Pale Shadow (11 page)

“Listen, Paul. I'm out a bit past Shushan Airfield where there's been an arson fire at an airplane hangar. There were three dead men inside, and we're finding bits of burned money. I think there's a possible connection to your case.”

“Any identification on the dead men?” Ewell asked.

“Not yet, but we should be able to get some prints at the morgue.”

“Give us a half-hour. We'll see you out there.”

Casey signed off with headquarters then leaned against the fender of the car as he fanned himself with his hat. He thought about his son, and for some reason recalled Farrell's promise to turn Luis Martinez over to the police. Casey wondered how he'd tell Farrell that Martinez might have killed three men in cold blood.

***

Marcel left Xavier University and returned to the house on Soraparu Street with his mind buzzing. He recognized that what he and Dr. Samson had discussed was pure supposition, but the scenario had merit that Marcel couldn't deny. Marcel was well enough educated to recognize the power a title like “Doctor” had for less sophisticated people. He had heard a sufficient number of stories from the old days in which a snake oil salesman worked his way through the community by calling himself Doctor this or Doctor that. A well-dressed man with a slick line of jive could go a long way, even today.

Marcel reached his office and sat down at the desk, pondering his next move. More than anything else in the world, he wanted to talk to someone who'd actually known Wilbur Lee Payne—someone who could have observed him in a disinterested way. Ernie Le Doux's remark that Wilbur Payne had always ‘had his nose in a book' gave him an idea. He had been involved in some things up in East Feliciana Parish a year before, and during that time he'd been thrown together with someone who might be able to help him.

He picked up his telephone receiver and got the long distance operator on the line, giving her the number for Angola State Penitentiary. After a few moments, he heard the line begin to buzz through the static in the line. After four buzzes, a man spoke.

“State Penitentiary. How can I direct your call?”

“I'd like to speak to the librarian, please.” There was a series of clicks on the line before a woman spoke.

“Prison library. Mrs. Albertine speaking.”

“Miss Roberta? It's Marcel Aristide in New Orleans.”

“Marcel? My land, boy. What you doin' makin' a long distance call this time of the day? You made of money?”

“I'll write it off as a business expense, Miss Roberta. I need some help from you.”

The old woman picked up the urgent note in his voice and replied to him crisply. “Tell me what kind.”

“About twelve years or so back, there was a young Negro imprisoned up there by the name of Wilbur Lee Payne. You might know him by his underworld handle, Keys.”

“Oh, yes. I recollect those names,” she replied thoughtfully. “He spent about three years up here altogether.”

“I've got some good reason to believe he might be here in New Orleans workin' a scam of some kind.”

She snorted humorously. “That sounds like the boy I remember. He was a honey-talking thing, when he didn't have his nose buried in a book.”

“A reader, eh?”

“Oh, yes. It seemed to be the only thing he cared about. Right after he came, he behaved himself and managed to get assigned to me in the library, and did he ever take advantage of that.”

“Is that so? In what way?”

“Well,” she began, “he seemed bent on improving himself. He read books on English grammar. Got to talking like a city man after a while. But then he got interested in science. He read all the books on biology and chemistry.”

Marcel found himself smiling. “How about medical books?”

“Well, we didn't have too many of them, but I was able to get some for him. Read those books from cover to cover. He would even talk over with me things he'd learned, and a lot of it was over my head, I can tell you faithfully. By the time they released him, I realized what a remarkable mind he had. He could literally have been anything, Marcel.” She paused for a moment as though remembering Wilbur Payne's wasted genius. “You think he's in N'Awlins?”

“Yes, ma'am, I'm afraid so. Let's keep that between us, okay? How are the kids?”

“Oh, surely. Betsy's in the tenth grade now, and Robert's hoping to go to Tuskeegee next summer. They're both doing fine. I'll tell 'em you asked. I think Betsy's still in love with you, even though I told her you were nothing but a disreputable vagabond. You can't tell young gals anything.”

“Young fellas, neither,” he said. “Thank you for the information, Miss Roberta. Let me know what I can do to return the favor, you hear?”

“I can do ten years of favors for you and still not pay you back for what you did for us last year. 'Bye, now.”

“Goodbye.” Marcel hung up the telephone and sat back in the chair. Well, he thought, you won't get any better confirmation than that. Now, how to find a phony Negro doctor in a city with a half-million people? Then he remembered having done a favor for a young Negro police officer. It was time to call the favor in.

