by Lee Thomas
In ominous and reverential tones, Spencer told the story of Punjab, an ancient man from Bombay, who had revealed, before his death by enchanted poison, his otherworldly secrets to Spencer and had presented Butch’s uncle with the mystical key.
Butch had worshipped his uncle Spencer, but that all changed one freezing January night. Robert Cardinal, Butch’s father, drunk as he’d ever been and bleeding from a split lip, likely earned in a fight at Dingle’s Tavern, had burst into the house shouting, catching Spencer in the middle of showing Butch a card trick. Robert Cardinal had ranted, knocked the table over and sent a confetti of cards to the floor.
“The deck is marked, you idiot,” his father bellowed. “There are symbols on the backs and they tell him what each card is. He’s not a magician. He’s a fucking cheat. These are just tricks he learned to entertain the ladies. Did he tell you about that? Did he tell you about getting fired from the railroad because of that girl in Baltimore? Another man’s wife, she was. A mother, no less.”
His father snorted a laugh and stormed through the house, into the kitchen, leaving Butch to look for an explanation from his uncle. But Spencer just righted the table and picked up the cards. He wouldn’t look at his nephew, simply muttered, “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
A long time passed before his Uncle Spencer visited again. By then Butch had put away his faith in magic, too old to believe in witches or gold-laying geese or sleeping princesses. Uncle Spencer’s tricks were the last enchantments in Butch’s life. Once they were gone, so was any illusion about the world waiting for him. It was his father’s world. Hard as granite. Ugly as shit. And the only things of value were the things you could touch with your fingers.
He left the streetcar and in less than five minutes discovered he was lost. He checked the map several times but could not seem to orient himself in the street. The sky above had turned the color of bronze, with jaundiced lines running like infected cuts through the bulbous accumulation.
After more than an hour of searching, Butch finally found the home of Delbert Keane. It stood tucked in the back of the Uptown District like a shameful secret. The Victorian structure was tall, narrow and grim, seeming to have been painted with the same colors that currently stained the sky. A waist-high wrought-iron fence ran around the periphery of the yard, each spindle capped with a pointed spike. The yard was neat. The porch was kept tidy. But the house looked malicious, as if it had been summoned in a dark ritual, rather than built of wood and nails.
Butch let himself through the gate. As he began down the walk a man appeared at the side of the house. The man kept his head down, apparently distracted with thoughts, as he stomped to the front yard. He stopped before the porch stairs, looked up at the angry façade and put his hands on his hips.
“Mr. Keane?” Butch called.
The man lifted a hand to wave but did not turn around. He wore a white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled past the elbows and black trousers that had accumulated bits of brown grass and dirt on his backside.
When Butch reached a point just behind him on the walk, he said the man’s name again.
“Yeah, that’s me,” Keane said, still staring up at the house.
“My name’s Butch Cardinal, and I was hoping you could help me out.”
“You need something to eat? I don’t got any work for vagrants if that’s what you’re fishing for.”
“No, sir,” Butch said.
“Good,” Keane said. He lifted his hand and used his palm as a visor. His forearm was heavily muscled as if he’d spent a lifetime doing hard labor.
Butch found it odd the man was shielding his eyes, since there was little light in the air and certainly no glare. He looked up at the house, but could find no explanation for the action.
“I was told you might be able to help me identify something.”
“Yeah, maybe so,” Keane said distractedly. “How much paint you think I’ll need to cover this place? Can’t afford to buy a surplus but would like to get some of the dingy off the place.”
“Couldn’t say,” Butch told him.
“Don’t have much of a calculating mind myself,” Keane said.
“Can’t you buy it as you go?”
“Nah, can’t do that, unless I use raw white. It’s mixing in the color that causes the trouble. They can never get it exactly the same each time. I’d like a light walnut color, but if they mix it wrong, who knows what kind of mess I’d end up with. Don’t think I’d like to live in a mottled house. But I might. Can’t really say.”
“I wish I could help you out.”
“Not a problem,” Keane said, lowering his hand. “About to get a big wet coming down. Won’t be able to do much about this anyways.” He extended his hand to Butch and they made a proper introduction. Then Keane asked, “What can I do for you?”
“I have this necklace.”
“And you want it appraised? I don’t really do that kind of thing.”
“Maybe you could just tell me what it is.”
Keane’s eyes lit up and his brows arched. “A mystery, huh? I like mysteries. Let’s go on to the back and have a sit down. I’ve been working in the garden all morning, and then I got the idea to paint the house, so I been walking in a circle for about thirty minutes, trying to figure how many gallons the old gal will need.”
Butch followed the man around the side of the house. Behind the Victorian a wide vacant parcel of land ran to a line of low trees. Keane stopped at a small picketed gate and opened it onto a space not unlike the courtyard at Hollis’s place. The backyard had been squared off with a tall fence and numerous panels of latticework. Vines covered the barriers in lush green skin. Two wrought-iron chairs with thick floral cushions sat in the middle of a flagstone court. Between them stood an iron table with tiles inlaid on its top.
“Nice place,” Butch said.
