‘So we spooked the Fox into action! The lieutenant got nowhere on the Vogel killing — Greco had his lawyer primed and ready. And Turk’s gone undercover. It looks like he’s reacting to pressure. So what have you got for me?’
Diamond handed him the shell he’d picked up. ‘He used a rifle.’
‘Where was this?’
Cave listened to his story without interruption.
‘Yeah, well, next time you’ll know better than to agree to a blind date. What was his voice like?’
‘White, southern. One of the good old boys.’
‘They’re still with us. I’ll phone for a car to take a look at that barber’s — you never know, we might get lucky.’
When he returned, Cave asked: ‘D’you want to stay here tonight? I can fix it for you — and it might be safer.’
‘No way.’ Diamond climbed unsteadily to his feet. ‘It’s only a flesh wound and I’m going home.’
Cave shrugged. ‘Okay, it’s your life. I’ll drive you back.’
They went outside to his car. The detective took it slowly even though traffic was light. He crossed Canal and headed east along Royal, past darkened shops. Sirens wailed and cars piled up. Traffic got so bad, Cave had to pull over.
He frowned. ‘Looks as though this is as far as we go. You fit enough to walk the rest? Figure I ought to investigate this jam.’
Diamond nodded and got out of the Plymouth and, together, they followed the crowd.
‘Jackals,’ Cave muttered, and asked one of the crowd: ‘What’s going on?’
‘A fire, man!’
Turning into Orleans Avenue, they saw red fire engines, pumps and ladders, trailing hoses like spaghetti. The gutters were awash with water as firemen played their jets on the buildings. Police held back the crowd. Diamond and Cave edged forward. Smoke hung like fog in the air and there was a smell of burning.
They paused as they caught a glimpse of the Coin-Op Laundromat; the building was a shell, gutted by fire and the firemen were concentrating on saving the adjacent buildings. It was immediately obvious that Diamond no longer had an office or a room to sleep in.
‘Wait here,’ Cave said, and bulled his way through to the fire chief, flashing his I.D.
He spoke briefly and his face was set when he returned. ‘Someone sure don’t like you, Wash. Arson is suspected. The chief says it looks like a petrol bomb was used.’
Chapter Fourteen – ‘Queen of the South’
Haggar tipped up the whisky bottle and swallowed as he listened to the telephone ringing at the far end of the line. He peered out through the dirty glass of the call booth at the motel reception hall. It was empty apart from the night clerk at his desk; even the lighting was subdued. Beyond the glass front he glimpsed the dark silhouettes of look-alike cabins.
This was the third number he had tried to get hold of Leon Greco; that man surely moved around some, but Haggar was in no hurry. He’d booked in at a cheap motel on the outskirts of the city, a temporary base, and his old station wagon was parked out of sight at the rear.
A neutral voice said, ‘Greco.’
‘Beau here. I only winged your black bird. He moved just as —’
‘Christ!’ Greco exploded. ‘Am I surrounded by total incompetents?’
‘No sir, you are not.’ Haggar spoke with convincing earnestness. ‘That man has the luck of the devil himself — but Ah never gives up on a black, that’s something you can rely on. For certain sure I’ll keep after him.
‘It’s this way now — he no longer has an office. Just a little trick I learnt to keep the quarry from cover. You-all know any place he might hole up?’
Haggar listened to quiet breathing, then —
‘He has a girlfriend, Chelsea something or other, a singer at the Black Swan club, off Bourbon. He plays trumpet sometimes. He’ll show up there.’
‘That’s Jim and Dandy, Mr. Greco. I’ll check on the bitch. You relax now, and start counting all that lovely money you’re going to pay me.’
*
Diamond stood looking at the burnt-out frame of his temporary home, anger building in him, his one good hand tightly clenched. He wanted to hit out at someone, preferably Greco.
‘Sure looks like you’ve needled the Fox,’ Cave said. ‘I reckon we might just catch him off-balance now.’
Diamond said suddenly: ‘Chelsea! I’ve got to make sure she’s all right.’
They forced a way through the crowd, back to Cave’s Plymouth. A traffic jam had built up, horns blaring, but the detective flashed his badge and a patrolman eased him out into the flow.
