Vendetta Trail

by Robert Vaughan

  “What kind of changes do you have in mind?” De Luca asked.

  “I think we could organize a Family in every city, with each of those Families to have its own capo. Think of the power of our movement if we were organized in Memphis, St. Louis, Kansas City, Denver, San Francisco, and New York.”

  “That brings us to New Orleans,” De Luca said.

  “Yes.”

  “We are already organized in New Orleans.”

  “Yes, but we have two Families here, when we should only have one.”

  “And one capo?”

  “Yes,” Tangeleno answered. “With one capo.”

  “I see. And that would be you, I suppose?”

  “No. That would be you.”

  De Luca blinked in surprise. He stared at Tangeleno for a long moment, then he studied the others around the table before coming back to Tangeleno.

  “Wait a minute. What is this?” De Luca asked. “I can’t see you merging your people with mine and making one Family with me at the head. You have something else in mind, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Tangeleno admitted. “I do have something else in mind.” Tangeleno touched the napkin to his lips, then leaned back in his chair and pressed the tips of his fingers together, studying De Luca for a long moment before he answered. “I would propose myself as capo di capi.”

  “You want to make yourself the boss of bosses?”

  “Yes.” Tangeleno took a forkful of spaghetti. “Every Family will have a boss, but I will be the boss of bosses.”

  “Why should I agree to that?”

  Tangeleno had to wait until he swallowed before he answered, then he held up his finger as if asking for a moment.

  “I have been here much longer than you, Carlos. I keep a good set of books on every operation: the riverfront, the gamblers, the banking, all of it. I know how much money each enterprise brings in and I know how much money each enterprise costs to operate. I also know which police officers work which beats and how much it takes to keep them all quiet. I know which judges will turn their eyes aside and how much it costs to arrange that. Everything is going very smoothly—and that is not by accident. That is because I have been doing this for much longer than you.

  “In fact, you might say that I am already capo di capi. If we are to organize in all those cities I just mentioned, it will be because they got their start from me.”

  “I didn’t get my start from you,” De Luca said, pointing to his chest with his thumb. “I started on my own. You say you will merge your Family with mine, but what you are really saying is that you want me to merge my Family with yours.”

  “Carlos, is it not true that one of your men, Rosario Meli, was recently shot when he tried to collect insurance from the grocer, Garneau?”

  “Yes, this is true.”

  “What have you done about that?”

  “I have done nothing yet, but…”

  Tangeleno held up his hand to interrupt him. “To show you my sincerity, and as an act of good faith, I say to you now, do not worry about this man who shot Rosario Meli. For, even as we speak, I have sent some of my men to take care of him. That will discourage anyone else from interfering with any of our people.”

  De Luca let out a long sigh, then he drummed his fingers on the table for a moment or two. “Let me consider this offer you have made,” he said.

  “Consider it carefully, my friend,” Tangeleno said. “It is a reasonable offer, and I hope you will listen to reason.”

  Chapter 7

  HAWKE WENT TO THE THEATER TO HEAR THE NEW Orleans Symphony Orchestra in concert. The orchestra was directed by Professor Leonard Tompkins, and tonight the music of Beethoven was featured.

  Although Hawke knew Tompkins, he remained in the back of the theater and made no effort to contact him. That was because Tompkins was from a part of Hawke’s life that no longer existed, and he believed it was best to leave it that way.

  As Hawke walked home after the concert, he had the feeling that someone was following him. The House of the Evening Star was actually on Bourbon, between St. Ann and Dumaine, but because he thought he was being followed, he passed by both St. Ann and Dumaine and turned on St. Philip.

  Whoever was behind him turned as well.

  Hawke chose this route, not only to see if he actually was being followed, but also because he knew there were several open lots. One of the lots was filled with bricks and stone, preparatory to some impending construction. If he was being followed, this would be a good place to confront them.

  When Hawke drew even with the lot, he stepped off the street and slipped in behind a pile of quarried stone. Pulling his gun, he looked back into the direction from which he had come.

  There were three of them, and they turned onto Dauphine, then paused for a moment under the flickering streetlamp.

  The men began speaking, but as they were speaking in Italian, Hawke couldn’t understand anything they were saying.

  “What the hell?” one of them said. “Where did he go, Emilio?”

  “I don’t know, one minute he was right in front of us, the next minute he was gone,” Emilio said. “It’s like he’s a ghost or something.”

  “A ghost,” the third voice said, scoffing. “He’s not a ghost. He plays the piano in a whorehouse and whorehouse piano players don’t just disappear. Keep your eyes open. He has to be down here—somewhere.”

  Hawke moved slightly, and as he did so, he dislodged a brick, which fell rather loudly against a stone.

  “There he is!” one of them yelled, pointing toward Hawke. This time he yelled the words in English, so Hawke knew that they were not only looking for him, they had found him.

  “Shoot him! Shoot the son of a bitch!”

  All hell broke loose then. Guns roared and bullets screamed by, striking the bricks and stones. Flashes of orange light exploded around him.

  Hawke was well positioned to pick out his targets. The three shooters, on the other hand, were all in the open and bunched together under the streetlamp. They made perfect targets, and Hawke picked one of them off with one shot.

