Enforcer

by Sydney J. Bounds

  PIERRE’S

  He pushed through glass doors into the restaurant. A few people were taking coffee and beignets; it was still early for lunch, although a smell of seafood came from the kitchen. There was a smiling blonde girl at the cash desk and two waitresses near the serving door.

  Pierre, in a dark suit, white shirt and plain black bowtie, moved between the tables checking spotless white cloths and gleaming silver. There were flowers on each table and it was obvious the place had been newly decorated, using the gilt-and-black motif. Nicely got up for the tourist trade, Diamond thought; Greco’s money had been well spent.

  Pierre was stockily built with short blond hair. His clean-shaven face had a solid jaw with eyes of a piercing quality. Diamond didn’t doubt that he could be tough when the situation demanded.

  He moved towards the restauranteur and clamped a big black hand around his biceps, and squeezed. He kept his voice low.

  ‘Let’s go upstairs so we can talk in private. Mr. Greco will be phoning shortly.’

  ‘I have nothing to say to you. Anything I need to say, I shall say directly to —’

  Diamond’s grip tightened till he saw Pierre wince; then, still gripping his arm, he led the way to the stairs at the back of the restaurant. They went up in silence. At the top was a landing and a door marked: Private.

  ‘My family,’ Pierre said. ‘Leave them out of this. Please.’

  ‘Of course. This is business, strictly business. Mr. Greco’s a little worried about his money.’

  Reluctantly, Pierre opened the door and Diamond hustled him through into the family’s living quarters. The room was big and airy with a high ceiling, and the furnishings old but comfortable. A woman in a plain green dress was seated on a sofa with a girl of about six, listening to a cello sonata on the hi-fi.

  ‘Annette, Yvonne,’ Pierre said quietly. ‘I want you both to go into the bedroom and shut the door. We have money matters to discuss.’

  Diamond looked around the room, noting the position of windows and doors. He swung a hard-backed chair to him and straddled it, folding his arms over the wooden back.

  The woman said quickly, ‘Please don’t move the furniture — my daughter’s blind and needs to know where everything is.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Diamond said politely.

  ‘A drink?’ Pierre suggested.

  ‘I don’t use alcohol.’

  ‘What is this?’ Annette demanded suspiciously. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I represent Mr. Greco.’

  Annette gulped air into her lungs and made a sobbing sound. ‘I warned you, Pierre,’ she wailed. ‘I warned you against that man!’

  The little girl clutched at her mother’s dress, suddenly scared. ‘What is it, mama? What’s happening? Please tell me.’

  Annette made soothing noises, and Diamond said; ‘Can we get down to it now? Mr. Greco will be phoning shortly and he’ll want answers. Will you pay what you owe him?’

  ‘I can’t — not immediately,’ Pierre said in a desperate voice. ‘I’ll pay, yes — every cent I owe. But I need more time.’

  ‘Time is something you’re running out of.’

  ‘The delay is essential, I assure you. I’ve spent a lot of money on renovation downstairs — you saw for yourself. And my regular custom is building up nicely. Just now I need every cent I can scrape up to keep the business growing.’

  Annette interrupted angrily. ‘That man is too greedy. It’s the rate of interest — it’s much too high.’

  ‘You should have thought of that before,’ Diamond said mildly.

  ‘All we need is a little more time —’

  ‘Mr. Greco won’t wait. He wants his interest now.’

  ‘He wants, he wants,’ Pierre said, clenching his hands. ‘That’s tough. He’ll just have to —’

  The telephone rang and Diamond turned down the hi-fi and reached for the receiver.

  ‘Is he paying?’ a neutral voice asked.

  ‘He says he hasn’t the money right now, and I’m inclined to believe him. He’ll pay up if you give him time.’

  ‘You can tell him I’ll wait for the capital. It’s the interest I’m concerned about, and I want it now. He pays all the back interest he owes and keeps paying interest — that’s the name of the game. The longer he hangs on to the capital, the more money he owes me.’ Leon Greco sighed softly. ‘Convince him.’

  Diamond turned to Annette and said, ‘Maybe you and the little girl had better leave us.’

