Vendetta Trail

by Robert Vaughan

  Louise smiled pleasantly. “Well, as you can see, we have quite a well-stocked store here. And if there is something you need that we don’t have, we can always order it and, by train, have it in within two weeks.”

  “Nice store,” Tangeleno said as he continued to look around.

  It did not appear to Louise that Tangeleno recognized her. Was that possible?

  She had never, personally, gone up to her room with Tangeleno, but she had seen him in the parlor several times. Maybe, since they had never actually been together, he didn’t recognize her.

  “I’m doing an inventory, but if there is anything I can help you with, let me know,” Louise said, anxious to get away before he started studying her too closely.

  “Thank you,” Tangeleno replied. He walked around the store for a moment, paused to turn the crank on a meat grinder, shrugged, then left.

  “Eddie?” Louise called.

  “Yes, dear, what is it?” her husband answered, coming to the front of the store.

  Louise was going to tell him about the Italian she recognized from New Orleans, but decided against it. Maybe she was concerned about nothing. After all, it didn’t seem that he had recognized her.

  “Oh, nothing, here it is,” she said, picking up a pencil. “I just couldn’t remember where I left this.”

  Eddie chuckled and kissed her. “You would lose your head if it wasn’t attached,” he teased as he returned to what he was doing.

  Other than Eddie, the only people in town who knew about her background were the two “soiled doves” she had befriended. She would have to tell them about Tangeleno and make certain they didn’t give her away.

  Tangeleno did not remember the name Louise, but he did remember having seen this woman before. He chuckled to himself. Here she was, passing herself off as an innocent store clerk. He was sure she didn’t want the town to know that she was once a whore. That might provide Vizzini and him with a little edge if he needed her help in anything.

  Once more picking his way through the malodorous ooze, Tangeleno crossed the street. Stepping up onto the boardwalk in front of the Brown Dirt Saloon, he made use of a brush shoe scraper that was nailed to the boardwalk, just for that purpose. He stood for a moment outside the batwing doors, looking in to the shadowed interior of the saloon.

  Four or five rough-looking and unkempt men were in the bar when Tangeleno went in, and they looked at him pointedly, taking note of the way he was dressed. He knew from the expressions on their faces that they regarded him as a dandy, someone of no consequence. He hoped one of them would challenge him. If he was going to get any respect in this town, he would have to establish himself right away. And the easiest way to do that would be to respond to a challenge.

  Unlike the polished bars in the saloons and inns of New Orleans, this bar was made of unpainted rip-sawed lumber. Its only concession to decorum was to place towels in rings spaced about five feet apart on the customer side of the bar. But the towels looked as if they had not been changed in months, if ever, so their very filth negated the effect of having them there.

  When Tangeleno stepped up to the bar, the bartender, with a dirty towel thrown across one shoulder, moved down to him.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Chianti,” Tangeleno ordered.

  The bartender was chewing on a snuff-dipping stick. “What’d you say?” he asked around the edge of the stick.

  “I said I would like a glass of Chianti, please,” Tangeleno said.

  “Chianti?” The bartender pulled the stick from his mouth and a little string of brown spittle stretched between the stick and his lips before it broke. “Mister, I don’t have any idea in hell what a Chianti is,” he said.

  “It is a wine,” Tangeleno explained. “An Italian wine.”

  “Yeah, well, we ain’t got no wine here. All we got here is beer and whiskey. You want beer or whiskey, I can accommodate you.”

  “I’ll have a beer,” he said.

  There was a man standing at the other end of the bar, and he had watched the exchange between Tangeleno and the bartender with a look of amusement on his face.

  “Hey, dandy man,” he called down to him. “Do you think you’re too good for beer or whiskey?”

  Tangeleno looked at the man who had just challenged him.

  “Are you talking to me?” he asked.

  “Am I talking to you? Hell yeah, I’m talking to you. Do you see any other dandy men in here?”

  “I prefer wine, but beer will do,” Tangeleno said.

  “I don’t know any man who drinks wine,” the belligerent one said. “I know lots of women, but I don’t know any men who drink wine.”

