by F. M. Parker
The old man puffed on his pipe. He looked squarely into Lew’s face. “You from around here?”
“No. Just got in today. From Cincinnati.”
“I would expect the docks are busy there too.”
Lew was caught off-guard by the query. And there would be more questions about Cincinnati, a city he had never seen.
“Yes. But not so busy as here.”
Lew thought the man wanted to say something else. He waited. However, the watchman just looked both ways along the river and remained silent.
Lew let the time slide by without conversation. A ship creaked as it wallowed to the current of the river and rubbed against the dock. A sailor came down a gangway from one of the ships and went out of sight over the levee. A guitar sounded from a ship down the river.
“Does Albert Wollfolk own any docks or warehouses?” Lew asked.
The watchman turned to Lew. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m Timothy Wollfolk. Albert Wollfolk was my uncle.”
The man thrust out a hand. “Well, I’ll be damned. I sure am glad to meet you, Tim. I’m Dave Cadwaller. I knew your uncle right well.” He began to smile. “You’re sitting on Wollfolk property at this very moment. Look up there.” He pointed at the warehouse on the levee above them.
Through the growing dusk, Tim saw the sign on the building: A WOLLFOLK, WAREHOUSE & DOCKAGE.
“Your uncle owns this eight hundred feet of river front that I told you I guarded. I work for your uncle. Or I should say, I did. The lawyer handling Mr. Wollfolk’s legal business told me and everybody else to keep on working and the new owner would see that we got paid. Is that you?”
“It may be. I’m to see the lawyer tomorrow.”
“Well, if you do end up owning this piece of old Mississippi River bank, you’ve got a good location.”
Cadwaller saw Lew’s quizzical expression. “Albert Wollfolk was a smart man and knew the river better than most everyone else. He bought the best place for a dock. And that’s right here. The river current comes in against the bank just strong enough to keep the sand and gravel swept away, but not so strong that the pilings of the docks get washed out. In other places along the shore the current is weak and the river bottom fills up and needs dredging. That costs money.”
“So the profit is high,” Lew said.
“Yes, and because of that, your uncle could underbid his competitors up and down the river. Of course, Mr. Wollfolk was sharp in other ways too, but not crooked.”
“That’s good to hear,” said Lew. “How did he die? The lawyer’s letter didn’t say.”
“There are conflicting thoughts about that. The law says he died accidentally. There’s a few others that ain’t so sure.”
“Why is there doubt?”
“Mr. Wollfolk was found early one morning in between the docks just down the river there. I heard the yelling when a sailor off one of the ships saw his body in the water. I hurried to see what was happening. The law comes and they pull Mr. Wollfolk out. I did see a big bruise on his forehead.
“Well, the law decides he walked off the end of the dock in the night and struck his head and simply drowned in the river. I don’t believe that worth a damn. He knew every crack and knothole in his docks. He could walk every foot in the dark and never fall.”
“Did you tell the law this?”
“You bet. They asked more questions around. Then that’s the last I heard. But the ruling by the law stands as an accidental death.”
“Were you on watch that night?”
“Yes, but there was some fellows fooling with cargo at the upper end and I was there talking to them for a spell. Whatever happened could have been then.”
“Did you know my uncle was here on the docks?”
“Nope. And he almost always come by and said hello to me when he was here. I feel bad that this thing happened while I was on duty.”
“Who were the men around the cargo that you were talking with?”
“Didn’t know them and have never seen them since.”
Lew waited for Cadwaller to continue speaking. But the man had withdrawn into himself and gave no indication of wanting further conversation. He pressed the lever down to raise the glass globe of his lantern and began to scrape the ash from the tip of the wick with his pocket knife.
Lew climbed erect. “Be seeing you,” he told the night watchman.
“Young fellow, I believe someone hated your uncle bad enough to kill him, or have him killed. Some of that hate may come your way. I’d keep an eye peeled.”
Lew nodded. “I’ll do that.”
