Enforcer

by Sydney J. Bounds

  Diamond lifted the rifle muzzle and fired another shot, just to let him know he was right behind. The thrashing noises became desperate; then there followed a silence, as if the hunted man was no longer sure of his way.

  Diamond crept through marsh grass and reeds in the dark. He smelt brackish water and Spanish moss hung like an eerie mist in the occasional shaft of moonlight. From close at hand came an unpleasant sucking sound and a bout of violent cursing.

  Diamond took a step forward . . . and stepped back hurriedly as mud sucked viciously at his shoes.

  The would-be assassin was not so lucky. He’d moved too far into the swamp and was trapped, sinking slowly deeper as he struggled to free himself. The more agitated his movements, the deeper he sank into a slimy ooze.

  Diamond leaned against a tree and watched. The man was already up to his waist in stinking mud when he managed to reach a trailing vine, gripped it desperately and tried to pull himself up. The vine broke like a frayed cord and he gave a sobbing gasp as he settled deeper into the swamp.

  The thick dark semi-liquid was up to his armpits and he held his arms out, hoping for a last minute rescue.

  He saw Diamond waiting, and called, ‘Help me . . . please.’

  Diamond smiled bleakly. ‘You want to tell me who paid you?’

  ‘It was Greco . . . Leon Greco . . . help . . .’

  The mud reached his chin and his last word turned into a scream that cut off as he swallowed and choked. His eyes bulged, pleading for his life, pleading with one of the race he hated.

  Death was a great leveler, Diamond mused; it treated black and white alike.

  He watched the eyes submerge, then the top of the head. He chucked the rifle into the swamp and began to retrace his steps. There was still Greco to settle with.

  It began to rain before he reached Chelsea.

  Chapter Seventeen – Set-up

  Cave walked into the detective’s squadroom, tipped back his Panama with a carefree gesture and lit a Marlboro. One of the officers working at a VDU looked up and said, ‘Hi, Fred. How’s tricks?’

  ‘Fine, just fine,’ Cave returned, walked along the aisle between desks and tapped lightly at Stoner’s door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Cave opened the door and went in, almost jauntily, and perched on one corner of the lieutenant’s desk.

  Stoner leaned back and regarded him through rimless spectacles and asked, with deceptive mildness: ‘Yes, Fred, what is it?’

  ‘I’ve just heard an interesting story. It looks like Greco might be behind the Baton Rouge job. If so, that explains a lot of things. And now would be a good time to really put some pressure on the rackets — if my informant is right, there’s a chance that at least some of them will fall apart.’

  Stoner sipped coffee from a plastic cup. ‘What are you trying to promote now?’ he asked coldly. ‘And where’s that enforcer of yours got to?’

  ‘Private investigator,’ Cave corrected. ‘He’s out of town right now.’

  ‘So he runs when the going gets tough?’

  ‘You’ve seen him, lieutenant. D’you want to repeat that to his face? He got shot and had his office fire-bombed, remember?’

  ‘And you thought we could tie the gun that killed Earl Vogel to Kenny. You thought wrong. Fred. You’ve got Greco on the brain. He’s only one man — he can’t be responsible for every crime in this city.’

  ‘No, just most of the organised crime.’ Cave’s face twisted in a sour grimace. ‘But you don’t want to know. Has he got you in his pocket or something?’

  ‘I’ll forget you said that, Fred. This time. You know goddamn well Greco’s got a high-powered lawyer — and he’s too smart to get personally involved. I need evidence that’ll stand up in court. You bring me proof and I’ll act fast enough to please even you. Now get the hell off my desk and out of here.’

  Cave’s face wrinkled in a scowl and, puffing on his cigarette he slid upright and stalked from the office.

  Lieutenant Harry Stoner contemplated his desk blotter for some moments, then drained his coffee. Cave had a thing about Greco, sure, but he was right; Leon Greco was behind most of the organised crime in New Orleans and it seemed the law just couldn’t touch him.

  Maybe Cave’s informant was right, maybe there was a chance this time. A little pressure here and they might just get things jumping.

  He reached for the telephone.