***

It was still daylight when Luis Martinez returned to his fishing shack. The rush of adrenaline that had sustained him after the fight had worn off during the long ride, and he felt an almost overpowering need to sleep the clock around. He recognized, however, that he'd only fought one battle in what might be a protracted conflict.

When he arrived at the shack, he dumped a can of Van Camp's pork and beans into a saucepan with a can of Armour Star Vienna sausage, and heated them on the wood stove in the shack. The smell of the heating food turned him ravenous, and as soon as it was warm, he crumbled some soda crackers into the pan and ate it all with a spoon.

Still dead tired, he found a cheap tin alarm clock he'd left there years before, set it to go off in three hours, then fell into an exhausted slumber on the rock-hard army cot. When the clock jangled him awake three hours later, he sat up, rubbing his eyes. It took him a moment to remember where he was, but he got up refreshed.

While he made coffee, he got the shotgun from the car, cleaned the bore and breech, then reloaded it. He drank the coffee black, savoring the bitterness of it. By now, Compasso surely knew of the fire and the dead men. He'd be screaming for Martinez's blood, and his people would be alert to trouble. Martinez knew his next raid would have to be a lot subtler. There was no way he could get to Compasso himself, so the next best thing was to hurt his ability to make money every way possible.

He got out a map of the city and unfolded it onto the scarred wooden table. Compasso owned other criminal enterprises besides the counterfeiting ring. There was, for example, a sixty-foot fishing trawler that made periodic trips to Mexico for marijuana, morphine and cocaine. He recalled that Compasso had made almost a hundred thousand dollars on the drugs he'd imported during 1939. Martinez smiled. Compasso was so focused on the funny money grift that it might not occur to him to guard the boat very heavily. That'll be one more for you, Linda, he thought.

It occurred to Martinez that he needed to contact Theron Oswald. He was certain the plates had gotten there, but he just wanted to hear a friendly voice. He walked out to the small fishing deck at the back of the shack and relieved himself into the Mississippi River. Watching the river roll past him, he thought of the days he'd come here from time to time to fish, and to find his luck. That was why he'd come here in the first place. The fishing shack had always been the place he'd come when his luck had gone sour.

As the darkness fell, he filled two more bottles with gasoline and stoppered them with cloth. He took them and the shotgun out to the car, and a few minutes later, he was back on the river road. Eventually he came to the country store and gasoline station, now closed down for the night. There was a telephone booth situated on the porch, so he drove over to it and cut the engine.

Inside, he gave the operator the number to Oswald's phone in the apartment upstairs from the pawnshop, fed in the correct number of coins, then waited as the phone buzzed. On the fourth buzz, he heard the receiver pick up. There was a silence, then a low, nervous voice said, “Yeah?”

“Ozzy? That you?”

“Man, are you crazy? Why the hell you send that package to me?”

“I had to get it somewhere safe, Oz. You were the only person I could trust.”

“Trust? Shit. You got any idea the grief you done let loose on the world? First Linda then Wisteria. Ain't no friend of yours safe now, man, nobody.” Oswald's voice had a tremor that Martinez could feel in the receiver.

“Wisteria? What about Wisteria? You ain't tellin' me—”

“Yeah. Her, too. He musta thought she'd know where you was, so he—he done—awful things, Louie. Just awful.” Oswald was silent for a moment, but again his fear seemed to travel through the line into Martinez's ear. “Louie, I'm scared of dyin', man. Can you come on in here? You can stay at my place 'til you figure things out.”

“
Madre de Dios
,” Martinez murmured as he slumped against the wall of the booth. For the first time in many years, he made the sign of the cross and murmured the prayers he had been taught as a boy. He forgot he was in a phone booth. He forgot he was talking to anyone else but God. He didn't know how much time went by until Oswald's voice brought him back to the present.

“Man—hey, Luis. Talk to me, man, please, talk to me.”

“Yeah. I'm here.”

“Look, man. You're in a real bad place right now. This man Compasso brought in, he means to put you in the fuckin' ground. Please don't leave me here with these plates. Come on in and lay low. We can get the plates back to Compasso, and he'll let you off the hook, I know he will.”

