Think that Yankee fella done got what he deserved, Jim?” Dropsy was prone to feelings of remorse after a good touch—and counted on Jim’s uncanny ability to soothe his dented conscience.
“Hell, Dropsy, that New York mick was as crooked as they come. Only got beat because he was aimin’ to beat out Bob, ain’t that right? Fella lookin’ ta cheat deserves to be cheated—ain’t that right, too?”
“S’pose so, Jim.” Dropsy’s internal conflict melted only slightly, but enough for now.
With half his face swollen and a cut above the left eye, Dropsy was as exhausted from his performance as the Christ Kid as he looked. Rest, however, was an unlikely option, for Jim didn’t have it in him to let a good night of larceny end at such an early hour. After thirty more strides of walking and thinking, Jim had formulated a fully detailed scheme with which to fill the night’s remainder. His keen ears detected an alien hum coming from somewhere up ahead—Jim made a quick men
tal note of it, but refused to let it break his train of thought.
“Dropsy, my goodly and bestest partner, yer old pal—Jim Jam Jump myself, that is—has been thinking hard on these many strides, thinking in terms of continuous and profitable fun on this night, a night blessed thus far with luck and substantial financial reward.”
Dropsy winced lightly.
“Limmity-hay, whaddaya say, ol’ pal o’mine, my buddy, my friend, my partner in time and jiminey-crime?”
Dropsy let out a sigh. “Damn, Jim. I’m thinking in terms of my busted-up head resting its poor self on a nice pillow ’bout now. Down for the night is what.” Wishful thinking was more like it. Dropsy knew better than to argue, but watching Jim turn the angles had become a sort of pastime of his, even if Dropsy himself was at the receiving end of the current angle in question.
“Well, sure—sure you are, Dropsy. I understand that.” Jim could barely conceal his amusement. Dropsy’s game was to supply the obstacles upon which Jim thrived—and they both knew it. Continuing with faux concern, and the all-important-never-ending-angle-in-progress; “That’s why I figured on fun with minimal physical labor on your part, old pal. Have a looky here.”
With the precise and edgy movement of an alley cat, Jim shot a hand into his left breast pocket to extract two small, white objects. Jim held his hand close to Dropsy’s face—in case moonlight proved insufficient to their revelation. Dropsy knew before looking that Jim held two sugar cubes marked with black dots from a fountain pen. Homemade dice. One was straight, the other tat. Crooked die.
“I swear by almighty, Jim, I ain’t a clue as to where you find the energy. After killin’ that buncha rats and all.”
“New world record is what!” Jim Jam Jump the Astounding Ratboy of Orleans Parish and Surrounding Territories beamed brightly with hard-earned pride for a moment before returning to the topic at hand. “Dang, Dropsy, that was hours ago. I’d caught my breath up and was ready fer more before you was anywhere’s near dying in that second round.” Jim put on his most fetching who’s-yer-pal? smile. “So whaddaya say? How’s about a little tat? Rat a cat tat map flap whap tat? Eh, ol’ pal? C’mon, Dropsy. Don’t be an old woman about it.” A look of mock distaste spread over Jim’s face.
The Sound of Building Coffins Page 12