The Axeman of Storyville

by Heath Lowrance

  Antonio was making noise, sounds that resembled words in only a vague way. As Fredrico dropped to his knees, staring at the blood that poured out of the place his arm used to be, the Axeman roared again and came for Antonio.

  Blind terror had gripped Antonio's brain. He felt his trousers go wet with hot piss, and he turned and bolted for the door. Everything felt like slow-motion, like his legs were buried in molasses. He heard the giant behind him, heard pounding footsteps gaining on him.

  His hand on the doorknob, he twisted it hard, hard enough to break the lock. He yanked the door open and ran, ran harder than he'd ever ran before, up the street and away from Sal Ventucci's grocery.

  * * *

  The Axeman stood in the middle of the store, panting. Sal watched him, eyes wide with horror. Fredrico fell forward onto his face and bled out.

  The Axeman turned to Sal. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Mr. Ventucci."

  "Oh my God."

  "I really liked you, sir. I hate that it has to be this way."

  "Please," Sal said.

  The Axeman shook his head mournfully. "It's a hard world," he said. "Hard and unfair."

  He raised the bloody weapon and brought it down in Sal Ventucci's face.

  -Seven-

  Little Cat had said, "You oughta let me go with you, Mr. Miles, sir. A lot of them Dagoes don't like colored folk, and that's a fact. They might take a notion to beating you up. Or worse," and Gideon Miles had replied, "I'm not worried about it, Cat. You shouldn't be either. I'll be fine." Then, with a smile, "Just don't tell my wife where I'm going, okay?" And he'd left the club, taking a taxi to the Italian district.

  He'd never been to that section of New Orleans before, even though geographically it wasn't far from the VioMiles. The narrow streets and winding alleys were laid out in the same way the rest of the city was, though, so he had no trouble finding his way around. He had the driver drop him at the corner of Upperline and Magnolia, said, "Pick me up here in two hours, and there'll be a substantial amount of money for you." The driver, a young Negro, nodded enthusiastically before driving off.

  The grocery that once belonged to Joseph Maggio stood empty at the corner.

  Miles crossed the intersection, swinging his cane, already aware of eyes on him, peering from doorways and windows. He cleared a patch of dirt off the window of the store with his cuff and peeked inside. The front of the place was stripped down to the floorboards.

  He went around to the alley behind the store. It was strewn with garbage and broken bottles. The back door was locked, but the lock and knob looked flimsy. Miles glanced up and down the alley, then rammed his shoulder into the door.

  The latch broke and the cheap wood splintered around it and the door opened. Miles stepped inside.

  The living quarters behind the store were cramped and smelled as if a family of possums had taken up residence. There wasn't a single trace of any human having lived there.

  A set of rickety stairs led up to two rooms above the store. Miles climbed the steps and stood in the larger room for a moment, then moved to the other, thinking about the nightmarish event that had occurred there three years ago. He had half-hoped the Maggio's would still be present and that he could speak to the survivors about that night. But why would they stay? He'd gained nothing by coming here, really, except maybe a sense of place. And even that had been dulled by dust and dry rot.

  Ah well, he thought. May as well see about questioning the neighbors, and then heading out for the residence of another victim of the Axeman. Although he didn't foresee it going smoothly or being terribly useful.

  He headed back downstairs where Antonio was standing in the open doorway leading to the alley.

  The thug had a bandage on his jaw and looked less confident and intimidating than the last time Miles had seen him. Miles noted the bulge of a gun under Antonio's jacket, but with his arms at his sides the thug appeared to be making an effort to look unthreatening.

  Miles stopped halfway down the steps. "If you're aiming to get a little grocery shopping done, you're about three years too late."

  Antonio knitted his brow. "Grocery? .... Oh, right. No, it's nothing like that."

  "What do you want?"

  Antonio showed his hands. "Nothing bad. I ain't here for trouble. We been following you is all, and Mr. Matranga sent me in to fetch you."

  Miles bristled. "Fetch me? Nobody fetches me, boy."

  "Oh, for ... don't be so touchy. Mr. Matranga has requested the pleasure of your company. How's that?"

  Miles frowned. "Where are your partners?"

