*
The turf was brown under a hot sun and the ladies sheltered beneath brightly-coloured parasols. In the parade ring, trainers and owners proudly walked their horses to show them to best advantage. The New Orleans racetrack was crowded with holidaymakers and tourists, and noisy with bookies and touts.
Greco, beside Craig Hartmann the bookmaker, leaned on a white-painted rail looking at the horses in the ring with minimum interest. He wasn’t concerned with horseflesh, only in fixing races so they made him a profit. He had a share of Hartmann’s business.
The bookmaker was broad-shouldered, red-faced, and wore his hair in tight curls; heavy rings sparkled on his fingers as he pointed out a chestnut with a white blaze.
‘That’s Oriel.’
Greco glanced at the favourite and nodded.
‘Unless you can do something, Leon, Oriel is a run-away winner and the betting on him is heavy. Now if he lost, we’d clean up a packet.’
Greco looked around him, at bright silks and grooms and people moving from the grandstand to the bar. He noted Kenny guarding his back, but no one seemed interested in their conversation.
‘I can’t get at the horse,’ Hartmann said. ‘Our only chance is the jockey.’
‘You’ve told him I want to speak to him?’
‘Yeah. Forry didn’t like it much.’
Greco smiled. The jockey would like even less what he had to say.
‘Here he comes now . . .’
Forrest was short, thin and bow-legged, his skin lightly tanned. He wore racing colours with a peaked cap and carried a whip, which he tapped against one calf as he walked towards them. He had the rolling gait of a sailor.
‘Forry, this is Mr. Greco . . .’
The jockey nodded slightly, his lips taut-pressed into a thin line. Hartmann drifted away, leaving Forrest alone with Greco.
‘It’s nice to meet a rider who cares about his horse. Mr. Hartmann tells me you always ride Oriel when he’s running, that the owner won’t put anyone else in the saddle and that you really love that animal.’ Greco paused to make a smile. ‘So it would be a great pity if anything happened to Oriel.’
Forrest’s face turned pale. ‘What d’you mean? Nothing’s going to happen to him!’
Greco pulled a copy of the Times-Picayune from his pocket, unfolded it and pointed to a short news paragraph. ‘I’d like you to read this . . .’
USED CAR DEALER BEATEN UP
Robert Muller was attacked by a man wielding an iron bar and had both legs broken. Recovering in hospital, Muller stated: ‘I’d never seen the man before — he didn’t want money.’ The police have not yet made an arrest.
‘So what? I don’t see —’
Greco spoke softly. ‘It would be a pity if someone used an iron bar on Oriel’s legs wouldn’t it?’
Forrest gripped his whip till his knuckles blanched. ‘Nobody can get near him to do anything like that.’
‘Not today, perhaps. Probably not tomorrow either. But can you guard him all the time? Next week? Next month?’
Greco’s voice was soft and cajoling. ‘You wouldn’t really want your horse to suffer because of something you did, would you? Not when you can so easily avoid it. And I promise you it will happen. So Oriel won’t win today . . . if you come in a close second, who’s to know? Oriel won’t be touched and there’ll be a bonus for you. Say, five thousand dollars.’
Forrest, almost in tears, turned away.
Greco caught his arm and murmured, ‘Don’t think Oriel can’t be reached. That would be a terrible mistake.’
Forrest said, ‘Bastard,’ through clenched teeth and stumbled blindly away.
Greco watched him go, smiling, then walked towards the Tote. He queued up at a betting window and put five hundred dollars on the second favourite, Comet, then rejoined Hartmann who looked questioningly at him.
‘It’ll be all right,’ Greco said confidently.
They made their way to the track, near the finishing post as the crowd roared . . . ‘They’re off!’
Hartmann raised his binoculars and watched the horses race into the curve, jockeying for position. Oriel was among the leaders and going well. Turf flew up from beneath thundering hooves; the sun on the riders’ silks dazzled the eyes.
Coming into the finishing straight, Oriel was neck and neck with Comet, both jockeys using their whips. But when it came to the final spurt for victory, Oriel didn’t seem quite able to make it and came in second.
