The Red Storm (22 page)

Ranalli smuggled the body and strategically burned him before propping the body in the car.

“See, faking your death is the easy part. People do it all the time to avoid debts or having the wife keep tappin' them for alimony. But all them mugs don't plan ahead enough, and get themselves caught. See, you got to go all the way and cover your tracks real good. Gotta be creatin' a new look, identity, the whole works.”

As soon as police confirmed that Ranalli was dead, he went under the knife, and his features were reshaped. He used chemicals to bleach over his naturally black hair.

The plan was that once Ranalli had recovered, Mallon would have already instituted the numbers game and Ranalli would silently run the show in the shadows while Mallon returned to New York.

In New York, Mallon wouldn't have to worry too much over NOPD pursuing him, because they were wise enough to know that doing so would greaten the chances of their unlawful involvement with Stein's men being revealed. Even if they tried to hang Flori's murder on him, Mallon could bust free of it. His lawyers could hang the murder on Ranalli, and expose it as an obvious frame-up job, which in a way, it was.

But none of the plans worked out that way. Mallon had put his commitments to the side and focused on his crusade to find Zella Storm.

“I would have killed the broad if I knew it'd cause Mallon to louse things up,” Ranalli said.

“Why didn't you kill her if you were working with Mallon from the beginning?” I asked.

“It was too good of a cover not to. If the cops started scratchin' their asses and wonderin' what brought this about between Mallon and me, the girl would be the ideal root of it all. Men fought entire wars over a single broad. Besides, they never would have bought it being over the numbers racket, because the cops knew I was locked up tighter than Kelsey's nuts and I'd never be able to do the numbers even if I wanted to.”

Upon his recovery, and seeing that nothing had been done, Ranalli went to Mallon at the plantation house to knock some sense into him, before Brawley and his men had busted in.

Ranalli was able to secure himself upstairs before the action started. He did not want his identity compromised, even after the work on his face. Brawley had seen Ranalli in person and he was no fool.

He kept himself hidden in one of the back rooms until Officer Ducan arrived. Ranalli thought about killing Ducan as soon as he came into the room, but he knew that would draw Brawley's attention.

“If I had a shiv on me, I would've waited and slit that flatfoot's throat,” Ranalli said. “Instead I go scaling down the gallery like a boob and got shot for it.”

“How'd you make your escape from him?” I asked.

“I think it was all the dope I was on from the face work that kept me from droppin'. I got to the road in time to jack a car full of hillbillies that were coming by. It was some couple. Pops wasn't cooperative, so I pistol-whipped him and threw him out. He tried to get up and go after me when I got in his rig, so I plowed over him and popped it into reverse just to make sure he didn't get back up again. Wifey kept screaming, so I tossed her out a few miles down. I read in the paper she's a cripple now. That's too bad. Was hopin' for the best.”

“I doubt it troubles you that much,” I said.

“I ain't that heartless. That was a bad way to go for any dame. I wasn't in sound mind, being shot and all, and her yappin' and flailing around wasn't helping any. I reckon I should've slowed down before I tossed her out, but if the cops were chasin' after me, that might've given them enough time to catch up. But I sent her some roses for her troubles. Them weeds weren't cheap, neither.”

Ranalli must have seen the look on my face.

“Hey, where the hell do you get off lookin' at me like that! Don't you go foolin' yourself that you're any better than me, because you ain't. Like them cops that think that because they got a badge they got a legal right to kill people. Killing is killing in my book. Look at what they did to Pretty Boy Floyd. He was just running away, and them cops and FBI slaughtered him. I bet every one of them went home thinking they were the hero.”

“You seem to think you got everyone figured out,” I said.

“That's because people ain't that hard to figure out,” he said. “Except guys like me. See, the popular talk is that we all come from a bad upbringing or something. That ain't it at all. My folks were pretty decent. They were Roman Catholics, made all us kids attend mass regularly. They didn't beat us or nothing, hell, they didn't even really yell at us.”

