The Righteous Cut, page 16
Joey screamed in pain, his feet kicking uselessly. The big man stared at him with savage delight as he smashed his fist into the younger man’s face. Joey went limp, but the man hit him again, then struck him a terrific blow in the abdomen. Gradually the man’s hideous grin relaxed. He shook Joey experimentally, then threw him out into the hall.
Jessica rose painfully up on her elbow, saw that her step-ins were ripped up one leg and her brassiere was torn half off her chest. She crawled to the side of the bed, trying to cover herself with her arms. She felt something soft against her body, and found the big man covering her with a blanket. As she clutched it to her throat, she stared up at him. “Who—Who are you?”
“I’m your Uncle Pete, Jessica.”
“Uncle—Pete?”
He nodded. “I guess your daddy never mentioned me. Here, let’s get you up on the bed.”
***
“Mr. Blessey, we know that Skeeter came in here. You’re not doing yourself any good by staying clammed up.”
The old car thief looked defiantly up into Daggett’s angry face. “Way I sees it, I’m doin’ myself plenty of good. You can’t very well haul me in for harborin’ a fugitive if there ain’t no fugitive here, now can you?”
Gautier’s narrow face had grown as sharp as an arrowhead. He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. “Iz, leave him in here with me and Sam for about ten minutes. The old bastard’ll shit words all over the floor when we get through with him.”
“Knock it off,” Daggett snapped. He started to walk out to the car, but on an impulse, he decided to give the old man one last try.
The old man sat with his arms folded, glaring obdurately at Gautier and Andrews. Daggett waved the other two back and confronted Blessey.
“Mr. Blessey, do you care what happens to Skeeter?”
It wasn’t the kind of question the old man expected. He considered it, wondering if it were a trick. “I reckon so. He’s all the kin I got.”
“Then I want you to think about something. If he was an unwilling accomplice of the men who kidnapped that white girl, they’re looking for him, and I think you know what’ll happen when they find him.”
The old man remained silent.
Daggett’s face was like a thundercloud. “You don’t give a damn as long as you keep your own ass out of the crack, do you?”
The old man’s face twisted this way and that as he wrestled with himself. It was completely against his grain to trust a cop, but he recognized the continuing danger to Skeeter. He looked up at Daggett again, his eyes clear. “Was a man here earlier, callin’ hisself Frank Brown. Claimed Skeeter sent him here to get his car worked on. I thought somethin’ about him weren’t quite right.”
“Uh, huh. I’m listening. What did he look like?”
“Big fella, huge. His face looked like somebody carved it out of a block of coal with a dull chisel. Maybe six-four. Weighed two hundred and fifty pounds if he weighed an ounce. Had this bad scar runnin’ along his jawbone here.” He dragged his thumb along the right side of his jaw.
Andrews and Gautier looked at each other sharply. “Boss, I don’t know but one man looks like that. His name’s Easter Coupé,” Andrews said.
Daggett’s shoulders slumped. He figured Skeeter for a dead man already. “Gautier, get on the radio and get a descriptions of Longbaugh and Coupé out on the air. Sam, call the squad room and ask them to dig up anything on Coupé that they can find on file. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” As the two detectives moved to obey, Daggett turned his unfriendly gaze back on the old car thief.
“Mr. Blessey, for two cents I’d handcuff your ankles, hang you upside down from that door and beat your ribs in. There’s not a person at headquarters who’d shed a goddamned tear if I did. I’m not gonna take you in because I can’t pin anything on you, but I’ll tell you this. If Skeeter winds up dead, you’ll have to take the blame. There’s nothing the law can do to you that’ll be any worse than that.”
He grabbed the old man’s bib-front and dragged him to his feet. “But if I so much as catch you spittin’ on the sidewalk after this, I’m gonna throw your miserable old ass in jail and fix it so you rot in there, you understand?”
The old man didn’t like it, but he took it. “I hear you plenty good.”
Daggett glared at him for a moment, then pushed him away with a growl of disgust. He turned and left the old man standing in the office alone.