The rapid rattle of words spilling from Oswald's mouth forced Martinez to reply just to shut him up. He had to be calm, and he needed Oswald to be calm, too. “Shhhh, listen, Ozzy. Just be cool,
amigo
. Things are bad, but they ain't hopeless. I'll come and get the plates when I've finished a few things. Compasso's either gonna deal with me, or one of us will die. There's no way around it now. It's gone too far. Just keep your head, and keep your mouth shut,
entiende
?”

“Man, please, I'm twistin' in the wind here. Don't you get it? This man Compasso's got on you—he's makin' the rounds of your friends, tryin' to find one who'll tell him where you at. Louie, talk to me, man.”

Without making a reply, Martinez placed the receiver onto the hook. He leaned there, nearly exhausted. He realized now that he couldn't trust Oswald with his whereabouts. The man was so frightened that he might turn Martinez in the moment he thought he was in danger.

He had one friend left in the world that he might trust. Farrell. But Farrell had friends on the cops these days. Could Martinez call a man friend when he helped the cops? At that moment, Martinez felt more alone than he ever had. Action was his only solace now. He got into his car, then headed back into the city.

Chapter 9

The afternoon was nearly gone when Farrell departed Sparrow's, but the time had been well spent. He had insights into the gang that hadn't occurred to him before. That, and her promise to help find Martinez, put him into a more optimistic mood, although he felt an itch between his shoulder blades every time he thought about the killer stalking Martinez's friends. He wasn't carrying a gun, and he realized it was past time to get one.

He drove three blocks until he saw a telephone booth. He parked the car, went into the booth, then put in a call to Harry at the Café Tristesse. Harry told him that Casey had left a message to call him immediately. With a sense of foreboding, Farrell put a second nickel into the slot, then asked the operator for police headquarters. The desk sergeant handed him off to Casey's secretary and there was a brief wait before Farrell's father spoke to him.

“Are you someplace where you can talk freely?” Casey asked.

“Sure, Dad. What's happening?”

“I could almost laugh at that question if things weren't such a mess. I've just come from the lakefront where a defunct airline hangar was burned to the ground today. Three men were found dead inside from gunshot wounds along with a wrecked printing press. There's also a ton of half-burned counterfeit bills floating all over hell's half acre.”

Farrell gripped the phone tightly as the words hit him. “Martinez's work?”

“Well, there are no witnesses, but given what you and I have put together, I don't know who else to blame. We haven't determined if Compasso is the owner of the hangar, but I'll bet we discover that it was at least in the name of someone in his employ, maybe one of the dead men. Compasso sure as hell didn't burn up a stockpile of his own counterfeit bills, so Martinez is the prime suspect.” Casey paused to catch his breath before speaking to Farrell soberly. “This is as bad as can be, Wes. Your friend was just a suspect in a counterfeiting operation before. Now he's suspected of triple murder. Can you still stand behind that promise you made about turning him in?”

Farrell felt the muscles in his face sagging. “I made it to
you
. That's a promise I can't break.”

“Sure you can. You can back away from this, now, and pretend you never heard of it. Somebody will bring Martinez in, but it doesn't have to be you.”

“No. There was a time he was like family to me. The way things are going he's liable to end up dead, if not from Compasso's guns, then yours. I might be able to bring him in alive.” Farrell paused, almost afraid to hear the answer to the question he was about to ask. “Tell me, Dad, if Luis comes in of his own accord and testifies against Compasso, what can the judge give him?”

Casey was silent for a moment. “Well, it's a complicated case. The counterfeiting charges are all Federal, but they don't take precedence over a murder beef. Maybe I could get Ewell to go with me to District Attorney Crockett and get him a break for turning state's evidence. If the D. A. went along, then he'd probably serve between ten to fifteen years on the Federal charges.”

“That's a pretty tough sentence.”

“Listen, son. I know he's your friend, and I know you go way back with him. But you've gotta remember something. Everything he's doing is a conscious choice he's made to break the law. He could've come in before now and made any deal he wanted. He made another choice.”

Farrell braced his arm against the side of the booth and leaned on it as his father's logic battered at him. Everything in him wanted to rebel against it, but his relationship with Casey made that impossible. They had a trust between them he would not violate. He let out a sigh and relaxed his grip on the phone. “Okay, Dad. Okay. I'm still looking for him, and I've got some other people looking, too. We'll turn him up.”