Greco smiled at Hartmann and went to collect his winnings. He frowned as a thought crossed his mind: if only it were as easy to fix Diamond. He still hadn’t decided exactly how to deal with his ex-enforcer, only that he must. Diamond couldn’t be allowed to interfere again.
He strolled to the paddock where Forrest was unsaddling. ‘You can have your bonus now if you want,’ he said quietly.
The jockey stared wildly at him. ‘I don’t want your money. Keep it. Just leave my horse alone!’
*
Vallette Street was quiet in the early evening when Diamond parked outside the run-down house where Ella Leland currently resided. Weeds grew around the porch and flakes of paint fell away when he used the doorknocker. He kept on knocking, louder and louder, until someone opened the door.
Then he stepped quickly inside, sniffing the air: grass. He hoped she wasn’t high on the stuff.
‘I’m calling on Ella,’ he announced.
The skinny young man in denim cut-offs and sneakers turned and yelled down the passage: ‘Ella . . . company!’
Diamond moved smoothly past him as a door opened and Ella Leland’s head poked out. Her expression changed to disgust. ‘You again. Don’t you ever give up?’
Diamond gave her his best smile. He was wearing a casual suit in light tan with a silk tie. ‘I’m offering dinner and a show.’
‘Yeah?’ She was immediately suspicious. ‘Why?’
‘Because I want you to meet someone. No harm in that, is there?’
‘Depends who it is.’
‘Her name’s Julie. She’s the dancer you saw at Doc Ambrose’s the other night.’
‘Why?’ Ella seemed genuinely puzzled,
‘I’d like you to see her in her natural habitat. You might learn something. After all, you’ve never had to work, and Julie’s strictly a working girl. Or don’t you think your new belief can take it?’
Ella smiled grimly at the challenge. ‘Okay, big boy, you can buy me dinner.’
‘It would be nice if you wore a dress.’
‘Maybe I should get a perm too? And take a bath?’
Diamond grinned. ‘Why not?’
‘If you want to wait, wait.’
The door closed in his face and Diamond located a chair in the unlit hallway and sat down. He thought Ella might tell him to go to hell but he didn’t think she was the sort to sneak out the back way.
The skinny young man who’d let him in drifted by. ‘You want a smoke, man?’
‘Thanks, but no. I don’t use the stuff.’
The hall was a drab brown that obviously hadn’t been decorated for years. Someone had made a half-hearted attempt to wash the grime off one side, and given up. It was a depressing place.
A couple of girls in skin-tight jeans, bra-less under skimpy T-shirts wiggled past him on their way out. Nice enough kids, Diamond thought; they’d straighten out — unless some pusher got them on a downward spiral to oblivion.
He didn’t grieve over Earl Vogel’s death — though his pride was hurt — but he was puzzled by it. Cave had set him up — and then got him off the hook in the lieutenant’s office. None of it made sense.
When Ella Leland appeared, she wore a neat blue gown with her hair brushed and carried a handbag. Diamond got to his feet.
‘Reckon I’ll pass inspection?’
‘Reckon you look pretty when you take the trouble,’ Diamond said gallantly. ‘That’s a nice perfume too. It’s a real pleasure to be your escort.’
They went out to his Mustang a
nd he drove across the bridge from Algiers and turned right to head towards the French Quarter.
‘Where are we going?’
‘The Folies Club.’
‘I’ve never been there.’
He parked on Bourbon and they walked the rest of the way. The Folies glittered like tinsel as they went through the doorway; lights sparkled and a jazz band was playing around with Limehouse Blues. The atmosphere was totally different from daytime.
‘I booked by phone,’ Diamond said. ‘A table for two.’
‘Yes sir. This way, please.’
They were seated and studied the menu; Ella ordered a seafood platter, and Diamond steak with salad. He asked for a bottle of wine, but only sipped from his glass.
The lighting was discreet, the tables grouped about a small square of floor where couples danced. Ella ate as though she hadn’t tasted decent food in a long time. She emptied her glass and Diamond refilled it, humming along with the band.
She was studying him closely. ‘Are you married, Mr. Diamond?’