***
“He’s plenty slick, Whit,” the short bald man said. “We done checked every fleabag hotel, every roomin’ house, hell, we even been to see real estate leasing agents. We found he checked into the General Wilkerson night before last, but he checked out again next mornin’.” He scratched the fringe of unkempt brown hair that grew beneath the pink dome of his head. “It’s like tryin’ to track a ghost.”
Richards paced up and down the length of his office, rubbing the back of his neck. He’d lost two more men and fifteen thousand in cash in a Carson raid on a gambling den he owned near the Jefferson Parish line. With Amsterdam dead, his gambling operation was spinning into a shambles. “Somebody’s hiding him, I know it. I just don’t know who.”
Vic shrugged nonchalantly. “So mebbe we oughta go shake a few people up. We might get lucky.”
“Are you out of your mind? Don’t we have enough enemies already?” He shook his head vigorously.
Vic crossed his legs, folded his hands peacefully in his lap. “Look, Whit. I know you’re a respectable city councilman and all, and you prob’ly don’t wanna dent that nice glossy picture you sold the suckers, but you gotta get wise to yourself. Jack’s dead. Butch is dead. So far eight of our men is dead, and by my count we lost thirty, forty thousand bucks in two days. Experience tells me that while they’re bleedin’ us white, they’re lookin’ for a chance to send us to the same party they sent Jack and Butch to. I’m your man, always was and always will be, but I ain’t sittin’ still to get shot so’s you can pretend you didn’t get where you are by stealin’. Am I gettin’ through to you yet?”
Richards stopped pacing to stare at the little bald man. He looked like Elmer Fudd, until you noticed the bulge of the .45 under his jacket. “All right, all right. I’m so worried about Jess that I’m losin’ my mind.”
“Don’t give me that crap, Whit. All you’re worried about anymore is that li’l blonde quail out there. You gotta be nuts, a man your age. Christ.” He shook his head. “Get your head outa your ass, Whit. I know three, maybe five people who might just have the balls to back Pete up. I go hit them, and your problem goes away like heartburn after a Bromo.”
“What people?”
Vic stood up, shaking his head. “Cut it out. You know what people. Even you only got so many enemies that can really hurt you.” He turned and walked to the office door. “I’ll call you in a little while.” He opened the door and left the office.
Richards watched the door close, blinking uncertainly. In all the years they’d been together, Vic D’Angelo had always taken his lead. Richards was torn between anger at Vic’s temerity and relief that someone was going to do something that needed doing. Without Jack and Butch he felt crippled. He sat down heavily in an armchair.
There was a brief rap at the door just before it opened and Rob Langdon entered. The slender young man frowned as he looked at his boss. “Whit—Whit? Look at me, Whit.”
Richards looked up slowly. “What is it?”
Langdon ran his fingers through his hair, his mouth brittle with impatience. “Tell me what you want to do. We’ve got people lined up to see you on city business and others who want you for other reasons. The hall’s full of sheriff’s deputies and they frisk everybody who comes in. This is chaos. If we can’t do business, people will start to lose confidence. You and I both know that can’t happen. What do you want to do, for the love of Christ?”
“Who’s out there? The real business, not those flannel mouths working for the city.”
“Bandini and Lupo need help with that paving contract. Braden down at Public Works is giving them the run-around. Then there’s Art DeLuca. You promised him exclusive franchise on that excursion boat business. He says that was supposed to be cleared up a week ago, but the Secretary of State’s people won’t talk to him. Besides him there’s—”
Richards waved dismissively at his assistant. “That’s enough. Jesus H. Christ.”
Langdon’s dark eyes held a look bordering on contempt. “Whit, I know how you feel, but you’re a power in this town. You got a lot of people depending on you, and hell to pay if you don’t deliver. We’ve got people we need to pay off, and we can’t pay them off until we get paid off.”
“All right. Fuck! You’re a bigger nag than a wife. Send in Bandini and Lupo.”
Langdon half-turned, paused. “Georgia’s going out of her mind. Can’t you do anything to make her feel better?”
Richards heard something in Langdon’s voice, looked up sharply, his eyes with a cruel glint in them. “Working on you a little bit is she, Rob? Georgia’s a gal who gets what she wants, so beware of her. Especially since she’s taken you into her bed. Oh, yeah, I knew. How do you think I got where I am in this town, you little shit? You want to tell her something, then tell her that the half-brother I framed and double-crossed eleven years ago has come back from the dead. Tell her to stop worrying about Jess because he came back to hurt me. Me. Tell her the next time you share a quiet moment together. Now get out and send in Bandini and Lupo.”