‘Have to go the long way round,’ he grunted, picking up speed. He detoured by way of St. Peter Street and Chartres to the apartment house on Esplanade.
‘Seems quiet enough,’ Cave said as they pounded up the stairs and Diamond leaned on the bell push.
When the door opened on a chain, Diamond asked quickly: ‘You okay? No trouble?’
‘I’m fine,’ Chelsea said, unhooking the chain. Her eyes widened. ‘What happened to you?’
‘It’s nothing, baby. A scratch.’
Chelsea was in a wrap, getting ready for bed when Diamond and Cave walked in. She made more tea for Wash and got a beer from the fridge for Cave, and listened to what they had to say.
Her lips tightened. ‘This is your fault,’ she accused the detective.
Cave pulled the tab on his can and swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Blame Greco, if you want to blame anybody.’
Chelsea made a wry face. ‘So much for fame,’ she said. ‘I guess my portrait burnt up with the building. So it’s lucky you left your trumpet with me — and the rest of your clothes.’
Cave lit a cigarette. ‘My advice is to get out of town and take your girlfriend with you. Greco must know you shack up here.’
‘I’m not running,’ Diamond said stubbornly. ‘I’m going after him.’
Cave’s laugh turned into a fit of coughing. When he recovered, he jeered: ‘Don’t make me laugh. A black kills a white man — what chance d’you think you’d have? I know times have changed, but not that much. So cool it and wait till I set something up.’
‘The way you set Wash up?’ Chelsea said tartly.
‘Yeah, just like that. And don’t think I can’t do it, lady. I set one up, I can set up two.’
He swallowed more beer.
‘I don’t go for this crap about criminals being the fault of society, or any of the other psychiatric-liberal bullshit. I believe criminals are scum, that they hurt people because they enjoy it, that they rob the weak and the old because it’s easier than work. I hate them. I believe they should be shot down like mad dogs.’
He took a last drag on his Marlboro and ground out the butt with a savage twist of his wrist, as if demonstrating, and rose to his feet.
‘Now get the hell out of this town, will ya? Keep in touch by phone —’ He scribbled a number on a notepad, tore off the page and thrust it at Diamond. ‘I’ll let you know when and where to find Greco. And I’ll put a couple of cops outside, one back and front, though I don’t reckon we’ll see any more action tonight.’
After he had left, Chelsea said, ‘He’s right, Wash. Greco’s got an organisation and you’re only one man. And look what he’s done already — you got shot and burnt out. I’m scared.’
‘You don’t have to be scared while I’m here.’
Diamond checked the doors and windows, dragged a couch across the doorway and stretched out, revolver in one big black hand.
‘You can sleep sound, baby.’
‘Tomorrow,’ Chelsea said firmly, ‘We’re getting out, like that detective told us.’ She switched off the light and went into the bedroom.
Diamond lay listening to apartment house sounds. Eventually it grew quiet but he couldn’t drop off to sleep. He felt restless, his injured arm was uncomfortable and his brain went round and round as he thought up unpleasant things to do to Leon Greco when he got his hands on him. The moon shon
e through the window. He heard a car speed by, a distant clock strike twice, then he must have dozed off because he smelt coffee and when he raised his head, sunlight blinded him.
He heard Chelsea talking on the telephone, a note of urgency in her voice. ‘Okay, okay I’ll take it. Two o’clock. I’ll be there.’
She replaced the receiver, turned and saw he was awake. ‘Move, Wash. Shower, and I’ll change that dressing, then breakfast. We’re getting out of here.’
‘Where you planning on going?’
‘I’ve got a job on a riverboat. And there’s a chance for you to sit in with Vince’s band. The main thing is we’ll be out of town for a few days — and no one will find it easy to reach you in the middle of the river.’
‘That’s smart thinking, baby.’
He found himself a new shirt and put his bloodstained jacket on one side to go to the cleaners.
After a breakfast of ham and hot sausage, he said: ‘I’ll meet you at the quayside. I want to collect my car.’