  "Well ... that's the thing. That's part'a what he wants to talk to you about."

  "Part?"

  "Look," Antonio said. "The boss is waiting in the auto, just outside. And he wants to talk to you. I swear we ain't got anything shifty planned. He just wants to have a few words."

  Miles crossed his arms. "You insulted my wife. By all rights, I should knock your teeth out."

  "You already knocked out one of them." Antonio pulled his lower lip down, showed Miles the space where the tooth had been. "And I'm sorry, okay? What do I have to say? The thing is, we got bigger problems."

  "What sort of problems?"

  "Well, Mr. Miles, that's what Mr. Matranga wants to see you about. Will you pretty goddamn please come out and talk to him?"

  Miles grinned in spite of himself and descended the rest of the stairs. "Lead on, Antonio. But if you get dodgy, I won't hesitate to plant this cane upside your head."

  "Duly noted, old man."

  Antonio led Miles outside and around to Magnolia Street. A long, shiny touring car with a closed canopy waited there, motor running. The front was open, and the Negro driver behind the wheel didn't turn his head or acknowledge Miles or Antonio.

  Antonio opened the rear door and held it for Miles. Miles was keenly aware that this could be a setup, and he took a second to weigh it. But if they wanted to kill him, they could have done it easily and without fuss in Maggio's grocery store with a single well-placed bullet.

  He got in the auto, and Antonio slid in after him.

  Two cushioned benches faced each other in the riding compartment; Matranga had the one facing them all to himself. He was an unremarkable-looking man, moderately overweight, with curly black hair that no amount of pomade could quite keep under control. His suit was tailored, but a bit garish for Miles's taste. He said, "Gideon Miles. You're a bit famous, aren't you?"

  "Not terribly," Miles said. "Buffalo Bill never asked me to be in his Wild West show."

  Matranga tapped the roof with the top of an elegantly-carved cane, and the auto started moving. "Of course not," he said. "You're much too understated for that sort of thing, aren't you? No limelight or center stage for the great, colored U.S. Marshal. The somber, stoic hero of the—"

  "Matranga," Miles said. "Let's skip the dime novel poetry. I'm a busy man."

  Matranga laughed without humor. "So it seems. You've been looking into these dead whores, yes? Been looking for the phantom Axeman."

  "And just how would you know about my business?"

  "Nothing happens in Storyville without me knowing about it."

  "I've heard that about you."

  Matranga nodded. He reached into his inner jacket pocket for a cigar, stuck it in his mouth. Antonio leaned forward with a lit match, and Matranga puffed fragrant smoke until it was burning to his satisfaction.

  Puffing, he said, "I knew all about you, Gideon—may I call you Gideon?—before you'd even filled out all the paperwork on that nightclub of yours. And you need to remind yourself that you wouldn't be in business if not for my good graces. Especially considering I'm not overly fond of coloreds."

  Miles leaned forward in his seat. "That's fine," he said. "Because I'm not partial to low-life gangsters. And it's Mr. Miles."

  He felt Antonio stiffen next to him, but kept his eyes locked on Matranga's. The boss's face darkened for a long moment and the atmosphere in the auto went storm
y with impending violence.

  Then Matranga sighed and said, "I'll give you this, Mr. Miles. You've got guts. I truly do admire that."

  "I don't give a damn about your admiration, Matranga. And if this conversation isn't going anywhere, you can let me off at the corner."

  They were all silent for several seconds. Miles and Matranga stared each other down, and Antonio fidgeted in his seat.

  Finally, Matranga said, "Just to be clear, if there's any doubt, this so-called Axeman is not in my employ. As a matter of fact, he is now my number one enemy."

  "Why is that? You suddenly interested in the well-being of Storyville's prostitutes?"

  "Pah. Hardly. I came here from New York four years ago to make money, not wet-nurse a bunch of feral bitches. My concern is with my own men. You see, we had an up-close and personal encounter with the Axeman yesterday. And now two of my most trusted employees are dead. Antonio here barely escaped with his life."