  “What is your name?” Tangeleno asked.

  “What?”

  “What is your name?”

  “The name is Deekus. Not that it’ll make any difference to you. It ain’t like me’n you’s goin’ to be friends. I don’t make friends with dandy men.”

  The others in the saloon laughed at Tangeleno’s expense.

  “Deekus. Is that a first name or a last name?”

  “It’s the only name you need to know,” Deekus said.

  Tangeleno turned then so that he was directly facing Deekus. “Well, Deekus, my name is Tangeleno,” he said. “You can call me Mr. Tangeleno.”

  “Ha! Like I’m gong to call you ‘mister,’” Deekus said with a raucous laugh.

  “Deekus, I had hoped I was going to be able to make you listen to reason, but it is clear that I won’t.”

  Tangeleno smiled, a cold, brittle smile, as he enjoyed the fact that Deekus had no idea what the words “listen to reason” meant to those who understand their significance.

  Deekus, who had been laughing ever since this encounter started, now laughed so hard that he slapped his hand on the bar. “You want me to listen to reason, do you, dandy man?” He pointed at Tangeleno’s hat.

  “Where did you find that thing?” he asked. “Under some whore’s bed? You know what I think, mister? I think that looks a lot more like a whore’s piss pot than a hat.”

  Tangeleno took off his bowler and looked inside it for a moment.

  “Lei ha ragione, sembra la pentola di piscia che io ho preso da sotto il letto della Sua prostituta di una madre.”

  “What? What did you say? I don’t understand Mex talk.”

  “It wasn’t Spanish, it was Italian,” Tangeleno said. “And I will interpret. What I said was: ‘You are right. It does look like the piss pot that I took from under the bed of your whore of a mother.’”

  Deekus quit laughing and the expression on his face turned to rage.

  “What? Why, you dandified son of a bitch! I’m going to blow you to hell!” Deekus said, drawing his pistol. He had the pistol about half-drawn when Tangeleno suddenly reached down into his hat and pulled out a knife. With barely more than a flip of his wrist, he threw the knife. It turned over once in midair, then buried itself in Deekus’s chest.

  The expression of rage turned to one of shock as Deekus dropped his pistol and looked down at the knife that was protruding from his chest. Deekus collapsed.

  “Deekus!” one of the other men in the saloon yelled. Hurrying over to him, he knelt beside the fallen cowboy. “Deekus!” he said again.

  Deekus lay on the floor, his eyes open but sightless. The man beside Deekus stood up then and glared at Tangeleno.

  “Mister, you just killed my brother,” he said.

  “Did I? Well, he needed killing.” Putting his hand in under his jacket, Deekus wrapped his fingers around the butt of the small but deadly Belgian 7 mm Pinfire revolver that nestled in his shoulder holster.

  “You ain’t goin’ to find me that easy to kill,” the brother said.

  “Farley, you watched this go down same as did ever’one else,” the bartender said. “Deekus egged on this here foreign feller. Besides, Deekus drew on him ’cause he didn’t think he was armed. Now, why don’t you go down and get the undertaker so’s you can give your brother a decent
burial.”

  “I’ll go get the undertaker,” Farley said. “Soon as I take care of the Mexican here.”

  “I’m not Mexican,” Tangeleno said.

  “You are about to be a dead Mexican,” Farley said.

  “Farley, if you kill him, you’ll be hung for murder, sure as a gun is iron. He’s done throwed his knife. He ain’t even armed now.”

  “I can fix that,” Farley said. Bending down again, he picked up his brother’s pistol, then he put it on the bar and gave it a push. It made a scraping noise as it slid down the bar, where it stopped and rocked back and forth in front of Tangeleno. Tangeleno stared pointedly. “There you go, mister. Pick it up anytime you’re ready.”

  “I don’t care to use that gun,” Tangeleno said.

  “Yeah, well, you don’t have no choice,” Farley said. “It’s the only gun you’ve got.”

  Farley stepped away from the bar, then let his right hand hang down, flexing his fingers open and closed just over the handle of his pistol.