‘My friends call me Wash and, no, I’m not exactly married. My girlfriend’s a professional singer and very independently minded.’
‘For a cop, you’re not all bad,’ Ella admitted grudgingly.
‘What I really wanted to be is a jazz trumpeter. I’m just not good enough.’
‘Modest, too.’
Diamond thought she was a pleasant enough girl but, because her family had money, she’d never had to tough it out. With her fair hair, freckles and boyish figure, she was an innocent compared to Chelsea or Julie.
The band finished its number and cleared the stage. The lights dimmed and a spotlight shone on the empty dance floor. A sleek man in a tuxedo appeared from the side to announce:
‘Ladies and gentlemen. Our cabaret star this evening is Julie, direct from the voodoo cults of the Congo. Give her a great welcome, please.’
When the clapping died away, hidden drums beat slowly, softly as Julie glided onstage, the python already wound about her shoulders. The rhythm remained languorous as the drums beat louder. Julie’s dance was different from the one she’d performed at Doc Ambrose’s temple; only her hips seemed to move as the snake slithered lower about her body. And she wore a figure-fitting sheath.
She swayed to the drumbeat, juggling Suzie as she reached behind for the zipper of her dress. Gradually the sheath slipped away from her shoulders. She paused, eyes downcast, peeking sideways over her shoulder at the men ogling her. Then the sheath fell away and she stepped out of it.
The drumbeat softened, quickened a little. Suzie coiled about her waist, head lifting as she reached up to unclip and release her bra.
The lighting changed kaleidoscopically. Julie’s hips, clad in lace panties, gyrated as she eased the python up around her shoulders. The audience held its breath as her fingers slid beneath the elastic at her waist.
Where her performance for Doc Ambrose had climaxed in a religious ecstasy, her strip routine was sexually arousing.
The music pulsed faster. Suzie slithered across her breasts.
Julie dropped her last garment as the drums crashed. For a brief instant the spot centred on her, then went out, plunging the stage into darkness.
When the house lights came the stage was deserted.
‘Not bad,’ Diamond said, admiringly.
‘Cheap,’ Ella snorted, ‘after her real performance.’ She sounded bitter, as if a dent had been made in her newfound belief.
Diamond rose from his chair. ‘Come on, I’ll take you backstage to meet her.’
‘Suppose I don’t want to?’
‘What are you scared of? She’s a cabaret artiste, that’s all. It might even be interesting for you — I guess you never had to earn your keep, like most girls.’
Ella couldn’t resist the challenge; she followed him through a curtained doorway and along a passage. The manager interposed himself smoothly. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Julie’s expecting us.’
The manager tapped lightly on a dressing room door. ‘You expecting anyone?’
‘Yeah. Show ’em in.’
Diamond entered, followed — a trifle reluctantly — by Ella. The manager closed the door.
‘Hi,’ Julie said, flashing a smile. She had put on a wrap that gaped revealingly as she bent over to coil her python into a wicker basket. ‘I have to keep Suzie shut up or we’ll have a panic on our hands. She has a habit of disappearing to explore.’
‘Miss Leland is particularly interested in your voodoo dance,’ Diamond said. ‘She caught your act the other night at Doc Ambrose’s temple.’
Julie made a face as she sat down before the dressing table mirror. ‘That phony! I don’t mind doing an act for him, but when I think of all the money he’s taking off the suckers, I want to spit.’
Ella said, coldly, ‘Just what do you mean by that?’
Julie glanced at her, and laughed. ‘What do I mean? I mean he asked me to help out with his voodoo racket — and I assure you he knows even less about the religious aspect than I do — and like one of the mugs he’s busy fleecing, I agreed. D’you know what he pays me? Less than half I get for doing a strip here, where I don’t have to pretend it’s anything more than an act.’
Ella’s lips firmed and her face turned a pale shade of grey.
‘And his life style! He’s got a real elegant house in the Garden District, complete with servants. He does right for himself, does Doc. But voodoo? He’d run a mile if the real thing caught up with him. He’s coining money as fast as the staff can take it out of the suckers’ pockets. Some religion, huh? Is that the sort of thing you want to hear? I can sure tell you a lot more.’