  Miles looked at Antonio, whose eyes were haunted and scared at the memory of what had happened. Miles had supposed Antonio's less aggressive manner had something to do with their previous encounter. He saw now that he'd given himself too much credit. "What happened?"

  "Antonio, tell him."

  Antonio cleared his throat. In a quiet voice, he said, "Me and Fredrico and Petey dropped in on ... on a friend of ours, fella who runs a grocery on Upperline. The Axeman was there. He chopped them ... to pieces. With a goddamn axe."

  Matranga said, "Last night's paper says the guy who ran the grocery got killed, too. Surprised you haven't heard about it."

  Miles said, "I haven't seen a paper since yesterday morning." Miles leaned back and processed the information. "So what, exactly, do you want from me, then?"

  Antonio said, "This grocer—Sal Ventucci—he told us that the killer knew his ... his cousin. And that this cousin had sent him to stay in his back room for a while."

  "And," Matranga said. "With two of my men in the morgue, the buttons are looking at me very closely right now. I can't really make a move to look into things myself."

  "Again," Miles said, "what do you want from me?"

  This time it was Matranga's turn to lean forward. He took the cigar out of his mouth and said, "Mr. Miles, I have a proposition for you."

  -Eight-

  They let him out in front of the VioMiles. He watched them drive off, thought about the poor cab driver he'd asked to come back for him, and wondered how long he would wait for his fare before giving up. But the driver only occupied his thoughts for a moment. He had much more pressing things to consider now.

  Angrier than a hornet, Violet was on him the moment he stepped in the foyer. "Gideon Miles, you old fool, I've half a mind to slap you silly!"

  "Now, Vi—"

  "Don't you 'now, Vi' me. Going off all by yourself to some neighborhood where they're likely to do horrible things to any old black man they see. What were you thinking?"

  Little Cat stood behind her, looking chagrined. "I'm sorry, Mr. Miles, she made me tell."

  "Made you tell!" Violet said. "You two keeping secrets from me now?"

  Miles said, "Vi, you're the one wanted me to look into this in the first place."

  "Look into it, yes, but I don't want you risking your fool neck for it!"

  "Risking my neck? Christ, Vi, what did you expect? I'm looking for a man who chops people with an axe!"

  Flustered, she came back at him. "Forget all about it, then. I changed my mind. I don't want you to look into anything. I want you safe and sound, here with me."

  Most of the anger had left her voice already, replaced by genuine anxiety. Miles touched her cheek. "Vi, baby, you don't have anything to worry about."

  "But I do worry."

  He sighed. "I was a U.S. Marshal, Vi. I know my strengths and I know my limitations."

  "I'm not so sure you know your limitations."

  Little Cat said, "Maybe I should go ... um, check on something?"

  Vi turned on him, anger flaring again. "Like what, Little Cat? What should you check on, exactly?"

  "Oh, anything, ma'am. Anything at all."

  "You're not going anywhere yet, you vagabond. You're in this just as deep as my husband."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Now, Vi—"

  "What did I say about that 'now, Vi' business?"

  "Okay," Miles said, raising his hands. "I should've told you where I was going. I won't keep anything else from you, and I'm sorry I did this time. That wasn't fair of me. But, Vi, there won't be any dropping the matter now."

  "Gideon—"

  "I intend to see this through, Vi, and you're going to have to trust that I know what I'm doing."

  Violet looked as if she wanted to say something else, but couldn't find the right words. Finally, she shook her head and laughed weakly. "I know you do, Gideon," she said. "You always have." Then, "Good Lord, why did I have to go and marry a lawman? What was I thinking?"

  Miles grinned. "You weren't thinking. I had your head spinning too much for thinking."

  She grinned back. "You sure did. Why, the way you—"

  Little Cat said, "I really do need to go check on something—anything—before ya'll continue."

  Miles and Violet laughed, and Violet said, "We'll save the sweet talk for another time. And don't you think this argument is over. It's just on hold."

  "Fair enough."

  "So tell me, fearless husband, what did you learn on your foray into the dreaded Italian district?"

  * * *

  Matranga's organization had eyes and ears everywhere. It hadn't been hard for them to find Sal Ventucci's cousin—a carpenter named Giano Carletti, who lived on La Harpe. Miles noted that the address wasn't far from the home of the Besumer's, the Axeman's second set of victims.