  *

  Diamond’s foot tapped rhythmically to a Fats Waller number on the record player; even Fats singing and playing Pan-Pan couldn’t quite get his mind off his itching arm. But that, he told himself, was a good sign; the wound was healing.

  Dressed casually in T-shirt and cotton slacks, he sat opposite Chelsea, sipping coffee while she brushed her hair. Beyond the window the rain was still coming down.

  After getting out of the swamp he’d driven the station wagon back to the city, holed up in her apartment on Esplanade and phoned Cave a brief outline of what had happened. Then they’d made love, showered and eaten a large steak apiece, celebrating their getting back alive.

  His revolver cleaned and reloaded, they waited behind a locked door for the detective to arrive. The room looked even more chaotic than usual, littered with mudstained clothes and dirty plates.

  Diamond wanted only one thing now that Chelsea had been put in danger; a showdown with Leon Greco.

  ‘You’ll have to collect your trumpet from Vince,’ Chelsea said.

  ‘Yeah.’ It wasn’t the first thing Diamond had on his mind. ‘Later.’

  The doorbell rang. He turned down the volume on the record player and picked up his revolver. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Cave.’

  Diamond opened the door on the chain, checking before he unfastened the chain to let the detective in. He relocked the door.

  Cave beat water from his Panama and hung his raincoat on the hallstand. Silently, Chelsea brought him a can of cold beer, determined not to like this wrinkled little cop who had got her man into so much trouble.

  ‘Thanks.’ Cave took a seat. ‘Sure is a misery out right now.’ He pulled the tab, and took a long swallow and got down to business. ‘I checked out the station wagon. It belongs to an old-fashioned Southern hunter by the name of Haggar — a real black hater.’

  ‘Well, he won’t hunt or hate again,’ Diamond said flatly. ‘He went into the swamp over his head. And that leaves Greco.’

  Cave made a thin smile. ‘Greco’s got other things on his mind at the moment — the lieutenant’s moving against his rackets. Now give me the full story, every detail.’

  He listened with a thoughtful expression and when Diamond’s exposition ended, murmured, ‘Well, I reckon nobody’s ever going to find Haggar’s body.’ An idea stirred and he thought: there’s more than one way to skin a rabbit. ‘Yeah, it could work out.’

  He drained his beer and switched his attention back to Diamond.

  ‘Now listen, this is what you’ll do. Tomorrow, you ask around at two-three places you know for the Fox. With the department already clamping down, that’ll throw him even more off balance. Keep on the move and don’t go near him until I set it up. Reckon I’ll be able to hand him to you on a plate.’

  ‘Make it soon,’ Diamond said. ‘I shan’t feel Chelsea’s safe till this is finished.’

  Cave rose and went for his hat and coat. ‘Sooner than you think,’ he said briskly. ‘One more thing — when you get Greco alone, make him talk. If he was involved in the Baton Rouge heist —’

  Diamond gave an exclamation. ‘I forgot! I was too worried about Chelsea . . . six men came aboard at Baton Rouge, carrying briefcases. They didn’t look to me like businessmen attending a convention.’

  Cave paused at the door as Chelsea turned up the volume and Fats on piano.

  ‘Yeah, well, the bank’s offering a reward for the recovery of their money. What you’ll need are names to go with the faces. You might do yourself a bit of good, talking to Mr. Greco.’

  *

>   Next morning, Diamond used a taxi to collect his car and then delivered Chelsea to the Black Swan for a rehearsal. After collecting his trumpet from Vince Norman, he set out to tour the city. Rain came down steadily and the sidewalks were almost deserted.

  The Mustang’s wipers gave him a blurred image of steak-bars and theatres, gaudy neons advertising funeral parlours and McDonalds.

  He stopped first at Nick’s Arcade and ducked through the rain into the clatter of slot machines and gamblers with lost expressions, oblivious to him and the weather.

  Only the moneychanger and Nick were in the back office and Nick, his arm in a plaster cast, eyed him warily.

  ‘I heard you’d quit, Wash.’

  ‘You heard right so relax, man. You’ve nothing to fear from me.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Nick smiled nervously and looked at the telephone on his desk. ‘That right you’re with the cops now?’

