Pale Shadow (12 page)

She fanned herself lightly with a glove. “It is warmish in here. On the rocks with a li'l water, sweetheart.”

The bartender preened like a big jungle cat as he poured the green liqueur into a tall glass full of ice. He served it to her with a flourish on a paper napkin. “That be all, miss?” His smile became even more provocative.

She returned his smile with interest. “Your name wouldn't happen to be Otis McKelvey, would it?”

He could not quite hide his pleasure that this fine-looking female knew him by name. “Reckon it is, mama. You lookin' for me?”

“Matter of fact, I am. Friend of mine mentioned you to me—Luis Martinez?”

Otis's face lit up. “How is ole Luis? Ain't seen him in a dog's age.”

“Well,” Jelly said, seeming to melt a bit, leaning forward in such a way that her bosom strained the fabric of her dress. “It happens I haven't seen him in a while, either. I was kinda hopin' you might know where he's at.”

“Damn, ain't no tellin' where that man's got to. We used to go all kinda places. I miss them days somethin' awful.”

“What kinds of places did you go to?”

The negro rubbed his shiny bald head and grinned. “Lemme tell ya, that man liked bein' outdoors. That suited me fine, 'cause I was brought up on a farm myself. I liked to hunt, and so did Louie.”

“Do tell.”

“That man's a dead shot with a rifle. Seen him kill a six-point buck up near Opelousas, few years back. Drilled him through the neck and he dropped like a rock. Afterwards, we skinned out that buck, cut us a haunch, and be damned if Louie didn't make a first class roast outa that meat. He ever cook for you?”

“No, can't say that he ever did. I always thought Louie was a city boy.”

“Shoot. That man was raised out in west Texas where the cowboys are. He can ride, shoot, and run a camp like somebody from the olden days. Always liked goin' out into the country with ole Louie. Used to entertain me singin' Mexican love songs, too.”

She said nothing, but smiled and nodded, and let Otis go. He liked the sound of his own voice, and proved to be an avid storyteller. She discovered much about her old lover that night that she hadn't known, but she realized, she had never given him much of a chance to teach it to her. It came to her how arrogant and demanding she had been to him, how she had used that as a defense against that sense he projected that he was the master of all around him.

She realized now that it wasn't arrogance. It was self-confidence, a thing that Santiago didn't have, a lack he tried to keep hidden. She had a sudden recognition of what she had lost in walking away from Luis. Had she remained with Santiago all these years to punish herself?

“Tell you what,” the bartender said midway through the evening. “Get that man outa the city, and you couldn't play cards with him very long. He'd clean you out in no time at all. Lucky? I reckon.”

This tidbit of information resonated with Jelly, and she leaned forward, fixing the bartender's eyes with her own. “Tell me, is that why Luis always said when he lost his luck, he'd go find it down by the river?”

The bartender's grin was as wide and white as a piano keyboard. “I lost count of the number o'times that man said that to me. Just like I lost count of the times he cleaned me out playin' poker in that shack of his.”

“Shack?”

“Yeah. Man had him a real nice fishin' camp up the river a ways.”

“Really? I didn't know.”

“Yeah. Real nice place. Don't reckon he ever took women there. It weren't that kinda nice. Sort of a rough place where some fellas could lay up, fish, do some drinkin', sleep late. You know, just take it easy for a while.”

“You wouldn't happen to know where it is, would you? I'm kind of an outdoor gal, myself.”

“Naw, not you.” He guffawed at the idea.

She took one of his big hands in her small pale one and rubbed her thumb tenderly over his knuckles. “You got no idea, big boy. No idea at all.”

***

Max Grossmann required no surgery, as the gunman's bullet had done no more than carve a nice clean groove through the flesh of his bicep. Once the doctor had given him something for pain, he was able to calm down and regain his urbanity and good humor. His wound had been dressed and the arm placed in a sling, and he was waiting to be discharged when A. J. McCandless arrived. The man's face was grim, and his ever-present cigarette holder was clamped brutally in his teeth. He pushed into the room with an impatient gesture.

“Leake's dead?” he demanded.

Grossmann turned his sleepy eyes on the weathered bank president and gestured aimlessly with his good hand. “The gunman was right on top of us. He killed Marston with a single shot. A tragic loss to the bank. And we lost a good friend today.”

