The Righteous Cut, page 11
Van Zandt swallowed, his eyes suddenly damp, blinking.
“Yeah, you remember it, too,” Farrell continued. “Common sense would dictate that a man like you should stay a hundred miles from a plot like this, but he hurt you once, and I think you’re just small enough to want to knife him in the back. See you later, Van. Be careful, hear?”
When Van Zandt failed to reply, Farrell walked to the copse of trees and faded into it. Five minutes later he was headed back to the city.
***
Early that morning Skeeter was awakened by Mabel’s touch as she gently made love to him. It seemed to him that her kisses were more ardent this time, her touch a bit more urgent. Her dark nipples seem to burn his bare chest as she clutched him to her. They made love three times before Mabel collapsed against him. He tried to speak, but, with her face hidden in the side of his neck, she pressed her fingers gently against his mouth.
After a while, she got out of the bed and went to the washbasin. She silently bathed herself from head to foot, then drew on fresh undergarments and a clean house dress. She paused at the door, speaking softly over her shoulder. “Get yourself together and I’ll make you breakfast.” Before he could reply, she opened the door and slipped through it.
Melancholy settled over him as he lay there. He remembered what Mabel had said last night, feeling unhappy in a way he didn’t recognize.
After a wash, he dressed and walked quietly downstairs. As he sat down, he noticed that Mabel did not turn from her work at the stove. A few minutes passed before she brought over a plate heaped with flapjacks and bacon, poured him a cup of coffee then went back to her work. After he poured sulfurated cane syrup all over his cakes and bacon he ate steadily, occasionally pausing to look at Mabel’s back. When he was finished, he pushed his plate away.
“That was mighty fine, Mabel. I sure do thank you.”
“You need to get goin’ now.”
As she turned to look at him, he saw the tracks of tears on her cheeks. “What’s wrong, Mabel?”
“Skeeter, you’re a sweet boy, but a boy’s all you are. It might be all you’ll ever be. One thing I know, if you’re gonna grow up, grow up now. You need to start actin’ like a man, today, you hear?”
“Yeah, Mabel. Mabel, I—I love you.”
“I know. Now go on, and don’t be comin’ back.”
Skeeter’s face fell. “You—you don’t mean that, honey. You couldn’t.”
She took a dishtowel and pressed it up to her face, shaking her head. “Please, just go. Try not to let them kill you. Go someplace else, while you got the time, but just go.” She began to weep quietly into the dishtowel, turning her back on him again.
Skeeter wanted to comfort her, but he turned away and walked out. Today he seemed to have no future.
He didn’t know Jessica Richards except to speak to, yet he felt as much a victim as the girl. There should be something he could do to get his life back, but the dull weight of misfortune hindered his thinking.
He pulled his cap out of his pocket and put it on as he walked to Esplanade Avenue. A bus honked as he crossed the avenue without paying attention to its approach.
When he reached the vicinity of the old U. S. Mint, he made a beeline to a telephone booth. A few seconds later, he listened to the buzz of the line at Howard’s garage.
“Blessey’s,” a voice said.
“Mornin’. Is Howard there today?”
“He is, but he’s talkin’ to a fella. You wanna wait?”
“Yeah, reckon I better.”
***
Easter Coupé woke at daylight. His plan was to reach Howard Blessey at opening time. If Skeeter was there, he knew he’d smell him.
He dressed in a dull black business suit and a black narrow brimmed Dobbs hat. From his bureau he removed a shoebox, from which he took a .22 automatic pistol with a silencer. He checked the magazine, replaced it in the box, and left the house. Instead of taking the De Soto, he went to the rear of the house and entered a small garage where he kept an old brown Plymouth.
Leaving his neighborhood at six, he stopped at a diner for ham and eggs and coffee before continuing on. Alone with his thoughts, he found them invaded with images of Patience and the bare little apartment where Skeeter Longbaugh lived. He irritably shook the images from him as he left the counter.
Like many who haunted the Negro underworld, Coupé was intimate with Gerttown, a place where every kind of vice found haven and sustenance. Coupé didn’t know Blessey, but if things ran true to form, the man was probably a thief, quick to smell a phony line.