“Working on it,” Keane replied. He took a seat and waved for Butch to follow suit. “So what have you got? You said a necklace?”
Butch pulled the pendant out of his collar. Instead of holding it on the flat of his hand, he removed the chain and passed the whole thing over to Keane. The man gave the piece a smile. Turned it over in his hand. Bounced it against his palm testing its weight.
“And you think this is valuable?” Keane asked.
“I think someone does.”
“Hmm,” Keane muttered. He rolled the pendant on his palm and nodded his head. “Let’s start with what it’s not. There are a number of trinkets that look like very little but might actually have value. An ancient coin, for instance. If this here were currency, say Greek or Roman, you might have something. But it isn’t. There are no inscriptions, no marks at all really. That tells me two things: it isn’t a coin, and it isn’t likely the product of a known artist. Even if it were the latter, the fact it has no signatory mark means it could never be authenticated. So that leaves a few options.”
“Like?” Butch asked.
“It might be of personal value to someone. An heirloom passed down through a family with an interesting history. Or it could be an icon.”
“Come again?”
“An object a coven or mystical sect would use in rituals. There are hundreds of such icons. Nearly every early culture had its charms and runes. The Gaul. The Germanic with their Thull mythology. Pagans certainly. Even our own local brand of magic, Voodoo, comes with a set of talismans.”
“So it’s just symbolic?” Butch asked. Seward had said something similar to him. Talk of the occult and mysticism. “It doesn’t really do anything?”
“More than likely,” Keane said. He opened a metal box on the tabletop and withdrew a cigarette. Keane handed the necklace across the table. “Can I ask where you came across this piece?”
“A friend.”
“And what makes you think it has any value at all?”
“Certain people seem very eager to have it.”
“Really?” Keane asked. His eyebrows rose with interest. “Maybe y
ou should leave it here. I can test the metal and see if there’s something I’m missing. Check my books.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Of course,” Keane said. He quietly smoked his cigarette and looked at the sky.
With no useful information to be had, Butch grew frustrated. Keane was pleasant enough, didn’t seem to be as crazy as Mercer, but if Butch had hit a dead end, he needed to turn around and get moving. “Long story short, you don’t know what this thing is?”
Keane lazily shook his head. He put his cigarette in the ashtray at the center of the table and then stood. With a look of startled humor he said, “But I’m being a terrible host. Can I get you a coffee or a beer?”
“I don’t want to waste any more of your time,” Butch said.
“No trouble at all. I insist.” Keane stood. He walked across the court, climbed the steps and entered the gloomy interior of the house.
So that’s it, Butch thought. His life hadn’t come undone over a charm of incomparable value; it had been bartered for a bit of junk. The only other name on his list belonged to some broad in the spook rackets, and she was going to be about as helpful as tits on a boar. Aggravation welled in him, and he considered abandoning the courtyard, leaving Keane’s home, and then perhaps leaving the city of New Orleans altogether. Nothing good was going to come from remaining here.
• • •
Delbert Keane held the earpiece of the phone and looked out the window, keeping an eye on Butch Cardinal who had leaned his head back to look up at the sky. The operator told him to hold while she attempted to patch through his call to Jackson, Mississippi. His nerves jangled like a prisoner’s chains and his foot tapped an arrhythmic beat on the tiles of his kitchen floor. The percolator sat on the stove’s fire, but there was no coffee in the filter, because he had no interest in hospitality; he’d just needed an excuse, time to make the call.
He could never have imagined finding the Rose under these circumstances. Holding the sacred piece proved all but overwhelming, and he’d struggled to maintain his composure and the steadiness of his hand so he didn’t give too much away to Cardinal. Had his lies been detected? He didn’t think so.
The telephone connection snapped and crackled in his ear. Impatient, he set the earpiece on the counter and raced across the first floor of the house. In his study, he opened the top drawer of his desk and removed the knife he kept there. This he carefully slid into his belt at the small of his back, and then he returned to the phone, returned to watching his guest.
Cardinal struck him as an oddity—a man somehow incongruous with himself. Obviously, he had stolen the Galenus Rose, though he claimed to have no understanding of its power, and this claim seemed to be validated by his appearance at Keane’s home (though he wondered who had sent Mr. Cardinal to him in the first place). Keane held no doubt that violence, perhaps murder, was involved in the theft of the invaluable charm, yet Cardinal didn’t carry himself like a killer, certainly not a calculating, experienced murderer of men. If anything, he seemed cowed, frightened, which were emotions discordant with his obvious strength and vitality. Further, if he had stolen the Rose with some inkling of its gifts and had only come to Keane for verification or elucidation, then why was he behaving so civilly? Wouldn’t he be waving a gun and demanding answers? Wouldn’t he be threatening violence? Veins of peculiarity wove throughout the entire encounter. Not that it mattered. Not really. The Galenus belonged with the Alchemi. This was not even an issue for argument. Keane simply found Cardinal’s behavior interesting, considering the circumstances.
Finally his call was put through, and the distant phone rang, and he checked on Cardinal again—He looks like he’s dozed off—before a stern male voice said, “437 House. Mr. Evanston, speaking.”