“I hope so. Every crime he commits makes it that much harder to get him a break.”

“I understand. Look, I learned something you might find interesting.”

“What is it?”

“It's possible Compasso isn't the real boss of the counterfeiting ring.”

“You got any idea who is?”

“No, but it makes sense. Compasso's a thief who got everything he ever wanted from the barrel of a gun. A big operation like this that's spread over several states requires a finesse that Compasso doesn't have. Maybe Martinez can tell us who that man is.”

“That would be one more point on his side of the score sheet. Remind him of that when you find him.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I will, Dad. I'd better get going.”

“Okay. Be careful, son.”

“Yeah. See you later.” Farrell hung up. He got ready to leave the booth, but had another idea. He dropped in his last nickel and gave the operator a French Quarter exchange. It rang three times.

“Broussard Detective Agency. Broussard talkin'.”

“Jake, it's Farrell.”

“Well, you ole hoss thief. Where the hell you been lately?”

“Havana, but I'm here now and got a problem.”

“Spill it, young'un.”

“You know who Luis Martinez is?”

“Crossed his path a few times. He's another ex-legger buddy of yours, ain't he?”

“Right. He's up to his neck in trouble with the cops and a hood named Compasso. I'm trying to find him before somebody puts the skids under him.”

“Jesus,” the private eye said. “Do yourself a favor and go home, boy. A man can get hurt mixin' into a mess like that.”

“How many colored operatives have you got on your payroll?” Farrell asked, ignoring the advice.

“I can get six out on the street in twenty minutes. You want them to look for Martinez?”

“That's covered already. I'm playing a hunch. It might be all wet, but I want to give it a try. Years ago, Martinez was involved with a gal who goes by the name of Jelly Wilde. She's a real dish—short and curvy, black hair, dark gold skin. I heard she was looking for Luis. I presume for Compasso's sake. She'll be hitting every colored dive in the city asking about Martinez. I want to talk to her.”

“What, you think you can charm her into changin' sides? That chicken's a first-class gold-digger.”

“Just find her, if you can. I'll be out on the street myself, but I'll call you every hour. Tell your men there's a hundred bucks extra for the man who turns her up.”

“Hell, I'll go out and look myself for that.”

“Just stick by your phone. I'll call you in an hour.”

“Go ahead, man. Your money spends at my office just like everybody else's.”

“Lucky me.” Farrell hung up and went back to his car. He felt somehow that he had made some progress. With Sparrow's people alerted and Broussard's Negro gumshoes prowling, he felt that the odds had shifted somehow. The only thing that bothered him now was the fact that he could well be saving Martinez's neck for the executioner's noose. He pushed that from his mind as he fired up his engine and drove deeper into the riverfront warehouse district.

***

Compasso paced the floor of his study with worry twisting his gut. His face reflected no worry, only anger. A dumpy little guy peered at him through wire-framed spectacles as a droopy-eyed blonde man stood quietly beside him. “Mr. Compasso, we can get another printing press tomorrow, and Appleyard here can produce more ink within a few days. Our source can probably get us paper in about another week. We could go into overtime production if we had the plates, but we don't. And we can't produce brand-new engravings overnight. It took me six months of work to make the original plates. I can make you some more, but it'll take time. I only got started ten days ago. I thought we had more time.”

“That was when we had a backlog of over five million dollars, Hardesty. We're down to less than two million now. We'll run through that before the month is up. We need new plates in another week, do you understand?”

Hardesty suppressed the urge to sigh. He had taken this job from Luis Martinez, not this Argentine wild man. He'd been trying for a half-hour to make the ignorant sonofabitch understand that engraving was an art, not something that could be rushed. He shook his head wearily. “Mr. Compasso, what I'm tryin' to tell you—”

Compasso came around the desk with the speed of a fast freight, grabbed the diminutive engraver by the collar and jerked him off his feet. “No, fool.
I
tell you. Give me new plates by the end of next week, or I'll kill you,
comprende
?”

Hardesty swallowed audibly, then nodded vigorously. There was nothing else to say. He could feel Appleyard silently trembling beside him.

Compasso pushed the engraver away from him and turned his back, giving Hardesty and Appleyard time to scuttle through the door and down the stairs. Compasso ignored his flight, caught up in his own problems.