  "You track this bastardo down for me," Matranga had said. "You find him and not involve the buttons, and I'll leave the whores in Storyville to their own devices."

  "How do I know you'll do what you say?" Miles had asked, and Matranga had replied, "You don't know me very well, so I'll let that slide. But I'm a man of my word. Not like these young swells coming up now with no integrity. If I say it, it's a bond. Besides, Storyville's more trouble than it's worth these days."

  Miles had believed him, saying, "That's a deal, Matranga," and the two men had shook hands on it.

  And now Miles stood in front of Giano Carletti's home, gripping his cane, feeling the weight of the Colt in his coat pocket. Little Cat was with him, on Violet's insistence.

  "Wait on the corner, Cat," Miles said.

  "But Ms. Violet said to—"

  "Wait on the corner."

  Little Cat shrugged. "She's gonna kill you. And then she's gonna kill me into the bargain."

  "Everything will be fine. Just stay alert. I won't be long."

  Little Cat grumbled but did as he was told, shoving his hands in his pockets and ambling down to the corner. Miles approached the house. It was a crackerbox on a modest street, made with cheap materials but well-tended. There was a scraggly tree in the yard and a swinging bench on the small porch.

  A woman appeared at the screen door before Miles had even set foot on the porch. She peered at him, her features hidden behind the screen, and said in a heavy Italian accent, "Yes? What do you want?"

  Miles took off his hat. "Forgive me for bothering you, ma'am. I'm looking for Mr. Carletti."

  "For what?"

  "I need to speak to him about his cousin, Sal."

  "You don't know his cousin. His cousin wasn't friends with any Negroes."

  "I didn't say we were friends, ma'am. I take it you've heard about what happened to him?"

  "God rest his soul." The woman moved behind the screen, and Miles got a glimpse of dull gray hair and a hard, distrustful face. "What do you have to do with my husband's cousin?"

  "Nothing, directly. I'm looking into his death."

  "You a policeman? There are no colored policemans."

  Miles thought about correcting her
, but decided it wasn't important. He said, "I have some information, Mrs. Carletti, that I think your husband should know." He didn't mention that Mr. Carletti already knew. That tidbit wouldn't get him in the door.

  "Mr. Carletti is busy. You go away. Leave us—"

  A masculine voice from behind her said, "It's fine, Rosa. I'll speak to him."

  "But, Giano—"

  "Let him in, dear."

  Mrs. Carletti reluctantly unlatched the screen door and held it open. Miles said, "Thank you, ma'am," and stepped inside.

  * * *

  Where Mrs. Carletti was hard and angular, her husband was smooth-faced as a baby with dull, cow eyes. He ushered Miles into a small sitting room, overcrowded with hand-crafted furniture and photographs and paintings on every available inch of wall space. Mrs. Carletti huffed and stormed off to the kitchen without a word. Carletti motioned Miles to the sofa, sat himself in a polished oak arm chair.

  "Jimmy killed Sal, didn't he?" Carletti said in a willowy, weak voice with no trace of an accent. "It was Jimmy. And I sent him there. God have mercy on me, but it's my fault Sal is dead."

  "Jimmy?" Miles said.

  I should've known. I should have realized. He was never right in the head. Back in '17, I ... I suspected. And when Jimmy left for New York, I knew. I just knew."

  Miles said, "Mr. Carletti. Who is Jimmy?"

  Carletti looked at the floor. "Jimmy Manta. He used to work for me at my shop. My apprentice. He had the makings of a fine carpenter, he really did. But I always knew. I mean, I always had an inkling, I guess you could say, that there was something ... wrong with him."

  Tears pooled in the man's eyes, and Miles thought, not without some pity, that Carletti was a very weak man. It wasn't in the tears so much as the posture, the unwillingness to look Miles in the face. Miles had met men like him before. Wyoming was studded with their graves.

  But it was a new time now, a new place, where weak men weren't destroyed immediately—they were destroyed inch by inch, murdered slowly by stronger men in an indifferent world. It was a much crueler time now, Miles thought.