Ella made her way blindly to the door, fighting back tears.
Julie winked at Diamond as he went after her.
Outside on the sidewalk, Ella burst out: ‘Well, say it. Say you told me so. You can laugh if you want — I don’t have anything left. Ambrose really had me believing those things he preached were true.’
Diamond caught her in his arms and held her close.
‘I’ll tell you what’s true, Ella. Your father cares about you, and some girls aren’t so lucky.’
Chapter Twelve – Southern Comfort
On the stage Chelsea Hull, wearing a flame-red gown and cradling the microphone to her lips, tapped out the rhythm as she sang:
‘Just as blue as blue can be
’Cause my man’s gone ’way from me
Gone ’way, long way ’way
Got dem blues by night and day.’
It was early in the evening and the tables were half-empty so she easily spotted Cave when he came into the Black Cat. She recognized him from Wash’s description and was surprised and apprehensive and wondered what he wanted.
The detective bought himself a beer at the bar, tossed his Panama onto an empty table and sat down. He took a mouthful of beer, looked around him with a pained expression and lit a cigarette.
When her number ended, he waved her across. Chelsea, reluctant but curious, joined him at his table. His corrugated face grimaced as Joe and his band swung into Chinatown.
‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like what I sing?’
‘You don’t have a bad voice,’ Cave admitted sourly. ‘It’s just that jazz isn’t my kind of music.’
‘Oh, and what is your kind of music?’
‘Chopin, Bach, Vivaldi . . . that sort of thing, you know.’ Abruptly he changed the subject. ‘Where’s the big fellar tonight?’
‘Trying to persuade an erring daughter to return home.’ Chelsea kept her tone light; she didn’t want her hostility showing. This honky was a cop and she was scared he was setting Wash up for something bad; already he’d nearly got her man killed. She didn’t trust him. ‘Why?’
‘Just checking.’
Chelsea pressed, ‘Is Wash going to stay with this P.I. job?’
Cave swallowed beer and burped. ‘Who knows? He’s shaping up, but it’s early days yet. ‘It’s better t
han enforcing for Greco. We’ll have to wait and see how he handles himself when the chips are down.’
*
Greco stepped from the shower cubicle, towelled himself dry and leisurely dressed in fresh underwear. His pale flesh was flushed and his brain active.
He felt hamstrung with Turk in hiding; without an enforcer, he knew damn well people were ripping him off. But he didn’t want to set Kenny on them. That meant killing, and he couldn’t afford a lot of heat from the cops at the present time.
He slipped into a pale grey shirt, looked at his face in the mirror and saw the start of bags forming under his eyes. And getting a paunch too. It worried him that he was beginning to feel his years. Earlier, he’d have toughed it out himself; now he had to rely on others. If that fool Diamond hadn’t quit on him, there wouldn’t be this trouble . . .
He adjusted his pants and knotted a tie. Who the hell did Wash think he was anyway? A muscleman, too smart for his own good.
Greco put on his jacket and checked his pockets. There was nothing to worry about with Vogel; his lawyer had managed to stop any questioning of Kenny. That was okay, but it bothered him the cops had even tried it on.
And all because of Diamond. Well, he had to be wiped out and that was definite.
Maybe his other managers would take the hint and cool it when word got around that Wash had been taken out.
Who to give the job to? Not Kenny — too obvious. And certainly not anyone on his new agency list. It had to be an outsider . . .
‘Are you going to be all day, Leon?’
Barbara sounded impatient.
‘Just finished.’
He selected a clean handkerchief and strolled into the bedroom.
Barbara, at twenty-eight, had a statuesque figure and rarely wore clothes in her apartment. Cigarette stuck in one corner of her mouth, she swept past him and into the shower stall. She worked in TV advertising, collected good money and was something of a sexual athlete.
Her apartment was both luxurious and sensual, personally designed for her by a top interior decorator. Greco felt good. Barbara usually had that effect on him, though he wasn’t all that interested these days. He could go a long time between women. He supposed he continued only to protect his macho image; it wouldn’t do for word to get around that Leon Greco was reluctant to service a woman.
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