  “He’s got a gun!” one of the three shouted in panic.

  Hawke hoped they would leave, now that they knew he wasn’t an easy target. But they didn’t leave.

  “Kill him! Kill the son of a bitch before he kills us!” the other yelled.

  His two attackers continued to shoot at him, and Hawke had no choice but to return fire.

  Hawke shot two more times, and the final two went down.

  Then it was quiet, except for the barking of some nearby dogs. A little cloud of gun smoke drifted up over the deadly battlefield and Hawke walked out among the fallen assailants, moving cautiously, his pistol at the ready.

  The caution wasn’t necessary. All three men were dead and the entire battle had taken less than a minute.

  Putting his gun away, Hawke stepped back through the empty lot and out into the alley. He followed the alley across St. Philip and Dumaine, turning down St. Ann until he reached Bourbon Street. Then, even as he heard the police whistles a few blocks behind him, he reached the House of the Evening Star.

  The parlor was nearly empty when he went in; most of the callers were upstairs with the girls. There was one man sitting on the sofa with Clarisse. Clarisse got up and walked over to meet him when Hawke came in.

  “How was the concert?” she asked.

  “It was very nice,” Hawke replied. “I appreciate you allowing me the time off.”

  “Nonsense,” Clarisse replied. “I figure every day you remain here is a bonus, and if I can keep you here a bit longer by giving you time off when you ask for it, I am more than willing to do what I can to make your time here happy.”

  “Are you entertaining customers now?” Hawke teased, nodding toward the man on the sofa.

  “Yes, but only those with the most discriminating tastes,” Clarisse said, laughing.

  Hawke went over to the piano and sat down.

  “You don’t have to w
ork tonight, Mason,” Clarisse said.

  “This isn’t for work, this is for me,” Hawke said as he began playing ‘Bach’s Fugue in G.’

  The next day one of the girls who worked at the House of the Evening Star was preparing to go downstairs for the evening rush of business. Looking into the mirror, she used a small brush and a rouge pot to add a bit of color to her cheeks.

  Rachel was quite pretty, with high cheekbones, full eyelashes, a small turned-up nose, and blonde ringlets that cascaded down either side of her face. Her broad smile showed even white teeth.

  She had just about finished when there was a quiet knock on her door.

  “Miz Rachel?” someone called. “Miz Rachel, you be in there?”

  When Rachel opened the door, she was greeted by Doney, the black maid, who handed her a letter.

  “This here letter just come and Miz Clarisse said give it to you.”

  “Thanks, Doney,” Rachel said, taking the letter. “Is it getting crowded down there yet?”

  “I ain’t looked down there none, but I spec there’s quite a few menfolks here already.”

  “I’d better get down there then. If anyone asks about me, tell them I’ll be down directly.”

  “Yes’m, I do that,” Doney said.

  Rachel shut the door, then looked at the envelope. The letter was from Bellefont, Kansas, and she smiled. This would be a letter from Louise Smalley. Louise used to work here, until she got married.

  Rachel debated whether she should read it now, or put it aside and go downstairs. The debate didn’t last long, nor was the issue ever seriously in doubt. She sat at her dresser and opened the envelope.

  Dear Rachel,

  Your letter of the 5th at hand, I take pen to paper and answer in the hope that this finds you and all the other girls there are a doing fine.

  I know you and all the other girls thought I was crazy to marry someone I had never met before he come into the whorehouse that first time. But marrying Eddie Smalley is the best thing that ever happened to me.

  All of Eddie’s friends were really surprised when he returned from New Orleans with a wife, and now everyone wants to know how we met. Eddie tells them I was the preacher’s daughter—and we met in church.

  That works, because as you may remember, I really was a preacher’s daughter before I went on the line. Of course my father died long before that happened, which is good, because I don’t think I could have faced him if he knew what I became.

  You know what they call whores here in Bellefonte? They call them soiled doves. Isn’t that a nice name for them? The town is so small that there are only two, and I’ve met both of them.

  I told one of them, Maggie, what I was and she has been very good about keeping it secret.

  Rachel, there is a gambling house here called the Queen of Hearts. I have heard that it is for sale. If you have managed to save any money, I think this would be a very good buy for you. I think you would like it here. It’s a lot different from New Orleans, but you would get a fresh start.

  Your friend,

  Louise

  Rachel smiled at Louise’s letter, then added it to the packet of letters she had already received from her. Louise was the only one Rachel ever got mail from, and she enjoyed the correspondence because her letters gave Rachel a glimpse of what the world was like beyond this house.

  She thought about Louise’s invitation to come out to Kansas and buy a gambling house. The idea was intriguing, but she had not been as frugal as she should have been, so she hadn’t saved that much money. She was sure she didn’t have enough money to buy it alone, but perhaps she and Fancy could buy it together. At least, it was something she could think about.

  Putting the packet of letters in a little rosewood box that sat on her dresser, she took one last look at her reflection in the mirror, then left her room and went downstairs.

  “Do you know any of these men?” the police captain asked Joseph Tangeleno. He pulled back a tarpaulin to reveal three men, all dead by gunshot.

  Tangeleno nodded.