He had been a criminal since the age of sixteen when he slit his first throat in Buenos Aires. Murder and intimidation were tools he had perfected, and he had never lost his willingness to commit them with his own hands. It was how he created respect and fear in friend and enemy alike. This skulking in an office while others did the work was not to his liking.

Not for the first time, he wondered why he had allowed his friends back in Argentina to talk him into this venture. His hands itched for something concrete to do.

The telephone on his desk rang, but he ignored it, letting one of his men downstairs get it. A man in Compasso's position did not answer telephones. The phone went silent and several moments passed before a brief knock sounded, followed by the opening of the door. A heavy-shouldered man with iron gray hair stood there.

“What is it, Tink?”

“That cop, Paret. He's askin' for you,” Tink replied in a gruffly respectful tone.

For Paret to call was a sign something significant had happened. Willing himself to move slowly in front of his henchman, Compasso walked to the desk and picked up the telephone. “This is Compasso.”

“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Compasso. Somethin' come up that you want to know.” Detective Matty Paret's voice was pitched low, suggesting he might be calling from headquarters.

“What do you mean?”

“This afternoon there was a fire at that old aircraft hangar of yours out near the lake. When they got the fire put out, they found three bodies inside. Shotgun wounds in all of 'em.

“Maldito sea
!” Compasso said in a harsh whisper.

“That ain't the worst of it. The Treasury boys been out there all afternoon sweepin' up bits and pieces of counterfeit bills. Treasury already done their tests, and they know it's the same stuff they've been finding in the banks east of here. I heard one of the brass say they're startin' to suspect the operation must be headquartered here. That ain't good.”

Compasso felt a tremor run though his body. “Martinez again.” Compasso spoke with a quiet, outraged dignity that made Tink wince as he stood by. He had seen his boss like this before, and somebody always got hurt afterwards. Tink was tempted to back out into the hall.

“So far as I know, nobody here knows nothin' about Martinez,” Paret said. “His name ain't come up.”

Compasso spoke to Paret in a quietly savage tone. “I am paying you a lot of money, Paret. You are a detective, so detect. Find this man for me. I will pay any price you ask, but find him.”

The offer stunned Paret. “Consider it done.”

“
Bueno
.” Compasso put the telephone back in the cradle and stood there looking at it, a thick vein throbbing in his temple. After a moment he looked up at Tink, who remained patiently waiting for an order. “Tink, tell the men at the other operations to stay on guard all night. Tell them to kill anything that they see, even if it is only a rat.”

Tink half-turned to go, but a sudden sharp command from Compasso stayed him. “Yeah, boss?”

“Jelly—has there been any word on her?”

“I got two men on her, just like you ordered. Last thing I heard, she was trollin' nigger dives askin' questions. Nothin' definite yet.”

“I want to know, the minute you hear from them. Go now, and do what I said. Do not waste any time.”

Tink turned without a word and left the room.

Compasso felt weak and sick. It was all coming to pieces in front of him, and he would take the full blame for it. They would not mention his name in Buenos Aires because it would turn their stomachs. He opened his desk drawer and removed from it a nine-millimeter Astra automatic. He put it in the middle of his blotter and sat down at the chair. Something would happen tonight, for good or for ill.

***

The bartender recalled by the Greek at the hardware store proved harder to find than Pelecano had indicated. Jelly found the man had left the bar known by Pelecano, and gone to another across town. Jelly arrived there only to discover that he'd quit that job the week before and gone to one at the river end of Jackson Avenue. Once again she got into her De Soto and headed out into the deepening darkness.

It was nearing 8:00 when she pulled up across the street from a place called the B-Sharp Club. As she entered, she heard a female vocalist scat-singing with remarkable dexterity as a saxophone and piano fought to keep up with her. The musicians were holding forth on a small stage and most of the customers were grouped around them, dancing, whistling, and yelling their approval. She grinned at their intensity as she sauntered past them.

A big, broad-shouldered bartender with glistening black skin slid soundlessly down the bar to her, his large dark eyes sparkling with good-natured hell.

“'Lo, baby,” he purred. The sound carried to her in spite of the racket at the stage, and she responded to it with an appreciative smile.

“'Lo, yourself, you handsome chunk of meat. Got a bottle of Pernod back there?”

He showed all of his teeth, which glistened like pearls against the background of his glossy skin. “Savin' it just for you, baby. On the rocks?”