Delbert said hello to Ramsey Evanston, but he did not instigate the niceties of banter. As quickly as he could he explained the situation and demanded that Evanston tell him whatever he could about the theft of the Galenus and the man who had stolen it.
“That would be inappropriate,” Evanston said. “That is business kept within the Alchemi and as you are—”
“He’s here,” Keane said, interrupting the man’s overly pompous explanation. “A man calling himself Butch Cardinal has come to my home, and he has the Rose. I need information before I proceed.”
The silence on the other end of the phone line left Keane listening to the crackle and hiss of the connection. His foot tapped frantically as he waited for some response from his former colleague, and his hand slid around to the small of his back to touch the hilt of his knife.
“Mr. Keane,” Evanston said, finally, “Cardinal is suspected of murdering two of our associates—Lonnie Musante and Humphrey Bell—in addition to his theft of the Galenus Rose. At this time, your priority is to take possession of the Rose, regardless of the means necessary to do so. I will forward your message to 213 House. Please contact us immediately once you have the Rose in your possession.”
“Thank you, Mr. Evanston.” Keane hung up the phone.
His hand wrapped around the handle of the knife and he squeezed it tightly. The grip had always fitted his palm well. Keane walked to the stove and turned off the flame, and then he breathed deeply to settle his frantic nerves before taking his first step out of the house.
Chapter 26
One Single Thing
The decision to help Butch Cardinal came to Roger Lennon as he watched the sheet drop over the body of Terry McGavin, though Lennon didn’t know that was the decision he was making at the time. Lennon had done as he’d promised and called the Feds, but in the hour it had taken them to get their paperwork together, McGavin had been murdered and then returned to a cell.
Like the government agents, Lennon listened to the story Detective Glaser wove with furious incredulity. After his interrogation, McGavin had returned to his cell and committed suicide by beating his head against the edge of his cot. It was ludicrous. Impossible in every regard. The Feds didn’t buy it, but the sworn statements of four officers who corroborated Glaser’s fairy tale meant they wouldn’t bother with a costly and ultimately futile investigation. He should have stayed with McGavin until the agents arrived, but he’d been called back to Wenders’ office to once again be warned against spreading his story about Curt Conrad’s involvement in Lonnie Musante’s murder. By the time he’d made it to McGavin’s cell the M.E. was already on the scene, draping the Irishman’s body in a rough white cloth.
And Lennon knew it was his fault, not for any single reason or act, but because of a pattern of behavior he had practiced for as long as he could remember. He had taken money from the Italians. He was complicit in their crimes. He was as guilty as Conrad and Glaser and every thug on the street.
He couldn’t make it right, not all of it. There was no way in hell he could dismantle the Chicago machine, but if he could do something—any one thing—to fight the twisted system he had helped construct, then he might be able to consider himself human again.
His opportunity came after a rough, sleepless night; it came in the form of an elderly gymnasium owner by the name of Rory Sullivan.
At the station, holding a cup of coffee that tasted like one part battery acid and three parts spit and leaning against a counter dazed from exhaustion, he heard a uniformed officer mention “Ripper’s Gym” in regard to a crime scene. Though he’d not been an official investigator on the Lonnie Musante case, he’d pored over the file they’d compiled on Butch Cardinal a dozen times, and the name of the gym had stuck. After questioning the officer, who seemed confused by Lennon’s babbling interrogation, Lennon had deposited the mug of foul coffee on a filing cabinet and left the station.
• • •
He drove through a light snowfall to the hospital. Inside, he found the hallways poorly lit, and the stink of ammonia burned his nostrils. Lennon hurried past the information desk, waving away a question thrown his way by the bald old man behind the desk. He didn’t need directions. All crime-related victi
ms ended up on the second floor in the west wing of the hospital, unless they went directly from the emergency lobby to the morgue. The officer had said that Sullivan took a shiv to the shoulder and had then proceeded to have a heart attack, but he was alive or had been two hours ago.
Lennon jogged up the stairs and turned left on the landing. Immediately a shadow fell over him as he passed into a short unlit corridor of stone walls. After twenty feet the hall opened into a ward with only slightly better illumination. He stopped at the nurse’s station and asked for directions to Sullivan’s room.
When he stepped into the room, a beautiful young woman with blue eyes, red hair and a murderous look accosted him. She lifted her hand and held it firmly to Lennon’s chest.
“You can just keep yourself in the hall,” she said. “My father needs his rest.”
Over her shoulder Lennon saw Rory Sullivan lying motionlessly on the bed, bathed in a cone of sickly, yellow light. A gray blanket covered the lower half of his body. He wore a sleeveless hospital gown, revealing thickly muscled arms, lined with pronounced veins, and were it not for his current location and prognosis, Lennon would have thought the man an exceptionally healthy specimen, but with his lips parted, and his eyes closed, he could have been nothing more than an impressively formed corpse.
Lennon returned his attention to the young woman. He introduced himself and learned that her name was Molly. “I’m with the Chicago Police Department.”