  “Would you identify them, please?”

  “That is Emilio Catalani,” Tangeleno said, pointing to the first one. Then he pointed to the next two. “Domenico Spontini, Agostino Allegri.”

  “They belonged to your organization?”

  “They were…employees,” Tangeleno said without being specific. “They handled things for me down at the riverfront.”

  “Yes,” the police captain said. “I know how they handle things for you. Do you have any idea who shot them? Or why?”

  “No, I don’t know who shot them,” Tangeleno said. “Where did you find them?”

  “We found them in an empty lot in the 1100 block of Dauphine.”

  Tangeleno looked up quickly. “The 1100 block of Dauphine?”

  “Yes. Do you think it means anything that where they were found is not too far from Carlos De Luca’s house?” the police captain asked.

  “No,” Tangeleno replied. “Do you think it means anything?”

  “We’ve been getting rumors that there is bad blood between you and De Luca.”

  “I wouldn’t say there is bad blood,” Tangeleno said. “We are both Sicilian. Sometimes, like brothers, we will have a little disagreement.”

  “I would not like to see a war start in New Orleans,” the police captain said.

  Chapter 8

  AN HOUR LATER, AT HIS HOME, TANGELENO WAS meeting with his two top lieutenants, Morello and Vizzini.

  “They were found near De Luca’s house,” Tangeleno said. “He had to be the one who did it. Who else would kill three of our men like that?”

  “Emilio was pretty hotheaded,” Morello said. “I’m sure he made enemies down on the riverfront.”

  “Down on the riverfront? Nothing down there but Coloreds and Micks. Do you think a colored man or an Irishman would dare to do anything like this? I’ll answer that for you. No, they wouldn’t. De Luca is the only one who would, and the only one who could kill all three of them like this.”

  “But why would he do that? You sent them after that piano player as a gesture of goodwill,” Morello said.

  “That’s exactly why he did it,” Tangeleno replied. “He was telling me that he didn’t want my help, didn’t want anything to do with me. It was a slap in my face.”

  “So what do we do now?” Vizzini asked.

  “We cannot let this go any further,” Tangeleno said. “The way I see it now, I have been challenged by De Luca. I have to answer him, and the only way to do that is to kill him.”

  “But, Don Tangeleno, if we kill him, would that not end any chance of ever consolidating our two Families?” Morello asked.

  “Probably,” Tangeleno admitted. “But the way I see it now, we have no other choice.”

  “Don Tangeleno, wait,” Vizzini said.

  “Wait? Wait for what?”

  “I have an idea. Instead of killing De Luca now, why don’t we just kill three of his men?”

  “What good would that do?”

  “If we kill three of his men, we can go to him on equal footing,” Vizzini said. “He has killed three of ours, we have killed three of his. There would be no need for a vendetta. I think De Luca would understand then that it is better to live in peace than war.”

  “Perhaps,” Tangeleno answered. “But if we let him live, then I want more than peace with the son of a bitch. I want him to subject himself to my authority.”

  “This might help bring that about,” Vizzini said.

  “What do you think, Nick?” Tangeleno asked Morello.

  Morello shook his head. “I would say yes, if we knew we could get the ones who actually killed our men. But to just randomly kill three of his men? What if they are innocent?”

  “None of his men are innocent. All right, Sal, kill three of them, then go meet with De Luca and see if he is ready to listen to reason.”

  Vizzini chuckled. He knew what “listen to reason” meant. When dealing with Tangeleno, those we
re often the last words a person heard.

  “Don Tangeleno, let me go talk to De Luca first,” Morello said. “I still think we can work it out.”

  “You can go talk to him after Vizzini takes care of his business,” Tangeleno said.

  Hawke looked up from the piano keyboard as Vizzini came down the stairs. As usual, Vizzini spoke to no one, nor did he come into the parlor for a drink as many did. Instead he walked straight for the door, opened it, and stepped outside.

  A few moments later Evangeline came down the stairs, staying against the wall. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she kept in the shadows as she went into the kitchen.

  When Hawke finished his number, he got up and went into the kitchen, where he poured himself a cup of coffee. Evangeline was sitting back in the corner, wiping away tears as she talked quietly with Doney. They were in the middle of a conversation, so involved that neither of them noticed Hawke when he came in.

  “Honey, I know he be a big man in the Family and all, but that don’t give him the right to hurt you,” Doney was saying.

  “You don’t understand,” Evangeline said.

  “I understands, all right. You think he marry you. Maybe I just be a maid, but I got enough sense to know that a man like Vizzini ain’ goin’ marry no Cajun girl. ’Specially no Cajun girl that be a whore, besides.”

  “Doney! What a thing to say!” Evangeline said.

  Doney reached out to put her hand on Evangeline’s. “Honey, I don’ mean nothin’ bad by what I said. I just want you to know the truth, so’s Vizzini don’t hurt you no more.”

  Hawke took a sip of his coffee and studied Evangeline over the rim for a second or two.

  “If he treats you like that, why do you have anything to do with him?” Hawke asked.

  Evangeline looked up in surprise. She didn’t realize that Hawke was in the kitchen and had overheard her conversation with Doney.