“What went wrong, then?” I asked.

“Nothin' went wrong. They ain't nothin' wrong with wantin' to make a buck, it's better than starvin'. My old man was poor when he came to this country, worked himself to death and died poor. You'd have to be pretty dumb to think I was goin' to do the same. So some people get killed along the way, ain't like most of them didn't have it comin' a hundred times over.”

“What about all them innocent folks you killed?” I asked.

“Nobody's innocent. And let's say some people are, that's just how it goes. Like all them innocent German folks that got killed in the Great War. See, nobody ever talks about those people. Hell, how about all them nonwhites that get strung up and lynched by the cops and all them innocent folks you're getting mushy about? For all you know, that hick I ran over with the truck went out every Saturday with his bedsheet-wearing pals and killed a few niggers for kicks.”

“Yeah, and he could've been a preacher at the local church that helped the kids with their homework,” I said.

“So what, that ain't the point. People these days like bad-mouthing those of us that were bootlegging the booze, but who was the one buying the stuff? Things ain't no different now, it's the same innocent folks that are paying for the whores and throwing their dough away playin' the cards. As for the drugs, that's Uncle Sam's fault when he made heroin illegal and left all them folks that'd been legally using the junk for years out in the lurch.”

Ranalli did his best to mask the pain, but it overcame him. The doctor stepped in, gave him a morphine shot and concluded the interview, indefinitely.

I stood on the Toulouse Street wharf and watched as the paddle steamer drew away from the wharf and headed down the river toward the gulf.

*   *   *

In the same coffee shop Storm had come to me in, I spent the morning downing cups of coffee and writing up what Ranalli had told me on carbon paper for duplicate copies. When I had finished the report, I paid, and set out to my flat. At the corner of St. Ann and Royal, I came upon Brawley's Chrysler Royal with one of the front tires parked up on the curb.

In the driver's seat sat a healthy-sized woman, with golden hair and ivory white skin. Tamara Brawley.

I waved to her as I bent down to the passenger seat, where Brawley sat with his arm securely strapped into a sling.

“Was just about to take off,” Brawley said. “The missus has been pestering me to take her to the show. I want to see my boy James Cagney, but she wants to see some romantic Clark Gable nonsense. Thought you might come along. Two against one and our chances of seeing ol' Jimmy are high.”

“You should let her see what she wants,” I said. “She deserves it, putting up with you.”

“Traitor. I thought we were square. And after all I've done for you. Giving that mouthpiece of yours a solid recommendation.”

“That helped a lot. Did Golik reprimand you for it?”

“Oh, the hell with Golik. He called me into his office, read me the riot act, but not like it did him any good. I was loopy from the drugs the doc gave me, so I just said, ‘yessir' here and there, and left.”

“All the same, I appreciate what you did. Why I bothered writing you up some reading material, but I wouldn't do anything with it—nobody will believe you.”

I handed him a copy of the report. At first he was going to toss it aside, but after a cursory glimpse he began leafing through it. He was still reading it when Tamara, impatient, floored the car off the curb and away from me. She drove down the street, cutting off a car full of church-goers that were en route to the St. Louis Cathedral. One of them stuck their head out the window and spouted off language that I doubted St. Peter would have approved of.

*   *   *

I had written up a bill and sent it over to Zella's residence. My response to it came a day later with a phone call from Zella asking me to meet her at a new club she was singing at on Bourbon.

The club was no different than the previous ones, with a crowd spilling all the way out into the entrance. I plowed my way to the bar as she got onstage.

She was wearing her standard slinky black dress, but her performance was not her normal stock. She didn't stay in a fixed position like she usually did, but moved around, and even flirted a bit with the crowd, giving them sultry looks. It was not the greatest performance I'd ever seen, but by far her best.

She again met me at the bar when she had finished. “I'd say you actually looked alive up there,” I said.

She laughed. “Lot's changed, I suppose. A lot of weight has come off me. Some finality with my dad, and thanks to you, I don't have to worry about people trying to kill me. Plus, I'm getting more comfortable with myself onstage, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” I said.

