“My, you get around, don’t you? I suppose you also know that the police dragged me in for questioning early this morning.”
“I figured they’d do as much.”
“Do you know anything about this supposed note I sent telling him to meet me at that park?”
“No, I don’t. I only know that you didn’t write it. Unless you figured it out on your own where he was, which’d be a nifty trick, since I don’t even know that.”
“I didn’t. I told the police that, too. I mentioned that you told me he was looking for me, but you left it up to me to let you know if I wanted to meet him or not.”
“What did the police say to that?” I asked.
“Nothing. But they did have a few nasty looks when I mentioned your name. Not the most popular one with them, are you?”
“That’s something I’ve been trying to rectify,” I said. “It’s bad for business when you got almost every cop in town stacked against you. But you seem to have come out of it unscathed. They let you go.”
“They had to. They really didn’t have anything. Anyone could have written that note, but I sure as hell didn’t. What’s your take on it?”
“I think it speaks for itself. The note was just an easy ploy to draw him out into the open.”
“They wanted me to claim the body,” she said. “But I refused. I ain’t paying for that bastard’s burial costs. I applied for county disposition.”
“That works,” I said. “I suppose that’s that. Good luck with your singing and all.”
“Oh, about that,” she said, and went on to tell me she would be singing tonight at a new, “classier” venue a few blocks up from where she had performed.
Apparently Zella and the owner had some choice words with each other that ended with her quitting. Lucky for her, she got a call from a promoter of a competing establishment in need of entertainment tonight
“Said if I do well,” she continued, “I’ll get more bookings with him. You best not be getting any wrong ideas; this ain’t no whorehouse like the last joint.”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” I said.
“You should come tonight if you ain’t busy. Bring your girl if you have one.”
“I don’t have one, and even if I wanted to come, I doubt they’d accept coloreds at the door.”
“I’ll make sure they let you in,” she said.
“What’s the name of the place?”
“You’ll know. It’ll be the place that has my beautiful picture on it,” she said with a laugh, and hung up.
For half an hour I flipped through the reverse telephone directory to get an address for the number Storm had given me. The directory was an important tool but hard to get since it was restricted mostly to telephone companies and law enforcement. Naturally, neither had any inclination to let me have one, and so I took one from the city library.
The address for the number was on Tchoupitoulas Street in the Warehouse District. Storm had to have been staying at the Sugar House Hotel. It was the only hotel there and got its name because it once was the site of a sugar mill. At one time, the Warehouse District flourished, storing everything from coffee to grain to Chiquita bananas. You wouldn’t know that by looking at it today. The Depression had stopped a lot of business done on the docks and the area had since become a wasteland.
I lit a cigarette and started out the door. Twenty minutes later, I parked my lift a block away from the hotel, and took out a pair of sheepskin driving gloves, which I rarely used for actual driving, and lock picking tools from the glove compartment.
The hotel was made of the same exposed brick and steel as most old warehouses. I made my way inside and saw a fat man sitting behind the reception desk. His gluttonous figure took up most of the desk, as he hunched over an ironclad motored fan in a futile attempt to cool himself. He had thin gray hair, drooping eyes, and a fleshy face and jowls. From the bulk I could see, he looked to weigh close to three hundred pounds, and likely stood under six foot. He was dressed in a button-up white shirt, tie, and suspenders, with sweat stains under his collar and armpits.
I sat at a chair in a part of the lobby that allowed me to see the large man, but at an angle where he could not see me. There I waited as he sipped on a pot of coffee about the size of a drum of oil. My patience was rewarded when he excused himself from the desk and waddled into a side door that must have been the lavatory.
I quickly went around the desk and flipped through the registry. Storm was not listed under his name, but I recognized the name “Chris Denardo” as an alias Storm used back when we were working together. The room he was listed under was 37.
On the back wall was a wooden key rack carved in the shape of a shield with numbers behind each hook scattered across it. Yet there was no key for his room. Storm must have had it on his person.
I took the stairs up to the second floor and down the hall to room 37. I put my ear to the door and tried to make out if anyone was inside. Not hearing anything, I put the driving gloves on and took out my tools.
What I was about to do was risky and something I usually avoided doing at all costs, because no matter which way you cut it, I would be illegally entering the room. If I were to get caught, there would be no getting out of it, and losing my license would be the least of my problems.
I examined the lock and found it to be a standard pin-tumbler lock, easy to pick, like most locks. They were nothing but false security for people. The reality is, if some cat wants to get into your joint bad enough, your run-of-the-mill lock won’t keep them out.
I jammed a stainless steel tension wrench into the keyhole and pushed it slightly in the direction the key would turn before inserting the pick. I raked the pick back and forth until the driving pins moved above the shear line, allowing the plug to rotate freely to where I could open the door.
I gave the hall a final look to make sure it was still empty, and stepped in, closing the door behind me. I hit the lights and found the room to be nearly empty of anything that showed someone was staying there. The wrought-iron four-poster bed was made. The maids had already cleaned the room, presumably early in the morning since all the other keys were still on the rack downstairs.