Langdon suppressed a shudder as he walked very carefully and quietly to the door, pausing as he put his hand on the knob. “You knew, but you said nothing. Why?”
“Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d try to double-cross me for her. Either she isn’t as good as she used to be or you’ve got more spine than I thought. But nobody pulls the wool over my eyes, boy. Nobody.”
Langdon opened the door and stepped through it. As he closed the door, Whitman Richards stood up from his chair, his pale face flushed and his dark eyes full of hot lights. He was still standing there when Bandini and Lupo entered.
***
Farrell continued Downtown knowing that time was getting short. The longer this went on, the greater was the danger that Jessica might become a casualty or simply an inconvenience to the men seeking to destroy her father. He admitted to himself that the clock was ticking for him, too, as long as the sniper remained unchecked on his tail.
Finding Pete Carson was going to require all the manpower Casey could throw at it, but the Parmalee brothers were bottom-feeders. Wherever that kind went, they left a trail of slime behind for someone to follow.
Johnny had been a fighter, and probably still had friends and acquaintances at the fringes of the fight game. Farrell had, himself, trained to be a fighter long ago, and decided to see where that road would lead him.
He swung back to the east and picked up Tchopitoulas Street. New Orleans was a fight town, with more than its share of trainers and promoters. He stopped at a gymnasium near Jackson Avenue that was run by an old fighter named Red Chisum. Red remembered Johnny well enough, but hadn’t seen him in a couple of years. He suggested Farrell try at a gym on Third Street run by a Spaniard named Parma. Parma sent him to a Negro trainer named Sugar Boy Wilkes. Nobody had seen Johnny Parmalee in some time, but Wilkes confided that a mutual acquaintance had said Johnny mentioned somebody from out of town asking him to do a job. Since Johnny wasn’t much of a talker, Wilkes said, that nugget of info amounted to about a week’s worth of conversation.
As Farrell followed the trail, he became aware of a Chevrolet station wagon behind him. He saw it the first time on Louisiana Avenue. Later it showed up in his rear-view mirror again on Annunciation. The third time he was certain it was the same car. The front bumper had been bent at a crazy angle on the right side. Farrell decided to leave the driver alone for a while. He’d made the mistake of getting too close. That meant he was human. If he was human, Farrell could take him.
He stopped at a bar on Octavia that he knew was frequented by ex-pugs. Talking to the bartender, he discovered that the man knew Johnny Parmalee and carried a scar from their last meeting. He was only too willing to talk. He mentioned a gym on Magazine Street, a few blocks west of Napoleon. Farrell thanked him and drove over there.
As the afternoon deepened, northerly winds blew an overcast over the city. Staccato bursts of hard rain lashed his windshield, the chill of it fogging the glass. Shivering, he cut on the heater, a thing he’d barely used in the almost year-round tropical heat.
Fifteen minutes later he parked the Packard in front of a two-story brick structure that had once been a movie theater. Now it was owned by Bucky Targo, a former heavyweight champ and trainer extraordinaire. As he paused to light a cigarette, the street behind him showed no trace of the station wagon. He felt the driver there, all the same. They had a connection that only death could sever.
He entered the gym, stopping just inside to let his eyes adjust. It was like most other places where aspiring fighters learned the craft. A regulation canvas ring dominated the center of the room. Around it, young men worked out on the heavy and speed bags, skipped rope, or worked out on weights. The air was permeated with the aromas of sweat and liniment, and just under those the coppery smell of blood. The combined stinks sent Farrell’s mind back to 1917, when he had traded manual labor for eating money and boxing lessons in a place much like this.
The relative gloom of the large room gave way to harsh yellow light that illuminated the ring. A young white man and a stocky Cuban, both in silk trunks and leather headgear, bounced energetically on the balls of their feet as they feinted and parried. A half dozen of their peers watched in stoic silence as an older man kept up a torrent of abuse.