  Annette came to her feet, her face set. ‘I’m staying,’ she said shrilly. ‘You won’t dare do anything to Pierre in front of me!’

  The receiver crackled to life. ‘Who’s that you’re talking to, Wash?’

  ‘His wife and daughter are in the room.’

  ‘Yeah? That’s fine.’ Greco raised his voice deliberately. ‘This is what you’ll do. Grab hold of that stupid cow he uses for a bed-warmer and smash her face to a pulp.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Diamond said tersely. ‘She can hear you.’

  ‘So what? Say, I’ve just had a better idea.’ Greco’s raised voice boomed from the telephone and echoed through the room. ‘You say their kid’s there? Great! Break her wrists — both of them. Pierre will sure get the message that way.’

  Greco’s laughter made Diamond’s flesh crawl. ‘Goddamn it, a man doesn’t hurt a kid!’

  ‘You going soft on me? I pay you good money — now do what I tell you.’

  Diamond started a slow count to five, holding his breath and looking at the blind girl as she clutched hold of her mother’s dress. Pierre and Annette stared back at him.

  ‘I just quit working for you,’ he said, and put down the receiver and walked out of the room and down the stairs.

  Out on the street he shook with a cold rage and took deep breaths till he felt calm enough to drive in city traffic. He got in his Mustang and circled back via Iberville to his condo.

  When he let himself into his apartment, Chelsea was up and dressed, humming Ain’t Misbehavin’ as she prepared a meal.

  ‘Pork chops with salad. All right with you, Wash?’

  ‘Anything at all. I don’t feel much like eating.’

  Chelsea raised an eyebrow. ‘How come, big boy? I’ve never known you to go off your food.’

  ‘I quit the job.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad. I never understood why you took it on in the first place. Greco isn’t exactly my idea of a human being.’

  Diamond paced up and down the kitchen, hands clenching and unclenching.

  ‘Easy money, I guess. Nothing seemed to matter very much when I got back from ’Nam. I was sick of the mud and blood, the stupidity and killing. Life didn’t seem worth two bits. Guess I wasn’t feeling any too human myself. I knew Greco was in the rackets — so what? He paid more money than anyone else and that was at the head of my list.

  ‘Leaning on a bunch of crooks didn’t bother me any. I figured they deserved all they got. They were asking for it. But you know what he wanted me to do today? Damage a blind kid. Jesus, that’s sick!’

  He felt disgust with himself and his short laugh made a harsh sound like a dog barking.

  ‘Maybe I’ll get a bit of self-respect back now. Could be you’ve had a good effect on me.’

  ‘So what are you going to use for bread?’ Chelsea asked, her mind turning immediately to the practical issue. ‘Can you afford to keep this place on?’

  Diamond shrugged. ‘I’ve enough in the bank not to worry for a while. Enough to buy time to look around.’

  ‘Well, even if your middle name is Teagarden, you sure ain’t going to make it as a horn player. You’re good enough to sit in as an amateur, but you’re not up to pro standard — and there’s a lot of competition around.’

  Chelsea frowned. ‘And what’s Greco going to do? He won’t like one of his men walking out on him — bad for his image. He might even think he can’t afford to let you get away with it.’

  Chapter Three – Pick-up on
Basin Street

  The damp heat was even worse inside the massage parlour than out on the street. Leon Greco, wearing a hand-cut grey suit that had cost nearly a thousand dollars, put up with it because he owned the place. And he knew that if he didn’t check the books personally, Irene would cut herself an extra slice of the take.

  The walls of the front office were used to advertise her services and included poster-sized colour pictures of the girls.

  FRENCH, SWEDISH AND EBONY MASSAGE

  Very personal attention by one of our many lovely girls.

  Body Talk a Speciality of the House

  VISITING MASSEUSES PROVIDED

  Already Irene had tried to distract him by offering one of the new masseuses, a bronzed teenager with pert breasts wearing flesh-coloured bikini briefs.

  ‘You know by now that I never mix pleasure with business,’ he said in a tone of mild disapproval.

  Irene shrugged. She knew; that was why he was called the Fox. The parlour was registered in her name, so he was clean if ever the cops decided to clamp down.