He walked off along the wharf in the deepening dusk. He glanced back once at Cadwaller. The man had lit his lantern. He was still working on the wick, the light flickering on his face as the flame was disturbed by the knife blade. The old watchman looked sad. Had he truly guessed the cause of Wollfolk’s death? Or was his story a wild rambling?
Lew came to a place where the dock was blocked by a string of lanterns and a long line of stevedores. The laboring men carried kegs of gunpowder on their shoulders off the docks, up the swaying gangway, and down into the bowels of a steamship. Lew turned away from the lights and the men and angled across the dock in the direction of his lodging.
The gloom of the coming night gathered among the mountainous islands of canvas-covered cargo. On the eastern horizon a yellow moon showed the top curve of its round body. Lew increased his pace. Darkness would soon catch him in a strange city, and he had no light.
Lew heard booted feet on the wooden decking of the dock. He cast a look over his shoulder. Two men were swiftly overtaking him.
“Hey, fellow, wait up,” one of the men called.
Lew pivoted slowly to the left. As he did so, his right hand clasped his Colt, slid it out of his belt, and held it against the side of his leg. The old watchman’s tale was making Lew cautious.
“What do you want?” Lew asked, peering at the shadowy faces of the approaching men.
The two halted barely ten feet distant. Their eyes moved up and down Lew, examining him very closely.
“Looks like he’s the one,” said the second man. He started to circle to the side.
Lew’s hand stabbed out at the man. “Stand where you are and tell me what you want.” They must not be allowed to flank him.
“We just want to talk,” said the man.
Lew heard the lie in the voice. The men acted as if this was an old game they had played before. Lew’s muscles tensed for the fight.
Both men sprang forward, drawing short leather-covered clubs from rear pockets. They cocked their arms ready to strike Lew with the lead-weighted blackjacks.
Lew brought up his pistol, thumbing back the hammer. He swung the gun to point at the nearer man. He was not going to let them break his head with the blackjacks. He could kill both of them before they could do that.
At the last fraction of a second, Lew moved the barrel of the revolver slightly to the side. He squeezed the trigger. A spear of red flame exploded from the muzzle of the gun, hitting the attacker in the arm. The man spun halfway around under the impact of the bullet.
Lew instantly faded to the side, to evade a possible blow from the second man, and rotated the Colt. The open bore swung like a snake’s head searching for the next enemy to strike.
The sudden, unexpected crash of the pistol jolted the second assailant. He veered off from Lew and kept right on running. Lew brought the pistol in alignment with the man and broke his shoulder with a bullet. The wounded man ran headfirst into a pile of cargo, bounced back, and fell.
The first assailant stood leaning to the side and watching Lew with pain-glazed eyes. Suddenly his legs melted and he collapsed. His head hit the decking with a loud thump.
“You stupid bastards,” Lew said to the crumpled forms. “Two men with blackjacks can’t beat a man with a pistol.”
He heard running feet coming swiftly. He sprinted away up over the levee. He did not want the police to become interested i
n Timothy Wollfolk, Lew slowed as he came down onto Front Street. He ambled past a group of men and women staring in the direction of the river.
“Mister, what was the shooting about?” asked a man.
“One of the night watchmen killed a big alligator,” Lew replied, continuing to move down the street. “It must have been at least twelve feet long.”
“My goodness,” exclaimed one of the women. “An alligator right in the middle of New Orleans.”
“Now, Mary, it simply swam in on the rising water of the river,” responded a man beside her. “They’ve done that before. They never come over the levee and into town.”
Lew found Saint Philip Street and turned up it toward Burgundy Street. Several blocks along, at a small cafe, he stopped and entered. He ate a bowl of thick soup containing large pieces of chicken, a dish of red beans, warm bread, and a tall glass of cold buttermilk.
The darkness lay dense on the street when Lew left the cafe. He struck off again on Saint Philip, walking cautiously for the frail moonshine only faintly illuminated the sidewalk. He overtook a lamplighter moving from one gas streetlight to the next, reaching up with his torch to touch them off. Lew walked off ahead of the lamplighter and into the darkness.
People passed, most of them carrying oil-burning lanterns to light the way. Other nightwalkers, like Lew himself without a light, went by, silhouettes without faces. No one paid him any attention.