“Christ Jesus on a fuckin’ bicycle, Devereaux, hit him, whydontcha? You waitin’ for a fuckin’ engraved invitation? No, Castillo, lead with your right, cover with your left. If Dev ever does throw a punch, he’s gonna knock your fuckin’ block off. Jesus!” He shook his head in frustration.
He was big, with shoulders like hams and arms the thickness of a normal man’s legs. His midsection had gone soft, but he remained a powerful man who moved gracefully. He called time and ordered the young men to various workouts. He was rubbing the back of his neck when he noticed Farrell. “Do somethin’ for ya, mister?” There was no wariness in the question, but Farrell saw the man sizing him up, measuring his trim-waisted physique with a professional eye. His thin-lipped smile suggested he did not consider Farrell an appreciable threat.
“You Bucky Targo?”
“I am. And who might you be?”
“Wesley Farrell. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“What about?”
“Johnny Parmalee.”
Targo sense of self-assurance seemed to slip. His eyes narrowed, darted from side to side to check for eavesdroppers. “We can’t talk here with all this racket. Let’s go inside my office yonder.” He indicated a partitioned cubicle built on what had been the stage back when the place still operated as a theater.
Farrell nodded agreeably, followed the trainer across the noisy gym and up a short flight of stairs. Targo pushed open the door and indicated with his chin for Farrell to precede him. He closed the door, then lowered a set of grimy Venetian blinds over the single window. He turned to Farrell, his expression obscured by the gloom. “So what about Parmalee?”
“You already know, or you wouldn’t have brought me in here.”
Targo stiffened, his eyes blazing for the briefest of seconds. “What’re you talkin’ about? I barely know ’im.”
Farrell’s mouth parted and a hollow, mocking laugh escaped. “You’re a liar, Targo. When you were fighting, Johnny was your sparring partner. When he got good enough to make a try at the title, you helped him train and got him a backer. He’s got money tied up in your gym and he’s helped you back a couple of young comers.” Farrell’s laugh sounded again. It had an edge like a headsman’s ax. “He’s a mighty obliging fella for a guy you don’t know so well.”
Targo rubbed a hand stupidly across the lower half of his face. He moved out of the corner on the stiff, leaden legs of an old man until he reached the desk, where he collapsed into a chair. “What do you want?”
“You can save yourself some grief by talking, Targo. Parmalee and his brother kidnapped a teen-aged girl yesterday and killed a man doing it.” Farrell moved a bit closer to the desk, his voice dropping to a sharp, hypnotic whisper. “I don’t give a damn about the Parmalees, but I want that girl. If I can get her back without hurting Johnny or giving him up to the cops, I will. It’s up to him, really.”
Targo turned slightly in the chair to avoid looking at Farrell. His lips worked like a man trying not to vomit. “I—I dunno where he is. I ain’t seen him lately.”
“You know where he hangs out. And don’t bother with that address off Lee Circle. He moved.”
The ex-boxer turned his chair again, putting his legs under the kneehole of the desk. His right hand was just out of sight near his leg. He raised his head and looked directly at Farrell, as though craving his immediate attention. “Yeah, well, there’s a place or two he goes.”
“Like where?”
“Like—” Targo’s hand shot into view, a .38 revolver dwarfed in his huge fist.
Farrell seemed to know in advance that the gun was coming. His right hand ripped the bullet-pocked Stetson from his head and swept it into the ex-fighter’s face. Targo grunted in surprise, his gun hand waving off center. Farrell moved in like a tornado, knocking the gun from Targo’s grasp as he threw a crushing right into the man’s jaw. As large as he was, the blow lifted Targo from the chair and sent him crashing against the wall. He lay there, shaking his head, his eyes large with shock. It took him a moment to remember he was Bucky Targo, three-time heavyweight champion of the world. Grunting, he lurched to his feet, his fists up as he moved in on Farrell.
Farrell’s face was an image from a nightmare. His pale eyes blazed like molten silver as he brushed Targo’s guard aside as though it were of cobwebs. His right smashed into Targo’s chin, his left sinking elbow deep into the man’s paunch. Breath whooshed out of Targo, but Farrell’s attack on his belly was relentless. Three more blows sent the big man crashing to the floor. As he fell, greenish vomit shot out of his mouth to the dusty floor.
