The Red Storm (16 page)

“Yeah, business.”

I leaned back in the chair as he lathered on shaving cream with a badger-hair brush and shaved the two-day growth clean off.

“Your face got a lot of character to it,” he said, as he trimmed my hair in a close-crop style similar to the kind inmates get.

“Is that a kind way of saying I ain't much to look at?” I asked.

“No, sir! You just look like you been through a lot is all. You were a prizefighter, am I right?”

“Yeah. But that was a long time ago.”

“Must've been a heavyweight. Were you any good?” he asked.

“Good enough that the champ and his promoter drew the colored line on me.”

“That's too bad. Lot of good fighters never got their deserved shot because of shit like that. Maybe Joe being the champ will fix that.”

“Maybe.”

“If you were still in your prime, how do you think you'd fare against Louis?” he asked.

I'd been asked this question many times before.

“The hell if I know. Never came across a fighter like Joe Louis. I fought a lot of Jack Dempsey types.”

“Ah, brawlers.”

“Or the occasional cat that liked to box but couldn't crack an egg,” I said.

“I suppose you got to work with what you got. If you can't punch worth a damn you better be good in other areas.”

“That's the truth.”

“So what are you doing now that your punching days are over?”

“I'm just working with what I got.”

*   *   *

I spent the following day after arriving back in Orleans updating my activity logs. Paperwork was the single most important aspect of my job and also the most grueling. I had to be as professional and thorough as possible in reports. That's because there was a good chance they'd find their way to court if I was ever served a subpoena for them—which happens.

There are some investigators that never catch on to the fact that their logs could be looked at in court. Prescott fired his lead investigator when the prosecution got hold of his case logs which contained discrediting personal side notes during an interview of Prescott's star witness.

Close to being finished with the reports, I got interrupted by Brawley taking my front door down from his pounding. I got up and let him in. I could tell he was not in a pleasant mood.

“Where the hell have you been? New York?”

I nodded.

“It turned out to be a real waste of time and dough, didn't it?”

“It would have, if I hadn't gotten a hold of this.” I tossed him the diary. “You want coffee?”

He grunted yes, and pushed his way to a chair outside on the gallery. I came back with his coffee while he flipped through the pages. I sat down in a chair close by and lit my first cigarette of the day.

With a whistle he slammed the book shut. “That's some pretty intense stuff in there. Mallon wrote this?”

“Yup,” I said.

“It takes all kinds, I suppose.”

“That's one way of putting it,” I said.

“You should know that while you were dickin' off in New York, him and his chiselers been tearing this place down looking for that broad. They beat up the owner of the Bourbon Street Blues Club, and whattaya know, just as I thought, they were looking for that dead cop killer's little princess. We put a car out at her house, but nobody was there. The place had been ransacked, though.”

“You know where Mallon is now?”

“Not yet. We bagged a few of his birds, and beat them until they lawyered up, and got some big-shot agency repping them from out of Philly. Goddamn overpaid mouthpieces!”

“Got nothing out of them?”

“Nope. Those birds would've cracked. We got a guy that's real good at makin' mugs squeal. But these days he's being busy and all dealin' with the assault charges and the ACLU.”

“I can see that slowing him down,” I said.

“It's all political drivel that I'd as soon wipe my ass with than deal with. These flesh pressers and shysters are just gummin' up the works on our end. It don't make a bit of difference that these apes killed a cop. We got to play ball and stand around with our thumbs up our asses and to the left until it all gets straightened out in some room full of baby-kissers.”

I laughed.

“You find somethin' amusing?”

“You know better,” I said, “than to come here and start telling me your sob story about how rough being a cop is. You think those boys uptown are making it rough for you, it ain't nothing compared to Jim Crow.”

“I don't give a damn about no Jim Crow, or anybody for that matter, but I do give a damn about Sal Mallon. We got our own problems as is. Ever since Ranalli's death it's created a vacuum that criminals are coming out of the woodwork to fill. So we don't need no outsiders coming in and adding more trouble, understand?”

“Yeah, I understand,” I said.

*   *   *

Three in the afternoon the phone went off. I had been rereading Mallon's diary when I took the call. To my surprise, Mallon responded on the other end with an earsplitting yell.

“Where is she, Fletcher?”

“Where is who?”

“Don't screw with me! I got boys all over that will break your face if I tell them to!”

“Aw, cut it out with the threats, will you!” I said. “By the way, how's your pal Devland doing? Heard he might be havin' problems breathing these days.”

“How do you know about him?”

“I reckon there's a lot of things I know about you,” I said. “See, my job ain't that hard, just takes a bit of persistence.”

“It ain't wise to be sticking your head in things that ain't your business—”

I cut him off. “If you're going to start bragging about what you did to Roman Perez and Johnnie Ranalli, you can put a muzzle on it. What you did ain't nothin' to gloat about, and it sure ain't anything that's going to send me running to the hills.”

“Don't be so sure about that.”

I laughed. “You know, you remind me of a big-headed tomato can I fought once. He talked a big game, but when it came down to gong-to-gong fighting, he couldn't even make it through the first round without getting KO'd and carried out on a stretcher. Last I heard of him, he got hit so hard he's spendin' his days eating paste and staring at walls.”

“You must be dumb as a post if you think that's me,” he said.

“It wouldn't be the first time I've been accused of being dumb. But let's stop square-dancing around things,” I said. “Send your girl Ida over to Jackson Square within the hour. I'll meet with her, and tell her what you need to know.”

“Why do you want me to send Ida? You like that piece of ass or something?”

“She's ain't my type. I'm wanting her to be my go-between, see?”

A pause before he said, “You touch her, and I'll cut your fuckin' arms off,” and hung up.