  Diamond shook his head. ‘Strictly private, and it’s information I want. D’you have any idea where I can catch up with Leon?’

  ‘He keeps on the move — you know that. I wouldn’t know where to find him right now.’

  ‘Guess I’ll ask somewhere else then.’

  ‘Yeah, you do that, Wash.’

  Diamond walked past slot machines and out to his car, smiling; he guessed the arcade manager would be on the phone right away.

  He drove through drenching rain, past a go-go bar, a blue movie house and a drugstore, to Irene’s massage parlour and walked inside.

  Irene was at the desk, watching TV; she looked at him and pursed her lips in a lemon-sour expression and said: ‘You’re not welcome here, Wash. Christ, even with your thick skin you must have caught on that you’re not the boss’s number one favourite.’

  Diamond shrugged. ‘Too bad.’

  From the cubicles off the passage leading back a couple of young girls in bikini briefs looked out, assessing him as a potential customer.

  ‘I’m not starving for a bit of loving,’ he said. ‘And I don’t reckon to pay for it anyway.’

  ‘I hear you’re some kind of cop now.’ Irene patted her platinum hair and sniffed. ‘Don’t think you’re going to shake me down for any pay-off.’

  ‘I’m only after information. I just called in to see if you can locate Greco for me.’

  Irene smoothed down her tight black dress and smiled. ‘He’d thank me for that? Nothing doing, Wash — just beat it, huh?’

  ‘Why sure, Irene, sure.’

  Diamond walked outside, grinning hugely. Leon Greco was about to get another phone call any minute. And he’d start worrying, wondering what was going on. At least he’d know now that his hitman had failed.

  Diamond drove across town in pouring rain, to the suburbs. Metairie was mostly a residential area and there were still some fine old houses left. Beyond a row of picturesque trees, he parked outside Oscar’s Gymnasium. Inside was a smell of old leather and stale sweat.

  ‘Hi, Wash,’ Oscar greeted him. ‘You ain’t been in for a workout lately.’

  ‘I’ve been busy. Turk around?’

  Oscar stroked his bald head. ‘Hell no, he sorta left town in a hurry. I thought you’d have heard.’

  ‘A little bird whispered it might be so.’ Diamond admitted. ‘You know where I can get hold of Greco?’

  Oscar looked startled. ‘Who can tell where that man is? Riding around in his car, like always, I suppose.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I might as well work out a bit while I’m here.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Diamond stripped and changed, used the punchbag and the cycle machine till he got a sweat on. He noticed Oscar disappear into his office, and guessed he was on the phone to Greco. He indulged in a hot and cold shower and felt good; his injured arm was now no more than a dull ache. Enough to remind him he still had to be careful.

  He was willing to bet he felt a lot better than Leon Greco right now, and hummed Tiger Rag as he dressed and went out to his Mustang.

  *

  Leon Greco was not feeling happy. He sat behind a desk in an upstairs room of a gambling club, alternately watching the rain come down beyond the window and a view of the tables on closed-circuit TV.

  His stomach felt uneasy and he crushed out a half-smoked cigar, and put an anti-acid tablet in his mouth; he didn’t think he could take a lot more stress.

  The cops were putting more pressure on for some reason. And now, apparently, Haggar had failed and Diamond was back in town and asking around for him. Surely he didn’t believe he could get close to him? He wished he knew what had happened with Beau Haggar . . .

  As if he didn’t have enough problems with his managers.

  And no enforcer. He was definitely unhappy with the situation.

  Behind him, Kenny stopped studying the centrefold of his new girlie magazine and said viciously, ‘It was a mistake hiring that Southerner, Mr. Greco. You should have given the job to me — say the word and I can still take out that black.’

  The lanky bodyguard snatched his revolver from a shoulder holster. ‘What about it?’

  He sounded too eager and Greco was about to remind him that Diamond had taken a gun away from him once before, when the telephone rang. He scooped it up and said, non-committally, ‘Yes?’

  He didn’t recognise the voice at the other end. ‘A mutual acquaintance passed me this number — fellar you did a job for concerning the capital.’

  Capital . . . Baton Rouge . . . it had to be another organiser. Leon Greco felt better immediately. Madden must have passed the word.