He reached his lodging place and went into the carriageway. At the rear he entered his sleeping room just off the courtyard. He undressed in the dark and hung his clothing on hooks in a shallow closet.
For a time he lay on the bed and reviewed the violent events that had come his way in a few short hours. The words of the man on the docks kept coming back to him: “Looks like he’s the one.” What did that mean? Were they actually looking specifically for him? And the old night watchman saying Albert Wollfolk had been murdered. Who would want to kill him, and why?
Lew wondered what kind of a situation he was getting into. He might have to earn his inheritance. He smiled ruefully in the blind darkness at the thought. At least no one knew where he was staying, and he was safe for the night.
Somewhere inside the walls of the aged dwelling, there was a patter of small feet. Then a mouse began to gnaw, like a tiny saw cutting on a thin board.
Lew shoved the happenings of the day off to a far corner of his mind for later study. The sound of the mouse was somehow comforting. Bringing back memories of Texas. Sleep came at once to Lew.
5
The second boxer climbed through the ropes and into the ring that was rigged up in the large loft of Jackson Brewery. The crowd whistled and stomped their feet on the wooden floor, eager for the bare-knuckle fight to begin.
“Five hundred dollars on Hadley,” Stanton Shattuck told the bet-taker.
“Five hundred it is, Mr. Shattuck,” said the man. He made a note on his pad of paper. “Don’t you like the man from Philadelphia?”
“I don’t know Kellum, so I’ll go with the local fellow Hadley.” Shattuck held out a sheaf of bills.
“I don’t need to hold your money,” said the bet-taker. “I know you’re good for it if your man loses.” He moved away taking other wagers and cramming the bills in a leather satchel hanging over his shoulder.
The referee shouted, calling the fighters together in the center of the ring. Both men bobbed their heads in acknowledgment of his instructions. They backed away to their corners.
The referee glanced at the fight promoter, who in turn looked at the two bet-takers. When he saw they had finished taking wagers, he nodded to the referee.
“Fight,” said the referee, and backed hastily from between the boxers.
Kellum sprang across the ring. He pounced upon Hadley almost before the man could leave his corner.
Hadley jerked up his fists and dodged to the side. Kellum easily shifted directions, boring in. His fists lashed out, beating aside his opponent’s defense. His fists moved like hammers. Two blows landed with solid thuds of knuckles.
Hadley stumbled, his eyes rolled up into his head. He fell to the floor.
For a moment the loft was caught in a hushed silence. Then a man shouted a curse: “Two goddamned licks and Hadley’s out cold.”
An angry roar burst from the spectators. The rafters of the brewery shook. The men began to push against the ropes of the ring. Some of them caught hold of the bet-takers and the manager of the man from Philadelphia.
The manager wrenched free and jumped out into the ring. He yelled at his fighter. “I told you to carry this local son of a bitch for a few rounds.”
“I didn’t want to play around with him,” Kellum said, glancing around at the shouting mob. “Besides they’ll soon settle down.”
Shattuck shoved away a man who was crowding him, and shouted out in a stentorian voice, “The fight was fair. Pay off the bets.”
“Did you win, mister?” the man Shattuck had shoved called angrily.
“No. I lost five hundred dollars. But that doesn’t make any difference. Kellum won.”
“Mr. Shattuck is right,” said the referee. “The fight was won fairly.”
“Pay the bets,” the fight promoter added his voice to Shattuck’s.
The crowd grew quiet. Money began to change hands.
“Maybe the Philadelphia man would like to fight again, since Hadley didn’t even make him sweat,” Shattuck said.
Kellum laughed. He raised both hands above his head. “I’ll fight any man in New Orleans,” he called out in a loud voice.
Shattuck motioned to the man who had taken his wager before. “Am I good for another bet for a thousand dollars?”
“Sure. But on who?”
“On myself.”
“But Kellum is a professional boxer,” said the bet-taker in surprise.
Shattuck shrugged. “Mark my bet down.” He began to remove his jacket.
“Shattuck’s going to fight Kellum,” the bet-taker called out.