He entered Gerttown from Fig Street at the edge of Notre Dame Seminary. As he made the turn into Olive he saw that Blessey’s outfit occupied most of the block. A high metal fence surrounded a salvage yard, a two-bay sheet metal garage, and a faded blue shotgun cottage. Coupé could hear the sounds of hammer on metal, the hiss of a welding torch, and the noise of a radio.
Parking the Plymouth across the street, he walked to the nearest bay and squatted until he could see hands wrestling with the cover of a universal joint. “Hey, ’scuze me, man. Mr. Blessey around?”
A pair of eyes rose above the edge of the grease pit. “Over there.” He jerked a thumb.
“Thanks.” Coupé got up and walked until he saw an open door. He found an old man at a desk making notations on an inventory sheet while another Negro sat propped against the wall playing with a fuel pump. On a wall shelf, a dusty Philco radio blared. Coupé had to shout several times before the old man looked up. Blessey started to speak, then got up and beckoned Coupé outside.
“Goddamned racket,” he growled as he tugged at his bristly gray mustache. “One a these days I’m ’onna throw that damn radio out the door. What you want, mister?”
“Lookin’ to get a tune-up ’fore I leave town. Young fella I talked to said y’all did fine work.”
The old man looked at him sharply. “Young fella?”
“Yeah, had a funny name. Skipper, Scooter—no, Skeeter. That’s it, Skeeter.”
The old man snorted. “My nephew. Used to work with me here but he didn’t like gettin’ grease on his hands. Said the gals didn’t like it.”
“Well, he seemed to know somethin’ about cars. I been havin’ this knockin’ noise when I get her above thirty-five. He said a good tune-up would set her right as rain.”
The old man cast a glance across the street. “That your Plymouth? I reckon I can look at ’er t’morra.” He tossed a look back at the work bays, then scratched the back of his neck. “Should have it ready for you before noon.”
“Fine. My mechanic moved to Los Angeles a while ago. Didn’t know of anybody else until I spoke to your nephew.”
“Yeah, he’s a good enough kid. Just triflin’ and girl crazy is all. Could’a made a decent mechanic outa him if he’d hung around longer. Well, lemme get back, Mr.—”
“Brown, Frank Brown. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
Coupé walked back to his car, then drove out of the neighborhood. Blessey was sharp, but his responses to Coupé’s remarks about Skeeter had been too spontaneous. If the kid were there, he’d have been more guarded.
Coupé drove around the edge of the neighborhood, reentering two blocks down from Blessey’s compound. From there, he had an unobstructed view of anyone approaching. He took a pair of army surplus binoculars out of the glove compartment and put the gun on the seat behind him. He wanted this over, so why did he dread it so much?
***
Frank Casey hadn’t been in the office very long before Nick Delgado appeared. Casey considered the lab man an indispensable member of his team, but the man, himself, was self-effacing to a fault. “Hello, Nick. Got something?”
“A beginning,” the lab man replied. “Jimmy Doughtery and the other men at the shoe repair shop were killed with a Smith & Wesson .32, but the Amsterdam and Callahan killings were both done with the same .22 automatic, same kind of ammunition.”
“A .32’s not much gun for a stick-up artist or a hired killer,” Casey mused.
“Smith & Wesson manufactures a target grade .32 with match sights and oversized grips,” Delgado replied. “A different gun, but still a sharpshooter’s weapon. Could still be the same shooter. Two of the four guys at Bockman’s were shot twice, just like Amsterdam and Callahan.”
Casey fingered his chin. “Amsterdam and Callahan were two of Whit Richards’ closest associates. I think they were targeted and stalked by a pro. The massacre at Bockman’s is too heavy-handed to be the same man.”
“Maybe,” Nick replied. “I’m checking all the ballistic evidence with other cases to see if we can find a match.”
Casey grunted. “What else?”
“Been working on that tie bar Daggett found. I didn’t think it’d be worth much, but I kept playing with it.”
“Uh, huh.”