  She was a big-built woman with a long face framed by platinum hair, wearing a form-fitting black dress and black silk tights. ‘Sometimes I think you only get your kicks from dollars and cents.’

  Greco smiled and eased himself back from the desk and closed the accounts books. He pushed them to one side and lit a Cuban cigar.

  ‘Looks okay.’ he said. ‘Just keep them that way, Irene.’

  ‘Of course, Leon.’

  Greco savoured his cigar, a slim man with small neatly-groomed hands and a grey silk tie resting on a developing paunch. His hair was beginning to thin and the only big thing about him was the nose set in a pale face.

  His thoughts revolved about Wash Diamond; how that crazy black had walked out on him. Stupid. He still couldn’t quite believe it had happened. He paid top money to buy loyalty, and money meant he had absolute power over his people. They were things to be ordered around.

  Something would have to be done to replace him. And he’d have to make the point that nobody — nobody — just walked away from his organization when it suited them.

  He tapped ash from his cigar and glanced at Irene. ‘Find Turk for me.’

  Irene used her desk phone and, after the third call, said. ‘He’s at Oscar’s.’

  Perspiring, Greco rose to his feet and walked out of the massage parlour. He climbed into the back of a medium-sized grey Ford and relaxed in the chill of air-conditioning.

  His personal bodyguard, Kenny, was at the wheel engrossed in a new girlie magazine. Kenny bought them all and his eyes were out on stalks, but this never interfered with his ability to draw a gun when needed. It had taken a while for Greco to appreciate this, but now he didn’t let his chauffeur’s over-riding interest in the female form bother him. It was something he could use.

  ‘Oscar’s,’ he said.

  Kenny nodded, slid his magazine — open to the centrefold — onto the seat beside him. He was a beanpole with sharp enough features to make him look like a hatchet-man.

  He adjusted the gun bulging under his armpit and drove smoothly away.

  It was a car that did not draw attention to itself. Greco exchanged his car every year for a new model; always the same make, nothing ostentatious, always with air-conditioning. He still had not adapted to the moist and sticky heat of Louisiana.

  Kenny weaved through the traffic, babbling away to himself. He had only one thing on his mind.

  ‘The new one at the Peep Show . . . Boy, she really does something for me . . .’

  Sometimes Greco thought Kenny didn’t know he was voicing his thoughts; he ran on as if his mouth were disconnected from his brain.

  But Leon Greco had learnt to shut out the noise. At just on forty, he wasn’t feeling as young as he was when he moved south from New York. There he had been strictly small-time. Here he’d done all right for himself, it hadn’t proved difficult to organize the rackets and so bring himself to the top.

  He leaned forward to stub out his cigar butt in the ashtray as Kenny cruised through the suburb of Metairie. It was time to think about pulling out, and he had an idea how to arrange that.

  Beyond a row of tree-shaded houses, Kenny brought the Ford to a stop outside Oscar’s Gymnasium. Greco crossed the sidewalk and went inside. The place smelt like all gyms everywhere, a combination of sweat and old leather and embrocation. A couple of youngsters sparred in the ring; there were metal lockers lining one wall, massage tables, a steam-box and exercise bikes.

  Greco stood inside the door looking about him. He nodded to Oscar, five-feet-nothing with a bald head and broken nose.

  Turk was working out with a punchbag, slamming it with bare hands and scowling because he couldn’t hurt it; the bag always bounced back at him. He was a heavyweight, big as an ox, with a reputation for dirty fighting. He wore an old sweatshirt and trunks.

  Greco watched him for some minutes, then called softly: ‘Turk.’

  The fighter stopped punching and stepped back, peering about with small eyes close-set in a square head. He wasn’t all that bright — just maybe Diamond had been too bright — but he could follow simple orders.

  ‘Hi, Mr. Greco.’ Turk’s voice was a high squeak, the result of a right-hand smash to his voice-box; it sounded odd in so huge a man.

  ‘Diamond retired. If you want his job, you’ve got it.’

  Greed glittered in the pig eyes. More than once Turk had dropped a hint that he could take Diamond any day, and that the job should never have gone to him.

  ‘I want.’