  “Farley, you don’t want to do this,” the bartender said.

  “Stay out of this, Ely. This here ain’t none of your concern. This is between me and this here Mexican.”

  “I’m not Mexican,” Tangeleno said again.

  “Ain’t goin’ to do you no good to keep your hand under your coat like that,” Farley said. “I’m going to start countin’. And when I reach three, I’m going to shoot you whether you’ve reached for that gun or not. One.”

  The confrontation between Tangeleno and Deekus had all happened so quickly that nobody in the saloon had time to react. But this was playing out with all the timing and choreography of a staged melodrama.

  “Two.”

  Tangeleno had still not taken his hand out from under his jacket.

  “Three!” Farley shouted, going for his gun.

  Suddenly, and to the total surprise of everyone in the room, Tangeleno took his hand out from under his jacket and there was a gun in his hand.

  Farley halted in middraw. He had been keeping his eyes on the gun on the bar, and he was totally shocked to see a pistol in Tangeleno’s hand.

  Tangeleno smiled, a cold, evil smile. He pulled the trigger and the gun boomed, the sound of the gunshot very loud in the closed confines of the room.

  A hole appeared in Farley’s chest, and he looked down at it, then back at Tangeleno, his face registering the same surprise as had his brother’s a few minutes earlier. Smoke curled up from the barrel of Tangeleno’s gun, then formed an acrid-blue cloud to hover over the room.

  “You son of…” Farley said. He tried to raise his pistol but before he could do so, his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell back onto the body of his brother.

  So taken aback was everyone by what they had just seen that, for a long moment, no one said a word. It was Tangeleno who broke the silence.

  “I told you, I didn’t want to use that gun,” Tangeleno said.

  Tangeleno put his pistol back in the shoulder holster, then turned to the bartender.

  “I’ll have that beer now,” he said.

  “Yes, sir!” the bartender replied, as awestruck as everyone else by what he had just seen.

  When the little bell in Smalley’s Mercantile called Louise to the front again, she saw Maggie coming into the store. Maggie, who was one of the whores who worked out of the Brown Dirt Saloon, knew about Louise’s background and the two women had become friends.

  “Hello, Maggie,” Louise said, greeting her warmly.

  “Louise,” Maggie said, eager to share her news. “Did you hear what happened in the saloon while ago?”

  “No.”

  “Deekus and Farley Carter got themselves killed.”

  “Both of them got killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a shame,” Louise said. “But, from what people say about Deekus, it doesn’t come as that big of a surprise. He was always trying to provoke someone into doing something. You say both of them were killed? Good heavens, they didn’t kill each other, did they?”

  “No,” Maggie said. “Like you said, Deekus was always provoking someone. Only today, I guess he provoked the wrong one.”

  “Was it murder?”

  “No, the sheriff has already come over and talked to everyone, and they all agree on what happened. Deekus got himself killed, then Farley stepped in, and the little Italian fella killed him too.”

  Louise gasped. “You say it was an Italian man who did it?”

  “Yes. That’s what surprised everyone. I mean, who would’ve thought a little fella like that could handle both Deekus and Farley?”

  “Oh, Maggie,” Louise said, the expression on her face one of fear. “Please don’t tell anyone that I told you, but I know that man. His name is Tangeleno.”

  “Tangeleno, yes, that’s what he said. How do you know him?”

  “I knew him in New Orleans. He is more dangerous than a rattlesnake. Don’t cross him—ever.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

  Chapter 26

  LATE IN THE AFTERNOON OF THE THIRD DAY AFTER the incident with Apolloni, the Delta Mist put in at Leclede’s Landing in St. Louis. Unlike all their stops at the small towns downriver where they were the only boat tied up, here in St. Louis it was difficult to find a berthing place. That was because there were at least ten other passenger-carrying boats and an even greater number of barges and cargo boats crowded against the bank. In addition, several boats were parked just offshore, the strong, six mile per hour current causing them to pull hard against their anchors.