“Yes, tragic.” He eyed Grossmann with a flinty look. “How badly hurt are you?”

Grossmann gently touched the bandage on his upper arm and winced slightly. “I was lucky. The Negro got off another shot, but somehow he missed my vitals.”

McCandless puffed on his cigarette as he walked around Grossmann's bed. “What happened, Max? I want to know.”

Grossmann shifted his bulk as he tried to find a more comfortable position. He winced again, and a small grunt of pain escaped him. He didn't look at McCandless as he spoke. “Well, it was late afternoon. Marston had discussed some bank business with me and an hour later we happened to be leaving at the same time.”

McCandless removed the ivory cigarette holder from his teeth. “What time was this?”

Grossmann made a vague gesture with his good hand. “About five. I had just talked him into joining me for dinner when we were waylaid. The gunman had taken my wallet already. He demanded Marston's then shot him as Marston tried to pull a gun. I cried out in terror, then the fellow shot
me
.” Grossmann's voice held a note of mild irritation that he should have been so poorly used.

McCandless turned away from Grossmann as he removed the butt of his cigarette from his holder and pitched it into a metal wastebasket. He took a fresh cigarette from a silver case, inserted it in the holder and lit it. “Marston had been working too hard lately. A pity he didn't live to see retirement.”

Again Grossmann made the vague gesture with his free hand. “Yes, I often worried about him. A very intense man, Marston.”

McCandless looked at him sharply. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, he was rather wound up about this counterfeiting business. I think it worried him quite a bit.” Grossmann paused then shook his head. “I tell you, A. J., I feel just dreadful about this. What a loss to the bank and to us…” His voice trailed away to silence.

McCandless puffed silently on his fresh cigarette. “Yes. He'd been with me a long time. I'll miss him and his loyalty to the bank.” He said this in a flat, unemotional tone. “Are you ready to go? I brought a car.”

Grossmann tested his arm gingerly. “Well, the doctor says I can leave immediately if I feel up to it.”

“Good, then let's get the hell out of here. I hate the smell of these places. Here, let me give you a hand.” McCandless moved to Grossmann's elbow, and with a remarkable display of physical strength, hoisted the fat man from the bed and set him on his feet.

“Thank you, A. J. I think they have some papers for me to sign at the desk.”

“I've already taken care of that,” McCandless said brusquely. “My car is waiting to take you home.”

“That's uncommonly decent of you.”

“Nonsense,” the president said in a gruff tone. He easily supported the other man out of the emergency room door to the ramp. He put two fingers to his lips and blew a piercing whistle, and almost instantly a dark blue Cadillac limousine pulled up beside them. McCandless helped the Jewish banker inside, then went around and got in on the other side. He rapped on the privacy window, and the chauffeur pulled smoothly away from the hospital.

“Tell me,” McCandless said in a confidential tone after a moment or two of silence. “Had Marston anything else on his mind that he'd mentioned to you?”

Grossmann shifted his buttocks into a more comfortable position on the leather upholstery and cleared his throat. “Well, he spoke of many things, but I think he felt the strain of your continued absence.”

McCandless stiffened, seemed to bite down on the cigarette holder. “I have other commitments besides the bank. Marston should have understood that.”

“Yes, well, perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it.”

McCandless uttered a sardonic grunt. “Yes, perhaps. Tell me, do you need a nurse to take care of you tonight?”

“No,” Grossmann replied. “I think not. My houseboy should be sufficient to meet my needs. I have some tablets for the pain, and I'm feeling all right. Some food would set me right as rain, I think.”

McCandless eased his weathered face into a grim smile. “You sound like your old self already, but take tomorrow off if you need it.”

“Perhaps, A. J. But I think I shall need work to distract me from poor Marston's death. It was a pitiable thing to see such a kind man put to death that way. It was like watching the martyrdom of an innocent.”

Further conversation was cut short by their arrival at Grossmann's house. Without being told, the chauffeur got out and rang the doorbell, waiting until the houseboy answered. A few brief words were sufficient to bring the young Negro to the car, and with the efforts of the three men, Grossmann's bulk was ejected from the car as painlessly as possible. When Grossmann was safely at the door, McCandless gave a curt nod and salute of farewell, then he and the chauffeur got into the car and disappeared into the gathering darkness.