He put an eight by ten color photo on Casey’s desk that brought the small details of the tie bar into sharp relief. “For one thing, this is a very nice piece of goods. It’s twenty-four carat gold with diamond chips in the valves. The manufacturer is a firm in Kansas City.”
“Really? Were you able to get in touch with them?”
“Caught them this morning. Apparently these were a special order for a local distributor. The office manager there said that they’d placed them in four different men’s stores here, just a handful in each one because they’re pricey, about thirty-five bucks apiece.”
“Big money. You get the names of the shops?”
“Sure did. They’re all located Downtown.”
“I don’t guess you found any prints or anything?”
“Didn’t really expect to, chief. The way the thing’s been engraved and detailed.”
“Well, that would’ve been asking for a miracle.”
“There is one thing I did find. It’s no immediate help, but it’s worth telling your investigators.”
“What’s that?”
“Embedded in some of the engraving I found traces of powdered cocaine. The owner probably used the tie bar to spoon cocaine to his nose.”
Casey nodded. “That might be worth something.”
“Let me get back to work on that ballistic evidence. I’ll call you when I’ve got something more.” He excused himself and departed for the lab.
Casey pulled the telephone toward him and dialed an internal number. “Ray, this is Casey. I’ve got a line on that tie bar Daggett found. We need to send some men Downtown to check a few men’s stores.” He gave Snedegar a few details then hung up.
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face. More than a day after the kidnapping and not a single real lead yet. He hoped Farrell was having better luck.
Chapter 9
Daggett and Andrews gave up their search for Skeeter Longbaugh not long after visiting Mabel Evans and drove home. Daggett found his wife, Margurite, awake when he arrived. She was long past the nausea and vomiting stage of her pregnancy, but she sometimes had trouble sleeping because of backache. Daggett shared a cup of mint tea with her, then rubbed her back and legs until she slept.
Daggett had come to cherish these moments. The pregnancy was unexpected, but he was happy about it. Knowing he had a child on the way had somehow mellowed him, made his job seem easier to bear.
When he and Andrews arrived at the office Friday, they found Detective Merlin Gautier waiting for them with news.
“Even though this Longbaugh kid has no priors, I kept asking people about him,” Gautier explained. “I eventually found somebody who knew him pretty well.”
“How well?”
“The fella’s a mechanic, and he knew Longbaugh from working in a garage with him,” Gautier replied. “Nobody else we talked to mentioned that.”
“No. The kid doesn’t seem to have many friends.”
Gautier grinned. “Too busy chasin’ the skirts, my man. But that’s not the good part.”
“So what is?”
“Man said the garage he and Longbaugh worked at belongs to Longbaugh’s uncle, a man named Howard Blessey.”
“And?”
“Blessey’s a car thief. He went down for a three spot at Parchman in 1919. I pulled his sheet and discovered he’s a pretty hard old boy. He’s had twenty-seven arrests since then, but never gone to trial. He’s believed to have killed several rivals, too.”
“Nice work, Merle. Where’s Blessey’s garage?”
“On Olive in Gerttown. You get anything last night?”
“We talked to a couple of his girlfriends, but they couldn’t or wouldn’t help us.”
“The way I figure it,” Gautier said, “the kid’s got no place else to turn but his old uncle the car thief.”
Daggett nodded. “Let’s take a ride.”
***
Howard Blessey returned to his office and saw his employee still fiddling with the fuel pump, the radio blasting wide open. Blessey noted the telephone receiver standing on end and spoke to the man. “For me?” he shouted.
“Huh?”
Uttering a growl, Blessey reached up and shut the radio off. “The phone. Is it for me, you Goddamn knucklehead?”
“Oh, yessir. Sorry. I plumb forgot.”
“Get outa here before I put a boot in your ass.”
As the man ran out, Blessey grabbed the phone. “Yeah?”
“It’s Skeeter, Unca Howard. I got some bad trouble.”
“What kinda trouble?”
“Two white men forced me to help ’em kidnap a white girl yesterday. They killed my friend Butterbean doin’ it. I reckon they lookin’ for me now. Prob’ly the cops, too.”