I went through a basic search of the room, but not as in-depth as some searches. I’d seen Brawley do searches where his team would tear a place apart from floorboards to ceiling, tossing the disregarded material into the center. I’d seen a woman become so distraught that she ratted her own husband out in order to spare her china set from being damaged.
I looked under the bed and hit upon a worn leather suitcase. I snapped open the locks. Inside I found a Browning HP 35 lying on top of a stack of old rags. I popped the blue steel thirteen-round magazine, and saw that no bullets were missing. The gun was clean and looked like it hadn’t been recently fired.
I set the rod down and sifted through the clothes. At the bottom of the case, I found a yellow Western Union envelope with a telegram that read:
I HAVE FOUND YOUR ACHILLES HEEL STOP
IT WILL RECEIVE THE SAME TREATMENT YOU BESTOWED ONTO ME STOP
I pocketed the telegram, placed the clothes and gun into the case, and slid it back under the bed. Outside the room, I made sure the door was once again locked before taking the stairs down to the lobby. The large man had resumed his position in front of the fan at the desk, and paid me no mind as I walked out.
CHAPTER 6
Later that evening, I headed down Bourbon, passing by the usual crowd of folks. An old Creole woman was dragging a leash behind her, although no visible animal was attached to it. Rich men who had left the wives at home were out in traditional Southern attire of bow ties, striped suits, straw hats, and walking canes to find some evening pleasure. The local former Prohibition agent, intoxicated again, was harassing fresh tourists for money.
I stumbled upon Zella Storm’s photo fronting the windows of the Bourbon Street Blues Club on the corner of Bourbon and Conti Street. On the top galleries of the establishment inebriated bird
s were screaming down to any mildly attractive woman passing the street below to strip down to nothing but their toe polish.
The doorman spotted me. He pulled out the business card I had given to Zella.
“You William Fletcher?”
“That would be me,” I said.
He jerked his head inside. “Just in time. She’s about to take the stage.”
I went in through the open French doors to a smoke-polluted room packed to the gills. The tables around the stage were filled with men. They were smoking cigars or drinking right out of the bottles the booze came in. Pouring shots was a waste of time for this crowd.
The waiters were as hard-boiled, plowing through the interlocking crowd like linebackers going through an offensive line.
I took my place at the congested bar, and kept myself amused by observing the barkeep deliberately overlooking me. He took orders from everyone that came up or was around, except me. I had grown so used to this kind of conduct that it had nearly developed into a sort of comedic routine.
The band of all coloreds sat on the stage cueing up their instruments. Most of the players I knew as regulars at the colored establishments I went to.
The lights weakened and the anxious crowd hollered with approval. Storm went on stage wearing another elegant black dress, and I prepared myself for a lackluster routine. To my surprise, it was even worse.
Her whiskey-burned voice was suitable but at times caustic on the ears; however, it was never her pipes that were the problem. It was her performance that came up lacking. Yet the crowd went for it. The booze probably helped, but Zella’s silhouette and stunning dress were good enough distractions as any to forget her poor showmanship. It seemed Zella had found a suitable crowd.
A few minutes after her set, Zella cornered me at the bar.
“What’d you think?” she asked.
I lied. “It was solid.”
“Yes, I thought so, too.”
She ordered a martini and, upon getting her drink, looked at me. “You ain’t drinking tonight?”
“I was going to get something, but Ethel behind the bar was too busy pretending I ain’t here.” I motioned to the blond cake-eater barkeep.
Her gray eyes lit up and she spun around to the bar. “Pete, come here for a minute.”
Pete went to Zella like a love-struck puppy.
“Yes, ma’am?” he asked
Zella lobbed her drink in Pete’s face. Momentarily stunned, he yelled, “Why’d you do that for!”
“Because you’re an ass.”
The remark sparked Pete to lunge over the bar at her. He hadn’t made it clear over when I hard-pressed him back. I did not intend to push him as hard as I ended up doing. I sometimes forgot my own strength. As opposed to landing back on his feet, which I wanted to happen, he fell against the retaining wall, colliding onto the stacked alcohol jugs and martini glasses.
With fists clenched, I was ready for the oncoming throng of attacks that often ended up ensuing in situations like this. Instead, the crowd looked up at what was going on, shrugged, and went about drinking or doing whatever the hell they were doing.
“Say, let’s go out to the courtyard. I could use some air,” Zella said.
The back courtyard was quieter than the bar. Only a few birds stood around punching the bag with each other. One drunk had passed out on a hammock set up between two banana trees. Zella located herself near the bubbling water fountain at the center of the yard, and asked, “Butt me.” I gave her a cigarette and she took a long drag and said, “Didn’t think you’d make it. Is this business or a social call?”
“I went to the room your old man was staying at.”
“Oh? You find anything?”
“Depends on how you look at it,” I said.
I drew out the telegram and handed it to her. She gave it a hard look. “That’s a nice riddle you got. What’d you think it means?”
“I think it’s pretty self-explanatory. The telegraph said they found his Achilles heel. Bill Storm never valued his life much. The heel is obviously you.”