Grossmann went to his bedroom, and with the houseboy's help, undressed and put on some comfortable pajamas and a light silk robe. When he was comfortable, Grossmann gave the young man instructions for an evening meal. Once the houseboy retired, Grossmann reclined on a chaise. He rested his good forearm over his eyes and remained in that posture, his eyes gleaming in the shadow.

Chapter 10

If there had existed in Detective Matty Paret even a scintilla of honesty, he might well have become an outstanding detective. He was intelligent, thoughtful, and even possessed of a certain shrewd insight into the foibles of his fellow men. Had he liked money a bit less and hard work more, he'd have been a sergeant already.

There, had, however, been compensations. For example, he had a safe deposit box in the Hibernia National Bank that contained almost $200,000, a fortune he had accumulated by helping one big-time criminal after another. There were, too, the deluxe Buick sedan, the closet full of expensive clothing, and the string of available women, all things that a Third Grade detective's salary could never buy.

Having listened to all the reports from the arson/murder at the lakefront, particularly the manner in which the crimes were believed to have been committed, Paret came to some conclusions. The first was that Martinez had declared open war on Compasso, and that this was but the opening skirmish. Second, Martinez wouldn't wait long to strike again. Third, since Martinez had effectively put the counterfeiting operation out of business, he'd next hurt Compasso in some other area.

Paret had an encyclopedic knowledge of Compasso's various holdings about the city. He understood implicitly that the most important places were manned and ready after the hangar fire. There remained a handful of places very lightly guarded or not guarded at all. They weren't as important as the hangar had been, but their loss would still significantly impact Compasso's income. These included a couple of small commercial buildings that housed gambling or prostitution enterprises and a fishing trawler used to bring narcotics from Mexico. After careful consideration, Paret put all of his chips on the boat.

The captain of the boat lived on Tchopitoulas Street near the Third District Ferry, and Compasso had arranged for the boat to tie up at The Governor Nicholls Street Wharf near the ferry slip. The ferry stopped running at 10:00 so Paret planned his arrival in the neighborhood for approximately fifteen minutes ahead of that time.

The detective left his car two blocks down Barracks Street, and walked through the dense summer heat to the wharf. Minutes later, the lights at the ferry slip were extinguished, and not long after, the voices of the ferry crew died as they went their separate ways. Paret had a clear view of the boat thanks to a three-quarter moon bathing the river in a pale silver light.

A half-hour passed, then a full hour. Paret wanted to give it up and go home to bed, but thoughts of the money Compasso would pay for Martinez's scalp lay in the back of his mind like a dull hunger. At half past eleven, Paret heard a noise and it took him a few moments of fierce listening to understand that the sounds were coming off the water. He moved from his hiding place near the warehouse to a tall piling from which he had an unobstructed view. The noises ultimately proved to be the movement of oars in the water, followed by the dull thud of the rowboat bumping the trawler's hull. The dark figure of a man crawled up a rope hanging from the stern, wriggling agilely over the edge when he reached the top.

Paret smiled. He drew his .38 Detective Special from under his arm and crept to the gangplank. He tested it with his weight then crossed as silently as a cat. He heard noises beneath him, and realized that Martinez had gone below decks. He positioned himself where he could see his prey emerge from the hatch, leveling his gun at the dark square in front of him.

He heard glass break down below, then the unmistakable whoosh of gasoline catching fire. Paret thought it too bad about the boat, but with Martinez out of the way and the plates recovered, Compasso would make up the loss in no time. When he saw the figure of a man in the hatch, he grinned with anticipation.

“Martinez! C'mon out with your hands in the air.”

“Who's out there?” Martinez demanded.

“New Orleans Police. Haul your ass outa there or I'll ventilate it.”

Martinez's thick upper body became visible, his dark face indistinct in the shadows. He took his time, even with the flames growing in intensity behind him.

“Move faster, Martinez, unless you want your ass barbecued like them guys at the hangar.”

“What do you want? Money?” Martinez was playing for time, and Paret didn't like that.