“Hell,” the old man growled. “I reckon now you wished you’d stayed here in the grease pit, don’t you?”
“Yessir, but that ain’t helpin’ me just this minute.”
“How far away are you?”
“Down Esplanade. If I catch a bus I might could get there in forty-five minutes.”
“Okay, but be careful. By now the cops know you’re related to me, and if they know that, they know I ain’t the friendly neighborhood grease monkey. Come in from the east. You can see if anybody’s hangin’ around before you get here.” The old man paused as something occurred to him. “Tell me, you been talkin’ up the garage to anybody lately?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“How about a man named Frank Brown? Deep black skin, hard around the eyes and a bad scar along his jaw.”
Skeeter was silent for a moment. “Don’t recollect nobody like that.”
“Get your ass over here. Now.”
The boy hung up without further conversation.
As the old man walked to the office door he saw a black Dodge slow to a stop across the street. Howard made them for Negro cops as soon as the three men got out of the car. He went back into the office as though he hadn’t seen them.
He was at his inventory when the door opened. Blessey looked up at a tall, lanky brown man. “Help you, mister?”
The tall man opened his hand, revealing a gold star and crescent shield. “Sergeant Daggett. Are you Mr. Blessey?”
“I am. What can I do for you?”
Daggett led two more men into the office. “This is Detective Andrews and Detective Gautier. We’d like to ask you some questions about your nephew, Skeeter Longbaugh.”
Howard poked out his lip thoughtfully. “Hell, I ain’t seen the boy in weeks. He in some kinda trouble?”
“Some kind. A white girl was kidnapped yesterday and a man was murdered. Skeeter hasn’t been to work, and he hasn’t been home, either. In fact, nobody’s seen him.”
Blessey waved a dismissive hand. “Man, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree. He ain’t got many brains, but he’s got enough not to do that.” He laughed in a dry clatter.
Daggett nodded. “Maybe, but the fact that he disappeared looks bad for him. I’ve got a hunch, though.”
“What kind?”
“Your nephew hasn’t got a black mark against him and everybody speaks well of him. It could be he was forced to help the kidnappers.” Daggett pushed his hat back off his forehead and gave the old man a sympathetic look. “The only way we can clear him is to find the criminals.”
Blessey shook his head tiredly. “Man, this gettin’ to be a tough ole world when a boy can’t mind his business without a bunch of ofays draggin’ him into their shit.”
“Who said anything about white men?”
Blessey lifted his head and saw Daggett staring at him. “Sorry, I thought you did. Makes sense, though—these folks kidnapped a white gal. Our kind would know better’n to do somethin’ as crazy as that.”
“Do him a favor and get him to turn himself in.”
Blessey nodded solemnly. “If I hear from the boy, I’ll talk to him, Sergeant. You can take that to the bank.”
Daggett rested a foot on the seat of an empty chair, stared down at the old car thief. “Mr. Blessey, I believe in being fair. We know you got a record, and there are people at headquarters who think you’re still in the hot car racket. If I find out you’ve been hiding Skeeter, I’ll send you back to prison. That’s something you can take to the bank. Let’s go, fellas. We’re through here.”
Blessey maintained a straight face through Daggett’s threat, and he watched silently as the detectives filed out of the office. When their car pulled away, the old man spat in the waste basket. “You’re just as slick as glass, ain’t you, Mr. Nee-Grow Detective? Shit.” He went to the door and shouted into the garage bays. “Lonnie. C’mere a minute.”
A skinny brown man in grease-stained overalls and cap came at a lope. “What’d the cops want, Howard?”
Blessey grinned at him affectionately. “You can sure smell one, can’t you, Lonnie? Skeeter’s knee-deep in shit. We got to get him outa town tonight. Get that Oldsmobile ready and fill up the tank. You’re takin him to Houston.”
Lonnie nodded wisely. “He can get lost but good there in the Fifth Ward. I’ll get right to it.”
“Good. Keep your eyes open, too. People liable to be snoopin’ around here, if they ain’t already.”