“Let me say good-bye to some people, and you can take me home.”

Fifteen minutes later we stepped into my car. She pulled an envelope out of her purse and handed it over to me. “This should be enough.”

I opened it up, and saw a stack of bills. I counted it out. “This is way more than what I charged you for. What'd you do, put your house up for sale to get this bundle?”

“Hey, don't you be askin' where I got it, because I ain't going to tell. We'll just say I recently received an inheritance.”

I gave her a stern look.

“Just take the damn money, will you. You more than earned it.”

Reluctantly, I grabbed a leather brief bag from out of the back, and pulled out a receipt form. I filled it out, and had her sign off, telling her it was just protection against the IRS.

When we were on our way, she said, “I heard you visited my mom, I mean, my aunt Betty.”

“So you do know,” I said.

“Of course I do. Can't keep something like that a secret, especially from your own daughter. I figured it out the minute my mom, or I guess my grandma, introduced her as my aunt, since she never talked about having a sister. I also know she killed my dad. I knew it the minute I found out he was killed. The cincher was the note saying it was me wanting to meet him.”

“Very perceptive of you,” I said.

“Funny, I was kind of expecting you to be more surprised when I told you this.”

“That's because I ain't. Done this job long enough to know things are often not as they first appear, and they just spell themselves out with time and I guess a little prodding. Sure, you might get some twisted schemes, but the motives behind them are basic enough, and easy to spot.”

“So you knew this all along?”

“Not the particulars—I had to let things play out to get them, and now I have. Your mother's ‘Aunt Betty' act wasn't foolin' anyone, because she overdid it, and so did you.”

“I don't get you,” she said.

“Sure, you do. I know when a woman is legitimately interested in me, and you aren't, or at least not in that way. So when you happened to tell me good night while standing in your underwear, it was a tip-off. Then it was followed by that kiss you gave me. It stuck in my head, because it was so random, since you showed no buildup to it. The sealer was when you were about to give me a jump in the kitchen.”

“But why would I do all that if I wasn't interested?”

“I don't think I have to begin to tell you the control women have when sex comes into play. You don't even have to really give it out, just tease a guy enough, and they can turn into clay for you to mold. I'm not going to say your motives behind it were sinister, because you were just trying to look out for your mother. You wanted me just for protection, but in case I caught on, you also wanted to make sure you had some control.”

“You're pretty shrewd,” she said as we pulled to the front of her house. “But you're wrong about something.”

“What's that?”

“I was sort of interested in you. See, you fascinate me. When I first saw you, I thought you were just a big, dumb lug, but you ain't. But it's your violence that turns me off. It doesn't just come out in your sleep. I wouldn't say you are tortured over it, because by all accounts you seem content with your destructive tendencies. That's where we differ, you see. I know I got a temper, but I try to better myself. I guess what I'm saying is, I could never really feel safe around a guy like you.”

I didn't say anything. There was nothing to say to something like that. I watched her as she stepped out of the car, walked up to her door, and went in without looking back.

*   *   *

The next few days I caught up on paperwork and filing. I was happy to close things out, since I was not pleased with myself at the work I had done. I'd grown too confident and comfortable in my profession so that it led to the slippery path of being careless. It was only because of Emerson's legal posturing, Brawley's support, and luck that I was not going up on charges.

I had indirectly caused the death of Devland and his men by handing their whereabouts over to Stein. At the time, I was not aware that Stein was capable of such actions, but I knew he was dangerous.

Then there were the two men I had gunned down, one of whom I hadn't even reported. An honest man I'm sure would have come clean over the poacher's death, knowing it was justified self-defense. But a simple case of self-defense could be manipulated into a murder charge, especially if the victim was white and the perpetrator happened to be colored. Jails were full of coloreds sent up on lesser things. It wasn't hard to seeing myself sitting in front of an all-white jury, being made an example of.