“I want the plates, spig. Gimme the plates and I'll let you go.” Paret realized he'd just said the wrong thing. The cops wouldn't know anything about the missing plates, but it was too late to worry about it. “C'mon, spig. It's hot up here, but it's hotter where you are. Let's go ashore, get in my car, and we'll talk turkey. Whaddaya say?” He had the front sight of his gun centered on Martinez's chest.

“Okay, man,” Martinez said. “I'm comin'.” But he faded back into the shadow of the hatch. Without warning, a flaming bottle flew out of the hatch and smashed on the deck, fire spreading like it had life of its own.

Paret threw up a protective arm, cursing as the flames blinded him. He leveled his .38 and fired twice. He heard another gun explode then something hard struck him in the body. He lurched, grabbing for support. Martinez appeared in front of Paret, his face grim, his hand full of gun. Paret fought to get his own gun up, but Martinez fired again and Paret felt his right shoulder go numb as he fell forward.

The glare of flames was glinting up from cracks in the deck, and Martinez felt the boat settle and creak as the fire bit ruthlessly into the aging wood. He grimaced, holding his side where the cop's bullet had pierced it. He set the safety on the .38 Super and shoved it back under his left arm.

He started to the gangplank, then turned and looked back at the fallen man. Groaning with the effort, he grabbed Paret by the collar and dragged him to the dock. He dropped him to the ground then shoved his fingers into the side of Paret's neck. The pulse was weak but he wouldn't die just yet.

Martinez hobbled painfully down the dock and then crept out to the street. He knew that once the fire alarm was turned in he had only minutes to get away from the area before cops and firemen arrived. He'd just begun to fuck Compasso up, so he couldn't be caught yet. Not yet.

By the time he reached his Mercury, his side was on fire. He knew he had to have help soon, or he'd pass out from shock and blood loss. Grunting, he heaved himself inside under the wheel, fumbled the key into the ignition switch, and cranked the motor. He let the clutch in too quickly and the engine flooded and died. Behind him, he heard the sounds of sirens in the distance.

He cursed in a steady, monotonous voice as he carefully pumped the accelerator. As the sirens grew louder, he hit the ignition again. This time the Mercury started. With painstaking care, Martinez let in the clutch, and the coupé moved out into the street. Hugging his hurt side with his elbow, he accelerated slowly until he was up to twenty-five miles an hour.

As he drove away from Tchopitoulas Street, he considered his options. He couldn't go to Theron Oswald. Ozzy was so scared already he could barely breathe. Whoever was hunting him had killed Wisteria Mullins, too, so going to her nightclub was out. The nightclub made him think of Wes Farrell. Farrell was a good man to have in a fight, but his cozy relations with the cops made him a question mark.

As the pain in his side flared, he realized his only hope was to risk going to Doc Poe. Poe, who'd lost his license to practice, still made a substantial living stitching up wounded criminals and performing abortions on prostitutes. Martinez was banking that enough money in Poe's pocket would get him medical help and keep his mouth shut. Poe would, of course, know about his trouble with Compasso, but Poe was independent enough that he might take Martinez's money and keep his mouth shut.

Poe owned what had been a storefront on Prytania Street. He had bricked up the original entrance so that one could only reach his residence through a narrow alley between buildings. Martinez headed in that direction, fighting to stay conscious.

He reached Magazine and continued northeast until he reached Seventh. He turned left at Seventh and crept through the neighborhood until he reached Prytania. He parked at the corner, cut the engine, and dragged his failing body out of the car. He peered through the darkness, discovered there were lights on in the upper story of Poe's building. He staggered across the street, somehow made it without falling. He leaned on the doorbell button with his entire weight. After a while, he heard cursing and the fall of heavy feet coming toward him.

“What in the particular hell do you think you're doin', you Goddamned drunk?” Poe demanded.

“Not drunk, Doc. Hurt. Need help.”

“Who…? Jesus Christ on the cross. Martinez, you must be nuts. Get outa here before—”

Martinez poked the muzzle of his automatic through the bars and cocked the hammer. “Let me in, Doc, or I swear I'll splatter your guts all over the alley. Don't think I won't do it.”

Poe's face went through a transformation that began at shock, continued through fear, outrage, and finally, acceptance. “You Goddamned fool. Here, lemme open the gate.” He turned a latch and pushed the gate open so Martinez could lurch inside. He nearly fell, but Poe grabbed him and began to help him down the alley. “You're gonna pay through the nose, Luis. Askin' me to stick my neck out like this.”