  ‘It’s nice to hear from you, Mr. —?’

  ‘Abbott, you call me Abbott. It’s like this — I’m connected with security and I need to get a team together. D’you think you can provide the right men for that sort of job?’

  ‘I’m sure I can, Mr. Abbott,’ Greco said smoothly. ‘I can put a team together for you. It’s no problem.’

  ‘That’s fine. Maybe we should meet to discuss details?’

  ‘I’m agreeable,’ the Fox said. ‘It’ll be out of town, I assume?’

  ‘Surely. And I’ve picked a good spot, somewhere we won’t be disturbed. This is how you get to it . . .’

  Chapter Eighteen – Killing Ground

  The Ford’s windshield wipers flicked from side to side with the hypnotic effect of a metronome. The monotonous beat almost lulled Leon Greco to sleep as he relaxed in the back of the car. He unwrapped a fresh Cuban cigar and ran it under his nose, savouring the aroma before lighting it. Water trickled down the windows, forming endlessly changing patterns and blurring the view of the country outside.

  At the wheel, Kenny stared forward in concentration; the road was awash with water as the rain bucketed down. From time to time, as he gained a clear view ahead, he muttered to himself, completely immersed in his sexual fantasies.

  Greco felt better now he was out of the city. It was great to get the chance of another job so quickly; Madden must really have been impressed to pass the word along so fast. Set this new job up, he thought, and he’d definitely break away from all the rackets. The cops were bearing down like they scented blood.

  He allowed himself a brief fantasy. First thing, he’d get out of New Orleans and set up a base someplace else . . . Kansas City maybe. He could operate an employment agency from anywhere. Get himself a fine house, a regular woman; providing organisers with a team was risk-free.

  The road followed the Mississippi inland and there were few cars out in the downpour. The river was running fast, not far below the top of the bank; a few more inches and it would spill over onto the highway. The car’s tyres hissed through a layer of water.

  ‘Take it easy, Kenny,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘We’re ahead of time and I want to get there in one piece.’

  He wasn’t keen on Kenny driving him to the meeting place, but there wasn’t much choice. It was years since he’d driven a car and he wasn’t risking his neck learning again on a wet road in this weather. Neither did he want a cab drive
r to know where he was going. He’d have to pay Kenny off shortly anyway.

  The Ford slowed and began to creep along. Greco peered through wet glass; God, but Abbott had picked a lonely spot. The tyres sent up a shower of spray as Kenny pulled over to the side and stopped.

  ‘This looks like the place, Mr. Greco.’

  The Fox stared at an overnight mooring for steamboats. There the river took a winding course. Set back from the road was an old house, isolated from the water by dense undergrowth; it might have been a planter’s home long ago but now looked derelict.

  ‘Stay in the car, Kenny.’

  His driver immediately picked up a new magazine and turned the pages, staring bug-eyed.

  Greco opened the door and the wet heat slapped him in the face. He scurried towards the broken down veranda, fat drops of warm rain pelting him, his cigar spluttering. The dank smell of a bayou wafted from the direction of a wall of tangled vegetation. He looked up as he reached the bottom of a short flight of wooden steps. He heard the creak of unoiled hinges as a door opened and when he saw who waited for him, he threw down his cigar and shouted:

  ‘Kenny! It’s . . .’

  Washington T. Diamond stood in the doorway at the top of the rickety steps, smiling coldly over the barrel of a levelled revolver. Cave’s deception as the organiser, Abbott, had worked to perfection; he had the Fox right where he wanted him.

  The lanky bodyguard came fast out of the Ford, drawing his gun as he ran through the rain. He fired as he came, screaming, ‘I’ll get you, Diamond! I’ll —’

  Diamond ignored the lead slamming into the woodwork around him; not even Kenny could aim straight on the run. He stood motionless, holding his revolver rock steady with both arms full out before him, took careful aim and squeezed off a single shot.

  Kenny went down with an extra bloody eye in his forehead.

  Leon Greco moaned and began to run, around the side of the house and into the cover of the undergrowth. His dream had foundered and he was scared. Always before there had been a body between him and any threat to his life — and now Kenny had failed him. As he ran, he smelt of fear.