“What’s the odds?” a man questioned.
The bet-taker had heard rumors that Shattuck had once been a boxer. But that had to have been years ago. And Kellum had knocked Hadley out with ease.
“Three to one on Kellum,” the bet-taker shouted so all the spectators could hear.
* * *
“Fight,” said the referee.
Kellum came like a storm, hurtling across the ring, his fists poised to strike. Shattuck danced out of the way, blocking the blows Kellum threw as he came in pursuit. Then Shattuck halted. He would test Kellum, just a little bit.
Each man struck and blocked a series of blows. Only once did Kellum tag Shattuck, and that was with a spent blow that hurt almost not at all. Shattuck smacked Kellum twice in the face and glided smoothly off to the side.
Shattuck tasted the salt and copper of blood in his mouth. He smiled at the taste. It had been a long time since he had last fought. Now he had measured the man from Philadelphia. Shattuck knew he was the stronger. He could beat Kellum.
Shattuck drove in. Kellum blocked strongly, but somehow Shattuck’s long-reaching fists were inside his guard and viciously smashing him. A savage wallop crashed into his face, slamming him to the floor.
Kellum leapt quickly up. Shattuck was there to meet him, swinging, nailing Kellum with a powerful right, hammering with his left. Kellum went down again.
Kellum climbed back to his feet. Stars were exploding in his head. He sucked in a tortured, scalding breath of air.
“You’re no fighter,” Shattuck said in a cold contemptuous voice. “I’m going to beat you to death.”
Shattuck took deliberate aim and started to hit the bloody specter of Kellum’s face. Oh, how he loved the game, the feel of his fists striking Kellum, the jar of the crashing impacts running so damn pleasantly up his arms.
Kellum tried to back out of reach of the pounding fists. A black curtain was falling, blinding him. He felt the ropes against his back. He hooked his arms over them. If
he fell he lost.
His battered mind warned him that he should fall, or he would die. The warning came too late. Shattuck’s right fist drove a sliver of Kellum’s broken nose up into his brain.
* * *
“You’re a goddamned fool, Lott,” cursed Stanton Shattuck. His hands were balled into bony fists and he stood poised on the balls of his feet. “The two men you sent to cripple Wollfolk failed in the job and got crippled themselves. You should have gone yourself to see that the job was done right.”
Beads of sweat hung on Lott’s forehead. He knew Shattuck was ready to beat him, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to prevent the prizefighter from doing it. Fear came into the flat orbs of Lott’s eyes, moving below the surface like slimy water creatures in the pale-blue pool.
The four men sitting at the nearby table in the room stirred uneasily. They knew Shattuck’s violent nature.
Farr Rawlins was most distant from Shattuck. He was at the end of the table in the chair he always used for business meetings. He closely watched Shattuck standing with clenched fists, his yellow eyes glittering animallike, muscles drawn to taut cords. The man would strike Lott a deadly blow.
Shattuck was a tall man in the prime of life. In his young days in New York, he had been a bare-knuckle boxer. After a series of wins, he had taken his money and gone into business on the docks of the Hudson River. He had brought his savagery from the prize ring to the waterfront. Even in that rough place, his brutality was unusual and became common talk among the dock-owners and stevedores. In a few short years, he had amassed a fortune. Many competitors fell by the wayside. The bones of a number of them rested in the mud at the bottom of the Hudson River.
New Orleans, growing rapidly, had acquired the name of Queen City. It was the unrivaled financial center and slave market of the South. The seaport city was second only to New York for the tonnage of cargo shipped from its waterfront. The vigorous growth of New Orleans and its unbridled violence had drawn Shattuck. Two years before he had sold his holdings in New York, traveled to New Orleans, and begun to purchase waterfront docks and warehouses.
Even Shattuck’s fortune could buy but a minor portion of the waterfront. However, instead of the violent methods he used against his competitors in New York, he developed a new strategy. Over the months he had formed a cartel of the major waterfront owners. They called their organization the Ring. They agreed to work together to rig the bids for contracts for the use of dockage and warehouse space.