“Sure, Doc, sure. Patch me up and I'll get out of here. I'll pay you plenty.” He gasped as pain washed over him, and his legs turned to rubber.

Grumbling and griping, Poe dragged him down the alley and into the room he used for a surgery. He eased Martinez down on the operating table then cut his bloody shirt and jacket from his body. He unstrapped the holster from around Martinez's shoulders, then plucked the cocked automatic from his fingers and set them aside. Martinez passed out during this part of the operation, allowing Poe the leisure to paint the wound area with iodine, probe for the bullet and bits of cloth that had been carried into the wound, then stitch up the hole, all without having to administer anesthesia. He gave Martinez a shot of morphine, then got some coffee to keep himself awake until Martinez returned to consciousness.

Martinez awakened at 4:00, finding his torso wrapped in layers of white bandage. Poe sat on a stool nearby still sipping coffee.

“So, you've come back to the land of the living,” Poe said. “Well, it wasn't such a bad wound as all that.”

“You take a slug in the guts and tell me it ain't bad,” Martinez said bitterly. “I feel like I been kicked by a
burro
.”

“I'll bet you do at that. But the man who's lookin' for you will do worse if he finds you, Luis. Much worse. Rumor has it you give somebody a thumb in the eye.”

“He'll get more than that before I'm through. I burned up his boat tonight. That's how I took the slug. Some guy claimed he was a cop, but he knew things a cop shouldn't.”

Poe put both of his hands in the air. “Don't tell me, okay? I can still plead ignorance at this stage.” He paused to sip more of his coffee. “Y'know, he's tearin' the town up lookin' for you. And so are some other people.”

Martinez stared stupidly. “Who?”

“Lotta people. That chick you useta run with—Jelly Some-thingerother—I forget her right name. Then there's Farrell.”

“Farrell? What the hell's he want me for?”

Poe shrugged again. “Word is, he's lookin' to give you a hand.”

Martinez rubbed his face in the hope of making his brains work. “I don't get it. I ain't talked to Farrell in a year or more. Why'd he wanna help me?”

Poe gave him a bored look. “I'm a doctor, not a fortune teller. I'll tell you this much. Farrell might be the best hope you got. You can't scare him, and he's got some kinda in with the cops. If I was layin' on that cot with holes shot all through me, I'd get on the phone to him. You ain't got a lotta other people cheerin' for you today, Louie.”

Martinez stared at Poe with a lop-sided grin. “I get it, Doc, I'm fucked. You ain't got to write a song about it.” He closed his eyes as a wave of pain cut through the morphine, and he took a deep breath. “Jesus. What a fuckin' mess.”

Poe laughed mirthlessly. “You're gettin' too old for this stuff, pally. If you had any sense, you'd of taken some of that money you made and retired a long time ago.”

“Yeah.” Martinez's voice was strained. “I could use some morphine, Doc. Gimme a shot, will ya?”

“Sure, kid. Sure.”

***

It was nearing midnight when Farrell called into Jake Broussard's office for the fourth time. He felt his eyelids drooping, and a worse fatigue than he could ever remember. He braced his arm on the wall of the telephone booth as he listened to the line ringing.

“Broussard Agency.”

“It's Farrell.”

“Got some news, boy. One of my men has her spotted in a colored joint called the B-Sharp Club near the river end of Jackson Avenue. She's been gabbing with the bartender for a few hours now, and according to my man they've been talking about Martinez. The bartender claims to know him real well. 'Course, he could be bullshittin' her, too, hopin' to pitch her the high hard one when he gets off work.”

“I'm about fifteen minutes from there. I could use your help if you can get away.”

“I can make it there in about twenty minutes. My operative is Manny Favorite. Dark brown guy about six-two, one-ninety-five. He likes pinstripe suits and derby hats.”

“I remember him. Ex-prizefighter, right?”

“He's the one, and he knows you, in case I don't get there in time. I'm leaving now.”

“See you.” Farrell hung up and left the booth for his car. The adrenaline was humming through his veins again and his fatigue was momentarily forgotten. He wanted a cigarette, but his throat was already raw from smoking, and he doubted another one would make him feel any better.