He took a Yellow cab to the hospital, drove his car to the nearest garage and left it for servicing. The sidewalks were filling with people and he felt less conspicuous now. As he walked down Common Street towards the waterfront he was conscious that somewhere, a man with a rifle might be stalking him; he was glad that he’d put on a tan suit and grey shirt rather than his usual bright colours.
When he reached the quay at the foot of Canal, tourists were going up the gangway onto the sternwheeler, looking happy and relaxed and in vacation mood.
Chelsea was waiting on the top deck with his trumpet, and introduced him to Vince Norman. The bandleader wore a baggy linen suit that resembled a collapsed parachute, and his face beamed.
‘Glad to have you sit in, man. An extra trumpet’s always welcome on these outdoor gigs. The sound kinda gets lost, ya know.’
At two o’clock, engines throbbing, gangway aboard and ropes cast off, the Queen of the South sounded her siren, sending gulls aloft in a noisy cloud. Paddles churning, the riverboat eased out from the bank and began fighting the current as she headed upstream.
‘Right,’ Norman said, and tapped his foot, ‘One, two, three . . .’ and Diamond raised his trumpet and blew his heart out with the St. Louis Blues.
The city skyline passed, a panorama of docks and barges and skyscrapers, and then they were gliding through the suburbs, moving towards open country-side, the deck throbbing and hot music belting out.
Diamond lowered his trumpet after one chorus; he had problems playing with one good hand. But he was grinning in the hot sunshine; he’d never played on a riverboat before and already he was liking it. As good as a holiday while his arm mended. He’d miss the Gospel singing with Chelsea, but there’d be other Sundays.
And he’d be back. He had a score to settle with Leon Greco.
*
Beau Haggar walked the streets of New Orleans and didn’t like what he saw; it was quite a while since he’d visited the city and things had obviously got worse. Blacks didn’t get off the sidewalk when he approached. And when he saw one arm-in-arm with a white woman, his vision blurred as if he was seeing through a blood-red veil. He kept his temper only because he knew he had to. With two thousand dollars involved, he couldn’t afford trouble. He had to pick up Diamond’s trail again.
Greco had said his girlfriend was a singer at a jazz club and he was on his way there now. He ground his teeth; he’d have to talk politely to the brothers to get information when he’d sooner stamp them into the ground. Then he laughed aloud as the thought struck him — he was going to get one black to betray another. And that was fine and dandy.
He found the Black Swan open even though it was midday, and heard the sound of a band practising. He strode in as if he owned the building, and stopped dead. The band was white.
Haggar softened his approach. He could lie when it suited him. He addressed a musician who was sitting out, fitting a new reed to his instrument.
‘Ah’m looking for a singer name o’ Chelsea. Maybe you-all can toll me where she might be?’
The musician’s gaze flicked over him; he wasn’t upset by the questioner’s looks — jazz fans came in all shapes and sizes.
‘Well now, she’s a regular here with Joe Baker’s outfit, but I just heard she’s away on a river gig.’
‘Sure would like to catch her,’ Haggar drawled, happy to have the man betray her.
‘The boat’s the Queen of the South and she’s with Vince’s band. She sails at two, so you’d best hurry, man.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Haggar said, and left.
He hurried through the narrow streets of the French Quarter, down to the quayside; when he arrived, the steamboat had already sailed. He obtained her route and timetable from a small office on the quay, collected his station wagon and set off along the river bank.
He had his rifle with him, cleaned and loaded and he smiled as he drove along. There was nothing better than black-hunting and he’d flushed his quarry into the open. It was a sure bet that Diamond was with her; why else would she change her job? He’d winged Diamond he knew; it was just bad luck he had moved at the moment he squeezed his trigger — or he’d be a goner right now. Well, this time he’d make sure of him.
Haggar’s wagon moved along smoothly. It was old and dirty, but he looked after the engine. He was in no great hurry as he out the city behind him. The paddle steamer couldn’t disappear; all he had to do was follow the river till he sighted her, then tag along until he got his chance at Diamond. And all the time they were moving towards the type of country he knew best.