“Should I be flattered?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t be. I think he came here not to see you, but to warn you or protect you. Bill Storm was not someone to overreact or get scared off. So if he felt it urgent enough to come here, this person plays a rough game.”
She dropped her cigarette on the ground and violently crushed what was left of it out.
“Okay, if that’s how it’s going to be. I want to hire you to do some protection work for me. That is, till this thing blows over or if you can get to the bottom of it. What’d you say?”
“It might be wiser to bring some law in on this.”
She laughed. “Most of the cops in this town are on the take or tainted. I should know. I’ve seen them take bribes from club owners to look the other way. Who’s to say they won’t do the same for this?”
“If that’s how you feel, I ain’t going to argue with you. I want to look more into this, though, and I suppose I can watch over you for a few days.”
“Thought you’d come around,” she said. “But I’m gonna tell it to you straight. I ain’t gonna be playing no damsel in distress. I can handle myself just fine, understand? I’m just too caught up with my singing right now to be dealing with this, and you seem to know what you’re doing without me gettin’ into your references. Besides, having a big ape like you around might put a scare in them bums that try to give me the feel-up.”
“I’m going to need some money out of you up front.”
“You’re sounding a bit greedy,” she said.
“I ain’t doing this work for charity. I’m going to need some money to cover expenses, at least a twenty-dollar retainer. If I don’t use it all, I’ll reimburse you the rest of it, or it can go into my fee, which is ten dollars a day.”
“Ten dollars a day? You’re a chiseler is what you are, mister. My plumber don’t even charge that much.”
“Yeah, but your plumber ain’t doing protection work. If there was chance of him being shot at or having to deal with gettin’ muscled up on while fixing your pipes, he’d be charging the same, if not more.”
“Fair enough. It’s not banking hours, so I’ll see about gettin’ you that twenty dollars tomorrow.”
“That’ll be fine. When do you want me to start?”
“Tonight. I need a lift home. Pete was going to take me, but I think he’s changed his mind.”
* * *
Her place was on Pratt Drive along the London Avenue Canal. For most of the drive she talked about her singing, and how she was close to getting signed to a record company.
It was when we were nearing her place she said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I’m living with my auntie. Her name is Betty. She’s nice, but a little protective. Don’t worry about her though. She’s just old and a bit senile these days.”
I parked the bus in front of a one-half-story Creole-style cottage that had a gabled roof parallel to the street.
Inside the house, glass French doors opened to a dining room where an elderly woman sat almost in the dark. Her face was old and withered and looked like it had been worn out long before its time. Wrinkles lined her colorless skin, and her hair was the shade of ash. Thick glasses covered her tired, puffy eyelids.
“You really should stop waiting up for me,” Zella said.
“Sorry, child. I get worried when you are out so late. A terrible fright comes over me.”
“Stop being such a flat tire, auntie! I can handle myself fine without you being as jumpy as a cat. Besides, I got Mr. Fletcher here. He’s going to be watching over me.”
The old woman looked at me with either disdain or disgust, likely both.
“I don’t much approve of you bringing his kind into my house,” she said.
“Your house? I’m paying for this place, and it’s only because you’re family that I’m letting you park here. I should’ve told you to take it on the heel and toe the minute you started scaring off every de
cent boy that came calling. But I didn’t.”
With shaky hands, the frail woman stood up with her ivory-handled cane. “I don’t have to take this from you, child. I’ll pray tonight that someday some sense comes over you.”
She limped out through one of the doors, which led to her room.
“She ain’t so bad,” Zella said. “She gets grumpy when I’m out late.”
“I’m sure she’s a ball during daytime hours.”
“Not really, but what you gonna do? Anyway, enough of that. I’m going to fix myself for bed. It’s late and I’d hate for you to drive back to wherever you live. You can sleep on the couch if you like. I’ll be sure to bring you some blankets.”
“Don’t bother, it’s a warm night,” I said.
“Suit yourself.”
Zella exited through one of the doors. I strolled into the drawing room. It was fitted with a black leather Chesterfield sofa in front of a polished steel and brass coffee table. On top of the quarter-inch-thick glass top were a few fashion magazines and an empty ashtray.
I fished a cigarette out of my pocket, and was midway through smoking it when the smell of lavender drew me to the door. Zella was leaning against the entryway. Her robe was open enough to reveal her black camisole and lace-trimmed tap pants.
“I’m off to bed,” she said.
I crooked my head away from her and said, “I’ll see about fixin’ some coffee when you get up.”
“That’d be grand,” she said, and left.
The rest of the night was quiet, except for the chirp of various night birds and outside traffic. I lay awake smoking and looking up at the ceiling.
I struggled to think of the situation at hand. All I could focus on was Zella in her black underwear. I cursed my weakness. It didn’t matter that she was the daughter of a man I came to loathe. A daughter I was helping perhaps because of some misguided belief that she could be the redemption for all the ugliness Storm had caused, and by helping her I could try to wipe my own hands clean.
Yet, tonight she showed she wanted some sort of control over me by using a tool women had used for their benefit for centuries. That being the womanly art of seduction. I did not know what her goal was in trying to do this, but I needed to refocus.
The Red Storm Page 5