  Fully half the boats were Missouri River boats, easily identified because they had much shallower drafts and smaller superstructures. The riverbank was crowded, not by the curious, but by those people whose commerce required their presence. It was also a noisy place, with whistles, bells, chugging steam engines, the slap of paddles against the water and the clatter of horse, mule, and oxen hooves, as well as iron-rimmed wheels rolling over cobblestone as the large wagons took on or offloaded the cargoes carried by the boats.

  Hawke was in his cabin, preparing to disembark. Although there was a small red line on his side, the result of his encounter with Apolloni, the cut was so light that it had already closed and required no attention.

  “Mason, are you ready?”

  Hawke had left the door to his cabin open and, looking around, he saw Rachel standing there. Her suitcase was beside her.

  “Yes,” Hawke said, putting on his hat. Going to the door, he picked up her suitcase so that he was carrying both of them.

  There were several passengers getting off in St. Louis, and Hawke and Rachel stood patiently in line as they waited for the crowd to dissipate. That was when the purser came up to them.

  “I’m asking everyone onboard the same question,” he said. “Have either of you seen Mr. Apolloni?”

  “Apolloni?” Hawke replied. He shook his head. “I don’t think I know him.”

  “Well, there’s no reason you should,” the purser said. “But he did seem interested in your music—and quite intrigued with you, Miss Smith.”

  “With me?”

  “Yes, he found you very attractive. Of course, that’s not all that surprising. I can’t imagine anyone not finding you attractive.”

  “Why, thank you,” Rachel said.

  “Where is Mr. Apolloni now?” Hawke asked. “I would be glad to meet him.”

  “Well, that’s just it,” the purser said. “I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him in a couple of days and he is supposed to disembark here. When I sent a steward to check his cabin, the steward reports that it was not slept in last night.”

  “Maybe he got off before we reached St. Louis,” Hawke suggested.

  “Yes, there is that possibility, of course,” the purser said. “There is also the possibility that he may have fallen overboard during the night.”

  “Oh, let’s hope not,” Hawke said.

  “Indeed,” the purser agreed. He reached out to sh
ake Hawke’s hand. “I must say, Mr. Hawke, it has been a pleasure having you aboard. I shall miss all the beautiful music.”

  “Thank you very much. Playing for your passengers has been quite a pleasant experience,” Hawke said.

  As the purser moved on to ask others about Apolloni, the line ahead of them cleared, and the two of them walked down the gangplank and to set foot on the riverbank in St. Louis, Missouri.

  Two men were standing in the crowd, watching the passengers as they left the boat. They were close enough to the gangplank to hear the purser exchange a few words with everyone who debarked. Their interest perked when they heard the reference to the music.

  “That’s him, Ned,” one of the men said. He pointed to Hawke. “That’s the piano player.”

  “Luby, get your hand down,” Ned said, slapping the hand away. “You want him to see you pointing at him?”

  “No, I reckon not,” Luby said sheepishly. “So what do we do now?”

  “We follow them,” Ned said.

  In addition to Ned and Luby, there was yet another person in the crowd who had watched, with interest, as the passengers disembarked. Dominico Dallipiccola was too far away from the boat to hear the purser or to hear the conversation between Ned and Luby. But when he saw their interest in a man and woman who seemed to be traveling together, he smiled and twirled his mustache. That had to be the two people Tangeleno was interested in.

  If this works, he would become Don Dallipiccola, head of the St. Louis Family. Don Dallipiccola, my respects to you, Godfather, he thought. Then he said the words aloud. “Don Dallipiccola I miei rispetti a Lei, Padrinoa.”

  Six months ago, with the blessings of Joseph Tangeleno, Dallipiccola had come upriver from New Orleans. His purpose in coming to St. Louis was to find Sicilian and Italian immigrants who would be interested in forming a Family. The problem was that, while there were many Italians and Sicilians in St. Louis, they were more interested in hard work and honest enterprise than they were in any organized criminal activity.

  Frustrated by his inability to rally his own countrymen to his cause, Dallipiccola had to enlist outsiders. Ned and Luby were two of his more recent recruits.