Two thousand bucks to enjoy himself. Could be he’d knock off the brownskin gal too; two for the price of one. And just maybe he’d get a bit of fun with her first.
An hour later, he sighted the riverboat, paddles churning up white water as she fought the swift-flowing current, and laughed.
*
The Queen of the South moved steadily up the Mississippi, engines pulsing, paddles scooping up water. The top deck was thronged with couples dancing to the hot jazz of Vince Norman’s band; coloured lights hung in festoons and laughter carried far across the water.
Sunset made a dull red glow over the bayous as Diamond caught the signal to sit in. He brought up the horn to his lips; his left arm was still stiff and awkward but there was nothing wrong with the fingers of his right hand on the valves. It was great to be playing outdoors, cruising up the river; and he was hitting the notes with vitality and drive, following Chelsea’s melodic line:
‘Feeling blue, ma man ain’t true,
Same old blues, sure get to me
Like a-drowning in the sea.’
It was a happy, relaxed time and, after their number ended, Diamond and Chelsea leaned on the deck rail and watched the dark land glide past. In the twilight Diamond sighted what appeared to be grey logs floating on the surface of the bayou, and suddenly realized they were alligators and shivered. At that moment he was reminded of the jungle.
A smell of brackish water drifted on the evening air and silver-grey tufts of Spanish moss swayed from the oaks. A string of barges came downstream, pushed by a tugboat. Behind them, Vince led the band into Bugle Call Rag, his horn swinging hard.
The river was wide and deep and the current flowed strongly, and the Queen of the South made slow headway against it. On the bank, cars sped along the highway, a string of headlights stabbing the evening shadows.
Chelsea looked up at the moon and said wistfully, ‘I wish this could last forever. It’s like a fairy tale.’
Diamond agreed, but kept to himself the thought that it wouldn’t last long unless he could take out Leon Greco.
Ashore, one pair of headlights kept pace with the stern-wheeler. Beau Haggar was smiling all over his whiskered face because he had just recognized Diamond leaning over the deck rail.
Chapter Fifteen – Bank Score
The clock on the wall of the escort service lounge appeared to have stopped. Leon Greco stared hard at the sweep of th
e red seconds hand; it hadn’t. Waiting for Madden to call back with news of his operation made time seem to crawl.
He was tensed up, lit a Cuban cigar and tried to relax in the large comfortable armchair. It should have been easy to relax because the air-conditioned lounge was filled with attractive and expensive young ladies, also waiting for the telephone to ring.
It was evening and the lighting was as discreet as the escort service. Each girl was well-groomed, smartly dressed and assumed a friendly smile; they might have been secretaries to senior executives. Each had a small overnight bag beside her chair. Some smoked with that sophisticated air of the professional model, some glanced through fashion magazines, others watched TV with the sound turned down. They didn’t go in much for chatting among themselves.
The telephone rang and heads looked up. The manager, a blond bearded young man in a tuxedo answered smoothly:
‘Pussy Cat Escort Agency . . . yes sir, Beverley is available . . . your address sir?’ She scribbled on a pad, tore off the sheet and held it up. ‘Certainly sir . . . about half-an-hour.’
A tall redhead in a lime green suit picked up her overnight bag, collected the address slip and went out swing, through the swing door.
Greco thought of Kenny waiting in the Ford outside; he’d eye the redhead as she passed and indulge in another of his fantasies. And run a mile if a flesh-and-blood woman tried to get him into bed.
Grecco smoked his cigar and waited for news, good news he hoped — and why shouldn’t it be? The team he’d put together was first class and Madden was an experienced organiser. So assume it went well and he collected ten percent of — what? Madden wouldn’t cheat; he had his reputation to consider and it would be reported in the papers. Big money anyway.
He looked at the clock again, wondering how much he would get. Ash fell onto his new suit, charcoal-grey with the faintest hint of red stripe, and he brushed it off.
The telephone rang again.
‘Pussy Cat Escort Agency . . . yes sir, a credit card is acceptable . . . yes sir, we do have a black-skinned girl . . . I’m sure Coral will give every satisfaction . . . the Hilton . . . in half-an-hour sir, and thank you.’
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