Ida stood on the corner of Chartres and St. Peter when I approached her forty minutes later. I had kept hidden beforehand, making sure that Mallon didn't leave anyone else behind to shadow. The precautions didn't matter. If Mallon could get a hold of my number, it'd be just as easy for him to get an address with it. Still, I didn't want to make it too easy for him.

I took Ida through the flagstone passage of Orleans Alley, which the locals called Pirate's Alley because it was believed pirates once bartered their stolen goods in the alley between the St. Louis Cathedral and the Old Spanish Governor's Mansion.

The alley poured out onto Royal Street, where we cut through to St. Ann, and up to my flat. Inside, I offered to stow the wrap she was wearing, but she refused.

“Now that you dragged me all the way here, let's get this over with. Where's this girl he wants?”

“One thing at a time,” I said. “Take a seat, and let us get to know each other. Smoke?”

She shook her head at the offer and sat in the dining chair I had pulled out for her.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“New Jersey.”

“What do you do for work?”

“I don't work.”

“How long you been pretending to be Mallon's girlfriend?”

This got some excitement in her. “I don't know what you mean.”

“You ain't his girl. If you were, he'd have never sent you to talk with me. Mallon doesn't like dames. This diary of his proves that.”

I tossed her the diary. She didn't open it.

“It's an interesting read. I happened to find the part where Mallon describes his deep feelings for Bill Storm and the perverse things he'd like him to do to him to be the most telling.”

“I'm done here,” she said, making a beeline toward the door.

“You don't want to talk to me, okay. I got more than I need. I think I'll hand this book over to a guy I know that works for the press. I'm sure he'd be more than giddy to run with the story. I'll make sure to have him do a name drop on you, and word things just right to make it look like you were a willing collaborator.”

It was a ruse. The only person I knew from the press was a rewrite man who sat in his office all day taking down facts from field reports and cobbling them into readable stories. But the deceit seemed to work. She stood at the door, frozen. With her back to me, she said, “He paid me to pretend I was his girl, okay?”

“That's the stuff,” I said. “Come on back. You sure you don't want a cigarette?”

“Yes, I would like one now.”

I gave her a cigarette, lit it, then lit my own before sliding a chair beside her.

“So tell me, what's your story in this?” I asked.

“My story is I used to be a whore, but you probably knew that already.”

“Not exactly, but I do now.”

“Well, I was, but not a cheap one. I did the high-class jobs. My services cost a lot, and in return you more than got what you paid for. I gave my customers a night to remember.”

“What really happened with Mallon and Storm the night he got his face burned off?”

“Didn't he tell you?”

“Yes, but I never bought his story that Storm went to hell and back looking for him. If he were to go looking for anyone about what happened to him, it'd be me.”

“Why's that?”

“You can go ask Mallon about that when you see him. Right now, I'm much more interested in hearing what you have to say.”

“But they ain't much I can tell you. I don't know exactly what happened. I just know he been obsessed over this Storm fella and when he found out he was hidin' out in Boston, he did the ‘come out and see me sometime' act. He didn't take no protection with him, either.”

“'Course he didn't,” I muttered.

She continued. “I don't know what happened. He left to Boston and the next thing I hear he's in some hospital after a store owner found him stuffed inside his garbage bin.”

I smashed my cigarette stub out. “Sounds like he had a rough night.”

“That's a cruel way of putting it,” she said.

“Mallon is a cruel man. You should know that, or do you just turn a blind eye to it? Why should you care, long as he's buying you expensive jewels and that fur coat you're wearing. I'm sure you got a real a kick out of him burning Johnnie Ranalli in his car, or dumping what was left of Roman Perez in the canal.”

“Perez got what he deserved,” she said. “He tried to blackmail Mallon.”

“So he told me. What did he have on him?”

She sighed. “Perez was a weasel. He shadowed Mallon around hoping to get some dirt on him and an easy meal ticket. He got lucky and caught Mallon going to one of them male burlesque houses he'd go to from time to time. He snuck in and got a compromising photograph.”

The subject made her uncomfortable so I had to push for her to continue on.

“Perez sent Mallon a copy of the photograph and Mallon went crazy. Found Perez at his flat and made him give up all the copies and the negatives before he did him in.”

“He's a little flamboyant, ain't he, even when it comes to killing people,” I said.

“I think the whole thing is absurd. I don't see any point on why he goes out of his way hiding who he really is. He might as well come clean about it.”

I laughed. “You don't have much brains, do you.”

“Excuse me?”

“It'd be suicide if he came out with it. If there is anyone viewed by folks as being lower on the totem pole than coloreds, it's homosexuals. His own men would bump him off if it ever came to light.”

“You have a very negative outlook on things,” she said.

“I prefer to think of it as being realistic. Mallon not being able to come clean about who he is may not be right by you, but that's how things are, see. If you want to go about your life with rosy-colored glasses, that's your business. It just makes you dumber than you already are.”

The remark hit its target, and caused her to get to her feet. “I don't have to take this from some…”

“Go ahead, finish it,” I said, as I stood up to meet her.

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. She shook her head in pure disgust and headed to the door. I didn't stop her.

“Make sure to tell him I got his diary,” I said.

She hesitated as she opened the door but wasted no time slamming it behind her. I listened to the sound of her heels as they stomped down the steps, followed by a thud and a “Goddamnit!” It sounded like Ida was going to have to get herself a new pair of heels. Perhaps Mallon would be able to help her out.

 

CHAPTER 13

JaRoux was once again waiting at the landing when I arrived. I had phoned him earlier that I'd be accompanying him to the cabin.

There was no moon that night, making the journey through the swamp on his boat bleaker than I cared for. I could only make out the sound of snapping turtles and restless egrets. Sometimes I'd point my flash into the murk to find glowing red eyes of watching gators staring back at me.