  Greco said quietly, ‘I can’t allow Wash to walk out on me without leaving him a message. I’ll give you his address. After that, I’ll have another job for you.’

  ‘Gee, thanks Mr. Greco.’

  *

  Diamond was walking the streets of the city, dropping in at different clubs to see if anyone wanted a horn player. He’d had no luck so far but was not feeling discouraged as he strode along Basin Street among the tourists studying price tags in shop windows. He was passing the St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, with its oven-like vaults and iron fences, when an old Plymouth drew into the curb, a door swung open and a voice said:

  ‘Get in, feller.’ Diamond looked carefully at the driver and saw a Panama hat that had seen better days perched atop a walnut-wrinkled face. The man’s jacket was hanging loose to show a holstered Police Special.

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Just a few questions, boy. Now get in unless you want me to book you and haul your black ass down to the station.’

  Diamond slid into the front passenger seat and slammed the door. The car edged out into the traffic flow.

  ‘D’you have any identification?’

  The driver showed his I.D., and growled, ‘A real bright boy would have asked before he got in the car.’

  ‘Well, Detective Cave, suppose you-all tell me what this is about. I’ll have you know I’m busy job hunting.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Diamond heard the suspicion in Cave’s tone. ‘I heard you’d broken with the Fox.’

  ‘Where’d you hear that, man? I’m telling you, I was never with him.’

  ‘I’ll check you out, feller, don’t think I won’t. If it’s true, you’re going to need a friend. What sort of job are you looking for?’

  ‘Playing jazz horn, man.’

  Cave snorted. ‘Tom-toms for jungle bunnies! Just so long as you don’t call it music, and I don’t have to listen.’

  Diamond rolled his eyes and put on an Uncle Tom act. ‘Did nobody ever tell you all this racist talk is bad now?’

  ‘I’m old fashioned. Can’t seem to break the habit.’

  The car circled the Superdome and swung back towards Canal Street, overtaking a horse-drawn carriage with a black driver in a top hat and a group of sightseers. As he saw the Vieux Carré ahead Diamond was haunted by the image of a blind girl.

  ‘How old-fashioned?’ he asked. ‘Pierre’s, on Decatur, could do with some prot
ection. He’s got a wife and daughter.’

  ‘Yeah? It’s stupid to go to a loan shark,’ Cave said, and pulled over to let Diamond out. ‘You may be seeing me again, boy.’

  As the Plymouth glided away, Diamond began to foot it home. He was no longer in the mood for chasing a job; he felt uneasy at being picked up by a cop after quitting Greco. Now he was exposed, without protection. What had the detective really been after? Well, there was no sense in worrying about it; probably he’d never see him again.

  He reached his condo and went up in the elevator. The door of his apartment was open and the manager stood in the doorway, staring in; he appeared disturbed by what he saw.

  Diamond quickened his step, knowing Chelsea would not have left the door open. Then he saw that the lock had been smashed.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I had a complaint about the noise in your apartment.’ The manager had a fussy manner and shoulder-length hair; he waved manicured fingers at the interior.

  Diamond stepped past him and stopped dead. It was immediately obvious the wreckers had called. His collection of jazz records — some of them rare items — had been tipped onto the carpet and stamped on. His books had been ripped apart and the pages scattered.

  He moved quickly around the apartment. His trumpet had been ruined; the tube wrenched out of shape and the valves snapped off. In the bathroom he smelt burnt paper; the tub was filled with charred music scores.

  He went into the kitchen and what he saw there made his stomach turn sour. Ginger and her two kittens had been gutted with a carving knife; the floor was stained with their blood. Diamond’s hands knotted and he felt cold; suppose Chelsea had been here?

  It had to be Greco, he thought. She had been right after all. Greco had felt he must hit back.

  Standing in the doorway, the manager flapped his hands. ‘This cannot be tolerated,’ he said, his expression suggesting he might be chewing on a cockroach. ‘I insist that you leave immediately, Mr. Diamond. I simply cannot allow this sort of thing to happen in my building.’

  Chapter Four – Peeper

  Turk felt good as he jog-trotted through the suburbs on Highway Sixty-one, heading out of the city. He flexed his muscles and practised deep breathing, in no hurry for the night’s work.